Part Two
1. Tristful
The physiology of grief is utterly explicable and therefore all the more comforting to know. Activity is increased in the cerebellum, posterior brainstem, posterior temporoparietal and occipital brain regions. All of that is going on as an activity in the anterior brainstem, thalamus, striatum, temporal cortex, insula and dorsal, and the ventral anterior cingulate/prefrontal cortex decreases - pointing to physical and chemical relationships between sadness, grief and depression. As a doctor, Molly Hooper also knows this, but instead of clinical assessment, chooses to indulge my affectations in the form of delicate wrangling and lengthy clattering in my kitchen. Truthfully, the thought of any more tea brings a fresh wave of nausea (of course, that could be withdrawal, as Wiggins shouldn't always be trusted with dosages and estimations thereof) and the return of the tremor.
"Molly, please - " I am already regretting my recent outpourings as drawers/fridges and cupboards are rifled through in the search for solace to replace my seven percent solution. Good luck with that, Dr. Hooper. I open my mouth again (banished to a chair and advised to stay in it) but before I can continue, she emerges, flushed and triumphant and carrying aloft a tray populated by two mugs and an aroma infinitely more acidic and fruit-laden than any tea ever brewed.
"Chenin blanc of dubious vintage and indeterminate age," she narrates, stepping over the rug gingerly and laying down her spoils between us.
"Wine, Molly? Would my other minders approve?"
"You chose your poison, I'm choosing mine," she counters, sitting with a small sigh in John's chair (her long shift, sleepless nights, lonely contemplation, private grief - my shame increases, but I bat it away as is less than useful), offering a mug to me. Her eyes are dark, tired and without reproach. I take it. I sip it. She does the same. I imagine our facial expressions to be indicative of each others.
"Awful."
"Disgusting."
And we smile, and drink a little more.
~x~
2. Mummy Material
Mary Watson once came to visit me at my little flat, which I found both unusual and (truth be told) a little flattering. Mary was the Head Girl, top cheerleader, WI leading light type of woman (on the surface anyway) which always drew me like a moth to the flame. So predictable, but I couldn't suppress a flutter of excitement as I opened the door.
"She's inconsolable again." Rosamund was unceremoniously passed to me without pause as Mary breezed in, arms laden not only with baby but frangipani tartlets and what looked a little like elderflower cordial.
"It's Chardonnay Molly, so don't judge me. I had to get out of the house and this was the second port of call."
Rosie had quietened immediately and was currently gazing up at me with embarrassingly compliant devotion.
"Um… what was your first?"
"The Morgue," she returned, twisting the cap with a neck-breaking crack.
The frangipani was delicious. I bit into its sharp almond buttery-ness as I stared down at the golden-haired baby lying across my sofa, swaddled by cushions and spare jumpers (my flat can be chilly as none of the windows fit, particularly the bathroom). Little fists curled into pink rolls and small chest rising with a heart the size of that fist, beating at 190 beats per minute, keeping her pink and bright and living.
"Isn't she fab?"
I jump slightly as the homecoming queen appears at my shoulder, passing a chilled glass into my hand, ignoring polite refusal with a mere inclination of her brow.
"She certainly is," I return earnestly, looking down as a sleep-frazzled frown briefly clouded her perfect little forehead.
"You should have one," decides Mary, slumping gratefully back into my bucket chair and putting her feet onto my coffee table with an unapologetic clump.
"You are the most nurturing person I've ever met, plus you'd be used to working night shift, and excellent at delivering the Calpol." Bright, cerulean blue eyes look up into mine as if it was the most sensible idea in the whole wide world.
"Ah, I don't…"
"John was absolutely fine with you being our surrogate if things hadn't worked out this way."
"Mary, you are such a liar."
She grinned, caught out and loving it.
"Naturally, but I stand by my original deduction. You, Molly Hooper, are mummy material."
I dip my head, taking a sip and feeling heat spread across my cheeks. In spite of my recent promotion to Head of Department after Mike's move to Swansea, and the over abundance of credit card offers and grovelling mortgage leaflets through my door indicating my certain adult-ness, Mary always had the habit of making me blush like an eight year old who had never left her mum's bungalow to play out with the big kids.
"Babies are the ultimate sacrifice." I sigh. "A baby is born with the need to be loved, and it never outgrows it."
I turn towards Mary, now sprawled across my less than abundant chair and see her inherent confidence, but recognise how little it dilutes the kindness in her eyes.
"You've got the love, Molly Hooper," she say, smiling, letting the low sun glinting through grubby London window panes coat her hair with light and throw flecks across the planes of her face.
"And you've got the inclination."
I put down my glass, smiling and start picking up the detritus of objects Mary seemed to have orbiting around her being.
"I'm a bit traditional about babies," I murmur, picking up a plush elephant teething toy and feeling almost embarrassed, yet suspended in an unreality where everything is possible and well-chosen words seem beyond my reckoning.
Mary lifts the glass of wine, downing it and smiling across my small and slightly faded living room.
"Tradition is great, but sometimes you've just got to go with … your gut."
Rosamund stirs, twists towards the cushions and I stand, (slightly self consciously), awaiting her next move.
"Sherlock has so much love, it's embarrassing," smiles Mary Watson, offering up her glass and imbuing my heart with a strange kind of solidarity.
"No."
"Yes."
My cheeks glow and I lift the bottle to pour.
"Molly Hooper," says Mary, ninety three days away from her death, "that man needs to hold you, to kiss you and to father your children."
So, I offer her a cup of tea.
A/N: Tristful - French origins; meaning sad.
~x~
