SUMMARY: He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part IX – Morgues aren't appropriate places for confessions.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whoa, 200+ follows on this story? Thanks a bunch, guys.


CAMELOT
He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,
Won by the mellow voice before she looked,
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.

The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,
In battle with the love he bare his lord,
Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.
Lord Alfred Tennyson, "Lancelot and Elaine"


Molly supposes that a more courageous woman wouldn't spend nearly an hour in the water closet for the sole purpose of reigning in her emotions – but, then again, she's never really seen herself as brave – and the rest of the staff have been spreading rumors about her for so long that Molly's simply learned to ignore them. Though there is a certain blonde receptionist that she would love to rip into.

She feels strange and almost expects her reflection to physically show her strangeness. But no. It's the same face, the same eyes, the same mouth (still too small) – the same everything. And it's hers, she knows this as she splashes cool water onto her face – trying (failing) to gain some semblance of control over the rubbish heap that is her life.

She's rather glad that he didn't propose in public.

A small miracle, she supposes, since usually her life tended to go all out in its attempts to destroy her utterly.

Molly does love small miracles.

.

.

.

She walks to the morgue with a lot more dignity than she ever thought that she would possess. She half-expects to stumble on the flat ground (stumble and fall and fall and fall) because that's what she's come to expect from her life.

(Molly wonders if she's getting hysterical.)

Her hands are hidden in her pockets – nervous habit – as she fidgets slightly (another nervous habit).

She wonders if she can convince Mike into letting her leave early (she probably can) but she knows she won't. It's an empty thought but promising because despite the repercussions and her whinging, Molly does love her job. It is something that she had decided on long ago when her Dad was still alive and he still told her stories.

He had chuckled when she said she had wanted to be a doctor for the dead.

And here she was, a certified doctor for the dead but barely able to keep up with the living.

Maybe she should talk Mike into letting her leave early. Shouldn't be too hard anyways since she suspected that Mike saw her more as a younger daughter or niece rather than a coworker – something that she would normally feel too guilty to take advantage of but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And Molly had passed desperation a long time ago.

She should feel proud of herself – after all, wasn't this what she wanted?

Didn't she want this?

What did she want?

What if she was wrong?

Was she even happy?

Did she even know where she was going? What she was doing?

The questions follow her through the doors, forever trailing behind her even when the door slams shut.

They whisper, scream, shout for her to react – to say something, to answer, to stop ignoring.

A group of freshly-graduated med students pass her by without even batting an eyelash – some days, it really pays to be invisible little Molly Hooper (the same morbid little Molly Hooper that plays in the morgue with the corpses).

Molly jabs the number on the lift three times – nervous habit – as she attempts to breathe calmly.

She should tell someone – probably, maybe. But who? Who would little Molly Hooper turn to for help?

Where was Mike? Maybe, she could tell him (something or anything) that she needed to go home. He would let her too – he always did.

Home – a warm promise that filled her – back home where she could snuggle with Toby and read poetry and forget about the outside that shut her out.

Her breath titters for a bit as the lift doors open.

Yes, home.

Her mind fills to the brim of the promise of sanctuary, Molly has to keep herself from running towards Mike's office. Thank god she isn't wearing heels – another small miracle – she could only imagine tripping on the stark white linoleum floor of the hospital.

.

.

.

Her mind is in a fog as she walks (much too fast to be safe) towards Mike's office. She is so concentrated on her endeavor that she almost doesn't notice that Sherlock staring at her. Normally, this should have unsettled her – caused her to blush and quickly ask what he wanted (because why else would he look at her other than to use her?). But he's suddenly blocking her path towards home and Molly (sweet, innocent, couldn't-harm-a-fly Molly) won't allow that.

She's about to break down – it still hurt of course. It would always hurt and his presence was only making the pain more obvious. But she wouldn't allow herself to cry in front of him – not again, not again, not again.

"Molly." His voice is still wonderfully deep but his tone is much softer than she would ever expect from him. It almost sounds like a purr (not unlike Toby, to be honest) and Molly has always known that Sherlock is amazingly good at getting what he wants with that tongue of his – it could be as sharp as a rapier but as drugging as a sedative – and, for a hysterical moment, she believes that his tongue is pure, untainted silver.

She lets out a soft sigh – impatient, painful, longing, resigned.

"I'll have to look at your samples later Sherlock," she begins breathily, trying to maintain her composure, "Perhaps –"

"He proposed then." It should have been a question but Sherlock never really asks questions – he makes statements, conclusions. Sherlock answers the questions – he doesn't ask them. Molly's a quick study and she's learned this much faster than the rest of Scotland Yard (then again, most of Scotland Yard barely tolerate his presence since he tells them how to do their jobs – the very jobs they've been trained to do).

She doesn't dare answer, not trusting her voice as she unconsciously clenches her fists.

"Of course he did," Sherlock sneers – or at least it appears to be a sneer – and Molly belatedly wonders why he seems so appalled, so insulted, so distracted. "There was a slight bulge in his coat approximately the same size as a standard ring box one can acquire at a store, likely black and lined with cheaply made velvet. Judging by the speed of the proposal it could be just as likely that the ring used to belong to his ex-wife – the marriage ended badly and she returned the ring and he kept it – sentiment. He was anxious and jumpy but not in fear – his pupils dilated when he saw you – and it was obscenely obvious that he wanted to drag you away so …"

At this point in time, Molly's larger-than-normal pool of patience has long run dry and Sherlock's deducing (ranting) is starting to sound like background noise to her which is odd because typically she's the one who hangs on his every word.

Strange.

She finds herself staring at his eyes – his wonderful eyes, the eyes that she fell in love with – his lips moving continuously though Molly couldn't be bothered to remember what he was talking about. Why was he talking again? Didn't John mention that this particular case was nearly an 8 on Sherlock's unreliable and biased scale?

Molly knows that Sherlock hates being distracted on a case – it's part of the reason why he compliments her (so she complies readily, quickly and eagerly). His patience is always scant no matter the occasion or the case so she finds it uncharacteristically odd that he's taking the time to verbally degrade Kyle's proposal where a few words would normally suffice.

Strange.

He doesn't appear to notice that Molly's mind is gone – gone from the morgue and still at her flat with Toby.

His lips are slowing, Molly vaguely realizes. It's as though she's watching everything much, much slower as though the entire world has become encased in black treacle. It would have been amusing – in fact, it was amusing and Molly feels a giggle bubble up in the back of throat which she unleashes because her mind is still in her flat watching Glee.

He stops – miraculously. A wonderful expression crosses his face – confusion is the only emotion that she can really decipher.

"Why are you laughing?" He spits at her, dumbfounded by her behavior and the glassy look in her eyes.

Molly smiles – it's a lot easier than she thought it would be, actually. She's finally realized that she's free – free from him, free from everyone!

And what a glorious feeling it is – to be free from the shackles of love.

What a gloriously empty feeling it truly was.

Her laughter continues and teeters on the edge of hysteria but she squashes it promptly.

"Because you're right," she says in a sing-song voice, "you're always right Sherlock!"

Her smile drops and her eyes become dead faster than the eye can blink.

"You're always right," she mutters, "except when you're terribly wrong."

"What are you possibly going on about? It's so pitifully obvious that he –"

"Yes, that bit's right." Molly nods, straightening out her ponytail.

"Then what could you possibly me –" He halts mid-sentence, his brilliant eyes whirling with possibilities, conclusions, outcomes until finally one revealed to be the truth.

"Y–You said no." Sherlock Holmes does not stutter, Molly knows, it's merely his breath hitching because he realized that he was wrong (a highly uncommon occurrence that she's only been privy to a few times). He gifts her with another wonderful look (two times in a single day!) and Molly finds herself feeling much more triumphant than panicked. The shock on his face was something that Molly would never forget – she would bury the image in her mind and take it to the grave.

It's something to tell John and Mary about that was for . . .

Her thoughts take stop when she notices something in his gaze – almost like a ferocity that burned ice cold.

"Shame," he finally says.

"Pardon?" She asks but it's more like an accusation. Something had changed in his eyes that Molly knew she wouldn't like – it was the look that he got on his face right before he did something 'a bit not good'.

"It's a shame, Molly. That pathetic urologist was quite the catch when compared to your previous dalliances."

Molly, for one, wasn't going to take any roundabout insults – she had just rejected a wedding proposal (even if it wasn't in a posh sort of way) – and she felt invincible. So invincible that she was convinced that even Sherlock and his words would be no match for her bravery.

"You mean Moriarty, don't you?" She glares, fists clenching. The bastard before her didn't realize how many nights she spent crying because she had actually dated a psychotic madman. Didn't he realize how guilty she felt – how stupid she felt when she realized the truth? Especially since she was one of the last to know. At the end of it all, however, Molly realized something about herself.

She, Molly Hooper, had dated a criminal mastermind.

She, Molly Hooper, had dumped said criminal mastermind on his arse.

If that didn't boost her self-confidence, she didn't know what would.

"And others," Sherlock replies breaking eye contact.

"There's no winning with you, is there? Just moments ago you were telling me horrid things about him but, now that you know I've rejected him, you're telling me I'm making a mistake?" When it was obvious that he wasn't going to add onto his earlier remark, she scoffs indignantly.

She pushes past him brazenly, not bothering to glance back at him as she makes her way to Mike's office.

Little Miss Molly Hooper finally had a taste of invincibility and she wasn't going to let anyone snatch it away.


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