Dreaming
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Sherlock was looking through his microscope when he sensed Molly Hooper enter the room.
"Molly, just in time, I need you to get these samples for me," he said as he held out a piece of paper in her direction. When no one took them from his hand, he looked up.
"Molly, didn't you hear me?" He asked.
But Molly did not respond. She passed the room like she was looking for something and then walked away.
"Molly," But as he called her out, the door slammed shut. She already left the room without even acknowledging him.
He left the room to follow her as she walked through the corridors of St. Bart's.
"Molly, where are you going?" he said as he went towards her.
Molly didn't answer. She merely carried on walking, without giving even the slightest sign of noticing him.
He struggled to keep up, but it seemed that she was always a step ahead of him, like she was going on too fast, even if she was only walking.
"Molly," he called her out again as she went through an exit.
He followed her out. Outside he was greeted by blaring sirens, parked police cars and a ready ambulance. Yellow tape also surrounds a particular area outside St. Bart's.
The scene looked really familiar – he just couldn't remember why.
He crossed the area surrounding the yellow tape. That's when he saw the person he was calling just minutes ago – Molly Hooper, lying dead on the floor, covered with blood.
"Sherlock!" A faint voice called out. "Sherlock!"
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"Sherlock!"
The final call pulled him out of his dream.
"Sherlock, wake up. We're going to be late." The voice belonged to John, who was standing beside his bed, all dressed in black, with a sad expression on his face.
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Funerals are all the same. There would be people who would cry, people who would try to comfort other people, and people who would try to make a story out of a dead person's life. He had seen them all. He even had one himself. And yet as he attended Molly's funeral that day, it felt like he didn't even know a single thing about it.
Memories flashed behind his eyes as different people began to reminiscence different versions of Molly Hooper.
There was a younger Molly Hooper wearing her usual lab coat, stumbling to his lab for the first time. . .
"Um . . . I'm Molly Hooper, by the way"
"Do you need help with that?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."
"Black, two sugars, please, I'll be upstairs."
"He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil—he's not!"
Dearest Sherlock,
Love Molly, xxx
"You always say such horrible things"
"I'm sorry. Forgive me"
"You look sad, when you think he can't see you. "
"What I'm trying to say is that if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me"
"But—but what could I need from you?"
"What do you need?"
"You"
. . . And then . . .
He was a living dead man when he saw the scene just outside St Bart's. There were blaring sirens, parked police cars and a ready ambulance. Yellow tape was bordered on a particular area at St Bart's. People were also beginning to crowd near the scene.
A murder, he thought
He saw Lestrade together with John approaching the crime scene. Not a very unusual sight because when he 'died' Lestrade started to take John more and more often to different crime scenes.
Blending through the crowd, he followed them. Just as he was close enough, someone tried to stop him.
"Sir, this is a crime scene. . ." But he didn't need to go any farther. He already saw who the victim was. It was Molly Hooper.
That's when he decided to reveal that he was alive. He helped investigate her case and of course, found the murderer. He was one of Moriarty's loyal associates, hoping to get information about his whereabouts only for the interrogation to go completely wrong.
He just wished he watched Molly Hooper more. He would've been prepared when somebody like her murderer realized what he'd realized – that the person who counted was the person people would normally neglect.
But now it's too late. She's gone.
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"Good night, John" he said to John, who was sitting on a chair.
"Good night, Sherlock" John said, stuttering to say the last word. He was still getting used to the fact that his best friend was alive, after being dead for nearly 3 years.
Sherlock closed his bedroom door and lay on his bed. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to take a rest. Then he thought about Molly Hooper – he knows there's no use to wishing, to feeling guilty about it, but he couldn't help himself. His only comfort was that maybe he'll dream about her again. Then, he'll say sorry for the things he made her do and failing to protect her. Maybe she'll smile. Maybe she'll try and talk to him again and as usual he'll be annoyed by the fact that she was disturbing him again.
But that's all they can be. Dreams.
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The Scientist, Coldplay
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A/N: Sorry about that. A lot has happened lately and I wasn't able to update this that much. So please, enjoy, even if it's not that original.
