CHAPTER 25
An hour had passed, and Sherlock was bored.
He was sitting in his chair, staring at the box, absently scratching Toby, who was curled up on the wide arm of said seat. Sherlock had tried playing a tune on his violin. When that did not satisfy him, he rearranged the bags of toes, tongues, eyes, and thumbs in the fridge. That did not stave off the boredom, so he made corrections to the newest version of Cluedo instructions. When he had completed that, he rolled an orange across the floor, in an attempt to get Toby to chase it. Toby was not interested, but he did decide that the arm of Sherlock's chair was rather comfortable, so he laid up on it, flicking his tail lazily.
Sherlock was in the middle of counting Toby's whiskers (there were twenty-eight, four more than the average, which intrigued Sherlock), when he asked the cat:
"Should I look at Molly's things?"
Toby blinked at him and yawned.
"John says it will help repair the damage. What damage? So far, all I have seen are sketches and notes-most likely designed to fool me, and I am no fool."
Toby stared at him for a moment, then turned his head.
"Stop that. No, I'm not!" Sherlock countered. "I admit: curiosity is getting the best of me." He paused and gave a chuckle. "You would know all about that, would you not?"
Toby meowed.
"Ah, I guess I am looking at the rest of the items, then." He reached for the mobile and opened it. It was fully-charged; someone had been caring for it-but whom?
Sherlock was not sure what he was supposed to be looking for, so he started with her pictures. There were many photos of her cat, Toby, some of John making funny faces at her, a couple of the blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and one of him, Sherlock, seated in the lab, texting someone—Lestrade, most likely. He looked relaxed, confident, and he was smiling. Why Molly felt the need to take this picture of him, he did not know. He wanted to delete it, but settled for resolving to delete it from his mind later.
He looked at her 'sent' and 'received' messages, and both of those folders were empty. But there were over fifty unsent messages in the 'draft' folder. Sherlock opened this and was shocked to see all the messages were addressed to him.
These texts dated nearly four years ago, which surprised him. The first one read: "Dear Sherlock, It was nice to meet you, even if you did not seem to notice me in the room. I get it; you are working on a case. You are brilliant, though. Handsome, too. Can I say that to someone I just met? I hope you come around Bart's again. Love, Molly" to the final, angry one she composed on Christmas Eve.
He read every one, his disdain toward her becoming evident with text. Some of the more moving ones would stay with him for a long time; he doubted he could—or even wanted—to delete them from his mind.
-Dear Sherlock: Your skill with a riding crop is brilliant. Thought you ought to know. Love, Molly PS: Maybe you could use it on me sometime? Oh, god. I'm definitely not sending this.
-Dear Sherlock: That fellow Mike brought into the lab seems nice. What is his name, again? Josh? John? I liked him, but he is not you. Love, Molly
-Dearest Sherlock: Thank you for noticing my hair. Did you really mean it? I am still not sure. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: I will probably never send this, but: I dreamed of you. Again. It is becoming a nightly ritual. Usually, it is you, me, coffee grounds, and dead bodies-and all sorts of other odd things. Tonight, however, was wonderful; we were lying beneath a tree, with a vivid Caribbean Blue sky and fluffy clouds overhead—and you smiled at me. I wish I could see that smile in real life. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: You were unkind today. Actually, you are unkind quite often, but I cannot bring myself to tell you. Even if I did, would you care? Please, stop it. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: What you said was horrid. I am a professional, damn it. But you have no idea why I was crying. It IS sad whenever a child is brought into the morgue, but that was just the icing on the cake. It was my Papa. He just died. Oh, what am I saying? You do not care, but I wish you did. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: Why are you so mean to me? You are not that cruel to anyone else. Did I do something wrong? Please, tell me. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: I am so very glad you aren't dead, and that cabbie cannot harm anyone else. Please do not put yourself into jeopardy like that again. I would really, really miss you. A lot. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: That purple shirt should not be allowed. You, sir, should not be allowed. Do you realize how gorgeous you are? It is not fair that you should be so smart, so handsome, and in my lab all the time. It is like you know and are taunting me. My knees turn to mush whenever you are around. Did you know that purple is my favorite colour? You should wear it more often. Yes, I know; I am a glutton for punishment. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: I met a nice guy today. Jim, from IT. Is it wrong to wish he were you? It probably is. I should not have said that. I will not be sending this one, either. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: You look sad. You always look sad when you think no one can see you. Is everything okay? You can have me if you need to—I mean, if you want to talk about it. I will listen. You may not think of me as your friend, but I am. I would like to help, if I can. Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock, I dream of you every night—and wake crying every morning. What can this mean? Love, Molly xxx
-Dearest Sherlock: Why, why… WHY do you always say such terrible things? I am tired of crying. What have I ever done to you to make you treat me so horribly? Please… please tell me. Love, Molly xxx PS: I really liked your chair. Thank you for allowing me to sit there.
-Dearest Sherlock: I hate you. You had something so precious in your hands, and you threw it away. You will never know what it was, either. You do not deserve it. Still, I understand now: the game is over. You win. Enjoy your Christmas. Love, Molly xxx … PS: Do you think, maybe, you would ever change your mind… your heart? I might do.
Sherlock set the mobile aside and looked at the gift. His fingers and curiosity fairly itched to open it-but it seemed wrong to do so without Molly present, so he put it down next to the large copy paper box and lifted the lid of the big box.
The fuzzy purple diary caught his attention. Scattered among these were pictures. He grasped one and lifted it out. This was definitely Molly and her parents. They were standing together by the sea, all wearing bucket caps and swimsuits. Molly, who appeared to be eight years old, was holding up a crab so proudly, and her parents were laughing. She definitely resembled her mother; Sherlock could have sworn that Mrs. Hooper was actually Molly.
He picked up another photograph. This one was taken at Molly's tenth birthday party; she was wearing pretty, cap-sleeved white dress, a purple feather boa, lilac-coloured cat-eye sunglasses, and a gaudy violet crown. Her arm was slung around her mother's neck, and both female's mouths were wide with laughter. Obviously, Mr. Hooper had taken the picture.
There were more pictures, mostly of Molly and her father, alone, or just Molly alone. There were pictures from her graduation from Uni, beaming proudly with her degree in hand. There were no photographs of Molly with friends—and there were no more of Mrs. Hooper after that birthday photograph.
Either Mrs. Hooper had been behind the camera, or she had passed away, and a stranger had taken a few of the pictures. The latter was most likely. He scoured the box and discovered two clipped news articles—obituaries—that had been laminated. Molly's parents. He had deduced correctly about Mrs. Hooper, then. But then, if Mr. Hooper was gone, Molly was an orphan—and had been for two years, yet had never uttered a word either tragedy.
'Would you have even listened?' A small voice in his head asked; it did not sound like him, oddly enough. 'You only wanted access to the lab, bodies, and parts; you did not care about Molly's story.'
No, he did not. He looked at the date of Eddie Hooper's passing: 14 June. It coincided with one of her texts, and Sherlock recalled a murder-suicide case in which a woman and her five-year-old daughter had been brought into the morgue, and Molly had done the autopsies. Sherlock had announced that it was not the mother who had slaughtered her child and then herself—it had been a jealous ex-lover who hated the child for taking up too much of the mother's attention, so he killed the young one, and then the mother, who attempted to murder him for his horrific deed.
Molly had stood over the small child's body that night and cried, which made Sherlock rather uncomfortable. He had never seen Molly cry, and to cry over strangers… well, it was quite silly, he had thought at the time. But now it all made sense; Molly had been mourning the loss of her father, and seeing the young child made her extremely emotional. If only he had thought to ask how she was, instead of telling her she was being unprofessional.
Something inside Sherlock twisted painfully. He never took the time to learn about Molly Hooper - beyond knowing she was a pathologist at St. Bart's, had a cat, liked Doctor Who (and even then, he had found out about that from John), liked coffee and the colour purple (which he had only just discovered), had a messy flat, smuggled body parts to him, and stuttered in his presence.
How could he accuse Molly Hooper of terrible things when he did not really know her?