Well, Shit. Was Molly Hooper's first thought, as she saw her still form lying on the cold disinfected mortuary floor, blood spilling from the stab wound in her back and trailing down her chin from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were glassy and her hair was limp, matted with the residual sweat from a chase and blood from the post-mortem head wound. Cause of death, stabbed in the back.How cliché. She had not caught full sight of her attacker, but the gait and speed of their footfalls suggested a female, who was clearly unskilled as the evidence, her cooling corpse, lay quite obviously before her. I mean, if I was going to get murdered, it could have at least been someone with a modicum of sense, something interesting, a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes at least, this is a two at best. I could solve this! Well, not so much anymore.
The Molly that stood above her dead self was pale, tired, and a little confused. She had guessed, no maybe deduced was a more fitting word, that if she was standing before her own corpse she could be little more than a spirit, maybe even a ghost, although that sounded stupid. Molly hadn't believed in ghosts since she was seven and her father had told her that a ghost was merely a memory, an exaggerated tale that lets the imagination run wild, but being a ghost had certainly shifted her perspective on the matter. So ghosts are real, I wonder if fairies are too?
Having discovered, in a hopeless attempt to remove the shoes from her somehow aching feet, although she supposed imagination had a lot to play in the role of feeling, because she sure as hell couldn't feel the knife in her back, or anything else for that matter, that she could not remove her clothing, that she was stuck in her last living outfit; Molly was at least pleased she'd been brutally killed out of office hours, and therefore out of her ghastly lab coat, assuming eternity was a given, eternity in that thing would have driven her mad. Instead Molly was wearing a comfortable navy blue skirt over thick woolen tights, and a form fitting long sleeved grey top, with her second favourite deep blue floral cardigan.Suitable choice for my end of days.
Molly made her way up to the lab, it was one floor up, and getting away from her flesh self before rigor mortis kicked in felt now like somewhat of a priority, she may have had a morbid fascination with corpses, but her own blood was sticky on the white floor, and her own face looked decidedly more frightened than herself.I mean I'm already dead, can't really be scared of much now. Plus, Molly was rather interested to test out a few 'fact-or-fiction' theories about being a ghost, walking through walls, making cups float to freak people out, 'rent-a-ghost-ing' from one place to another, moving her spirit away from the sight of her untimely demise,because I'm not sure I want to haunt a teaching hospital mortuary for eternity.
It was all a bit hit and miss, 'rent-a-ghost-ing' was certainly more fun than she'd expected, but it was also tricky to get right, and as of yet, more than ten meters was her limit of travel, and upstairs was a no go. Walking through walls was easy enough, although you certainly see some things amidst the crack and debris behind the plaster board. She managed to hitch a ride in a lift without being left behind, but pushing the buttons herself wasn't quite working out, and the floating cup thing was the best ten minutes of her life death, down in the IT department (a failed 'rent-a-ghost' trip.)
When she finally got to the lab, it was deadly quite for all of ten minutes, before Sherlock Holmes came waltzing in barking orders for coffee and slides and body parts. At first, she assumed it was what he did when he walked into Bart's labs, order her about even if she weren't there, John had told her stories of Sherlock having had conversations with him even when he was in another country. But then he looked her dead in the eye, glaring, as if to challenge her to not make the coffee, to not provide the body parts, to not swing her lab coat around her shoulders and go from off duty to his personal lab assistant, even if she was a Doctor. And her jaw dropped.
"Wait, can you see me?" Molly spoke softly and incredulously, her voice only just breaking into it's new form, like the first few words of a morning, still fogged with sleep.
"Yes Molly, and hear you, shockingly I am neither deaf nor blind. And we have already had the conversation about you counting, please don't make me repeat the sentiment so often." He sounded gruff and unamused, classically Sherlock, but Molly's jaw was still slackened from shock as he continued. "Now, black, two sugars, if you don't mind."
"You cannot be serious. You can see me?!" She practically shouted. "Sherlock. I'm a bloody ghost! And you can see me." Her arms were flailing wildly in an unsure gesture.
"Ah, I was unaware Halloween was approaching, it's not much of a ghost costume. Isn't it usually a sheet with eye holes, for the lazy amongst us." He snorted.
"It's not Halloween Sherlock." She let out a frustrated sigh; maybe a viewing of my corpse will kick that big ol' brain into gear. "Come with me, there's a - ah - an interesting specimen? down in the morgue. Full body, can't bring it to you, so you'll have to go to it."
"Molly, I am on a case. There's a man's alibi resting upon my shoulders, could you please not distract me. Conversation is not your area."
"Sherlock Holmes. Nothing is my area anymore. Just this once, follow me. I'm sure it'll be worth it. You owe me!"Aha that's got him. And it had, Sherlock Holmes did owe Molly Hopper, for keeping his secret after his faked death, for signing the papers, for risking so much, although he was baffled as to why she was using it for something so simple as going downstairs.
So he did, he got up from his stool, leaving his coat behind and walked down to the morgue. So consumed in his own mind palace that he missed that Molly's foot was halfway through the door before it swung open.
And there she was again. Molly Hopper standing over the cold flesh and bones that was her former body, blood dried around her crown and on her cheek, a sticky puddle of the deep red substance still beside her. Sherlock Holmes gave her one glance, scanning over the motionless form. Sadness took hold of him first, for mere moments, but long enough. Then he ran his tongue over his front teeth, smoothing over the glossy enamel, blinking away tears and blackening eyes.
"It appears, Molly Hopper. I have some things to explain."