Molly Hooper sat in her office, placidly gazing at the countless number of stars that speckled the London night sky. She was completely and utterly entranced by their beauty, wondering how anyone could see such vastness and think that there was nothing in the universe that could ever bring them happiness. Across the river, she could see the London eye, constantly turning in its never ending quest of bringing onlookers the joy of such a spectacle. But just as the eye spun its course, so did her mind in such circles.
'You'. That word. That one simple word continued to echo throughout her entire body. Such a small saying, but containing so much meaning and mystery when spoken from the man she truly loved, who was now sitting in the corner of the morgue, anxiously bouncing a ball against the brick. When Sherlock had said this to her, she had retreated to her office to ponder what had just occurred. Now, tears began to stream down her face, and Molly buried her eyes into the folds of her lab coat, for thinking of the downfall of the great detective had proved too much for her to handle.
"I don't know if I can do this," she said aloud, knowing that Sherlock could most likely hear her through the thin walls. Her mind was racing. Why would he want her to create a picture of someone who wasn't Sherlock? She knew that he had come to her for help in faking his death, but this? It killed her soul to think that she must paint such a false portrait of the man she had come to love. What about John? Mrs. Hudson? Nevertheless, she knew that she must do what he had asked, so she quickly gathered her composure and hastily walked out onto the morgue floor.
"Alright," she said, trying to conceal the pain that she felt inside, "what do we need to do?" In truth, she really had no idea how to fake someone's death. No one had ever asked her to and she honestly never thought she would have to. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes.
"There is nothing to be done," Sherlock said, looking up from his incessant bouncing. "I have finished all of the preparations for tomorrow and now all you must do is-." He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixating on Molly's red cheeks.
"You've been crying," he said plainly. Molly could feel her face becoming white hot with embarrassment. She quickly turned away, hoping that he would say no more, but she knew that would not be the case. She grabbed a tissue from her coat pocket, attempting to wipe away the newly cried tears that had fallen from her eyes.
Molly's whole body began to shake and she could feel her skin turning ice cold. She couldn't control her sobbing, and no matter how hard she strained, she just couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Suddenly, she felt something being placed upon her back. It was warm, and it enveloped her small body completely, bringing a little amount of comfort to her aching heart. She turned around, only to see a sad looking Sherlock standing in front of her small form. Without saying a word, she fell into his open arms, breathing in his sweet aroma and feeling comforted by his warm embrace. Her whole mind seemed finally at ease, thinking of how strangely out of character this was for Sherlock, though she did not question. She could have fallen asleep standing right in this very spot. She felt at home with him. Her thoughts quickly were broken by the sound of Sherlock's soothing voice.
"Erm, I," he said, pulling himself away from her, "I'm going to go get a cab. You wait here until call." He stood completely still, staring into her eyes intently. Then, with a quick turn, he strode out of the morgue down to the street to hail a taxi.
Molly stood in the middle of the room, feeling happy again and now realizing that she was still wearing Sherlock's coat. Standing straight up, the the fabric still cascaded to the floor in a bug heap. She examined the loose threads around collar. This coat had obviously seen its fair share of work days, and she wondered how many dead bodies it had come into contact with as well. She pushed the thought from her mind, and she slowly slipped her hands into the large pockets. As she reached into the coat deeper, her right hand touched something rather cold, and upon retrieving it, her eyes widened and she began to feel her stomach leap.
It was a watch, but this was not just any watch. This was the watch that she had gotten him for Christmas the year before. She opened the lid, revealing the inscription. 'Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx' it read. The lights in the room hit the gold lid brilliantly, so the words sparkled and shined as she read them. It had been a year since she had seen that watch, and truly she had hoped to forget it. But now, seeing that he had carried it with him all this time made her not want to forget what he had said to her that Christmas Eve. She smiled and closed the lid tightly, placing the small thing back into its proper place. Not a moment to soon, her phone buzzed in her palm.
'Come outside, SH'. The words on the screen lit up the room. Of course it would be like him to text her instead of come escort her to the car. Molly hurriedly grabbed her things and walked out to the curb where she saw Sherlock already waiting for her in the London taxi. She crawled inside right next to him.
"187 North Gower Street," she told the driver. The cabbie then put the car into gear, and as they sped off, Molly stared up at the sky, wondering what the night was going to bring.
