Molly Hooper always felt comfortable in cemeteries.
Surrounded by death on a daily basis, she looked at it much differently than most. Death was inevitable, sure, and a lot of what filled her working hours could be prevented, but in the end, we're all the same. Time runs out, the body and the brain die, and our loved ones are left to console themselves and take care of the things the dead leave behind. It wasn't a clinical or detached view of death, but a realistic one. She wasn't afraid of her own death, but that didn't make losing people you care about any easier.
It was a quiet autumn afternoon and with the sun beginning to set, shadows fell over the cemetery. Molly knelt in the cool grass, staring at her father's headstone. A raven landed in a tree nearby and watched her curiously as she sat with her shoulders rounded and her posture slumped. It watched for a few moments before flying away again. She felt guilty for thinking about someone else while she was here visiting her father, like she was being unfaithful or disrespectful. She glanced at the black granite headstone beneath an oak tree a few meters away, unable to avoid looking at it any longer. Despite the fact she knew he wasn't there, that he wasn't really dead, she hadn't seem him since he..
The slight sting of tears pulled her back into the present and she brushed them from her cheek. Molly wasn't sure what was worse- pretending Sherlock was dead and watching John fall apart, or forcing herself to live the lie she helped create and start to believe he was actually dead.
He needed my help and he knew I'd do anything for him.
She stood up, and brushing the grass clippings from her jeans, she kissed her fingers and pressed them against her father's headstone. She hadn't visited Sherlock's empty grave lately because the few times she had, John had been there and she didn't want to disturb him. And she wasn't entirely certain she could watch him grieve, either, knowing what she did.
The dirt had settled and the grass had grown in, making the plot blend in with all the others. The inscription on his headstone was understated and elegant, just his name and dates of birth and death. She could tell Mrs. Hudson had been there recently, judging by the white roses at the base of the stone. Realizing she had probably been the only one who hadn't come to visit yet this week, the all-too-familiar guilt resurfaced and brought Molly to her knees, a hand over her mouth to muffle her sob.
A low, polished voice spoke quietly from behind her. "Oh, Molly. Please stop."
Molly took several deep breaths to calm herself, closing her eyes to block out everything in front of her. She opened them a few seconds later and began to turn around.
"No, stay as you are."
She listened as the footsteps moved to her right, just behind her shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice just as quiet. She could almost picture the shrug he would give and the way he would tilt his head and stare at his own headstone with narrowed eyes, criticizing everything about it simply because he knew Mycroft designed it.
"I needed to get out. While being a hermit has its benefits, one of the drawbacks is the ridiculous amount of time spent cooped up in my flat with no one to talk to."
Molly nodded and pulled her ponytail over her shoulder, fidgeting with the end of it. "It worked, you know. Everyone believes you're dead."
"Even you."
Judging by the tone of his voice, it wasn't a question. All she could manage was another nod.
"You know I'm not dead, so what's with the twice-weekly visits?"
"The only way I can keep up my end of the story is to grieve along with everyone else."
There was a snort and a likely rolling of the eyes. "Everyone else? Right."
Molly abruptly stood up and turned around, tears once again falling to her cheeks. It took all of her resolve not to hug him or tell him how much she missed him. Sherlock backed up a step, started at her intensity. "John visits every other day and stops by to see me afterwards. Mycroft visits once a week. Mrs. Hudson comes every Saturday and Lestrade every Tuesday. You matter, Sherlock, to a lot of people. "
She paused a moment, allowing him to process what she'd said, before walking past him and squeezing his forearm.
"And no matter what, you'll always matter to me."