She's sitting on one of the tables when he walks in, one of the metal ones where they put the bodies. She's wearing her lab coat over one of those cute jumpers, a pink one with a stripe of white going along the collar. Her feet dangle a foot from the floor, swinging back and forth. Her hair is drawn up into a ponytail on top of her head, making her pale face—and the tears—easily visible.
"Mols," he says quietly, or at least he meant it to be quiet. the lab amplifies his voice, echoes so that it almost sounds like a shout.
She looks up, startled. "Oh, Greg," she half sobs, and raises a hand to scrub the tears from her face, but he is already there beside her with a sleeve pulled over his fist. She mutters a protest as he brushes the water from her cheeks, but he shushes her.
"None of that now." He whispers this time. "You're allowed to be sad. He was our friend."
She nods and Greg takes her face in his hands. As he looks at her, a faint blush tints her cheeks with color.
He can't help himself—he grins. "There. We've nearly got you sorted, eh Molly?"
She smiles back. It's a shaky smile, and small, but there.
"Yes," she replies. "Nearly."
"Good. Now take your coat off—you're coming with me." He pulls her off of the table and sets her on her feet.
"Greg, what are you-"
"The lab can do without you for one day," he says, taking her hand and pulling her toward the exit. "You need cheering up, and this place is definitely not…" He pauses and looks around at the white walls, gray floors and flickering fluorescent light of St. Bart's morgue. "Cheery."
"But…but it's the middle of the day," Molly protests, and pulls her hand from his. "I can't just..." she gestures at the door and shrugs.
"Easy." Greg smiles. "Bereavement leave."
"I can't!" Molly gasps. "That's only for family."
"Wasn't he though?" Greg leans forward and takes her hand again. "Sherlock was a bastard, but at the end of the day he was one of the best men I've ever known. Best friend too, I suppose. Like a really annoying little brother." He rolls his eyes. "And besides, if he hasn't bereaved the two of us more times than I can count…bloody prat."
Molly's eyes get watery and for a second he thinks she's going to tell him something important.
She doesn't—instead she nods, slides out of her lab coat and tosses it onto her desk.
"All right," she says. Her voice is stronger than it was, and she looks determined, about what Greg doesn't know. "I'm bereaved. Now," she smiles suddenly, and Greg's stomach flops. "What did you have in mind?"