A Trip to See Molly

For the last three months, John had been sending texts to Sherlock's old phone, but he had been relatively careful not to send anything too sensitive. He knew the mobile would be disconnected soon and eventually the number would be reassigned eventually and he didn't want the next person to have that number to read anything too personal. He even knew it was a bad idea to allow himself to create a false connection to his old friend. It was unhealthy. And yet, each time he thought about stopping, it felt like he was giving up and he couldn't stand the thought of giving up.

So over the months, he texted Sherlock's old phone. The messages he sent were mostly insignificant, but there were some things that he probably shouldn't have sent. Some days, he complained about work or talked about the weather. Some days he wrote angry messages about Sherlock's past transgressions. Some days John was almost able to believe he was still alive. Most days were bad. The text messages felt cathartic, but John had a nagging feeling that he was somehow putting off the pain.

The more messages he sent, the more John felt like he was forgetting something: like he had missed something that should have been obvious. Then, one weekend, John could scarcely drag himself from his bed. Realizing the signs, John phoned Molly. She sounded concerned, as usual. She convinced him to visit her flat. The entire time, she bustled around making coffee and setting out food. She seemed on edge.

"Thanks for visiting! I haven't seen you in a while. It's lovely to see you."

John looked at Molly, tiredly, forcing a wry smile, "I don't think lovely is the word most people would use for me these days."

"Oh- no- of course not. I just meant- it's nice to see you—you're still—I mean—I'm glad you came to visit."

Blinking hard, John focused his attention on the woman in front of him. "Molly, how are you coping?"

For a few long seconds, Molly looked completely lost. She snapped her mouth shut and then slowly replied, "He—I don't think that Sherlock wa—would have wanted you to be depressed."

"What about you?"

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "We were never that close, John."

The rest of the visit passed in near silence. The made small talk about meaningless things and then John took his leave. Back at his flat, John pulled out his mobile and stared at it. Molly was right. Sherlock wouldn't want him to be depressed. In fact, Sherlock would probably say something about being boring or ineffective. Perhaps. Sighing, John sent a message.

I went to Molly today. I know she valued you. She wouldn't judge me.

He felt sick. He shouldn't be doing this.

She says you wouldn't want me to be depressed. I know you wouldn't. Stop being dead, you idiot. I hate this.

Tossing his phone away, John curled up on the couch and tried to sleep.

John awoke around 4 in the morning to the sound of rain. Scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he glanced around the flat, spotting his mobile on the table in front of him. Turning it in his hands, he felt his stomach clench. Looking away, he saw dozens of Sherlock's things in the room. He could almost imagine him looking out the window at the water running along the street.

It's raining. Reminds me of you. Everything reminds me of you. John shook his head and deleted the last sentence before sending it.

John considered what to do. He could try to read something, although nothing seemed appealing. He could watch whatever crap telly was on at four in the morning. He could eat something. Shower. Go to bed and try to sleep. Nothing sounded good enough to get him off the couch.

It's bad, Sherlock.

Suddenly filled with anger at himself and anger at Sherlock, John stabbed another message into his phone and sent it off immediately.

Okay, I know you're not actually getting these, so if anyone is reading this, please let me know. I'll stop sending the stupid messages.

With his head in his hands, John felt drained. It wasn't quite giving up, but it was close. Eventually, he would have to stop this. He couldn't keep pretending forever.

Then, for the first time in months, John heard the beep of a text message. Stunned, he stared at his phone. He turned it over in his palm twice. It was from a very familiar number.

Don't stop. Please.

A/N: I couldn't help wondering if you guys noticed the lack of (parenthesis) in the last text of the previous chapter, so I thought I'd put this one out a bit faster. Enjoy! Thanks again for the reviews, favorites, and alerts! Reviews are especially motivational (don't be afraid to be harsh! I don't have a beta, so any criticism is awesome).