January 21, 2012
Heaven's Light by Tom Hulce, 1:59 (Molly)
When Molly met Sherlock Holmes, she swore she heard a chorus of angels and saw a halo of light encircling the inky mass of curls she longed to thread her fingers through (of course, the chorus was a colleague's ringtone and the halo a faulty light bulb) He was perfection bundled into a nice, neat, knee-buckingly gorgeous package.
Of course, this was before Jim being gay. And that disastrous party on Christmas. Before he smashed her heart into a million pieces and danced on the bloody bits.
Because who was she kidding, right? Sherlock was beautiful, and she simply… wasn't.
:o:o:o:
That's What She Said by The Friday Night Boys, 3:10 (Irene)
She is untouchable. No one ever gets to her. Her heart is safe in its gilded cage, like a lovely nightingale. Visible, but out of reach.
Except for Sherlock. Oh, he rattled the cage like all the others, rapping the bars like a curious, obnoxious child, but he persisted long after the others stopped.
And, somehow, he found the key. He slid it effortlessly into the lock and her little nightingale heart hopped into his hand, and she hadn't noticed.
That's how she devised her password; it was too tempting a setup. She wonders if he can find the key a second time.
:o:o:o:
Girl Next Door by Saving Jane, 3:23 (Molly)
Molly hates this body on the slab. Even with a bashed-up face, she can tell she was once stunningly beautiful. It's not fair to be jealous of a corpse, but Sherlock's careless remarks are still ringing in her ears.
When Sherlock and his brother come in to identify it, she can't bear to look at him. It hurts more than usual because her heart is still in tatters. He's still apologetic though, which helps.
Then he has to go and ruin it. He asks to see the woman's naked body, and that's enough for him to recognize her.
Molly hates this body on the slab.
:o:o:o:
Just to Get High by Nickelback, 4:02 (Lestrade)
It hurt him. It actually caused Lestrade physical pain, usually in his chest or head, every time he watched Sherlock stumble up to another crime scene coked out of his skull. Even a comatose patient could see Sherlock was the most brilliant man in England, and even a five-year-old could see he was throwing away that peerless mind on, of all things, drugs.
But he continues to sit in the hard wooden chair beside the sofa, sifting his fingers through Sherlock's sweat-soaked hair. "C-cold," he stutters.
"Yeah, I know," Lestrade says. "Try and sleep, okay?" He wishes everything was that easy.
:o:o:o: