"If the whole world was watching, I'd still dance with you,

Drive highways and byways to be there with you.

Over and over, the only truth,

Everything comes back to you."

(This Town - Niall Horan)

Prologue

There are certain people, aren't there, who punctuate our lives in ways we'd never intuit or even guess at upon our first meetings with them. If we knew, for example, that Joe Smith from the Canteen on the third floor (who gave us a free stirrer with our cappuccino and smiled when we found the exact change) was going to become our best friend's boyfriend, or our mum's kidney donor, or even our AA sponsor, then we would have treated him so differently (reverentially?) on our first meeting, wouldn't we? If the Big Issue seller on the corner of Giltspur Terrace turned out to be the woman who gave Heimlich to a person at the entrance to the hospital, and that person just happened to be my lovely future team leader who was choking on a mint imperial on his way to interview me for my first job? Things could have been so different, you see. I always buy a Big Issue from her and pass a few moments of conversation with this street vendor who used to be a doctor in her own war torn country, because without her, Mike Stamford would never have been my boss, and I would never have been introduced to the man who was going to populate my straightforward little existence with all the punctuations (and more) I could ever have anticipated, or even wished for.

Without her you see, I would never have met Sherlock Holmes.

~x~

Chapter One: The things you said I wish you hadn't

You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…

Mycroft twists his complacent, almost waxen features into that enigmatic, slightly pitying half smile as he leaves my morgue, but doesn't stoop so low as to give an answer to the slightly desperate plea that tumbled from my mouth before I could stop it:

Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from… not her face?

Misdirected or not, I still want to slap his face as the door closes, cutting across my shame and glowing cheeks. I note my hand shakes slightly as I push hair, loose, long, cascading (unprofessional, Christmas hair?) behind an ear and busy myself in returning my cadaver (Sherlock's friend? Acquaintance? Lover?) back to her chilled cabinet. Dead she may be, (severe blunt force trauma causing contusions and lacerations of facial musculature and soft tissues, as well as fractures and dislocations of bony structures) but her unblemished pale body still retained a quiet elegance and dignity in death (despite abrasion; avulsion; fracture of the beauty she showed to the world) and her identity had certainly evoked something deep and indefinable from the psyche of Sherlock Holmes. He had turned so swiftly and decisively (my business here is done) his brother had perhaps missed the tremor in his hand and the extra pallor to his skin, but I had not.

This lady, whoever she had been in life, had had enough time to affect him in a way I hadn't thought possible. I close the drawer and try to silence my garallous, ridiculous mode of thought as I prepare to leave. On days like this, when the mortuary is so very quiet (skeleton staff? Sorry.) and the dripping tap and ticking clock are the only punctuations to a silent, subterranean world, I can believe in some cataclysmic event; an apocalypse that has cleared the world of humanity and it is only I remaining. Just me, and the woman in the drawer - the woman who mattered.

Christmas Day streets are silent also; wet and dark, with enough of a chill in the air to need a pair of Argyle mittens (thanks mum) but not enough for snow or christmas card prettiness. My post-apocalyptic-ness continues as my key slides into the lock, so much so that I barely check the darkened stoop and landing as is my usual pre-unlocking, mugger-alerted ritual. Kettle on, gloves placed on radiator, soft lamplight in every room and carols on the radio take a little of the sting out of the day as I step out of my clothes and straight into the shower. It is a ritual too (odeur de la mort? Not the best bedfellow ever) and is where I do a lot of my thinking, and it is there I feel a residual sting; a deeply regrettable pang of shame and disappointment that all the hot water and honeysuckle shower gel just won't wash away. My face glows anew with the memory of his face - his drawling honeyed voice, full of barbs and careless throwaway, devastating observations, dissecting my stupid little heart like a frog in a Sixth form biology class.

Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage.

Shampoo stings my eyes as I scrunch them tightly, shutting it out.

Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind.

His pale eyes, appraising, deducing, derailing, as impersonal as if he looked upon a splintered door frame or a murder weapon

Or a corpse. (but seemingly, not every corpse)

But, I had never before heard Sherlock Holmes apologise for any of the manners he lacked or the tosses he failed to give for the slower thinkers he left in his wake. The hushed silence, the almost tangible embarrassment emanating from our reluctant audience hummed in the air as he leant forwards to brush my hot cheek with his soft, dry mouth (a moment of warmth from the coldest of men).

I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.

And, you know, I did - I do forgive him. At that moment, I saw regret and a flicker of shame behind the mask, just as tonight in the morgue I saw a sadness, a pang of… something.

My feet are stretched out in front of me wearing orange slippers, (new, hideous, indecently comfortable - thanks Sarah G and Secret Santa) and a fat ginger cat balances across my lap whilst I hold a very delayed glass of sherry and my mobile, garnering the courage for a festive hour of mum-chat/haranguing. Mercifully, before I can plunge headfirst into a one sided lecture entitled 'What are you doing with your life, Molly Hooper?` the thing buzzes suddenly, shocking Toby off into his corner, nearly taking the sherry with him. It's a text, but not from Mike, my mum, Sarah or Great Aunt Charlotte from Aberdeen.

Your assistance this evening was appreciated. Thank you. SH

Oh. My heart beats like a timpani band as I see the sherry off in one go. Sherlock has texted me. No request, no austere, impersonal request/demand from across the void, but an unsolicited (from me at any rate) and seemingly genuine thank you. Within the space of twelve hours, I have been the recipient of an apology and a thanks from a man who sees so much, but sometimes misses everything. It really IS Christmas. So naturally, buoyed up by a second sherry and ignoring a sulking ginger tom, I type a reply:

Judging by the localised trauma and subsequent kinetic energy utilised, I feel a thin, probably metal pipe would have produced…

Then, of course, I delete this and write:

No problem Sherlock. I was happy to help. MH

Unfortunately, I press send before rethinking, so have to send another close on its heels:

I say happy, but obviously that wasn't quite the word. I am sorry Sherlock. MH

Then there is silence and I realise inappropriate waffling wasn't really the order of the day and am about to chuck my phone on the side table when:

You have nothing to be sorry for. My behaviour today was inexcusable and you were more than gracious to accept my apology and assist with subsequent events at such short notice. SH

I stare at the tiny screen for some minutes before throwing caution to the wind and firing off a reply. When, after all, would this chance ever happen again? He would close down (if it wasn't already too late) like a steel trap, like a mollusc clinging to a coral reef when the tides change, and we would be back to black (with two sugars).

She was a friend. MH

No question mark - it wouldn't do to insult him with such naivety - a statement.

I pity my own ridiculousness as I put the phone down (face down? Idiot, Molly Hooper) and leave the room. I prefer to be Schrodinger - in a state of not knowing about the cat. I want him to answer, but I don`t. God, I think I'm going a little mad. Happy Christmas to all my readers.

Ping.

Less that thirty seconds.

I step back into the room, looking at the phone like it were some maleficent talisman rather than a knackered old Samsung and slowly turn it over.

Caring is not an advantage. SH

Indignation (and three sherries on an empty stomach) spur me on.

What? That is preposterous! Caring is everything. It gives us our humanity. Who says things like that? MH

Five seconds.

Ping.

Mycroft. SH

Oh. Ah well. In for a penny.

He's wrong. MH

Ping.

Not usually. SH

This time he is. MH

Ping.

All lives end. All hearts are broken. SH

My fingers fly over the keys and to send without a secondary thought. I'm on a roll now, gathering momentum.

Rubbish. MH

Ping.

I see. Qualify? SH

Oh God… well, he did ask.

Everyday I see lives end. Every day I see hearts broken as people realise their losses are real and visceral and breathtakingly terrible. But Sherlock, that doesn't mean caring is worthless. I see bodies; lifeless and empty - just flesh, bone and cartilage - lying there. The people who cry and mourn are the ones who make those bodies into people, and their lives matter. Everyone matters, Sherlock. MH

I sit with Toby for the next thirty four minutes, staring at a soundless television, its bright, flickering, flashing images as meaningless as unsolicited advice from a casual acquaintance, until, like a little Christmas miracle, a silvery chime cuts through the silence.

A simple, single word of an answer.

Yes. SH

A/N: Hello there! Great to be back. Thank you for taking the time to peruse this little tale. It shall be nine chapters and I am very nerdy about regular posting! I do forget who wrote the original "Things we said when..." prompt, but I would like to thank them here.

Lovely. :)