Molly can hear the outside world. It lingers in the peripherals of her Mind Morgue, beckoning her to join its incessant movement. The hum of her own breathing surrounds her, reedy, heavy, laboured. But it is there. Molly begins to realise that her own heart is still beating, regardless of her surroundings, she is still alive.
Memories swirl around her; they are bold, colourful, but vague. She fears their opalescence. Without her mind Molly Hooper is nothing, she is but an insignificant spec on this heaving planetarium that we call home. She wonders, or rather paces, back and forth between the remaining rooms. Sherlock. Molly. Sherlock. Molly. Sherlock. Will he be there when she wakes up, will he even know? Molly thinks not.
Suddenly there is a jolt, as if in slow motion she is falling, her Morgue tilted sideways sending her vision askew. The rooms are gone, as if they never existed, and Molly Hooper is once again an empty shell.
Sherlock appears at the crime scene with little warning. Flouncing in with his usual dramatic flare. John simply stares, standing next to the equally flummoxed DI Lestrade.
"Well, don't simply stand there; use some of your kinetic energy to at least close your mouths."
Both their reactions are simultaneous and abrupt, silently they evaluate the detective, although his clothes are slightly rumpled indicative of his long hospital stay there is little wrong with him. Sweeping past the two gobsmacked people Sherlock closes his eyes, opening them he takes in the entire scene.
Father of two.
Recently divorced.
Anxiety disorder.
Alcoholic brother.
Estranged sister.
"It was the sister." Sherlock smirked characteristically.
"How, he hadn't even spoken to her in two years, she said so when we spoke with her!" DI Lestrade shook with anger and hidden admiration at the detective's quick evaluation.
"Oh Gavin…" both Lestrade and John shook their heads.
"There is such a thing as lying, I should know…"
With that confusing statement Sherlock Holmes stalked off around the corner, leaving no sign that he had ever even been there.
She was alone, the room was oppressive, so white and clean, its vibrancy hurt her eyes. No one was there when Molly Hooper woke up; no one had been there when she was dead either. Molly supposed it was the best she could hope for. They had told her she had suffered some kind of amnesia, remembering things that only mattered a long time ago, she knew who she was, what she was, but there was a niggling in her mind, a memory trying to branch out and make itself known that she couldn't quite grasp. Her Mind Morgue was locked, she was unable to even enter her own room, in the corner there was a space, ominously gaping, and open like a wound, like a great black hole. This was her empty space, her storage drive, as she began to try and resurface memories it began to fill up, within only a few moments she had one shelf done.
Molly Hooper quietly smiled to herself, humming a little as she twisted her head to the window, she could have sworn to have heard the somewhat familiar sound of a faded voice. But as we all know, to store more data, some bytes must be deleted.
And somewhere buried deep in the chaos of Molly's partially destroyed Mind Morgue lay a deletion bay, and within it. In the epicentre of her entire mind, lay the body of a rather forgotten consulting detective.