Some mornings, he doesn't come. But today she can hear the purposeful footsteps down the hall long before he stalks in, dark coat flapping.
"Molly."
"Morning, Sherlock!" Her tone is more cheerful than she meant it to be, and far more cheerful than she feels.
His grey eyes flick upwards at her, gauging her in all her false exuberance in one moment, discarding her a second later.
She's used to it.
It still hurts.
She pushes her ponytail over her shoulder. "You want to see the body, right?" Really, she doesn't even have to ask—why else would he be here? But she says it because she wants to hear his voice again, and he won't speak unless she does.
"Right."
It's so—deep. Rich. Distant.
With fingers that tremble—don't let him see—she unzips the bag over the cold, flaccid face of the dead man. She can't see anything special about the heavy closed eyes or the bloodless skin, nor does she wish to. She may work at a morgue, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant for her.
It fascinates her, the way that he peers at the clammy features with such intensity, appraising it the way the he would a priceless painting. He murmurs to himself, flips open his tiny magnifying glass with leather-gloved fingers, studies for a few seconds longer. He's finished sooner than she wants him to be.
"Thank you, Molly." The way he says it is like an afterthought, but it makes her heart skip a beat anyway. At least he said it.
"You're welcome," she says quickly. And then she says, like she did last time, and the time before—"Do you want to…um…get coffee later?"
And then he says it, like he always does, with peremptory disinterest and casual quickness—"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."
"OK, then." Her voice sounds squeaky, but she doubts that he even notices. He's gone. Again.
She'll bring him the coffee later, just as he likes it. She won't have to hunt around in the café for sugar. She learned long ago to bring it with her, just in case the café is out.
It has to be perfect, because it's the only thing she can give to him. Sometimes, when she hands him the plain white mug, their hands almost touch.
It's such a small moment. So insignificant, so quickly over.
But she lives for it.
She waits for it, with two sugars in her pocket and a silly, hopeless dream.
