Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
Anon on Tumblr gave me this prompt:"AU where Molly can see and speak to the death and sometimes tells them about Sherlock and how a great detective he is".
"I hate him! I truly, deeply, completely hate him!". The morgue's door slammed, and a very furious pathologist appeared in the empty room. Well, it might looked empty to the average observer; someone skilled as Molly Hooper would spot right away the two gentlemen smoking in a corner, their feet propped over the slabs.
"Smoke is an unhealthy habit, you know...and it's forbidden in a hospital..."she let it drop, and the two merely shrugged.
"Who cares? Surely it can't kill us..." the first said. "After all, we are already dead!" the second one concluded, with a satisfied chuckle.
Oblivious to their jesting, Molly started to prepare her equipment, in the same methodic way she usually did, but both of the gentlemen could see how she was trembling with pent-up anger.
"So, what has he done this time?" Paul, the older one (still dressed as a bobby, his uniform stained by blood forty years old) asked.
"What has he not done, you might say! John found him in a dirty warehouse, dressed as an hopeless junkie...and guess what? The disguise was absolutely appropriate, because that's what he is...". Her voice cracked and Sean, the other one, approached her. He knew he could not comfort her with the hug she deserved, but he hoped the nearness would help.
"I- I slapped him. Thrice. He deserved it...but it's not making me feel better. Why? Why does he have to behave like this?". Her question remained unanswered, and she left the room hastily, to compose herself.
"He deserves a lot more than a few blows on his cheekbones...I don't know what I will give to have my night stick again...".
"And the corporeality to hold it again". Sean shook his head, the bowler hat still fixed on his head. "You know, that's why we didn't let our Molly give that git the files about our murders: he would solve them, and then who would take care of her? That Tom bloke was absolutely wrong for her, thank God she left him...".
"She will forgive him, won't she? Even after all the bad words, the insults, the sacrifices she made for him...". Paul's pondering stopped when Molly returned, ready to perform the autopsy on Mrs McMilock. The signs of tears were almost gone, only her sad eyes betraying her discomfort.
"Are you ok, Molly?". Sean's words made her smile. They were the only ones who can see her...really see her. Her best friends were two lost souls, trapped down in a cold morgue in London...how fitting, for a pathologist who could see and speak to the dead people.
"Of course I am...You know what, guys? That's the last time I've cried for Sherlock Holmes...He won't fool me again, I promise".
And when she turned to start the first incision on the body on the slab, she missed the two ghosts smiling one to the other, knowingly.
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