This is my second fanfic, basically a theory about how Sherlock survived the fall – yes, I know I'm jumping on the bandwagon here! I think there'll be a couple of chapters, maybe three. There's some subtle one-sided Sherlock/Molly, but later I might develop that bit into some Sherlolly – it depends on how the tone of the piece works, whether it'd be appropriate, etc.
Please please please review – it's appreciated a lot!
Disclaimer: Obviously, as much as I'd like to say I do, I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters or storylines. They all belong to the BBC, and the geniuses that are Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Enjoy
Molly stared down at the long, pale body on the slab. This felt wrong. For once, the pathologist had to work up to actually touching the corpse – something which she did on a regular basis, but which felt so huge today.
'What do you need?'
Whatever answer she had expected, it certainly wasn't this. She fixed her eyes on his face, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the slab tightly. Too tightly. Her shoulders sagged, and she turned away, rubbing her hands together where the slab had left deep, red welts. She took a deep breath, and turned round again to face him.
"Come on, Molly. It's just another body…" she muttered to herself.
She stopped again, staring him. Her heart was in her mouth, filling her throat and gagging her. She reached out for her tools, holding them like a shield between her and the body. She couldn't do it. She couldn't – not this, not to this body. It was just… wrong, and she couldn't do it.
Molly threw her stuff down and shrugged out of her lab coat, retreating into the safety of her lab, and making a cup of strong coffee. The smell was rich, deep and full, and she gripped the hot mug with both hands, ignoring the way the drink scalded her throat.
She spat it out.
Why had she made it that strong? It was enough to blow somebody's head off. As she turned to find a cloth to mop the mess up with, she caught sight of the corpse through the frosted glass. His curly hair, his snowy skin, his lanky form covered by the sheet.
"What do you need?"
"You."
He needed her to do this. What was so wrong about it anyway? Would it really be so bad… if it was to help him? To help him deal with J – Moriarty?
A series of memories assaulted her, knocking her off balance. They were dangerous memories, memories that she was fighting to keep behind the mental wall that she'd built herself. She concentrated on that now, on pushing the memories back. She opened her eyes, and blinked as neon spots danced before her. She shook her head, and several locks of warm, brunette hair escaped her ponytail and fell in front of her face.
If she wanted those memories to be safe again, if she wanted to be able to sleep at night, she would have to do it. She rubbed her tired eyes and downed the rest of her coffee in one huge, unladylike gulp, and marched back towards the slab, grabbing her lab coat and swinging it over her shoulders.
Besides, he needed her.
She could kid herself all she liked that she was doing this to be rid of that man and those memories, she could say that she was only doing it to benefit everyone, but in truth, she was doing it for him. But then again, she thought, everything I do is for him now, isn't it?
"I'm not okay."
"Tell me what's wrong."
He ducked his head, and then stood up to face her. Even now, even in this situation, her breath caught in her throat as he looked her in the eye.
"I think I'm going to die."
Molly felt her heart stop. Just one beat, but she could have sworn she missed it. He… he couldn't die. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was the one constant thing on her mind, the whole time. His eyes, his mind, his… Sherlock-ness. She couldn't let him die; she needed him. Everyone needed him, but not as much as her. She wouldn't lose him.
"What do you need?"
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am," he said quietly, walking towards her, "would you still want to help me?"
Of course. Of course she'd still want to help him. He was close enough now that she was trapped in a tiny space between him and the wall, and she could feel the warmth of his body radiating into hers. She felt a strong urge to drop her eyes and look at her feet, anything to escape the pressure, the dizzying thoughts and worries hurtling through her. But she didn't; he needed her. She concentrated on his eyes, keeping her body still and breathing even.
"What do you need?"
"You."
He'd told her what he needed, he'd told her what she had to do, and while he was there, she'd had no doubts. She would do anything for him. She faced the corpse once again, and fixed an image of Sherlock's face in her head, her need to fight the lines of anxiety on his face giving her the strength to do it. He'd looked so distressed, so vulnerable… it had left a dull ache in her chest, and she couldn't ignore it. He needed her to do this one thing. Not letting herself thing about it, she took the first step, and placed her clammy palm on the corpse's cheek.
From then on, it was easy.
Just another corpse.
Admittedly, this one was stranger than the others. She'd never done anything quite like this to a body before, and had to sing to herself to repel the bad thoughts in her head, to keep back the eyes she felt watching her.
So, Molly Hooper worked.
She began with his face, scraping at the skin on one side of it, as if it had smacked the pavement. She grabbed a kohl pencil and shaded his eyebrows until they were dark enough. Then, she eased the body into the right position to lean his head over a bowl, and rummaged in her bag until she found the bottle of black hair dye she'd bought earlier. She quickly read the instructions and carried them out, until around his face a mop of ebony curls bounced. She took the clothes and frantically stuffed his limbs into them, singing shrilly to keep the shadows from scaring her. Her voice echoed in the empty space, and came back to her as she threaded the packets of his blood underneath the clothes and secured them. Then, she carried on working, all the while thinking of the face that haunted her.
When she finally stood back, an almost perfect Sherlock lay on the table before her.
He wasn't quite right.
His ears were the wrong shape.
His lips weren't quite full enough.
His cheekbones weren't high enough – although she'd done her best to highlight them.
His fingers were too short, the nails rough and bitten. So unlike Sherlock.
His jaw wasn't right – even though she'd spent ages trying to shade it, to create the illusion of its shape.
There was one final thing. She had to do it now or she'd never work up to it. She gingerly placed her fingers on the closed eyes of the corpse, and slid them open. A glassy, blue gaze met her eyes, but didn't see her. She fell away, gasping, and threw the sheet over his head, to hide those blank eyes away. She took a moment to calm herself.
Molly sighed. There was nothing else she could do. He was as good as he was going to get. As she started packing her things away, somebody coughed behind her. She jumped, her heart thundering, and span round to face whoever it was. All she could hear was the blood rushing through her ears, and she didn't notice the stack of used coffee cups she'd accumulated until they were lying in pieces on the floor. She stared, wide-eyed into the darkness around the door to the morgue, and could just make out a figure, silhouetted by the light from the lab. He stepped forwards.
She instinctively took a step backwards, and slipped on the broken crockery. Her foot skidded wildly, and she grabbed hold of the slab for support. She stood upright and kicked a few pieces of mug away from her, her nerves shot and jangling, her limbs weak with exhaustion.
"You alright, Molly?" John asked. He made to reach towards her, to steady her, but she quickly stood up and brushed herself off, making out like she was fine. She walked towards him to keep him as far away from the body as possible.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, thanks," she smiled, hoping it was convincing.
"Good. I was just wondering – Sherlock hasn't been to see you, has he? Only… well, I need to find him and I can't."
Molly looked at him. He was hiding something. Well, so was she. She bit her lip and stared at her feet, forcing herself not to so much as glance at the corpse on her slab. She dragged her gaze up to meet his.
"Only, I tried Mycroft, and back at the flat, but he wasn't anywhere." John said.
Molly didn't have to act very much to look worried. She looked John in the eye, concentrating on the colour to keep herself from glancing back down again. She hated lying to him, but it had to be done. She had to protect him. She had to protect them both.
"I'm sorry John; he hasn't been to see me since he brought those samples at lunchtime. Um… he doesn't really pop in here unless it's business."
John looked guilty, but only for a second. He knew how Molly felt about Sherlock, and hated to see her looking so dejected.
"Thanks, Molls."
He rushed out of the morgue, pulling his phone from his pocket as it beeped.
Molly watched him go, and then turned back to the corpse. It was now or never.