Note: This took me a bit and I still don't know if that's what I wanted when I began to write this chapter but whatever...
Molly eventually realizes she has to start living again. #YOLO (just kidding.)
Mycroft will (if things work out the way I want them to) appear for the first time in the next update. I hope you have the patience to be stuck up with this story for a while. I don't know where this whole thing is going, it somehow already developed a life of its own.
I'm dreadfully sorry for any spelling mistakes and stuff (though I hope there aren't as many) ._.
It was past midnight when Molly had finally managed to jam her clothes into the washer, to put the rubbish out and all the other remaining things back to where they belonged. When she had been halfway through adjusting everything, she'd found an old photo album in the bottom drawer, right where all those belongings went that she almost never searched for.
The front cover had seen better days and some pages seemed loose. Molly couldn't remember when it had been the last time she'd taken photos on a family celebration. It might also contain photos of their last holiday as a family -who knows?
Molly was stroking over the cover mindlessly. It was designed in a nice chocolate brown shade, a golden-hued calligraphic ornament embellished the whole cover. Classical composition with no frills, Molly wasn't that much of a fan of too much colour and flamboyant features.
Extravagance might be something that many people she knew loved (Sherlock was the first one that came to her mind) but from her point of view that was simply a way to present oneself without having done anything in particular that could be seen as somehow important or at least...well - special...
And if that wasn't the case it was barely attracting notice which enabled the person to undergo the sensation of one's own significance or to create the impression of superiority. Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Considering himself superior to everyone else. Molly didn't even try fighting away the tears of anger and frustration that flooded her eyes. How many times has she told herself she'd been over him? It didn't feel like love anymore, her knees weren't wobbly when he was around and her throat never went dry when he was addressing her. There wasn't the slightest warm sensation in her stomach. But why was she still crying over him? Why did it still hurt to reflect everything that had happened?
Yes he had told her she counted. But then he disappeared, popped out of her life for two years. She's been waiting two bloody years for a sign, a message, just something to tell her he's doing well. But no news until he suddenly arose from the dead. And the worst thing was – she read about it in the newspaper.
In a flash her thoughts focussed on the album again. It might not be the best idea, sleepy and exhausted as she was, moreover now infuriated and sad as well, to study pictures that only portray the past. she considered. But she desperately wanted to have a look at her younger self, the Molly she was when her father was still hale and hearty, the Molly not knowing that life wasn't at all playing the game in a fair manner. They would still be a family in those photos.
But that was long ago, she didn't even know why she actually kept that old gizmo, it wasn't even worth the life of a dust catcher in the drawer of her unsteady bureau. She should throw it away, try to live in the here and now.
Curiousity killed the cat. was what crossed her mind next. Her father had loved to say that. Molly chuckled at that thought as she remembered how the look on his face would soften his all too often dark expressions; and how the laughter would clear the lines the ilness had left on him over the years of therapy.
She finally opened it, dust was raising and she fought back a coughing bout. Molly was inevitably snoopy but with a vague feeling of trepidation, with only one question on her mind.
How much time has passed since then?
It turned out to be a photo album of Molly when she was about 13 or 14. Molly eyed her younger self. Oh look at that. So definetly me... she murmured. There she was, dressed in her school uniform that suited her just as good as a potato bag would (the mustard yellow blouse in combination with the light brown tie made the whole view even worse), smiling bright into the camera - so bright the braces were visible - as she noticed having a closer look at it.
Well who says I cannot be as happy as I was at that time? Dad wouldn't want me to cloister myself away...
Suddenly Molly knew exactly what she would be doing on her free day tomorrow.
... or more precisely... today, she corrected herself when checking her watch.
The album landed on the floor with an offended thud.
Bollocks to that! the young pathologist triumphed. I will be the bloody happiest person on earth by tomorrow or so help me.