Living with Sherlock is a horrible thing. John had not been misleading her when he had said his flatmate's orderliness of mind did not translate into the physical realm. He never washes a dish, never even leaves it near the sink—one afternoon on the way to collect the post, she trods on a cup of tea that had been left just inside the front door.
His moods swing maniacally between opposite poles. The day the newspapers report Jim Moriarty never existed, his grin nearly splits his face, and he actually grabs her by the hand and twirls her around. The next day, as she readies for his funeral, he is in a deep depression. At least the latter makes some sense to her.
She asks him how she looks—in the habitual way of a woman in company who is otherwise fully able to decide that for herself—before realizing he'd never really cared and sensing the absurdity of asking someone how she looked for his own funeral.
"Fine," he pronounces, without raising his eyes.
"I wish you were coming, too," she says, piling on the absurdity. "That is…."
He nods. They share an opinion that if Sherlock must have a funeral, the best person to be absent from it is the man himself.
Still, it's hard to see John's ashen face, to return Mrs Hudson's sympathetic hug, to know whose corpse is actually being buried in that grave, and to bear it all alone. Molly does not have to fake her tears.
"How was it?" he asks upon her return. "Heartwarming, I'd gather, from the state of your eyes and the number of tissues you went through."
She looks down at her bag, can't see any way he would see how many tissues she'd removed from the interior, and doesn't feel like asking. "You had to be there," she says, and shakes her head. "Never mind." She shrugs off her coat and tosses it onto a chair. "I'm a bit peckish. You?"
"No."
She isn't surprised. She hasn't seen the man eat anything the whole week.
"Couldn't eat a bite at the luncheon, no matter how much Mrs Hudson pressed me to. John wasn't that much better. They miss you."
"That's irrelevant."
"You look sad again."
"Also irrelevant."
"It isn't," she says, but doesn't stay around to argue the point. She can't wait to change out of the clothes she wore to the funeral. They feel tainted. Once she is finished hanging up her coat and changing her clothes and brushing her hair out and washing her face, she can look in the mirror and not hate herself so much. She hopes.
Her tasks complete, she heats up a serving of salmon from the night before and brings it to the kitchen table.
"Only one plate?"
She stops short, hovering halfway between standing and sitting. She had been making up two plates all week, but he'd never expressed the slightest interest in them.
"You said you weren't hungry. No point in offering you dinner and watching it go cold. Again."
A wry smile comes over his face.
"Was I wrong? Did you…."
"No, no, you're quite right." He walks over and pulls out a chair.
"Should I get another…."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Not hungry. But I can be sociable."
"You can? I'm sorry, I just meant…you can?"
"I'm dead. I can do anything."
Living with Sherlock is a horrible thing.
She will treasure it forever.