This one is sad - sorry. It is a separate one shot to the chapters before it. I own nothing. Also this is the third time I've uploaded today - go me! There will be happier ones, I promise!
THE SCIENTIST - COLDPLAY
Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start.
It was snowing, although only lightly. Molly always loved the snow. A few years ago Sherlock had taken her into the countryside where the snow was thick and unsullied by other humans unlike in London. They had made a snowman called Basil and sledded and done all the snow games Sherlock would never have played had it not made her happy. Molly had worn a red woollen hat. Her skin had been pale with flushed cheeks. The snow had caught on her eyelashes. God, she had looked beautiful. Afterwards they'd returned home to hot chocolate and a client who wanted Sherlock to find her cat. She had been so absurd that they'd laughed about her for a week.
They'd been so happy.
This snowfall, however, would probably not even cover the ground properly. Not that it mattered. But it did leave a stark contrast against the black of Sherlock's suit and the mahogany coffin.
And as the snow began to melt on the coffin, it was joined by Sherlock's tears. Tears of loss and pain. Tears of regret, for what never would be. Tears of anger at the drunk driver. Tears of sorrow for the child he would never know, still nestled in her womb.
The next snow he saw was a year later. He saw it from his window. He couldn't get any closer to the window for fear of stepping on the photos of her strewn on the floor. Photos of her happy and smiling and so alive. He studied them intently everyday. Everyone insisted it wasn't healthy and that he needed to go outside and that they missed her too but they didn't understand.
He wished he'd taken more photos of them together. But most of all he just wished he'd insisted she'd worn her seatbelt.
The last snow of Sherlock Holmes's life was noticed by him from his hospital bed. He was old now and she never would be. He was impatient too, impatient to see if perhaps those silly religious people right and maybe just perhaps he could be with Molly again.
But then again he could just be put out of this loneliness. They both seemed like good ideas right about now.
Sherlock Holmes died on his own in a hospital ward, looking out the window to the snow, with the world 'Molly' etched upon his lips.