Friendly remind: English isn't my first language. You will find some mistakes in this story, but I hope you all be able to appreciate it, anyway. I used DeepL and ProWritingAid to help me with the translation.
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes right after the brightness diminished, showing that the stretcher slid inside the hospital building. When the movement stopped, he heard the footsteps slowly quietening until the click from the door lock pointed out that they had locked him inside the morgue.
The man expected to be alone, but the soft sound of the rubber sole against the floor showed that he was wrong. That, however, was not bad. Sherlock knew who that soft yet resolute step belonged to, and he was glad Molly Hooper was there.
"Sherlock, you can't stay here," the woman informed him urgently. "I think John's gone, but if he comes back and wants to come inside, he can't find you."
The man turned sideways on the still folded stretcher and placed his feet on the floor, keeping his head down near his knees.
"Change your clothes" Molly stopped in front of her friend with a bag containing a pair of baggy grey sweatpants, a black hooded jacket and a pair of trainers. "I'll take the ones you're wearing with me. I've already dressed the simulacrum I found."
Slowly, Sherlock raised his head and looked at her. His belief that the feeling was a chemical defect found on the losing side was crumbling. It was all working out; he was winning, but it didn't feel that way. His confused look made the woman feel as if there was an invisible hand compressing her heart.
"You can't just leave like this" she left the bag on the floor, walked away, and when she returned, she was holding a handful of gauze soaked in water. "Look at me," Molly asked, sitting down beside her friend and gently holding his face to wipe away the blood.
The woman remained silent while cleaning him, already aware that Sherlock was far worse than she imagined he would be. Molly had thought to warn him that even with good intentions, faking his own death would upset both him and the others, but she had doubts if her friend would believe that. Sherlock had always been very sure of his ability to control his own emotions.
"Done," she declared, satisfied. "What's in your hair, you can clean with a bath," Molly instructed.
Still without saying a word, Sherlock headed for the changing room and when he returned from there, he was almost unrecognisable. The absent of his long Belstaff made a big difference to his appearance and Molly noted how much more vulnerable he seemed without the protection from the collar of his coat up.
"I can go with you," she offered as she took the dirty clothes from her friend's hands.
The less stuff he carried, the better he would be at walking undetected on the streets.
The man nodded his head in negative. This was not the plan and Sherlock wanted to keep strict with what they had agreed. It was crucial for everything to work out until the end.
"These are copies. You don't have to give them back to me." Molly took a set of keys from her lab coat pocket. "I'll meet you there later."
Sherlock tried to smile, but failed. He covered his head with the hood of the black jacket, partially hiding his face, and walked out of the morgue, leaving Molly alone and worried.
The pathologist stayed true to plan and finished preparing the simulacrum to be buried as soon as possible. Extending the exposure of the corpse put the secret, which she already knew she would have to keep while Sherlock dismantled Moriarty's entire network, at risk. If everything went right, because they both know that it was a potentially lethal mission.
Molly deeply regretted once again that she had allowed that man to mislead her, somehow bringing forward his meeting with Sherlock. Of course, if it hadn't been for her, Moriarty would have found another way, but it hurt to think how much she had contributed to what happened.
For that and for the love she felt for Sherlock, she had agreed to help him. Not only was it a risk to her life, if the criminals found out what she was doing, but the scandal of a frame-up like that would be the end of her career as a pathologist.
As soon as she had finished everything, Molly warned Mike Stamford that she would leave early. She couldn't bear to wait until the end of her shift to find out how Sherlock was doing. Understanding the way the situation had upset the woman, the boss did not object to the request.
The sunlight had already left London, and the temperature was gradually dropping when Molly left the hospital, carrying the bag with Sherlock's dirty clothes, and boarded a taxi home.
"Sherlock," she called after unlocking the door, entering and locking it again.
Because of the lights out, darkness filled the room, and she feared that the man had made some unexpected change of plans. That wouldn't exactly be a problem if Sherlock wasn't so emotionally shaken, but Molly was sure he was.
The relief came when she turned on the lights and found him lying on the bigger sofa in the living room. Although it accommodated two people comfortably, he had his feet suspended in the air because of his height.
She was pleased to see her friend wearing the pyjamas and dressing gown he brought to her house a few days ago, concluding that at least Sherlock had taken a bath, but she knew he had done nothing else. Her cat, Toby, sleeping serenely on his belly, was proof enough for her to be sure.
Molly left her purse and the bag of dirty clothes on the armchair by the door and knelt down next to her friend to check if he was awake, since Sherlock had his eyes closed.
"I'm waiting for them to get used to the brightness," his baritone voice filled the room, making Molly's heart skip a beat. "I closed them as soon as you turned on the light."
"It's good to hear your voice again," she declared, still kneeling near him.
Sherlock finally smiled.
"I thought about warning you that faking your own death would be a lot more painful than you were imagining, but I'm not sure if you would believe me."
"Probably not," he admitted, finally opening his eyes, taking the cat in his hands, and sitting up to make room for Molly next to him.
"Are you okay?" asked the woman, accommodating herself by his side.
"I need to be," he replied, settling Toby on his lap. "Things are going to be even more complicated from now on."
"When are you going to go ahead with the plan?"
"In a few days," replied Sherlock. "I'm going to wait for that body to be buried. The media must be very thrilled, and the reporters eager to make a front page. I can't walk around risking being photographed."
"You can stay as long as you need," the woman squeezed Sherlock's left hand for a few seconds and stood up. "I'll prepare something for us to eat."
"I don't eat while I'm working, Molly," he reminded her.
"You're not working," replied the woman.
They exchanged a warm smile as he left the cat on the sofa and followed her toward the kitchen.
"I hope it's not bad, I just reheated," stated Molly as she watched Sherlock eat the fish and chips a few minutes later. "I bought it earlier today."
"It tastes perfect!" he complimented.
"I didn't want to make you wait for something to get ready, in case I cooked it myself," justified the woman, also eating.
Sherlock looked at his friend for a few minutes, delighted with the way she takes care of him. He felt bad for the way he had treated her occasionally in their past and promised himself that he would do nothing like that again.
When they finished, while Molly busied herself doing the dishes, Sherlock used her laptop to find out everything that was going on about him. As he predicted, the media was thrilled with the story that he killed himself after being exposed as a fake genius.
There was, however, a group of support for him slowly growing in the comments on the websites. Sherlock smiled, finding this behaviour interesting, as he hadn't expected to receive any kind of manifestation in his favour.
"I guess everything is going according to plan," Molly offered a mug of tea to her friend. "Be careful, it's hot."
"Thank you," he said as she settled down next to him on the sofa, also holding a mug. "And yes, the sites are doing a great job."
"Would you like to watch the news?" asked Molly, handing him the remote control.
"Hum," he groaned as he took a sip of tea. "Yes!"
The woman turned on the TV and the two spent a few hours watching the news, both paying attention to whether anyone was raising suspicions that his death was a frame-up. However, thanks to the good job of everyone involved, Sherlock Holmes was officially dead.
When she felt too tired to continue, Molly announced she was going to take a shower and go sleep, recommending her friend to do the same. After grabbing some clothes from her room, she suggested Sherlock use her bed, as the single size in the guest room was too small for him. The man agreed and before she could get into the bathroom, her friend had already gone to sleep.
When Molly came out a few minutes later, thinking she was the only one awake, since even her cat was sleeping on one chair around the kitchen table, the woman didn't mind walking around the house wearing only her pyjamas. Absent-minded, handing out food to Toby, Sherlock startling her arriving in the same way he had done in the lab.
"Do you think that's the best option? I mean, there's no other, within Moriarty's requirements this is the best plan, but John, I saw him there, very disturbed when he saw me dead, he has problems, what if he relapses? The war has made him ill."
Sherlock spoke too fast without giving Molly a chance to say anything.
"He might want to do the same thing believing what I did, but he doesn't know I'm alive. But I can't tell him..."
"Shhh..." Molly held her friend's arms. "Breathe...," she said, moved by his desperation.
Sherlock soothed, and a single tear escaped from his left eye. The woman led him back to the bedroom and sat beside him on the edge of the double sized bed, after turning on the light of the table lamp on the nightstand.
She was uncomfortable wearing only her pyjamas in front of him; it was the first time Sherlock sees her without being dressed in formal clothes. However, as this didn't seem to bother the man, even after carefully observe the clothes she was wearing, Molly choose to ignore the detail.
"You don't need to worry about this, we'll keep an eye on him," she stated calmly. "Tomorrow I'm going to see how things are going on Baker Street and check whether everything is still going according to plan. I will instruct Mrs Hudson to be vigilant for any change in John's behaviour," Molly informed. "Does he still have traumas from the time of the war?"
"Actually, I think he misses it," said Sherlock.
"It's kind of hard to believe that someone would miss something like this," she replied.
"It's the adrenaline of action. It works like a drug," explained the man. "That's why he was so keen to follow me on my investigations."
"Do you think that now, without this distraction, he might get ill again?"
"Besides the shock of my death, that is another fear," he admitted. "John has been a good friend; I don't want him to die, mainly because of my fault."
Molly slid her left hand over Sherlock's back in an attempt of offering him comfort and received a smile in gratitude.
More and more Molly felt in love with her friend. Even though it was hard for Sherlock to show it, if he could tell, it was clear how his heart was as beautiful as his appearance.
A little more relieved after the chat, the man lay in bed and Molly stayed beside him, stroking his curls until she was sure he was asleep.
The next day she did as she promised and got worried that Sherlock's fear would come true. The sadness overwhelmed John, and Mrs Hudson, with tears in her eyes, admitted that he had rejected the food she had prepared and did not want to talk to anyone. Pretending to be as miserable as her two friends, Molly endorsed the need for them to monitor John to avoid another fatality.
The entire process, until Sherlock's name was on the gravestone in the cemetery, was torture, and Molly almost asked him to reveal, at least to John, that he was alive before he left. Maybe he could keep the secret, she thought; but she restrained herself. If Sherlock had planned it that way, there must have been a good reason.
The man stayed at his friend's house until he felt it was time to act. Molly had gone to work when Sherlock put on his suit and Belstaff, recently returned from the laundry, and left her house to do one last thing before the last goodbye.
After finding out that John and Mrs Hudson were going to the cemetery to visit his grave, Sherlock followed them. He watched from a distance the sadness of his friends and heard John's speech, after staying by himself. It hurt him almost to the point of exposing himself, risking to endangering the success of the entire plan.
At this moment, Sherlock realised something important and his heart raced as he decided. Even against his will, his feelings were overwhelming him and overshadowing his logical skills. He couldn't go back to say goodbye to Molly. Seeing the sadness in her eyes would be too painful, and this memory was going to distract his focus from the plan that needed his full attention.
Sherlock was being sincere when he told Molly that she always counted and that he always trusted her. Moriarty had made a mistake in leaving her off his list and the man breathed deeply, relieved for that.
Without her, none of it would have been possible. Molly was his hope of saving his friends and thus saving himself. Sherlock wanted to say that to her and decided he would use this as a motivation to get back safe and sound. He needed to thank Molly for being so good to him, even if he hadn't always acted the best with her.
As a drizzle followed his walk out of the cemetery, the man felt the set of keys in his pocket and pressed them with his fingers. Since he would not go back to his friend's house, he needed to hide them somewhere safe before he left. Molly deserved as much protection as the others.
Molly realised she was alone when she got home after her shift at the lab. She saw the pyjamas and dressing gown, which Sherlock had worn the entire time he had been there, abandoned over her bed, proving that her friend was not coming back. The absence of the recently washed suit and Belstaff were the ultimate proof of this. Molly added these clothes to the disguise he was wearing to leave the hospital and put them all in the washing machine.
A drizzle slid over the glass of the kitchen window, following the tears that streamed down the woman's face. With her eyes closed, she wished her friend good luck and prayed to God that Sherlock would succeed in his plan and return safe and sound to her.
Author's note: Hard task to write in a language that is not your own. Even more difficult to translate what you have said into another language. My eternal gratitude to everyone who dedicates their life working on translations. Without you, I wouldn't have read half the stories I've already read.
Well, I knew I couldn't stay without writing something new until I published my next big fanfic (as usual, in Portuguese), so here I am again with an oneshot. For me, after Molly so willingly helped Sherlock carry out his plan, their friendship took on another dimension. The detective stopped seeing her merely as easy access to Barts' lab, and Molly Hooper became, forever, part of Sherlock Holmes' small group of friends.