Molly pulled her purse tighter into her lap, trying to cover her ridiculous "bad girls go to London" shirt she had bought at one of the kiosks at the airport to replace the tatty sweater she had thrown on in her haste to get out of her flat. It had been the only one even close to her size and she had reluctantly purchased it, wondering how many more dings her dignity would have to absorb before this whole mess was sorted. She flipped open her ticket voucher, a small twinge of excitement finally overtaking the persistent heaviness in her heart.
Geneva, Switzerland
She would spend the first two days in Lausanne to build a more appropriate wardrobe before travelling to Zermatt. She had always wanted to see the mountains, breathe in the sharp, thin air of the high altitude. And after the claustrophobia of the past twelve hours, the thought of finally going made her feel lighter. She found she could even be gracious enough to mentally thank Sherlock...
She heard a clattering of objects in the kitchen and stuck her head around the corner to see Sherlock shaking her purse and all its contents out onto her counter top.
"Sherlock! What are you doing?" she asked bewildered as her lip balm and a tampon bounced onto the floor.
"Why is it not in here?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Why is 'what' not in there?" She snatched the bag from him and started to place the items back in their designated areas.
"Your passport. I told you to always keep it with you."
"You told me that three years ago after we faked your death. You meant for me to keep that up this whole time?"
He rolled his eyes and stalked off to her bedroom before returning with the offending document.
"Here," he said tersely and shoved it under her nose before softening his demeanor. "Please."
She took it from him and zipped it into the side pocket, glancing up to see his shoulders sag as if he was relieved.
She shook off the memory as her flight was called and she rose, self consciously pulling at the hem of her shirt.
The flight was uneventful except for the very nice older gentleman seated next to her that had quite the disdain for deodorant. She boarded the train to Lausanne and slid her cheap airport sunglasses on her face to get some rest on the forty minute trip, the events of the day and her emotional exhaustion finally catching up to her.
She dreamed all the time, something she was always surprised to find most of her adult counterparts did not. It had been a nuisance in medical school, her dreams just reciting the lessons of the day, her patients seen and then she'd wake feeling as if she had worked all night. And then when her father had died, it was a blessing and a curse to be able to revisit so many memories of him, to see his face and hear his voice once again. Her dreams resumed their frivolous and indulgent nature for a long time after that, moving into fantasy after meeting Sherlock.
She rolled her eyes under her lids at the thought. How silly she had been, dreaming of him professing his ever lasting love and carrying her bridal style over an alter... that was not who Sherlock was, nor, now that she actually knew him, was that what she wanted him to be. She thought of the moments, few and scattered, that felt like something real was developing between them. She kept them close to her heart and rarely examined them, finding the memories bittersweet in a way that was nearly unbearable.
His Christmas present.
The moment he asked for her to help kill him.
The day he invited her to solve cases.
The first time he had crawled into her bed, loudly scoffing at her shocked expression, "Your sofa is far too short. I need the space."
The last time he had crawled into her bed just after Mary died, and rested his head between her shoulder blades in an unspoken request for comfort.
"Oh Mary..." thought Molly and swallowed thickly against the lump in her throat. They hadn't known each other long but they had been close. She smiled sadly now, thinking of the moment that cemented their friendship.
"Mary! I wasn't expecting you. You should have told me you wanted to chat, I could have come to you!" exclaimed Molly, ushering the very pregnant Mary to her sofa to sit.
"No, no, no. I wasn't expecting to come here myself but..." she paused and bit her lip a little nervously, "Molly, there's something I need to talk to you about."
Molly stopped her fussing when she really looked at Mary, her expression an eerie whisper of the one Sherlock wore when he told her he was going to die.
"What is it?" she asked and sat down next to her on the sofa.
"John and I want you to be a godmother to our baby."
Molly sighed with relief, letting out a nervous laugh, "Of course, Mary, I'd be honored..." Her voiced trailed off at the distressed look on Mary's face.
"Molly," said Mary, taking her hand, "Before you agree to this, I need you to know the truth because there is a very real possibility that you will be called upon to raise my daughter one day. I know what you did for Sherlock and I know I can trust you with this. But I need you to know everything before you agree..."
Molly took off her glasses and swiped at the tears in her eyes before they fell. She missed Mary and her death had been so difficult with both John and Sherlock needing to lean on her while she had no one to lean on herself.
Sod em, she heard Mary's voice say in her head. Go have a drink. Flirt with a ski instructor. The lot of them can wait on you this time.
She looked through the window of the train and smiled at the mountains in the distance, already feeling the tightness in her chest release.