A/N: Over two-and-a-half years ago, I wrote my first fic. It was called "Some Mornings," and it was about Sherlolly. So is this, and if you want to see it as a companion piece, you can! This is my 200th fic, and I want to thank everyone who's ever read, followed, favorited, shared, or REVIEWED =) for your support. Fanfic gives me life. Thank you.
He's never going to love you.
You know it like you know the weight of his gaze and the sting of hot water and disinfectant, like you know the sound of loneliness and the smell of another autumn come too early.
There comes a time when dreams don't matter. You wonder if that time could be found on the corpse-white face of the clock, if one day at three o'clock in the afternoon, it will all add up to too much.
But for now, you keep dreaming. You stand in the blank silver-gray-white of the morgue, stark and bare, and wait for his presence, dark and mysterious, to bring some color to your life.
"Molly."
"Sherlock?"
He needs. You need. But you never need the same things.
You watch the city flicker from day to night, fading and glowing like a lifetime. It rains, and you tuck your shoulders tight under your umbrella.
A Tuesday, and the silence makes you so cold that you decide you're finished.
A Friday, and the clock strikes three as he walks in.
You forget to stop dreaming.
Your mum calls you about your cousin's wedding. You unravel half the scarf you've been crocheting. It was too tangled, and you have quite enough scarves anyway.
You know the echo of his footsteps as well as the beating of your heart.
Sometimes, you think they're the same.
You make coffee like it matters. You go on a date at a pub, wearing too much makeup. It feels heavy on your face before the evening's over, and you shake hands with the guy—you can barely remember his name—to say goodbye.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
"Molly, I need—"
You could finish that sentence for him, if you dared.
You don't.
He's never going to love you.
You're never going to tell him you do.