AN: Once I heard Molly was a nickname for Mary, I decided I had to write Molly as Mary Morstan.
As usual, I do not own Sherlock.
Molly checked her hair in the mirror for the seventeenth time that night. Applying one more layer of lipstick, after nervously chewing away at her lips for the past hour, she smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her dress and put her coat on. She wanted everything to go smoothly.
Not that this was a date.
Just dinner.
With a friend.
It had been almost two months since... well since that. She'd visited John nearly every day since. She worried about him, sitting alone in that flat—no doubt waiting for Sherlock to walk back through the front door. It pained her every time to see him jump at the sound of the door opening, his face quickly sinking back into its usual melancholic expression when he realized it wasn't his best friend, just Molly Hooper.
It was almost funny that in those two months, John had almost transformed into a caricature of Sherlock. Almost. The cold disconnected demeanour, seemingly perpetual boredom with the world around him; it was all but having the man himself back.
She wondered how long it would last.
It had been Tuesday when she asked him. He'd given her an odd look before finally agreeing to venture back out into the world with her, making her sigh inwardly. It was frustrating, in a way, knowing she could help fix him but being utterly incapable of doing so. She just wanted the John she had known back.
After all, Sherlock Holmes was John Waston's friend too. John Waston's dearest friend. John Waston's only friend in the world, it seemed sometimes. She couldn't tell him the truth – she'd vowed to Sherlock she wouldn't – but she couldn't help but feel responsible for his misery. The least she could to was try to relieve some of it.
He was nowhere to be seen when she arrived at the restaurant, though she was running late. She couldn't help but wonder if he had only agreed to come along to stop her from pestering him for the time. Leaning against the building, she prepared herself for a long wait, pulling her coat a little closer.
She couldn't help but be a little surprised when John actually did show soon after. Limping slightly, he approached her with an awkward, forced smile.
"Hello, John. I- I wasn't sure you'd actually come." She immediately regretted saying it. It wasn't as though John was going to turn around and walk away at the comment, but she doubted it would do much to prevent his bitterness from entering their little meeting.
"Yes... well..." he said, pausing before giving her another stiff smile. "I did."
She stumbled over a response before realizing he was already making his way inside. The restaurant was nice, but not too nice. After all, she wasn't on a date. This was far from a date. They sat down and ordered, slipping into an uncomfortable silence.
'So..." she mumbled, "how've you been, John?"
"The same as every other time you've asked me that question."
She could feel herself slink back into her chair.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean..." he said. "How've you been? Still working late?"
Molly nodded lightly. "Seems like there's been a lot more work to do ever since Sherlock..." She could feel herself metaphorically putting her foot in her mouth as she cut herself off. She'd always had a sort of talent for saying the wrong things at even worse times.
She took a deep breath, reminding herself why she had set this dinner up to begin with.
"John, can I," she stopped, trying to regain her confidence before it escaped her again. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," John nodded, looking slightly worried.
"You promise you won't get all angry with me?" He rolled his eyes, almost identically to the way Sherlock would whenever she made to say anything.
"I know you loved him. Don't try to tell me it's not true. But John... he's not coming back. And I know you're sad, but I'm scared for you. No, I mean... I'm worried about you. You don't go anywhere or talk to anyone. I know I'm not helping but I'm your friend, aren't I?" She looked down at her glass, which was almost empty already.
"Of course you are, Molly. What-"
The waitress made no hesitation to interrupt their conversation. Molly wondered how often she must hear serious conversations like this go down every day in places like this.
"Molly, listen to me, I'm fine. I just need... some time."
"You're not fine," she asserted strongly but quietly. She knew it was going to be difficult talking to him about this, but she was getting frustrated. She took a soft breath. "It's been months, John. Y- you can't just lock yourself away forever."
John stood up, looking as worn out and upset as she felt. "I'm sorry I have to go."
"I'm leaving," she blurted out.
His head cocked to the side. "You're what?"
"I- I'm leaving. My mum's been sick and I don't think she's okay and I'm going to go stay with her for a while."
"Oh, Jesus Christ. I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't know," he looked shocked.
"I know," she said. "You never really asked." He never asked her anything about herself. She didn't much mind though. She hated talking about herself anyway. Though she supposed it would have been nice to have someone to talk to about her mum but she knew John was going through too much of his own grief to notice hers. Nobody ever noticed things about her.
"Do you need anything?" He sat back down at the table. For the first time in months, she could tell he actually cared about what was happening. Moreso, what was happening to her.
"I- I don't know how long I'll be gone and I-," she tried looking him straight in the eye. "I don't want to have to worry about you too. I mean, my mum's sick and I don't need you going off on me too."
She expected to him to protest, but he simply clenched his jaw and nodded. She knew he wasn't going to change his habits, but she appreciated that he was at least trying to spare her feelings. Maybe he wasn't turning into Sherlock after all.
The room seemed to settle into the same awkward silence that had been there when they first sat down as they ate their dinners. Afterwards, they both got up, mumbling awkward goodbyes.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" she smiled.
He nodded before heading out the door.
The end to Molly's trip came after a long month in Brighton. Margaret Morstan's death hardly came as a shock, though. Her mother had made it to eighty years old, no doubt a record in the Morstan family.
For all the death Molly had been around, for all the grieving she'd seen, she'd forgotten how it felt to be the one being affected by it. She didn't cry when she realized her mother wasn't going to get up off the couch, no matter how Molly tried, nor when planning the funeral. Not even as she stepped into the car to go say goodbye. She didn't really feel anything, to be honest. Just a sort of emptiness. She knew it was the shock, even if it was something she expected.
The little church was packed with unfamiliar people, all too busy in their own grief to notice her. Anyone in the family that would have gone were already long dead and buried.
As she watched the casket sink into the ground, it seemed all of her feelings rushed back to her at once. She remembered when she was five asking her mother why her uncle George needed a bed if he dead. Surely he couldn't have cared about his clothes getting dirty. And when she was nineteen, wondering why her father hadn't given up smoking sooner. Why he cared more about smokes than he did saving as many years as he could to spend with his daughter and wife. And all the grandparents and aunts and uncles in between and after.
Molly Hooper had finally buried one too many people.
She pushed her way through the crowd of people around the casket and tried to distance herself from them as much as possible. What would they care if she was crying? They probably didn't even know who she was.
She didn't make it far before running right into someone.
"I'm sorry- " she muttered miserably, looking up. "J- John?"
Before she could say another word, John had wrapped his arms around her. She would have been shocked had she not been too busy crying. She needed someone and if John was willing to help her, she wasn't going to push him away. She didn't have the energy to lie and say she was okay.
"I think I owe you an apology, Molly," he said, softly.
"It's okay." She snuggled her head back against John's shoulder.
"No, it's not okay. But I'll make it up to you. I promise."
She wasn't sure how long they stood there, but when she looked back up, the graveyard was empty but for the two of them.
"I'm sorry," she laughed a little, pointing to where her tears had left a mark on his sweater. She looked down, her face falling back into a grimace. "Thanks for coming, John."
"I was worried about you."
She could feel a small smile cross her lips.
"I'm hungry. I think we ought to have a proper lunch together. Don't you think?"
She couldn't help but say yes.
Nor could she the four other times after that.
After all, those... those were dates.