**Hey, guys! So this is my second Sherlock fanfic, and I hope you like it. It was written in a bit of a rush, a flood of ideas really, and it gets a bit metaphysical but it's all part of the story. Enjoy!
Love, Libby Love**
It was late when Molly Hooper strode across the cobblestone paved street from the parking garage and into the mortuary. Her eyes were barely clear of sleep, and her steps still held the slightly woozy appearance of one who had just unwillingly awoken. Hair pulled back into a messy bun and makeup half removed, she'd fallen into slumber hours before after an exhausting day, only just bothering to put her pajamas on. It wasn't until hours later, whilst experiencing a fitful rest she'd remembered mid-dream that she'd left her purse back at the morgue.
For a few moments she stood at the door, jumbling around at her keys with clumsy, fatigued fingers. Finally, she recovered the right one and fitted it into the lock, popping the entrance open and tripping her way in. As she walked the cold linoleum halls in her zombie-like trance, she tried not to let her still sleep-drugged mind get the best of her. The building, perpetually eerie and frigid, seemed ever so more in the dead of the night. Whilst it was creepy and disturbing even on a bright Monday morning, bustling with employee activity, it seemed almost evil when bare and silent.
Naturally, one's imagination is a tricky thing; though it can be the best of gifts on rainy days when recreation is lacking, it can be the worst of endowments when one is alone and scared in an already foreboding place where the dead are kept. Suddenly, Molly felt very awake as she tiptoed the passages, and even the smallest of noises seemed terrible and threatening.
Though she was jumpy and anxious, it wasn't until the playing started she began to feel veins of cold, terror induced sweat bead down her brow and back. It was beautiful and ethereal, the playing, like the sweet whisper of wind intensified into song. But why was someone making lovely instrument music in the middle of the night, at a mortuary? She shivered, eyes welling up with tears for her fear. Frozen stock still, paralyzed with her distress, it was when she gathered enough courage to step hesitantly forward that the sweet tunes stopped.
Molly's eyes bulged open, and she spun around, awful ideas eclipsing judgment in her head. She was almost sure she saw the shadow of a person, patterned on the stained beige flooring and a pale, skeletal hand reaching towards her…Molly let out a bloodcurdling scream, backing up against the wall and falling to the ground.
There was a pause. A quiet. "Molly?" asked a deep, familiar voice.
Tentatively, expecting the worst, she coaxed open her eyes. There in front of her stood a tall, thin man with a flop of dark curls and bright enigmatic eyes. Propped on his shoulder was a violin.
"S...S…Sherlock?" Molly asked, disbelieving.
"That is my name," he told her, and reached a hand out to pull her up. She took it, palm shaking, and knitted her brows.
"Why are you here?" she questioned, hugging her arms around herself.
Sherlock looked down, almost as if embarrassed. In a rush she remembered—the body of a woman, who Sherlock was called upon to recognize. His eyes, flitting across the deceased's naked form, and nodding, saying "This is her." Molly struggled to remember. The name…Adler. Irene Adler.
"Oh," Molly said, understanding. "Oh." She sat back down again, hard. Strangely, Sherlock joined her, leaning back against the brick wall. "Did you…know her? Well," she stumbled over words, "Were you…dating her?"
Sherlock looked at Molly then, really looked at her. Immediately she felt self-conscious, recalling her partially taken off mascara and eyeliner, her pajamas, her unruly hair. She knew under that gaze he could tell practically anything about her: past, present, what she'd eaten for dinner…but the way he stared at her, it didn't feel like he was trying to critically analyze, but more…understand. Understand in the way that a foreign citizen might look at your home country, to try to comprehend the culture and the way it runs. At the same time it was almost as if he looked through her, with a kind of sadness in those gorgeous eyes of his that was unparalleled by any other expression she'd seen on him.
"No," he said simply, and turned away.
She nodded, trying not to feel happy about this. Even as her heart leapt just being next to him, she forced herself to remember that painful Christmas, his hurtful words… "So you just wanted to be back here again? With…her?"
"She's dead. She is no longer 'here.'"
"But she's somewhere better," Molly said, to make him feel better.
"No," he told her again, "She's in a drawer in a mortuary, waiting to be buried in a box."
Molly shook her head. "Ms. Adler's in heaven now,"
"Do you really believe that?" Sherlock asked. Molly suddenly saw how bloodshot those sad eyes of his were, as if he'd been crying. Sherlock Holmes? Crying?
"Y-yes," she confirmed. "Why? You don't believe in heaven?"
"Molly Hooper," he murmured, and did something completely un-Sherlocklike. He reached out and put his smooth hand on her cheek, tenderly, gently. "Sweet, innocent, ignorant Molly."
Mesmerized, Molly forgot to feel insulted by being called ignorant.
"It's so easy to let yourself depend on something like heaven, to justify death. It's so infinitely simpler to tell yourself that there is a gilded kingdom atop the clouds, harmonized in peace and love, than to prepare for nothingness. But is that all it is, Molly Hooper? Lies? Excuses and feeble attempts to make the unknown less terrifying? What if the day of reckoning comes and no matter what you did in this life, the verdict is always the same? What if everyone is dealt the same punishment no matter their sins; eternal blackness and unconsciousness? What if this is all there is?"
A single tear cascaded down his face. Molly reached out and wiped it away with the pad of her fingertip. She left her hand there, then, tracing his sharp cheekbones and the curve of his nose and lips. "But that's why they call it faith, Sherlock. It's blind. You don't know if you're believing it all for nothing, but you believe anyway. It's our curse—we need to understand, even if we aren't meant to."
"But I can't cope with not having an answer. I need to understand. Don't you get it?" Another tear fell, and yet again she cleaned it from his features.
"Ssh." She whispered softly. "Ssh. Without death, there is no life. Gilded kingdom of heaven or not, death is the natural occurrence of life. It is what is meant to be. Just as all things that are born must take their first breaths; they much someday take their last ones, too. Death is just another part of being alive. Don't think of it as the end, whether there be an afterlife—think of it as just another milestone in the journey of being alive."
"If it is just another part of being alive," Sherlock said, "Why is there so much fear? Why must we make up all of these myths and stories about the existence after death?"
"Because it is the unknown. Death is the one thing no human can truly experience and then describe. Wherever there is a gray area in the knowledge of mankind, we must fill the void to give ourselves answers. If we feel confident that after death we will go to our rightful afterlife, it is not so scary to face death anymore. But it is when there is no answer, no wholehearted understanding of what is yet to come that we become scared."
"Heaven and Hell," Sherlock mused, shadows dancing across this face, "Foolishness. Humans are not so black and white, so simply good and evil that we can be sorted neatly into our 'rightful afterlives.' We are complex. We feel, and we feel not always good things. We yearn to have the kind of knowledge that will ensure our own safety. If a person believes in a different God or heaven than us, we must stamp them out…to make ourselves feel better about our own religion? Does it not seem that we argue and bicker and then kill and maim over something like afterlife, which should unite us all? Death is the one commonality we all can one hundred percent say we share. And yet, we have to fight wars and murder and destroy over what we all think happens after death."
Molly pushed a strand of dark curls from his face, tucking them behind his ears. "There is so much more to life than death. That's why I think we should make the best of whatever time we have, and instead of worrying so much about our endings, think about how to make that span between birth and death beautiful. I don't care about religion, or lack thereof for that matter. Because all religion and all atheism centers around death. I want my attention to be centered around life. I want to live every moment." And, taking a deep breath she said, "And I want to live this one, especially." With that, Molly Hooper gently cradled her palm behind his head and ducked in, pressing her lips against his.
Her mouth was as warm and sweet upon Sherlock's, and he found himself returning the kiss without second thought. His arms wrapped around her, bringing her close and sharing their mutual heat. Tears streaked down his cheeks, but of sadness or happiness he wasn't sure. He didn't care, either. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't think, or deduce, or evaluate. He didn't calculate or appraise or even try to understand. Instead, he just felt. Instead, he let the moment take him. He lived.