My name is Molly.
I'm short compared to some and tall compared to no one, and really, that's fine by me.
Because at a time like this, it almost pays to be a mouse. No one sees you in the dawn, in the haze of the morning while the rest of the world sleeps. Most people think of the reds and yellows of morning, I prefer the blues and purples.
It lends kind of a mysterious and romantic lilt to the otherwise gray city. I love it.
I love that I'm the only one who sees it this way, chasing the colors as my feet hit the pavement below, running from the rising sun behind me. It's almost a game that I've made and it's as free as I think I'll ever be. Chasing something that will never exist outside of my mind, and in my ears I can hear the snapping of a Belstaff.
My heart lurches and my lungs burn, and I'm sure that it has nothing to do with the running. Tears sting the corner of my eyes and I finally feel the chilling blast of wind that the buildings that surround me. My feet come to a halt as the blue is finally being chased away and I feel the sun heating my back. I see my breath come in puffs of white and my chest heaves, sucking in the cool air as I hold my hand out. The sun rises further and I watch the blue casting on my arm turn into a sunny yellow with a frown. It slides slowly down my arm, caressing and weaving through the shadows. I do nothing to stop it, even as the blue shading that I love so dearly is chased right down to my fingertips and then gone from there as well.
People start poking their heads out their windows, and they glance around me, shuffling to get their papers or the post. And with the heat of the sun on my back, I walk back to my flat.
My name is Molly Hooper, or at least that's what I tell myself.
It is the name I found on the ID badge in the jacket next to me and her face looks like mine, though covered by large glasses. My head spins and I hold it tenderly. Everything hurts.
I draw my hands away and figure out why. Red and flowing, I know instantly that this is my blood. I am not afraid. Who am I?
Molly Hooper, at least that's what the sergeant calls me. She's very lovely as she drapes the warm blanket over my shoulders and tries to ask me questions from the back of the ambulance.
"This is Sergeant Donovan, notify emergency contacts of Molly Hooper that there has been an incident."
A man named Anderson radios back informing him that there is no one listed. I don't know why, but it makes me sad for Molly, sad for myself I suppose.
The staff at the hospital are very kind, they smile sweetly but I find that I do not like it. It doesn't settle right, it feels wrong.
A doctor Watson asks to see me, I am tired of seeing doctors.
"I don't understand." I tell Dr. Watson, who has come to visit me for the past three days, he looks at me somberly and paces the room. I want to leave, I want to go home, wherever that maybe, I want- I want something.
"You run every day, that's why you're feeling restless. Get some sleep."
I don't fight Watson, something tells me that I never do, but I don't want to close my eyes either. I guess I must have because when I wake up, there are a pair of pink trainers on the visitor's chair and a fresh change of clothes.
Doctor's are paged, but none of them are Watson, they tell me about my discharge paperwork and how to get home. They leave me to get dressed.
The clothes don't fit, almost as if I am hiding from myself, but they are comfortable and soft. I like them, even if they aren't quite right. The trainers don't match but they feel familiar, unlike everything else.
The apartment where I live is clean and organized, I hadn't expected that and I wonder why. A little white pawed dwarf cat dashes to me and mewls at my feet.
"Toby." It is the first thing that I can honestly remember and I cry a little as I drop to him and hold him close. He's affectionate for a cat and I feel happy for that. At least I wasn't always alone.
I am Molly Hooper, and I can cut up dead things.
Dr. Watson tells me so as he accesses the morgue. He tells me that I help solve murders sometimes, but that mostly I like reassuring families. He brings me a bunch of pale blue flowers and places them in my office. They are my favorite and they match his eyes.
"Sentiment." He says and I wonder if he's said that to me before. I smile up to him as we hover over a partially opened body bag. I sweep my hair to the right and my hands guide it in a familiar motion. As soon as that happens, I find that getting back to work is much easier than I expected.
A round older man comes to check on me around lunch, he hugs me closely and weeps a little while patting my cheek. I feel bad that I've made him like this and I try my best to calm him down.
"Oh there's our Molly, always looking out for everyone else."
I ask Watson if I do that a lot and the older man looks confused at the sound of Watson's name. I must not be the only person with memory loss around here.
After lunch, we go back to the lab and a thin black hair man is waiting with his arms crossed.
"I recognized those cuts, it's nice to see you haven't lost your edge, Hooper." The smile he gives could almost be considered friendly if it weren't for the glare he was giving Dr. Watson.
"Samuel Anderson, I know this is hard for you." He holds his hand out to shake and I do it cautiously.
"Don't patronize her, Anderson, Dr. Hooper has been doing just fine." Dr. Watson snaps from beside me.
I hate it when they argue. I've decided and I steer Watson back into the lab and away from Anderson.
We do not talk about the scathing "Freak." that Anderson hurls as he walk away. But my heart hurts for him anyway.
"Sentiment, Molly."
His name is not John Watson. And that is all I know.
"Am I even Molly Hooper?" I ask. I do not understand. Everything hurts and I do not know why.
His face looks romantic in the pale blues of the rising sun. He reaches for me, this man who has lied to me takes my hand, and I let him.
I am angry that he has lied to me, but something tells me that there is a reason.
"I am Sherlock Holmes and you are not Molly Hooper." He holds out a another badge for me to take, one that had been snapped off of a lanyard.
Molly Holmes, Pathologist.