And the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 2, by chibiness87
Rating: T
Spoilers: up to and including 4.03
Disclaimer: still not mine

A/N: you guys! Thank you so much for all the support for this. Still angsty. Still not sorry.


Of course, he is not offered even a hint of a reprieve, despite the aching emptiness he is feeling, and the day continues to go to shit from there. An old shell of a house and a broken shell of a girl, and in the end, despite everything, the trials and the deaths and Molly, he cannot kill her. Can do nothing more but feel an aching sadness for such a brilliant mind, being used in such a horrendous way. Never mind everyone hiding her very existence from him for all these years when he might have been able to help her before it came to this, and Jesus, but what is wrong with his whole goddamn family?

As he helps his sister from the remains of their childhood home, he sees Molly out of the corner of his eye. Still dressed in her lab coat, hair blowing across her face in the breeze, she gives him a nod of what he thinks might be pride. Her lips move, words of comfort and praise falling on his ears, even though he knows if she were real and here he would not hear them. But she is not and he does; after all, they are all in his mind anyway. And it's not like she's going to have the chance to…

No.

He can't think about that.

Not yet.

He still has too much to do before he can start processing that.


He gets a ride back to London in one of the squad cars, following the ambulance with John safely inside back to the capital. John had come around from the shock of nearly being drowned in the same well that took Sherlock's childhood friend from him enough to insist on Bart's, and even though it is right up there on the list of 'places Sherlock Holmes would rather not go to right now' he was not the one nearly killed this evening, and so offers no protest.

Once he is sure John is safe, resting on a ward with a nurse and a guard posted, he finds himself drifting through the halls of the hospital he knows almost as well as his own home. The hours and the days he has spent here, and not just for cases but sometimes for experiments, and sometimes just to see her, have made this place a safe haven.

But not anymore.

His feet have moved on autopilot, and it is only when he is in the doorway to her domain that he realises just where he has ended up, and he stops. His hand is resting on the door to the morgue, his body refusing to move further into a sanctum that no longer exists, when a voice from down the corridor startles him.

"Sherlock? That you?"

It has been a few years since he saw the man that is approaching, but he turns and greets him, dredging an attempt of a smile from somewhere deep inside him, even though smiling is the last thing he thinks he is capable of right now. "Stamford."

Stamford nods his head, before pointing to the door Sherlock belatedly realises his is still palming the handle of. "Molly's not here."

Sherlock drops his hand, pretending not to notice the strange look the older man is giving him. "Oh. Right." There is a beat of awkward silence. He is unsure what, exactly, decorum for this moment is. How exactly does one offer ones sympathy in situations like this? Sorry for your loss sounds trite at the best of time, and if anyone has suffered a loss surely it is him? He is the one who was in love with her, after all.

Except no. Not was. Is in love with her.

Still.

So instead of saying anything like that, he goes for what he assumes would be a slightly safer, read less painful, subject. "Don't often see you here this late. Isn't that one of the upsides of being higher up the employment ladder, or whatever euphemism it is you use?"

Stamford gives a small shake of his head, a sad, morose look flicking over his eyes. "Yes, well, they called me in."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, pain engulfing him once more. "They did." It is more of a statement than a question, but he answers it anyway.

"Yeah." He shoots Sherlock a look filled with sympathy. "I mean, it's understandable. What with…"

Sherlock cannot stand to listen to the events of the day being told to him; living through it once was painful enough. So before any more can be said, he cuts the pathologist off. "Yes. Yes, of course. I should have realised."

Stamford gives him another sympathetic look. "She'll be in later, of course."

That startles him, and Sherlock lifts his head up to meet his eyes. "What?"

"Molly. She'll be in later. If you wanted to see her." Stamford stops, looks down for a moment before starting again. "Look, I know it's not really my business, but I know you two…"

But Sherlock cannot bear to hear anything about how they were perceived by others. So instead, he interrupts, ignoring the echo of John calling him rude. "She's coming here?"

Stamford gives him a look that tells him he thinks he's being an idiot. "Well where else would she…?"

"No. Yes. I just thought… but of course she would…" He stops, looks down.

It makes sense for her to come here, he reasons. Her case would not be a simple one. They would want someone with forensic expertise like Stamford to…

No.

He still can't think about it.

"Hey, are you ok?"

Sherlock doesn't answer that. He can't. Instead, he turns to head back down away from the morgue. "I should go."

Stamford nods. "Ok. Did you want me to say anything?"

Pausing in his retreat, Sherlock turns back to ask, "What?"

Stamford nods to the still closed doors. "When she comes in. Did you want me to say anything?"

Like what, he wants to ask. What message could you possibly convey at a time like this? Instead, Sherlock simply shakes his head. "I… thank you, Stamford, but no. No, it doesn't matter now."

Stamford nods. "If you're sure?"

"Quite sure."

Stamford shrugs, before turning and walking away. He is well out of earshot when Sherlock gives a soft sigh. "It's too late for words, anyway."


TBC

Thoughts?