Little Girl, Little Grave
"There was a little girl,
Who lived near to the trees.
She stayed mostly to herself,
And focused on studies.
Because this little girl
Had faced heartbreak all alone,
All by herself this little girl did dwell,
And all by herself was this little girl grown.
And one day came a boy, smart, tall and brave,
This little girl started slipping down his way.
She came when he called and helped him.
He left her before she could say.
She lived and breathed and slept and ate,
And not a day went by
That this wonderful, special man
Didn't go running through her mind.
Helping this man through life
Was how she spent her last breath,
And helping him fake it helped her fake it
Until the day of her death.
There was a little grave,
hid away beneath the trees.
A lonely little spot,
Unknown to birds and bees.
But at this little grave,
Day in and day out,
Knelt a beautiful man,
Who had once had a heart devout."
-Mabel Divine
He was seventeen years old when he first saw her.
She was sitting by herself in a little coffee shop, knitting away. He tripped over her foot accidentally, and, as an apology, bought her coffee.
He was eighteen when he learned her name.
"Molly, Molly Hooper. We met in the cafe on Baker Street," she had said, and he shook her hand.
He was nineteen when she officially took the position as his best friend.
"Sherlock bloody Holmes," she had screamed, and she dragged him out, out of the bed, out of the drug den, out of the state, not to his home, but to her own, where she helped him herself.
He was twenty when he made her leave.
"AND STAY OUT!" he had screamed, and he knew he would never, no, never forget the hurt in her eyes as he slammed the door.
He was twenty-one when he saw her again.
He was inspecting a dead body when in she stepped. Her eyes met his and then they slipped away, and he found he suddenly could not say a word.
He was twenty-two when he tried to escape.
One shot, two shots, three shots, four, five shots, six shots, seven shots more. Eight shots, nine shots, here comes ten. Now grab another and let's start again.
He was twenty-two when he found his voice.
"I was wondering if you'd like to get coffee sometimes?" her sweet voice lifted him out of the dank dungeon in his mind. "Black, two sugars," he replied, not meeting her eyes. "I'll be upstairs."
He was twenty-three when she found out.
"Sherlock," she wept softly, and he longed to comfort her. But he couldn't move, not when his arms were restrained like this. He wished that the annoying beeping of the heart monitor would stop so she could hear his voice, but it didn't. "No more," she said, and even though he couldn't speak, Sherlock promised.
He was twenty-four when he found a new flatmate.
"An invalid from Afghanistan," he said, and he had yet another distraction from the young woman who once might have been his.
He was twenty-five when he realised that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to lose her.
A smile. That's all it was. A single smile. But it broke the chains that were bonding him to his silence.
He was twenty-six when he knew that he had to die.
"Anything, anything at all, it's okay, you can have me. No, I mean…" her general awkwardness made him smile more than anything in this world ever had, and he knew exactly what would come next.
He was twenty-seven when he wished he could see her again.
The first of many years on the run. And when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face.
He was twenty-eight when he finally told her.
After ten years, ten years too many, he finally, finally spoke to her. "The one person they thought didn't matter at all was the one person who mattered the most."
He was twenty-nine when he made up his mind.
'I have to. I owe her too many favours, too many heartbreaks, too many whispers from too many years to not be able to,' and he slipped the ring box back into his pocket.
He was thirty when he married her.
"Until death do us part," he vowed, and, looking into her eyes, he could see her vows as well.
He was thirty-one when he found out.
"Cancer," the doctor confirmed, and he wouldn't say a word to anybody except for her for the next week.
He was thirty-two years old when he went to her funeral.
"I miss you," he said, leaning against the tree she had planted as a child. "I always loved you more than anyone. Even when we were children. I know you never heard me, but in my head I always thought of you as mine, not yours. You were always Molly Holmes to me."
And the man would silently hang his head and mourn what once was his, now buried away under a little tree.