He watched as the few friends he had cried for him, for his death. His mummy and Mrs. Hudson embraced each other, having known one another for many years and feeling safe in each others arms. He watched Mycroft with his cold expression, not much different from how he usually looked, obviously knowing that people would not expect him to break down.
Greg was there as well, of course, having dragged Donovan and Anderson along with him for support. Sally was patting the DI's back, and Anderson was looking particularly sour but not in his standard ratty way.
John was standing not far from Greg and the others crying silently, refusing contact. The picture was awkward and uncomfortable, seeing people crying for him.
They were not the reason he'd turned up; she was. Molly was standing to the side, almost hidden by the branches of the tree she stood under. He'd come there to make sure she did not reveal the secret, their secret. And, by the looks of it, everyone easily bought her sadness.
For some reason Sherlock couldn't quite ascertain, he bought it too.
He knew most of them were going back to Baker Street after the funeral. To be honest, Sherlock didn't understand the sentiment of it - of being together and mourning someone, sharing stories of the deceased.
He'd go to Molly's. He'd broken in through her window before and he reminded himself to make her change the lock on it. She did not live in the safest part of London after all, and he should hate for something to happen to her. Who else would get him body parts when he returned?
Sherlock took another look at the people there to grieve for him; once again studying them. When his gaze locked to Molly again, their eyes caught and he saw hers widen for just a second until she looked away.
He chuckled. She really was observant; he'd have to give her that for even his brother had not seen him.
He watched as most of them left, He watched as most of them left, everyone except John who stood by Sherlock's grave alone begging for one last miracle. Sherlock could feel his eyes drying, but he had a job to do and he couldn't let sentiment cloud his brilliant mind.
He waited a few moments after John's departure to leave for Molly's flat, making sure that none were left to see him.
When he arrived he made sure that no one was watching as he worked his way up to the bedroom window and snuck through it.
He decided to look up a few things on her laptop, pulling out a file he'd gotten from his brother. He spent a few hours working through a few things as to where he'd had to go when he left London.
He made himself a coffee after a while, still black, two sugars, bringing it with him to the living room and the laptop perched on the armrest of her couch.
He was in the bathroom when he heard the front door open; he meant to go out and greet her, but the chemicals he'd been mixing were at a critical point. And Sherlock knew that if anything happened to Molly's beloved bathtub, his funeral would not have been a hoax.
When Sherlock finally walked out the bathroom, he nearly dropped the beaker he was holding.
Molly was on her bed, already asleep after the difficult day she had endured. She wasn't nestled beneath a duvet nor was she comfortably clothed in pajamas. So the first night he stayed with her, he learned something new and unexpected.
Sherlock Holmes learned that Molly Hooper slept naked.
