A warm thankyou to the lovely reviewers. You're a delight, each one of you.
I reccomend listening to 'Rainy Mood dot com' for this piece. It adds a little something something to it.
The slit of a window, mounted high onto the morgue's wall, gave a sight of ghastly weather. Drops splashed loudly against the fogged glass, adding to an atmosphere that was, for most, already spooking enough.
But Molly felt at peace, with the raging storm outside. That was until the lab doors cracked open, a march of footsteps marked the entrance of two figures, their coats drenched in water.
The first man, Molly recognised warmly as The Inspector, unraveling a tartan scarf from his face, while his companion stood stiffly, a pitter patter of drops leaking from his dark coat. She hadn't expected to see Sherlock Holmes looking quite like a drowned cat but there he was. Underneath a crown of drenched curls that stuck unflattering onto his face, a scowl could be made out.
She forged a smile, directing them both to a temporary heater in the corner by her desk. With their coats removed, the Inspector began his inquiries, all in the absence of any involvement from the Detective by his side, an act which poured ill ease into Molly's stomach and gave the Inspector an odd look.
Nevertheless, Molly walked them over towards her working slab, her recent patient lying patiently.
"Marcus Manning. I've done the first preliminary report on the contents of his stomach."
"Wife says he was a part time user."
"That would be consistent with the markings on his arm." She pulled down the sheet to show them both the man's forearm, ladled with purple marks.
This casual banter went on between her and the Inspector for several minutes, without any interruption, much to the suspicion of Molly.
Her worries were not soothed by his expression either, for Sherlock Holmes looked indeed mad. She placated herself - she hadn't seen him for months, surely his ire wasn't directed at her but still, with hollowed eyes, he scowled down at her as she worked.
Finally did the Inspector take notice of the unprecedented tension, he nudged his companion alert. "So-what you think?"
A mellow answer drawled from Sherlock's mouth. "I would need to see that report before I make any conclusion."
Molly nodded instantly, and began to make her way towards the office, to retrieve the document when-
"And a towel."
She stopped at the blunt demand and swiveled quickly back 'round. "-Sorry, what?"
"I need a towel from the cleaner's cupboard." Sherlock repeated rather rudely.
He fixed a tight smile, "If you don't mind." The deceit of his politeness came off as soon as the same smile slipped away before Molly had even turned her back. He's not even bothering to hide his hostility towards her.
She hurried away, relishing each step that took her further away from the two men until she had reached the cleaning closet.
Inside the tiny sanctuary, Molly kicked an unsuspecting mop bucket. This was ridiculous! On what earth could she have done to cause such a cold reaction. Her mind needn't drift too far before she hit on one possibility.
She hadn't spoken a single word about that evening to anyone. As if she could. Her friends would laugh in disbelief, his enemies would demand proof. There would be no conviction, not even she can recall the incident with any solid memory.
At first, she thought it to be a very embarrassing dream, fiction made up from alcohol and close contact, until she caught Sherlock, one afternoon, eyes fixed on her, a peak of a tongue lathered his lip in a strikingly familiar way. He probably realised this too, and from that afternoon, she hardly saw him but for scarce greetings.
But warranting his ire now? Did she bother him the next day? No. Did she show any expectations of something more? No, she sat and she bit her nails into oblivion, cursing herself and him for teasing the little ounce of hope she had left.
What good was her curiosity, when she knew that the likelihood of him, explaining the evening to her, as a venture in experimenting was real, the last struck to kill any affection she held for him.
She owed nothing to Sherlock Holmes, her debt was paid in her silence, for his death, for his work and now for this. Was she going to let him to dangle her further when her own heart had been strung up?
"No." Molly whispered to the darkness of the closet.
A twist of determination gathered up Molly's strength to venture outside, knowing that her disappearance would be noticeable by now, when suddenly, she was sprayed in light.
Her eyes barely adjusted to the sudden brightness, but she caught sight of a flash of coat, before the supply door closed again, eloping them both in darkness.
His breathing was too erratic for a healthy man as he, but it ravaged on without any of the words she expected him to berate her with.
For once, she may have the first line. "I haven't got your towel."
"I gathered as much." A too smooth reply for her liking.
But the dim light under the door, that slid across his face, revealed him to be quite unlike his coolness. The scowl had disappeared, thus given way to a more harrowing look. Pain etched in his features, his mouth and eyes slumped in stress.
Molly recognised it immediately, scolded herself for not seeing it sooner. Sherlock was struggling with something beyond her. A memory of a past time, (of a ragged man, begging for help) long before all this, poured inside her and she reached out into the darkness, to grasp his wrist.
"What do you need?"
Her kind words did not have the effect she had anticipated.
She was pushed against the wall, her wrists were twisted into the air, held captive by forceful hands.
"Sherlock!"
"That's a phenomenally stupid question—being the answer, so obvious. What I need, I could have done before-I could divorce myself from these feelings. And I have. Even before you, with her-The woman of all souls." He ragged off into a hysteric, exasperated laugh.
Molly ripped her wrists away, pushing Sherlock forcefully until his back hit the far wall. She drew her arms out in protective pose in front of her.
"Are you-are you high?" She asked bluntly, recalling hushed rumours in corridors, snarky remarks from constables about his previous 'hobbies.'
He snorted.
"Are you mad?" Her whisper came off in a panic she rather disliked but she could hardly deny the surge of fear that was coursing through her.
"That-is beginning to be hard to dispute."
"What is wrong with you!"
"-Haven't you ever seen a man in love?" He jests in cruel humor, there's no denying the edge of bitterness to his tone, but he stares at her in earnest pain.
"Sherlock, you are unwell-you're not your-"
"Oh come now, Molly-It's the confession you've been dying to hear! Would it please you to know that I dream of you almost every night? Not a single night has passed since last year without you."
"Sherlock, please-"
" No, it's true. And the nights are not enough! Are you satisfied to know that my days are hijacked much the same? Productivity-Clarity of mind, ruined by such a trivial feeling. A plague it is, this lust-only the scourge of banality would wish it upon themselves! So since you asked, since you always ask, my only answer will be this, Leave. Me. Alone." Ending his speeding rant, Sherlock angrily spat out these final words.
The detective is pushed again into the wall, this time with greater force, but he has barely any time to recover before the supply door is flung open, and Molly Hooper, escapes into the fluorescent light of the lab.
I have loved ones.
I have committments.
But if you need a shovel to hide my body, I know a guy.
(thanks for popping by.)
