Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended. Some dialogue lifted from 'The Reichenbach Fall/'.
The scene in the laboratory has been played out many times. Sherlock leans over the microscope, his concentration absolute. The sample on the stage has come from a crime scene, one where a life or lives hang in the balance. This time it's a pair of kidnapped children. There's so little time and so little to go on.
Molly stands ready to do his bidding. Usually, her job is no more complex than to fetch or to carry. 'Get me a fresh slide.' or 'I need a 500 ml beaker.' It's menial work for someone of her skills and training, but she does it gladly, even when he gets her name wrong. It gives her an excuse to be close and to feel like, in some small way, she is making a contribution. It's the same reason, she suspects, Dr Watson waits patiently for hours, sat on an uncomfortable stool drinking cup after cup of bad coffee from the vending machines or the hospital canteen. There's the possibility that Sherlock will need them.
But this time there is something different about Sherlock. He seems a bit off. Every so often his gaze strays from his work to Dr Watson. The way his expression changes in those moments is startling. His face softens and becomes melancholy. His eyes become strangely haunted, as if he is contemplating some great tragedy.
To see him this way tears at her heart because Molly knows that look. When he thought no one was looking her father, an otherwise determinedly cheerful man, used to look as Sherlock does. It's as if her father knew then, and Sherlock knows now, those he loves are about to have their hearts broken and he is to blame.
Her father was dying and that wasn't his fault, but it didn't make him feel any less responsible. She wonders what is troubling Sherlock. She knows, whatever it is, he won't unburden himself to Dr Watson because as those furtive glances and the slip of his name for hers make painfully obvious, it is Dr Watson's heart that Sherlock is afraid of hurting.
She loves Sherlock. She has nearly since she clapped eyes on him. It doesn't matter that he's rude or arrogant. It doesn't even matter that once he became aware of her feelings, he rejected her. She still loves him and she suspects she always will.
Over the last months her love has transmuted. It is no longer romantic, any dreams she had have long been ground to dust under the cold, hard knowledge that Sherlock will never return her affections. Instead of becoming bitter over her loss she has channelled her feelings into a new direction. Her love has become oddly familial. She feels like his younger and less interesting sister, but that doesn't stop the great swelling of pride in her chest whenever she sees his name in the paper or hears it on the telly. Whenever someone speaks ill of him, Molly's inner tigress emerges and she defends him just as ardently as if he were her own flesh and blood. She knows that if there were ever a chance, she would gladly lay down her life to save his.
She watches as Sherlock sighs, nearly imperceptibly, and his glance strays across the room again. She knows this might not be the best moment, but then given what she's about to say, she can't imagine there is a good time to broach such an uncomfortable subject. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." Molly realises how awful that sounds, and quickly apologises. "Oh, sorry!"
Sherlock tries to shut her down. That's hardly surprising, he hates distractions whilst he's working as a rule, and considering he's trying to reconstruct a kidnapper's lair from fragments of wood scrapings and bits of dust, he's not in the best frame of mind. But she presses on anyway. She tells him about her dad as succinctly as she can, and she tells him how she's seen the same look in his eyes. Their voices are soft. Too soft for Dr Watson to hear. "You look sad. When you think he can't see you." It is telling that Sherlock's gaze travels from the microscope to Dr Watson. There is no need to clarify which 'he' Molly means, because they both know.
She asks the question that has gnawed at her brain and at her heart. "Are you okay?" Her boldness, she won't let him sidestep with a stock 'fine', is unusual. Evidently her inner tigress is just as willing to protect Sherlock from himself as it is from some external threat. She needs him to know that she's seen his pain and understands its source.
Sherlock looks at her oddly. "You can see me," he says, and it's as if he's amazed.
Sherlock's general view is that most of the people on the planet are blind to what goes on around them. His quietly stunned tone should make Molly feel pleased. But for once, this conversation isn't about her feelings. Her feelings aren't important. His are. He's the one who needs protecting from some inestimable danger.
The tigress flees. Molly feels small and mouse-like as she babbles on under Sherlock's hawk-like gaze. She hears her voice quavering and wonders at her own cheek. He is Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest consulting detective. He is a hero. She, on the other hand, is a nobody. It is certain that she is no one's hero.
But it's possible that Sherlock doesn't need a hero. It's possible he just needs a friend. One whose heart he doesn't fear breaking. He's shown in the past he has no trouble hurting hers and that makes Molly the perfect choice. Because she loves him, because she will always love him, no matter what, she puts her offer on the table. "Whatever you need, anything at all. It's fine." She can't look at him after that. She's afraid to see amused contempt in his eyes.
Sherlock doesn't sweep her up into a hug. He isn't even particularly gracious. "What could I need from you?" he asks. His tone is perplexed, as if the mere idea is inconceivable. But when she dares herself to look, his gaze is upon her and his expression suggests that he is considering her in a way that has caught him by surprise.
Being in his presence is suddenly too awkward to bear. She's said her piece, and now she feels like an utter fool. She makes up an excuse about getting crisps. Out of habit, she offers to get him something, but immediately declines the offer for him, even after he starts to accept. He's trying to be kind, and for reasons she can't fathom, that hurts more than any snappish rejection.
She manages to keep it together as she rushes out of the lab. She can feel her chest growing tight and her cheeks getting hot as a secondary flush of embarrassment hits her. She pushes open the door to the stairwell, climbs a few steps, and then abruptly sits with her head in her hands.
Molly thinks about her father. He'd gone to his grave never knowing had there had been a witness to his sorrow. She regretted that then, and she regrets it now. She should have found the courage to be there for him. But Dads were meant to be their daughters' knights in shining armour. Brave and stalwart and true. He played his part, so she had played hers, and let him suffer in silence.
For a long moment she wonders if she should have kept her mouth shut this time as well. If she's made a mistake. But then the look Sherlock gave her, the one when he'd said, 'You see me.' played over her memory, and Molly knew she'd been right to speak out.
Sherlock needed her. She didn't know why or when he would come to her, but when he did, she would be there.