I have 25 chapters of this written, which are currently published on Wattpad. I don't know if I will put them all up on this site, but I will try it out. If you lot enjoy it as much as the people on Wattpad, I will definitely continue.
Not all of it is Molly's POV (I will say when the POV changes). Most of the chapters are third person, I believe. I hope you don't get confused by it, although POV switched will be labeled.
I hope you all enjoy this story and I hope to post more chapters! c:
–OH
I can't tell you what I expect of Sherlock Holmes. I can tell you what I know. He is a consulting detective, only one in the world. He doesn't seem to feel any emotion, as you or I would. He's smart, observant, he could tell you every detail of the day you've had with just one look at you, he's boffin, sexy, he's… a machine.
I can say that he surprises me. Even after all these years. Everything is a surprise. You can't expect anything from him; nothing should be expected from him. There's always something new with Sherlock Holmes. Always. Except, when you can't see him. When he thinks no one can see him, you can always expect one thing.
I should know, my dad was like that. Looking sad when he thought nobody could see him, which no one did, except me. I don't count; I've never counted. Sherlock shows this same look, quite often. When everyone is busy and his head is down. I told him that I could see it, once when John, wasn't paying attention.
Sherlock was using the microscope, working on a case. I glanced up at him, and I saw it, the sadness on his face. I just stared, for a moment. Deciding, if I should say something. Should I have said something? Maybe I shouldn't have.
"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry–" I say. I should just shut up now.
"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area." He responds, not bothering to look up from the microscope.
"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely." I continue, not listening to him. "Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."
"Molly."
"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."
He looks up; the sadness is taken over with surprise. He turns his head, and looks at me.
"Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means–looking sad when you think no one can see you."
"You can see me." He says.
"I don't count." I pause. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do–anything you need, anything at all–you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine." I decide to stop once I can feel myself blushing.
"What could I need from you?"
"Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually."
He pauses. "Thank you."
As he returns to his work, I walk towards the door, pause and turn toward him. "I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? It's okay. I know you don't." I say. He doesn't need anything. He never does.
He looks up. "Well actually, maybe I–"
"I know you don't."
I leave, in a rush, not wanting to embarrass myself anymore then I already have. I walk to the nearest vending machine. I press some random buttons on the machine, not caring about what it gets me. When I pay, some crisps from a brand I've never heard of drop and are waiting for me. After grabbing them, I sit in a plain, blue fabric chair, which is next to the vending machine. When I'm done with them, I throw them in a small trash bin and go back to the morgue.
Sherlock is gone by the time I get back. I go to the counter and pick up a clip bored. A list of names on paper is on there, all with a check next to them except for the last one, Daniela O'Hara. I grab a blank autopsy report and make my way to one of the metal slabs, which holds the body of O'Hara. When I'm done with the autopsy, I fill in the report, put her body in the freezer, wash my hands, and get ready to leave. When I am ready and heading out of the room, I'm startled to hear someone's voice and I gasp, jumpily turning around towards the voice.
"You're wrong, you know." It's Sherlock, and I turn around to see him with his back towards me. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay."
"Tell me what's wrong." I demand as calmly as possible.
"Molly, I think I'm going to die."
He turns to face me, and looks me in the eyes. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still help me?"
"What do you need?"
"You."
