After death comes the quiet. The still finality of a life having reached it's apex and flickering out. The stillness is unbearable when the death comes suddenly. It touched every aspect of the past, the present and changes the future permanently. When the death is not only traumatic, but intentional it does more than trigger loss. It triggers fear. The fear of what and who else could be taken away next.
Such was the aftermath of the death of Molly Hooper. Those that knew her best knew of her never failing devotion to Sherlock Holmes. But few knew of the consulting detectives fondness for her. Even fewer knew just how high that esteem had grown.
Walking into the remains of the burnt out morgue, seeing the charred remains of Molly had broken something in Sherlock Holmes. He had stood frozen unfocused on the melee of a sobbing Mary and a near desperate John who was pointlessly seeking a pulse on the corpse. When he finally gave up John stood and handed him a pristine note card from Moriarty.
I told you I'd burn the heart out of you. Silly of you to let it out and about on its own. Rather careless weren't you, Sherlock? Miss you much. -M
The note floated from his hands, near where her body lay, and Sherlock stayed still.
The investigators arrived and removed the three to check them out, particularly Mary and refused to allow them reentry. Mycroft's men escorted them to Baker Street and that's where the silence flooded.
Mary sat in John's chair, while her husband paced the kitchen, looking for anything to do to keep him distracted. And Sherlock simply stood still. The pain froze him. He hurt. Physically ached with the inadequacy crushed him with the weight of his failure to save Molly. Molly who had repeatedly the saved him.
Failure and loss mixed to create intense pain. It felt like slamming the ground after the fall. Blinding and buzzing.
Mary stood and went to join John in the kitchen. He pulled her back to his chest then rested his chin on her shoulder and placed both hands on her swollen belly. "He's not taking this well at all," Mary spoke softly.
"I've never seen him this bad." John murmured, eyeing the still figure across the room.
"That card, the one that the bomber left. Did it mean anything to you?" Mary asked.
"The burning of the heart bit, that was quoting Moriarty, "John stilled, "I've told you how Moriarty kidnapped me, strapped syntax on me and used me as a puppet against Sherlock. But did I tell you that we'd met him earlier at St Bart's? We were following the clues and working in the lab when Molly introduced us to her boyfriend who'd popped in. Poor thing was so proud of her office romance," John recalled, "after he left, Sherlock told Molly callously that 'Jim' was in fact gay. Even pointed out how he knew it to be true using the particularly with a damning evidence of a phone number dropped before he left. Molly stormed off, and he asked me how that had not been kind to tell her. Later on, I got kidnapped and strapped in a syntax vest and Moriarty revealed himself to us as the same man we'd met as 'Jim' in the lab. Molly was just being used to gain access to Sherlock," John paused, remembering that day at the pool. "Moriarty told Sherlock that he was going to destroy him. He told him that he was going to burn the heart out of him. "
"And now he's kept his word," Mary surmised.
"But Molly? They aren't that close, Mary. I don't know that they've even spoken all that much since we found him high. Why go after Molly?"
"Well, he trusts her implicitly. She assisted him in faking his death. He uses her home as a bolt-hole," Mary thought aloud. "But surely you saw how he looked at her when she wasn't looking at him?"
"No, that's not him," John denied.
"He loves her, John." Mary cringed. "Loved. You'd have to be a blind idiot not to see it."
"He doesn't do love, Mary." John spoke adamantly.
"Sherlock loves you," Mary pointed out. "He died for you, Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Why couldn't he have loved Molly too? Why couldn't he have felt romantically towards her?"
"Mary, I've sat in this very flat and watched Sherlock's tear Molly Hooper apart," John reasoned, "He doesn't do girlfriends. At least not for real."
"That doesn't mean he does not love her though. Look at how much he's done for us to keep us safe. What would he have done to protect her? What lengths of preservation?"
"Not enough though apparently," John said sadly. "And Moriarty made sure to remind him of that in his letter," John stilled, "Oh God, Mary if you are right he'll never forgive himself."
Mary turned out of John's arms. "We've got to help him focus. To finish this once and for all." With purpose, Mary strode across the room towards Sherlock.
Sherlock still felt grounded in place. Weighed down by so much... feeling. Suddenly, there was a sharp slap across his face. A feminine hand.
"Molly," he groaned like a prayer.
"No. No, Sherlock. Not Molly. Molly's... Molly's gone. The now it's important we find who did this. For her. For you. For all of us." Mary said quietly.
"Mary..." An anguished sound of frustrated disappointment ripped out of the tall man and he sank down to the floor, head between his knees. "She can't be gone. Molly can't be."
Mary's arms wrapped around him and he felt John's strong grip on his shoulder from the other side. "We're here, Sherlock. We will do whatever it takes to bring them to justice," John assured.
"John, John. I need... I need something. Something to make this pain go away. Please. Please!" Tears fell from Sherlock's eyes, open and unchecked. "Help me make this pain to stop."
Anguished, John turned to Mary. In all the years and fits, none was this bad. It was unbearable to see his friend like this, Mary gave a small nod and John stepped out to the hall to contact Mycroft. Clearly something had to be done before Sherlock went off to seek his own means alternative to forgetting.
Mary convinced Sherlock to stand, and remove his coat. She sat him in his chair and removed his shoes. Then she took his hand in her own. "Sherlock, focus on me." She waited till his red rimmed eyes connected with hers. "I know you loved her. I did too. And we will mournher. But not now. Not till after we find Moriarty. John is fetching something to help you, but for now, while it's fresh, you need to commit the scene today to memory. It's important, Sherlock. Do you think you can do it?" He nodded, knowing she was right. "Good, I'll be right here if you need me. I promise you'll not be alone." She squeezed his and his eyes slid shut.
Sherlock mentally accessed his mind palace. He wondered hesitantly in and avoided the wing of friends and loved ones and instead went towards his work area. Opening a new door, he built the familiar crime scene in his mind, layering in the damage over its pre-explosion look. Soon he was standing in a duplicate of the morgue he was in earlier, examining it for all the signs it would give. Suddenly the familiar sound of the hospital door sounded behind him and a voice spoke out, "So, bad day was it?"
A/N in sorry about this, so so sorry. The truth is I've had this in my head for over a year in my prompts file with a warning that people will hate me but I seriosuly wouldnt put It past the writers to do something like this for the sake of the story. And well, if Molly gets to stay in the story but only existing in the mind palace then... Well I won't be happy but it's something so yes, I'm sorry.
Id also be remiss not to thank my faithful beta, TheNewJefferson who I blindside with this pain. Thank you beautiful!
