Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I own nothing.
You know that feeling you experience waking up somewhere that isn't your own bed? The momentary freak-out when you try to remember where you are? This is what Molly Hooper felt when she woke up on the bright, sunshine-y day (for London, anyway) of May 21st. Except the momentary freak-out wasn't momentary, and after a few seconds she still didn't know where she was. Her heart rate began to speed up. Jim. Everyone had told Molly that he wouldn't come back for her. He had used her and threw her away like trash. But what if this was him? She didn't move at first, looking around. The pounding in her skull surely wasn't helping matters either. She finally came to this realization: She was hungover. Like, seriously hungover. This never happened to her. Ever. She was good little Molly Hooper, after all.
She looks around some more, carefully taking in her surroundings. She was obviously in a man's bedroom. Not Jim's, though, she realized with a sigh of relief, and immediately felt calmer. A tasteful man at least, she thinks to herself. She turns over and the sheets next to her are rumpled but empty. Where is he? There is a dresser against the wall, a closet, and wooden floors. Her stomach turns as she recognizes her skirt and top from yesterday tossed haphazardly on the floor. I don't know if I want to remember, she decides sardonically.
As this has never happened to Molly before, she doesn't quite know what to do. Does she gather her things and walk home? Or try to find him? She feels uncomfortable in this stranger's flat. Or is he a stranger? It's a mystery to Molly's fogged and still half-asleep mind, so different from her normal sharp and fine-tuned brain.
There's also a bookcase. She can work with that. She looks at the titles. Novels, mostly, but a few historical non-fictions, several back issues of sports magazines, and a couple biographies. But then she looks at the bottom shelf. The Greatest Crimes in History and Art Thefts of the Twentieth Century were among the titles. So, someone from the police force. They were always barging into Bart's, asking to look at corpses and autopsy reports. Unless- she let her mind wander for a moment- no, no. It certainly couldn't be him. He was in a committed relationship with his "flatmate", or so everyone assumed. No, a detective for the police, then. Who else…? Oh good God, don't let it be Anderson, Molly thought. She would never, ever forgive herself.
So she tries to reconstruct her night as she awkwardly lies by herself in this bed. She worked from 8:30 to 5:00 yesterday. What happened? Oh, yes. Sherlock had dragged half of Scotland Yard in for a demonstration on a corpse. After that, though. What then? Her mind stumbled through the hazy and seemingly distant memories. Drinks. Everyone was going out for a drink, and had invited Molly along, which hadn't surprised her. Normally the Scotland Yard crew ignored her unless they needed her corpses, but after Jim (Moriarty, she reminded herself. Jim from IT was just a mask) had manipulated her and left her, she had been on the receiving end of a lot of sympathy from people she barely knew. After all, word got around fast. After Ji-Moriarty had left and Molly could finally speak about what he had made her do, Lestrade had said she could come and talk any time if she needed to. Everyone was so concerned. The Yard had recommended a therapist, but Molly declined. So instead, everyone became incredibly careful around her, never mentioning him and being overly friendly. Even her best friends sort of tiptoed around her. The Yard itself, on the other hand, simply assured her he was gone; he wouldn't come back for her.
She had felt out of place, but accepted the invitation. The only person she had even communicated with prior to this was DI Lestrade, but he was friendly enough. Molly thought that if she went for drinks, perhaps she could convince them that she was fine. Of course, she wasn't, but it had been four months and she needed to try to move on.
She vaguely recalled talking to Lestrade. ("Please, Molly, call me Greg.") They were chatting about Sherlock's strange habits and tendency to barge in at exactly the wrong time. So maybe… Her stomach flipped a little, and right at that moment the bedroom door opened.
"Morning," said Lestrade tentatively, walking over to the bed with a mug of tea. He handed it to Molly. She let herself smile. He was a good man, a kind man, and quite frankly, if she was going to be waking up in anyone's bed on a Saturday morning, it may as well be his. "You slept well, I take it?"
"Fine, thanks," Molly says, it's not entirely a lie. She hasn't slept well for four months. Nightmares, waking up every three hours or so, plagued by insomnia. She slept through the night for the first time last night, but she wasn't sure if it was due to her apparent intoxication or the proximity of Lestrade.
"You should know I never do this. Never," Greg said, embarrassment playing on his face.
She laughed. "Me neither. Really," she replied.
"In fact," he said, "I honestly can't remember a bit of last night after we left Bart's."
"I know, me too." She took a sip of her tea, and looked up at Lestrade, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "When I woke up," she started, then immediately regretted even thinking to mention it and looked down at the bed.
"Yes?" he said. She looked up to see his chocolate eyes scanning her face. "Molly, what's wrong?"
"It's just... When I woke up, I thought," she choked a bit on her words, fully realizing how terrible it would have been. "I thought... it was him. Thought he had somehow... Somehow..." She couldn't talk anymore. She was fighting back tears, trying to be strong in front of a man she barely knew.
Lestrade reached his hand out and touched her face. "It's okay. He's gone. He can't hurt you." He took the tea mug out of her hands, set it on the bedside table, and wrapped her in a tight embrace. "I won't let him near you again. I promise you."
It was too much. Molly burst into tears, sobbing into his shoulder. Even the thought... The thought that she could be under his thumb again, just another prop, just a weak little mouse of a pathologist he could crush on his way to Sherlock burned with sheer pain like nothing else ever had.
They sat this way for awhile, silent and close. Protected. Molly eventually broke away, feeling ashamed, mumbling something about a tissue. She reached up to wipe a stray tear from her eye.
She glanced up at Lestrade's suddenly chagrined expression. "What?"
"Molly, have you looked out this window?"
"Excuse me?" said Molly, utterly confused. "The window? What about it?"
"It's not..." he started and then grabbed the latch to open it. He shook it violently. It stuck. He stared through it, at London bustling around. Panic darted across his face, and quickly dissolved. "Molly, stay calm, but this isn't my flat."
"What do you mean, not your flat? How could you not have noti-" She stopped. The window. It looked like an ordinary window, but when closely examined, behind the glass was a screen with a loop video of the view of London from Lestrade's window. Someone had obviously gone to great lengths to make it look realistic.
Molly panicked and began breathing heavily. "He's... he's... it's him, Greg, it's him."