AN: I'm not sure why, but I really like this chapter, so I hope you do too!
Chapter 9: A Sign
It had been a busy day and Molly Hooper was yearning for her bed and a nice cup of cocoa. She had just finished writing up her third and last report of the day. As she was grabbing her coat and purse getting ready to leave, the doors opened and a man walked in.
"Oh. Mike!" she said in surprise. It had been a while since she'd seen Stamford; they worked in different parts of the building due to the differences in their occupation. The only time she had ever really seen him down their was when he was chatting with Sherlock.
"Hullo, Molly!" he said exuberantly. "Did I catch you on the way out?"
"Oh, yeah, actu-"
"Good, good. I actually wanted to talk to you. Would you be interested in getting a drink with me?"
"Oh, um..." Molly stalled, thinking. She really did want to get home, but it was so unexpected and she didn't want to be rude. She could also tell that there was something bothering him despite his jolly outlook. "Oh, why not," she said finally, smiling at him.
"Excellent," he said, holding his arm out for her. She complied with a small laugh, and together they walked out of the morgue.
Neither said anything as they walked through St. Bart's corridors and exited through the front. Molly was waiting for Mike to start the conversation, seeing as it was he who wanted to talk to her. Finally, as they strolled along the sidewalk in the dark of the evening, Mike spoke.
"Do you know what day it is?" Mike asked, his voice turning strange.
Molly stiffened, an icy feeling developing in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she knew what today was, had known from the moment she woke up. She nodded her head mutely and looked away.
"I can hardly believe it," Mike murmured, dropping his arm to his side, their connection severed. Molly awkwardly dropped her arm also. He gave a dry, humorless laugh, all of his previous joy forgotten. "Half a year already. He's been gone for half a year."
Molly nodded again, not meeting his gaze as they approached the café.
"I forget sometimes. That he's gone, that is," Mike continued, looking straight ahead. "I find myself heading towards the lab thinking that I'd just drop in for a chat. Halfway there I realize that I can't and turn around, head back the way I came.
"He was a bloody cheek," Mike added with a chuckle, "but he was brilliant. Really, truly brilliant."
He cut off as they entered the café and quickly ordered, Mike insisting on paying for Molly's hot cocoa.
While he ordered, Molly stood off to the side chewing on her bottom lip, guilt gnawing at her insides. She wanted to tell him, to tell everyone, but she knew she couldn't. She had to keep the secret; peoples' safety depended on it, but that didn't make it any easier.
Mike returned carrying her drink and they sat down across from each other by the front window. They were silent for a bit, both lost in thought. Molly took the lid off her cup and absentmindedly blew on it's contents to cool it down.
"Have you heard from John at all?" Mike asked suddenly.
"What?" Molly asked, pulling herself out of her thoughts.
"I was wondering if you had heard from John at all recently," Mike repeated.
"Oh, um, no actually. I haven't."
Mike sighed and placed his glasses on the table, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Me either," he mumbled.
"But I do know he moved about two months back," Molly volunteered instantly, wanting to give him any information she knew.
Mike nodded and placed his glasses back on his face. "Yes, I heard that. But I haven't seen or heard from him since the funeral."
Mike leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. "I'm worried about how he's doing, Molly. When I ran into John that day, the day I introduced him to Sherlock, he didn't seem to be getting along well. He returned to nothing when he came back from the war. His sister Harry was never really there for him. He didn't have anything. Then when he moved in with Sherlock he found a reason to live again.
"But now...it will be worse now because he will have those memories of what his life used to be like. And they're going to taunt him, Molly. That's what I worry about."
Molly chewed on her lip again. Of course everything Mike said was true, and the thought that she couldn't ease John's pain with what she knew made her feel terrible.
Molly opened her mouth to tell him that she understood, that she was worried too, but a buzzing from her coat pocket interrupted her. She shot Mike an apologetic look, and took it out, confused as to who would be texting her.
Molly felt the blood drain from her face and her hands started shaking as she read the short text from a strange number.
"Is everything alright, Molly?" Mike asked worriedly, studying her reaction. Molly tried to get a grip on herself and looked up smiling.
"Of course. Something with the family came up is all. I'm sorry Mike, I'm going to have to cut our chat short. Thank you so much for the drink," she said hurriedly, standing up.
"Well, of course, but are you sure everything's fine? You look pale..."
"Oh, yes. No worries," she insisted, picking up her purse.
"If you're sure..." Mike said sounding unconvinced.
"Yep. It was nice chatting with you, Mike. Oh, well, um obviously not the topics. Those weren't nice..." Molly sputtered off, laughing nervously.
"Of course," Mike said, giving her a strange look and standing up also.
Needing to get out of there, Molly quickly gave him an awkward hug and rushed out into the streets.
The cool wind whipped her hair across her face and bit at her cheeks and nose, but she ignored all of this, consumed by the urgency she felt. She walked down the sidewalk quickly until she was able to wave down a cab and gave the man her address, asking him to hurry. She didn't care if she sounded pushy because she only had one thought running through her mind: the three-worded text she had read in the café.
Deliver the package.
The hours blurred into days, into weeks, into months. It was all the same, time going by both slowly and quickly, no way to differentiate it. It dragged and it lurched, but it always moved, and John felt himself getting lost in it.
Months it had been. Just months of staring at walls, of walking, of nightmares and memories. He questioned why he kept going, had been questioning for six months exactly.
Nobody cared, he knew. He had heard from Sarah once since moving and Harry twice since their lunch, but other than that nobody contacted him. The only communication he had with anyone was the occasional greeting between him and his new neighbors.
He felt no urge to do anything but sit, his blog completely forgotten and his laptop unused. Except for the occasional mundane activities, all he did was sit. He got lost in thoughts while at the same time trying to block them out.
So really he had no right to continue when there was nothing and no one to continue for. That's why he now sat on the edge of his bed, his pistol in hand, retrieved from the nightstand at his bedside.
Just do it, a voice urged, and he let himself imagine the bittersweet relief he would be blessed with if he did. No more memories, no more pretending, no more pain. That's all he wanted.
He flipped the safety off, and his hand started shaking.
You're too much of a coward though, aren't you, a voice in the back of his mind taunted. You followed him into danger, yet you can't get yourself to follow him this one last time. You're too afraid.
"No," John muttered, cocking the gun. I have nothing else left. No reason not to.
An image of Harry sitting across from him passed through his mind. "We can't leave you alone, John, because we care about you," she had said.
Where are you now, then? he thought bitterly.
He placed the barrel of the gun against his temple and closed his eyes.
Six months, he thought. I waited six months.
A sense of calm filled him, though his hands continued shaking. The thought that it would be over soon was what motivated him.
I'm sorry Harry. I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Sarah, Mike, and Molly.
"I'm sorry Sherlock," he whispered and squeezed the trigger.
A loud noise filled his ears and his eyes shot open in surprise. The gun clattered to the floor and another noise filled the flat.
John stared at the gun at his feet wildly, in shock.
You were about to kill yourself.
John's stomach lurched and he moaned, dropping his head into his hands trying to keep the tears back.
The noise filled the flat again, and John realized someone was ringing the doorbell.
"Just go away," John whispered roughly.
The bell rang out twice more, and John groaned, standing up. He lurched forward and caught himself on the wall, his legs unsteady beneath him. He groped for his cane, leaning against the wall. Finally his fingers grasped the handle and he pulled himself away, forcing his legs to move.
He paused in the hallway to regain his composure as best he could. He was shaking and knew he probably looked sick. He took a breath and continued to the door. John unlocked it and grasped the knob, swinging it open.
There was no one there.
He sagged against the door frame. It had taken him too long to come to the door, he guessed, so whoever had unknowingly saved his life had left.
John was about to close the door when he noticed the small box sitting on the ground. He kneeled down uncomfortably, setting his cane on the ground next to him, and grabbed the box.
There was no return address, he noticed. In fact, there was no postage on it at all, and he realized that whoever had rung his doorbell had left it there themselves. He looked up and surveyed the streets for any retreating figures. He or she couldn't have gotten that far in such short of time and there hadn't been any vehicles moving on the streets when he had opened his door. But there was no one out, no one at all. It was later, so most people were home eating and going through their normal nightly routines.
John pulled the box towards him, not caring to take it inside to open. It wasn't even taped up; the lips were just folded in on each other in a way that kept it closed. He pulled on one and all four simultaneously flipped open.
John froze, looking at its contents. His hands shook as he reached forward to to take it out, and suddenly the world fell away around him. He was so focused on the item in his hands that he did not notice the shades flicker next door. All he saw was the impossibility of what he held in his hands.
It was the scarf. The same one that had disappeared from his floor months ago.
AN: Let me know what you thought! Next chapter up probably on Friday