Title: Walls
Author: Eena
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I disclaim, Sherlock is owned by others.
Category: Sherlock BBC
Spoilers: "The Great Game"
Summary: Something there is that doesn't love a wall. A Molly story.
Notes: Lines and quotes taken from Robert Frost's "Mending Wall".
~0~
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall."
DS Donovan, who had been overseeing the utter destruction of Molly Hooper's flat with a look of intolerable boredom, turns and squints at her. Even the good sergeant's "Pardon?" sounds disinterested and detached, like she's speaking only out of propriety and wants it to be known.
Molly doesn't turn to look at Donovan, rather keeps her eyes firmly on the forensics team smashing a hole through her living room wall. She can feel the sergeant's eyes on her nonetheless, so she shrugs and shakes her head. "Nothing," she murmurs softly, inwardly wondering how on earth she is supposed to explain this to the landlord.
Sorry sir, but that boy I had around a few times turned out to be a homicidal maniac. The police tell me that they have to rip down everything he's ever touched-because they'll never catch him but have to look like they're trying.
She'd probably get away with it, if she left out that last part. Apparently dating a secret psychopath is equivalent to your granny dying, because everyone is just so understanding now. The police understand her fear, so they're destroying her home and making vague promises about police protection that she knows will fail to materialize. Her superiors at work understand, that's why they've given her time off even when she begs them not to. Her parents understand, and they think this whole ordeal has finally proven that she can't live in London by her lonesome and have started preparing for her return to the family home.
It's a wonder that people can understand so much, and yet know nothing at all.
She thinks that, maybe, this is a fraction of the frustration that Sherlock must feel every day.
And then she promptly turns her mind away from any thoughts pertaining to Sherlock Holmes. If nothing else, at least her enforced absence from the morgue will give her time free of him. She might even be able to think properly.
"Well, nothing there after all," Donovan says suddenly. Molly blinks and finally looks to the other woman. "Must have been a glitch on the screen. We'll finish up in the bedroom. Tell your landlord to have the wall fixed and bill it our department."
Then Donovan departs to supervise the rifling through of Molly's underwear drawer. Molly stays where she is, standing alone in her living room and staring at her demolished wall. So, there are no hidden cameras or devices after all. She wonders what sort of glitch on which of their many machines made them think there would be something in her walls. She doesn't understand. It's sort of ironic, how everyone around her suddenly understands everything and she can't comprehend the littlest things.
Ironic, funny even. Not funny-ha-ha, but still, funny in its own way.
Later, after the police depart and Donovan makes some non-committal comments about keeping a police presence in the area, Molly is left alone with a ransacked flat. She wants to clean, but she hasn't the energy. She goes to bed, thinking that she was lucky to get the two weeks off because that might be how long it takes to fix her flat.
When she finally does fall asleep, Molly dreams of Jim crawling out of the hole in her living room wall, a smirk on his face and a scalpel in his hand.
She wakes up screaming and doesn't sleep again until the next day, when exhaustion finally claims her to a dreamless sleep.
~0~
"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out."
John Watson starts from his place at Sherlock's side, looks up from the computer screen as Sherlock races after whatever puzzle has his fancy this day. He raises his head slowly, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Hmm? Did you say something, Molly?"
"Nothing," she replies, and it's almost automatic at this point. Nothing, it's okay, I'm fine, all right, of course, these are the only words left in her daily vocabulary. People aren't too creative these days. Most of the questions she's asked are variations on the same thing. It's because they understand you see; they understand, but they don't want to know. Not really, because it's too complicated to know. If they knew, they might no longer understand, and Molly would hate to put anyone out like that.
John smiles faintly and goes back to the computer, because even though he's kind, he knows too much on his own to know any of hers. She doesn't begrudge him that, because he had to look at the wrongness of Jim head-on. She, at least, had been spared that much. Everything she hears is second-hand, so her imagination fills in the rest. She supposes the truth of it is worse than anything her mind can conjure up.
She looks back at her guests, sees Sherlock giving her a curious look out of the corner of his eyes. Her resolve to keep free of him had lasted only up to the second he walked back into her morgue, demanding this and that like he usually does. It made her curious, this behaviour. It is almost like nothing happened; that they're carrying on as usual. His behaviour is such that one couldn't tell that the world had blown apart recently.
Perhaps his world is not so blown apart as it is slightly readjusted. Maybe she's the only one who's been so damaged by it that the walls of her world have come down, literally and figuratively. Perhaps it is because she is the only one who was invested in Jim, who kissed him and thought of futures that were never going to happen.
Sherlock's eyebrows are starting to rise. She turns her back on him slowly, unsure of what he sees or what he understands but not willing to risk it. Sherlock is always probing, always deducing, and he cares much more for answers than he does for what those answers mean. She used to find that charming.
She's not sure how she feels about it now.
~0~
"We keep the wall between us as we go."
"What's that, Molly?"
She shakes her head, puts on a smile that doesn't feel real but makes Meena relax. Her friend goes back to Molly's suitcase, unpacking clothes and chirping away about something Molly remembers once caring about.
They've fixed the wall now. The landlord threw a tantrum up until she told him that the police would cover the costs. Then everything was okay and he called up a guy and she had to spend about two nights at Meena's flat with Toby mewling unhappily from his carrier-but they had fixed it now.
People seem to think that the wall is fixed, so everything's all right now. They see it as a symbol, of how Jim blasted into her life and left a hole behind. But the hole is plastered up now, fixed to look brand-new.
She doesn't point out that the wall is certainly fixed, certainly looks brand new, but now looks out of place. The paint is too bright to match the rest of the flat, too fresh and not the right amount of faded. The mouldings are pristine white and they don't match other dusty panels that line the floors. The wall is fixed, but it stands out worse than before. The hole was obvious, this is sinister. It looks like it's hiding something, looks like it's covering something up.
"We should invite Caroline over and have a girls' night," Meena trills on and on. Molly wonders if everyone is really ignorant of what she's thinking, or if they've just decided to ignore it and force her into something different. Meena goes on about ice creams and chocolates and movies like they're back to being teenagers and Jim was just some bad boyfriend.
Maybe this is their way of coping. She doesn't doubt that Meena cares, doesn't doubt that people feel for her on some level. But maybe the absolute horridness of the situation is too terrifying, too inhuman to contemplate in a real way. Maybe this forced cheer is like her obsession with walls-maybe it is how they are trying to realign their focus, trying to make the world make sense again.
They have a girls' night. Though it happens only once or twice, Molly is relieved to find that she can still smile an actual smile, brief and fleeting though it is.
~0~
"Good fences make good neighbours."
"And how, Molly dear, did you come to that conclusion?"
She is startled and therefore drops her scalpel. It's understandable, her reaction, because she's become accustomed to people not really hearing her. She supposed they're too busy understanding to pay her that much attention.
She should know better than to lump him with regular people.
She bends to pick up her instrument, tossing in the sink for later washing. She exchanges her gloves for a clean pair and selects a new scalpel before moving back to the body on the slab. He joins her, hands clasped behind his back as he watches her cut. She doesn't know if he wants to watch the autopsy, or if he's waiting for her to answer him. It's likely a combination of the two.
She continues with the incision as she debates what to say, or whether to say anything at all. It's harder now, between them, and she's ashamed to know that it's because of her. She used to let him do as he pleased, after he gave her a kind word or two. She was well aware of what he was doing, but she liked the attention so she let him.
Now, she still lets him do as he likes. It's just not worth the headache to deny him. She doesn't bother to put up an argument, just finishes up what she's doing and wordlessly gives him what he wants. He's surprised by the change, maybe even a little disappointed. She supposes it's fair, because she's disappointed in him.
She can understand fooling her, but how in the world did Sherlock let himself be so thoroughly duped?
"Molly, let's not play this game. It's boring."
And heaven forbid that she should bore him. She glances up from her work, knows her gaze is sharper than he's seen before, and then looks back down. "I would think that you'd be tired of games by now, Sherlock."
Her voice sounds amazingly calm, but inside she is anything but. He doesn't seem to mind (or care, care is the better word). He actually chuckles softly before removing his gloves, coat, and scarf.
"Molly, you know me better than that," he chides gently as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. She nods in the direction of the gloves, unnecessary because he knows the morgue too well for someone who doesn't work in it. She's stalling, trying to find the right response that would bring this conversation to an end before he set upon what was bothering her.
He snaps on the gloves and comes back to the slab. He leans forward, balancing his hands on the metal edge, and looks right at her. "You do, don't you Molly?"
She sighs, annoyed that she bothered to wish for something that would never happen. Sherlock never lets up before he's ready. It's folly to try and stop him.
"I do," she finally replies, eyes firmly set on the body before her. "But one can hope for change, can't they?"
"Ah, hope, I'm glad that we've touched on that," one of his hands enters her line of vision, prodding at the dead man's insides curiously. "Do you still have hope, Molly?"
"Why don't you tell me?" she returns, a hot flare of irritation coursing through her. "You've never been one for too many questions, Sherlock. You've always just known by looking. So why can't you just look, know, and leave it alone?"
"When have I ever let anything alone?" he sounds resigned. "But if you insist, very well. You're upset; that much is given. There are bags under your eyes that you play at hiding with makeup. You're not sleeping well and almost everyone knows it-nightmares, most likely. You're quiet, not that many people notice this because you've always been quiet. Those who do notice brush it off as sadness. But it's not-it's desperation.
You avoid looking directly at others, but your brow is almost always furrowed, meaning you're deliberating everything as you go. You won't rise to the occasion when I attempt flirting with you, but you try to appease others as you go. You have a question you want to ask, but you don't want to ask it because it seems trivial. You're worried that everything about you is trivial, and has become more so ever since you became acquainted with me. There is a certain part of you that blames me for everything that's happened, and it's a natural response. Of course, you're not a terribly petty person, so blaming me makes you feel ashamed because you think you should be better than that.
You run the cases over in your head; you tally up how many people have been 'saved' due to my efforts. You need to remember why you help me, why you liked me so much, and you don't want to admit that you liked me more for my mind than for my results. And it's because you finally get it, that thing I've been saying for years. I bam/b a well-functioning sociopath and I have the potential to be just as or even more destructive as Moriarty. And if you liked me for that, you think that it's possible that you let Jim fool you because you saw in him what you see in me. It's a darkness, nearly a sickness, in us both, and you worry what it says about you that you find these traits remotely attractive."
She draws in a deep breath, ignoring the way her hand trembles for a second before steadying. "Is that all?" she forces out with a small laugh, like she isn't bothered, that she isn't horrified by any of it.
"No," his voice drops lower and she waits. "No, it's not. There's the matter of your question."
She pauses, hands going still around the dead man's liver.
"You want to know why."
She snorts almost reflexively. "That's not terribly vague or anything."
"Why," he continues. "That's all you want, the answer to why. If this was all about me, if the game was about me, then why you? Why the way that he did it? Why months in the IT department? Why weeks of flirting and dating? Why not just become friends, get introduced by chance, and leave it at that? Why did he force a way into your life? Why the kisses and the embraces only to embarrass you by acting gay in front of me? Why did he go to such lengths to bring you into something that you barely had a role in at the end?"
She removes her hands from the body and finally looks up to catch his gaze, as intense and bright as it usually is when he's about a mystery. She feels her eyes water, bites her inner cheek to keep the tears at bay, and then takes a fortifying breath. "Why?"
"I don't know," he admits. "I don't know everything, Molly. But I can most definitely find out. Is that what you want?"
"I want it to be undone," she confesses. "I want to be rid of him, and maybe of you too. I don't know if I want a part of this world where morals and people count for so little. We all call it a game, but it's not. Can't you see that it's horrible?"
He looks disappointed in her. "Molly, would it hurt you more if I said no, or if I said I didn't care?"
She smiles, but it's a sad smile. "I honestly can't say. And that's probably why good fences make good neighbours."
"Ah," he nods. "Perhaps. But remember, something there is that doesn't love a wall-that wants it down."
"Elves are of little consequence in London proper."
He fixes those eyes on her again-hard, unflinching, and as searching as ever. "Who said it was the elves?"
He leans in closer, his height granting him the ability to do so without risking a touch to the body between them. "It's just another kind of out-door game," he insists. "And it comes to little more. Haven't you considered, who you would give offence?"
She leans in as well, and their noses are not so far apart. "Have they considered me?" she asks softly in return.
"No," he is blunt, as always. "But perhaps, some things can be learnt. But I'd rather you'd say it for yourself."
He is relentless, determined as ever to have his way. She thinks of the dangers of indulging; she thinks of the costs of not. Silence reigns for an uncomfortable period before she pulls back and returns her eyes to the body, to her work.
"Would you like to help?" she asks, voice light and unburdened as it once had been before.
He smiles; she can feel it. "I think today, I'd rather watch."
Of course he would. Sherlock isn't one to understand.
He'd always rather know.
~0~