She was, in fact, quite dead. Had been, she surmised, for nearly three months before the night she found herself standing in the middle of 221B with no idea of where she was or what was going on.
It was a strange thing, she discovered quickly. This being dead business was nothing at all like she had expected it would be. When she had considered the possibility of life after death – and she had, quite often; an unavoidable side effect of spending so much of her life working with the dead – she had pictured something a bit more…esoteric.
She certainly had never imagined that she would spend her afterlife confined to Sherlock Holmes' flat.
Then again, she had never imagined that she would be murdered on his sofa by a vengeful James Moriarty and thus left to haunt a place that she had barely known in life. But apparently, that was precisely what had happened.
His sofa…
Curled into a corner with her feet tucked up beneath her, she ran a hand over the leather, frowning thoughtfully. Sherlock's insistence on keeping it had become something of a mystery to her. He certainly never sat on it. No one did, in fact. Ever.
Except her.
Sherlock could make it as off limits as he liked to the rest of the world, but all things considered, she rather thought she could sit on it to her hearts content – that she could bloody well do handstands on it, should the mood take her.
Molly cocked her head to the side, annoyed by the bulk of the scarf interfering with the motion but knowing from experience now that there was nothing she could do about it.
Sherlock…
He was not often at home any more. When he was, he spent most of his time either in the kitchen or in his bedroom. He would blow into the flat at all hours of the day and night, eyes skipping straight over the sofa as he hastened past it. Only very, very occasionally did she catch him staring at it as he had that first night and the pain she could read in his face always left her aching inside, longing to reach out to him. To comfort him.
Which was silly. He hadn't wanted comfort from her when he was alive – he certainly wouldn't want it now. It warmed her a little to know that her death had affected him, considering they had barely spoken in the months prior to her death. They had been friends, of a sort, after all. Not close; not really, but…
The door crashed open, slamming hard into the wall and Molly jumped, scrambling to her feet as John shouldered through, one of Sherlock's arms draped around his neck. He hauled his stumbling friend into the room with Greg Lestrade following after, Sherlock's other arm tossed around his neck.
Sherlock was giggling madly and Molly – across the room in a blink; one of only a few truly exciting things she had discovered about being dead – took quick stock of him, her heart in her throat. He did not appear to be injured, save for a butterflied gash on his right cheek, but his eyes were dilated and glazed, sure signs of…
"Any idea what they gave him?"
"Not a clue," John answered, worry mixed with strain in his voice.
"Di…az…epam," Sherlock almost sang before bursting out into a fresh spasm of giggles. "Diaz...epam…"
Molly bit her lip, wringing her hands in the scarf; desperate to reach out and help him but knowing she couldn't.
"Oh, Christ, he's gone," Lestrade griped, adjusting his hold on the swaying detective. "Fuck, mate, but you're heavier than you look."
"Tell me about it," John agreed, arching his neck to look back toward the door. "Mary?!"
"Here," Mary Watson called, her feet clattering swiftly up the stairs. "I'm here. Sorry…had to get Lizzie settled with Mrs. Hudson." She came around to the front of the three men. "What can I do?"
"Bedroom door," John directed with a nod of his head. "We need to lay him down."
"Bedroom?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes, craning his head to look over John's. "Can't we just dump him on the sofa?"
John pulled a pained face. Mary sucked in a sharp breath.
Sherlock exploded.
"No!" He snarled the word, all traces of the giggling idiot he had been only moments before gone. Struggling against the arms holding him, supporting him, he knocked Lestrade backwards and John sideways as he launched himself forward. Molly let out a cry, lurching forward to try and catch him…forgetting herself…
He went straight through her – in more ways than one. Warmth like nothing she had felt in so long enveloped her and she gasped, the scent of him suddenly everywhere.
"Got you," she heard Mary intone gently from behind her as she struggled not to cry. "I've got you, Sherlock."
"Jas…mine," Sherlock rasped, nearly choking on the word. "Smell…jasmine…'n…lem'n."
"What's that, luv?"
Another giggle, but different. Darker. "Jas…mine an'…an'…lem'n." A deep, shuddering inhale. A grunt from Mary and then a loud thump. "Mmmmolly…"
His voice broke and Molly whirled around, chest heaving and tears gathering once more in her eyes. Sherlock was on his hands and knees on the floor, Mary kneeling beside him, one hand on his back, the other wrapped around his arm.
"Jesus, John, I'm sorry," Lestrade muttered behind her. "I didn't…I didn't think…"
"It's fine…"
"I don't think I really even knew…"
"None of us did, mate."
Molly blinked – shocked – and then knelt down, one hand hovering over Sherlock's lowered head. "I'm…I'm here," she whispered. "Oh…I'm here, Sherlock."
He was shaking now, arms and legs trembling violently as he attempted to hold himself up. Mary wrapped herself tighter around him, holding and comforting in the same gesture. "Oh, luv…this is why you need to talk about it."
John knelt down beside him, meeting his wife's teary eyes across Sherlock's back. He wrapped his arms around his friend, mirroring Mary's grip. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's sit you up, yeah?"
Husband and wife pulled together, gently hauling Sherlock up until he was sitting on his knees, wide, red-rimmed eyes staring straight ahead blankly. Molly, seeing the tracks of tears running down his cheeks, pressed a hand to her heart, breaking afresh at the sight of his grief.
Grief, it would seem, for her.
She walked forward on her own knees, reaching out – again forgetting herself in her desire to help him – she laid her hand delicately against his cheek, the same shocking warmth jolting up her arm and making her heart clench. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm so sorry…"
He sucked in a ragged breath, eyes falling shut and loosing another tear which rolled down his cheek, straight through her hand. "Molly…"
Then Lestrade was behind him, pulling him up as John and Mary lifted from below and then they were stumbling down the hall, virtually dragging him to his bedroom. Molly fell back onto her bum, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, holding tight as the warmth of his touch began to fade, making her cry all the harder.
