These characters are still the property of men with more money, talent and Britishness than I. All I got/will get was the satisfaction of writing.
Enter Sherlock.
That night, Molly ran back to her tiny student room. She sobbed the whole way there, choking on tears and spit. Her whole body shook as she cried. As soon as she returned, she took a long, hot shower. Specks of bloody dirt swirled down the drain. She scrubbed her whole body twice. When she was done, she was calm once more. She slipped into her robe, and then picked up her dirty clothes, taking the Marquis's coin from her pocket. She stared at it for a moment, wondering if it wouldn't be better to throw it away. After thinking it over, she walked over to her jewelry box. Her father had given it to her when she was a little girl. When the lid was opened, a small ballerina sprung up, slowly turning as twinkly music played. Underneath the ballerina was a secret space that Molly had used to hide tiny girlhood treasures. Molly tucked the coin in the space. It was a bad idea to save it, but perhaps in the future it would serve as a reminder of just how foolish she had been.
She went to bed and slept through awful dreams of rushing wind and death. The dreams were dark, but she did not remember them in the morning. She woke and dressed, like every other day, as though she had never been a participant in a bizarre blood ritual. By breakfast, she had made an important decision. The whole affair with the Marquis de Carabas had been a dreadful mistake. She should have stopped it all sooner, but she wouldn't make such foolish choices again. Molly was determined to devote herself to study once more. It had worked for her whole life; it would work for her again. It was too late to salvage her friendship with Rebecca. Rebecca had clearly moved on to newer and more exciting friends. Molly had never been any good at friends anyway. She'd been even worse at dating. Things would be much better this way. And they were.
Molly threw herself back into schoolwork with a fury. Her experiments with her talent had taken a serious toll on her grades. She fixated on getting the top scores in all her classes. She ignored most of her classmates. Concentrating on her studies also helped her submerge her sense of death again. It was impossible to eradicate fully, but it was manageable now. She barely noticed it anymore. Strangely enough, the time with the Marquis had reinforced one thing. She was completely comfortable around death. Corpses didn't bother her in the least. Living, breathing people made her nervous and stammering. But in the quiet of the morgue, she was much more relaxed. She had never really decided what sort of doctor she wanted to be, a pathologist seemed the perfect choice. It would require even more studying and devotion to become a pathologist and that also suited her quite well.
The years of studying paid off. Molly became a pathologist in record speed. Her father was tremendously proud. Other than him, there were only a few impressed professors to notice. Molly had successfully avoided most human contact and had almost completely isolated herself. With her sterling school records, it was easy to find a job. She was excited to begin her position at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, but was worried about having to work with new people. She knew that she would be called on to offer assistance in police matters sometimes. She hoped that it wouldn't happen often. Her immediate colleagues were kind and seemed to understand, or even share her shyness. Molly wondered if morgues always attracted mousey types of people. Since graduating, she noticed she was feeling lonely again. She dealt with this by volunteering for overtime, finishing overdue paperwork and generally becoming indispensable. All her co-workers agreed, things had never gone so smoothly in the morgue, but they wished she would get out a little. She was such a nice girl after all.
It didn't take long for Molly to feel completely at home in the morgue. Molly had only been working at St. Bart's for about four months when she first met Sherlock Holmes. He was hard not to notice. He had the same imperious air of self-importance that her old friend the Marquis had. Sherlock had entered the morgue in the company of another man, Detective Inspector Lestrade. The police detective had kindly asked Molly to view one of the bodies. He presented her with all the proper paperwork, neatly filled out and paper clipped together. As she pulled the body out of the cold storage, she heard the DI caution the other man, "Don't touch anything, I mean it. I shouldn't even have allowed you in here to look. And for god's sake, be nice."
Molly was a bit worried to overhear this. She looked back at the young man who had accompanied the DI. He was tall, with dark curly hair. He wore a long black coat that was also alarmingly like the one the Marquis wore. But where the Marquis was dark and gleaming, this man was pale and sallow. He looked unwell. Molly had more than a small hunch that it was drugs. She had seen the same look on addicts waiting outside the free clinic at the hospital. As she wheeled the body over, the younger man seemed to focus his attention on her. He gave her a wan smile and reached out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes. The chest, if you would" was all he said.
Molly barely had finished unzipping the body bag when Sherlock quickly leaned toward the body. He had a small magnifying lens and scanned the torso closely. Molly stood to the side unsure what as expected of her. She wrung her hands nervously and looked to the Detective Inspector for some clue as what to do. Suddenly, Sherlock spun away from the body and marched toward the door. He was shouting observations and questions back over his shoulder. DI Lestrade swore and ran after him. Molly waited a moment, feeling like an idiot, before zipping up the body bag, and wheeling the body back. She thought the entire encounter was strange, and hoped she had seen the last of the police for a while.
Then next time Sherlock entered the morgue, he did so alone. He marched up to the table where Molly was sitting and positively loomed over her. "That is the microscope I prefer to use, the student lab is down the hall" he said sounding bored.
Molly bristled. She was shy, but she hated when people assumed she was a student. She stood and turned to face him. "Yes, the student lab is just down the hall, perhaps that's where you're meant to be?" she asked with a bright smile that did little to hide her nerves.
He looked at her aghast. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Dr. Molly Hooper. I work here. You came in before, with the police detective. Doesn't Scotland Yard have their own lab?"
He frowned. "I don't work for the police. They're idiots. When are you going to leave and allow me to use this microscope?"
Molly tried to look stern. She had worked hard to earn her position and didn't appreciate having her authority challenged by some random person. She was about to call security when Mike Stamford, one of her favorite colleagues, entered the room and came hurrying over. He was grinning nervously. "Molly! I see you've met Sherlock. Sherlock does have permission to use our labs, actually. He sort of helps the police once in a while. This is Dr. Molly Hooper, Sherlock, she's our newest pathologist."
Mike was grinning in a desperate sort of way, clearly hoping to prevent a further confrontation. Molly felt herself deflate a little. She was no good at power struggles of any sort. If Sherlock hadn't suggested that she was a student she probably wouldn't have reacted so strongly. She tried to smile at Sherlock, but he had turned to Mike and moved on to berating him, "I absolutely do not 'sort of help' the police. I am a consulting detective, they seek my assistance when they can't see the obvious, which happens quite often" snapped Sherlock.
Molly didn't know what to do. So she played peace-maker. "Ah, well then, if it's so important, go right ahead with this microscope, I've just finished anyway" she stammered. She gathered her things and started moving away when Sherlock reached out and touched her arm. She looked at him in surprise. For the first time, she noticed how blue his eyes were. He said, "I do apologize for insinuating you were a student. It was careless of me. I must have deleted our previous meeting." Without waiting for her to reply, he turned back to the microscope and was silent for the next two hours.
Molly's first impressions of Sherlock Holmes were largely correct. He was an arrogant ass, but she also learned quickly that he was a genius. More than once, he corrected some observation of hers. It would have been extremely annoying, but he was always right. Over the first few months that she knew him, Molly watched him become healthier. His skin no longer looked so sallow; Molly thought he must have stopped using whatever drug he had been doing.
There was no rhyme or reason to when he came to the lab. Sometimes he came with members of the police force (most of whom looked seriously irritated.) Usually he came alone. He came at all hours of the day or night. Molly never could understand why, but he began asking for her assistance. Typically menial things, like a request for more glass slides. Other times he asked for tissue samples or actual body parts. Sometimes he did seem interested in her advice and expertise. Molly always liked to be useful and didn't mind helping. Secretly, she liked listening to him while he worked. He talked to himself at times and it was fascinating to hear how he pieced facts together to find the truth.
Molly was too shy to talk to Sherlock outright most of the time, unless he said something to her first. She felt herself starting to blush slightly whenever he came into the morgue or lab. Her ability to form complete sentences seemed to disappear in his presence. With a queasy feeling, she realized she had a crush on him. He had begun to talk to her more, and Stamford had told her that Sherlock seemed to come in most frequently when she was working. "I can't explain it, but he seems to like you, Molly, which is a blessing for the rest of us, he's driven all of us to tears at least once or twice" Mike told her once.
She tried to tell herself that her crush was stupid and silly. But Molly had secretly always hoped she would find her one true love. She knew the whole idea was childish, but she had never outgrown her longing for romance. It was clear that Sherlock was a terrible person to have a crush on. While he was supposedly nicer to her than her co-workers, he was still usually rude at best. Molly's ability to stand up to him was wearing away as well. He had long ago learned that a bit of careful flattery was all it took for Molly to give in. She hated herself for it, but she was greedy for his attention and was eager to get it anyway she could.
A few years passed in that fashion. Weeks would go by with no sign of him, but like a bad ex-boyfriend, he'd turn up with unreasonable demands. Molly would fruitlessly try to ask him out or get him to notice her. He'd shout abuse at hospital staff, police or anyone else he found irritating. Molly would grow tired of his antics and try to find a new crush, which always failed as soon as she saw Sherlock bursting into the morgue again. Then one day, Sherlock mentioned off-handedly to Mike that he needed a flat-mate. And that afternoon, Mike returned with a friend from long ago who also needed a flat-mate. Dr. John Watson soon moved in with Sherlock and Molly found herself rather jealous of Dr. Watson. He was always with Sherlock now, hanging on to his every word. She wondered if they were lovers.
It would make it easier, in a way, if Sherlock was gay. Then it wouldn't be her fault that Sherlock didn't notice her pathetic attempts at flirting, she just came equipped with the wrong parts. Maybe he would finally come out to her and they could have a laugh and go out to bars to chase beautiful boys together. But John Watson's vehement denials of his dating Sherlock squashed Molly's hopes yet again. She was determined to move on. She decided to meet new people. Molly began forcing herself to eat in the cafeteria more often, instead of the usual silent lunches hidden in her office. She began eating meals with different people every day. There were thousands of staff in the hospital, there had to be someone nice who would be interested in her. She made a few new friends that way, but met no devastatingly handsome suitable boyfriends.
Luck was with her one day when all the computers were acting up. The IT department had been called and after hours of waiting, a lovely young man arrived to fix the problem. He seemed shy when he introduced himself to Molly. He told her his name was Jim. He also told her he was new and hadn't met many of the doctors yet. His voice was soft and sweet. Molly was entranced. When he asked if she wanted to go out for coffee she giggled, then said yes.
Her date with Jim was unusual, not that Molly could really judge such things. He was very sweet, but Molly could sense an underlying strangeness. Molly noticed something about him that was alarming. When she was with him, it was very difficult to suppress her death sense. Over the years, she had gotten so good at ignoring it that she hardly noticed it anymore. But something about Jim seemed to make her lose that control. Once, when they were chatting in the morgue, Molly noticed that the death that surrounded Jim was different from other people's. She couldn't figure out why, and she refused to try to figure it out. Molly wanted a nice, normal night out and she was not about to ruin it. Despite her death sense acting up, they had a mostly pleasant first date.
Another time he came over to her flat one night and watched TV with her. They ordered out and ate sitting on her lumpy couch. He was so interested in her and learning about her work. He hung onto her every word while holding her hand. He kissed her gently before leaving. Molly was giddy. She was dating someone. Someone was interested in her. She wasn't going to die alone and be eaten by her ten cats after all. Then Sherlock had to come back to the morgue and ruin it all. She had been so proud to tell Sherlock that she was seeing someone. Secretly, she hoped he would either notice her or she would get over him. But Sherlock being Sherlock, he just insulted her and then announced that Jim was gay. The worst part was, she knew Sherlock was right, he always was.
Molly broke up with Jim, but of course, that wasn't the end of it. No, it would turn out that Jim from IT was actually Jim Moriarty, the madman who had been blowing innocent people up all across London. Jim had just used her to get a bit closer to Sherlock. Molly was humiliated. Her dating days were such a drastic failure that she quit all attempts to meet new people. She told herself that she wasn't interested in Sherlock either, though she knew that was mostly a lie. There were more important things than her crush anyway.
Her father was dying and Molly focused on him. Two years previous, he had been diagnosed with liver cancer. Treatments had seemed to be successful at first, but then the doctors discovered the cancer had spread. He was going downhill fast. He tried to put on a brave face and convince her that he wasn't afraid. Molly knew better, she might be shy, but she was good at observing people, especially those she was close to. She knew her dad was scared and sad. It was plain on his face one day when she saw him sitting in the visitors lounge, waiting for her. She wished he could just talk to her honestly, but that had never been his way. She knew he didn't want her to see him as sick and dying. He still wanted to be her Daddy and protect her, like always. So she sat with him in the hospice and watched football matches as he moaned about not being able to drink his favorite beer. She tried to ask him questions about her mother, but he mostly avoided them.
As the end drew closer, she told him she loved him and that he had been a good father. He smiled at that and told her it was because she was such a good daughter. His death was close now; Molly couldn't stop herself from seeing it. She was awake and waiting when the phone call from the hospice came at 2:07 in the morning. After crying a bit, she called work to take a week off. Burial arrangements had already been made. There were few people to come to the funeral. Molly wrapped up what remained of her father's affairs and went back to work. She was completely alone now.