Molly Hooper looks at him, at this great detective. "What do you need?" she repeats. Sherlock steps closer to her, his expression unreadable. "You."
Molly jolts back to reality, the memory still fresh in her mind. Sherlock Holmes had needed her. He didn't have a plan to survive, but he was human. He had proved that to her, as he took her to dinner, explained what was going to happen, what John was going to do. Except he'd been wrong. John Watson, who had been expected to "soldier through the pain", was dead. He had committed suicide just 2 months after his friend. Shot himself through the head after he had called Molly, told her what was going through his mind. He had only wanted to see his friend again. Molly had rushed to Baker Street, but she was too late. The army doctor was lying on the floor, a ghost of a smile on his face. Molly hadn't been able to help John and she hadn't been able to help the man she loved. She was useless.
Mrs. Hudson had died 3 months after Sherlock had gone, one after John. The cause of death was old age, but Molly, Lestrade, and Mycroft knew better. She had died of a broken heart. Mycroft had later died in his sleep, cause of death unknown. 9 months after Sherlock had jumped, Lestrade was killed chasing down a criminal. Molly Hooper was the only one left.
Not for long, though. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's fall. Molly had been depressed for the last 3 months. She had gone up to the roof of St. Bart's, had stood in the place he stood, the faint chalk outline of Moriarty's body behind her. She looked down. Someone had noticed her, was on their phone, frantically waving their arms. Far away, DI Dimmock got the call. A woman, Molly Hooper, it seemed, was on the rooftop. Hooper... Dimmock knew that name. He knew it very well. "Which rooftop?" he asked. "Not St. Bart's?" A memory came back to him.
Dimmock was in his office when someone told him he was needed. "What for?" The constable sighed. "Seems someone has jumped off St. Bart's." Dimmock was the one to sigh now. "A suicide? Isn't that more of Lestrade's thing?" The constable shook his head. "He can't take it. Says he knows the guy. A Mr. Holmes?" Dimmock sat up. "Holmes? Not Sherlock Holmes?" He grabbed his coat and headed for the car, finding Lestrade in the parking lot. The latter looked worried. "Can we hurry please?" Dimmock looked at Lestrade. "Thought you didn't like this guy. You did get him arrested." Lestrade looked at his watch. "Look, I did that because I had to, but he has-had-friends who care about him. Now he's dead and we have to find out why."
Dimmock came back to the present, getting in his car, the same car parked in the same spot. It was the same as it was a year ago.
The two DIs made it to the hospital, and the first thing they saw was the army doctor sitting on a bench, not crying, not angry, just in shock. A woman in a white lab coat sat next to him, comforting him. "It's ok, John." she was saying as they walked up. Lestrade stopped. "We're going to have to interview her. She was one of the last people to see Sherlock alive. Her name's Molly Hooper."
In reality, a car came screeching to a halt at St. Bart's.
Over the next few weeks, Dimmock had gotten to know Molly, had seen her every day. He'd heard about Sherlock, how he'd told her what was going to happen. He had even started to like Molly Hooper.
Dimmock got out of the car and looked up at the roof. There was a figure there, outlined against the sky.
Molly Hooper stood on the ledge, her white lab coat flapping just like John said Sherlock's coat had. How fitting, that she should die the same way as him. She looked down. A figure stood on the street, a phone up to its ear. Molly pulled her phone out of her pocket even as it started to ring. "Molly, please don't. Please." She smiled. "This is the only way I will be able to feel close to him." The figure on the ground looked around desperately. "Please, Molly! Your frien-I need you! Please, don't! I-I...I think I love you." Molly smiled, a single tear leaking from her eye. "Goodbye." She threw her phone behind her, and just like the man from a year ago, spread her arms and fell. She thought of something Mycroft had told her. "When Moriarty was at Baker Street, he said something to Sherlock." Molly had been looking for anything she could, any connection to Sherlock. "Please, what was it?" Mycroft had looked at her, his eyes surprisingly filled with tears. "He said that falling is just like flying, except with a more permanent destination." Now, as she fell through the sky, Molly thought about it. It was, kind of. She looked down and smiled. She could almost hear Sherlock next to her, telling her she did count, that she always had and he'd always trusted her. Molly Hooper, the woman who counted, closed her eyes one last time. For a split second, she was in white-hot agony. Then it all went black, forever.
A/N: So what did you guys think? It was hard to write Dimmock since we didn't see much of him, but I figured he would work.