Story No. 2

Sherlock Holmes sat, still as a statue, in his chair at Baker Street. His hands were set in their "thinking position" and his eyes stared straight ahead. Some would say the look was blank, but then again, some did not know Sherlock Holmes. There was always something going on in his mind. Today, the "something" happened to be the one and only Molly Hooper. She had seemed different today at St. Bart's.

Sherlock's mind flicked back and forth over the details he had acquired from his observation of the pathologist. Slight stooped posture, possibly indicating physical pain, but physical pain came with sweat more often than not: Molly's skin was free of the shine that accompanies perspiration. Slight redness and puffiness around her eyes could mean crying or lack of sleep, or possibly both. The slight discoloration of her lab coat around the collar definitely led towards tears. Her fingers constantly fiddled with the edge of her lab coat, which could indicate, what? Fear? What could Molly possibly need to fear? Distraction? That seemed more likely. What could she need distraction from? Sherlock was, for once, at a loss.

It took Sherlock a while to realize that John Watson, his flat mate, was waving his hand in front of his face. Sherlock blinked and stared up at his best friend.

"What the hell could you possibly be thinking about? I've been waving my hand in front of your face and screaming your name for five minutes now, Sherlock! Five minutes!" John shouted angrily. "We don't even have a bloody case!" He threw up his hands in exasperation at Sherlock's lack of reply. "Fine! Have it your own way!" He flopped down into his chair, frustrated. A few moments of tense silence passed. Sherlock finally looked over at John.

"Molly. Has she seemed, oh, I don't know, in a state of depression and emotional instability to you?" Sherlock said, tilting his head slightly. John looked up with mock surprise.

"Oh, so now you acknowledge my existence. Thank you, it's nice to have people realize YOU"RE ACTUALLY ALIVE once in a while!" Sherlock leaned back in his chair, ignoring the snarky comment. John sighed.

"Didn't she tell you? Her cat died. Had him for 14 years. She was real close to it." John said. "I thought she'd actually been doing very well with it." Oh, that's it! Emotional pain! Why hadn't I thought of that? Sherlock stood up and scoffed.

"She's clearly a wreck over it. God, it's amazing what you don't see. Honestly, I expected it to be something worse, from her state, like, say, the abduction of a family member," he said arrogantly. He walked over and examined the skull on his shelf, while John stared at him, then shook his head, brushing off his friend's rude comment.

"You should go see her," John said. Sherlock twisted around and looked at John, his eyebrows raised with surprise. "Me? Why should I go?" he said.

"You're nearly her best friend, Sherlock, and you obviously mean a lot to her!" John stared at Sherlock's uncomprehending face. "You know, for someone who sees everything, sometimes you miss the most important details." John leaned over and opened up the day's newspaper. Sherlock stood still for a moment, and then jumped up to fetch his coat and scarf. As he stood holding the door open, he turned suddenly towards John, who was still engrossed in the paper.

"How did you know her cat died?" he asked. John looked up from his reading. "Because I talked to her, Sherlock. You should try it sometime. You might just find you like it." Sherlock laughed.

"Sounds exhausting," Sherlock said with a smirk, "and incredibly boring." Then he sprung out the door. John rolled his eyes and went back to his paper.

DING, DONG! Sherlock stood, tapping his foot with impatience at Molly Hooper's address. He heard shuffling behind the closed door, and then a slight shriek of panic, and then hurried footsteps. He assumed she had looked through her peephole and seen it was he. Sherlock half-smiled to himself. There was groan of protest as the door hinges were forced open, and suddenly Sherlock was looking down at a very distraught Molly Hooper. She clearly had tried to brush her hair before she opened the door, and then given up, because half of her head was smooth, while the other still frizzy. Her eyes were red and glassy again, indicating more crying.

"What do you need?" Molly said, her normally chirpy voice croaky.

"Nothing, actually, I came to see you." Sherlock said. "John told you, didn't he," Molly said as she turned to walk back into her home. Taking this as an invitation to come in, Sherlock followed her inside. Her house was exactly as he'd thought it would be: a cluttered mess, but not dirty. Organized chaos, Sherlock thought to himself. No wonder she had fallen for Moriarty.

"Uh, yes, he did. My condolences." Sherlock said. He sat himself down on her couch. It was rank with the smell of Molly's deceased cat. He quickly began to mouth-breathe: the smell of cats always bothered him.

"Thank you," Molly said sniffling. "Coffee?"

"No, I'm fine." Molly nodded and sat down in a big fluffy armchair next to Sherlock. A few moments of awkward silence passed. Sherlock was about to ask where the bathroom was when suddenly Molly let out a ferocious wail and began sobbing. Sherlock turned and stared at her, his face contorted with shock. He sat there, totally bewildered, as Molly bawled her heart out. Sherlock awkwardly reached out and patted her shoulder.

"Uh, there there, Molly," Sherlock said. He was at a complete loss. Molly slowly managed to calm herself down to the occasional sob. When she was finally able to speak coherently again, she apologized fervently to Sherlock.

"God, I'm so sorry, I just, it's just," Molly breathed in sharply. "Whiskers was my closest and only friend for years, and, and, and, now, he's, he's gone!" Molly began to cry again.

"I'm very sorry, Molly. I know what it's like –" Sherlock began. Molly interrupted him, tears still streaming down her face.

"No! No you don't! Don't even try! You, you're a sociopath! You don't feel!" Sherlock stood up and began to pace as Molly went on with her lecture. He was growing irritated and frustrated with her spiel on his lack of emotion. He writhed under her words: he knew that at one point, they were false. He wasn't always a sociopath. One thought began to repeat over and over in his mind, each time with increasing intensity, until it felt like his mind was practically screaming it. Sherlock pressed his hands against his head, crouched down, then sprung back up, and bellowed "REDBEARD!"

Molly abruptly stopped talking and stared at Sherlock, her tears stifled by her surprise. "Wha-what?" Sherlock flopped down onto the couch again, running his hand through his hair.

"Redbeard. My – my old dog." he said, his voice much softer. His eyes began to develop a glassy sheen. Sherlock choked on his words: he wasn't accustomed to the wave of repressed emotions overtaking him. He swallowed down the knot in his throat. "When I was young, Redbeard was my best friend. My only friend. He – he was so smart. He could do anything. He was the first thing I ever felt appreciated me, and, and didn't hate me." Sherlock stopped. This was the first time he had ever expressed how much Redbeard had meant to him, how he had changed him forever.

"Go on." Molly said softly. She laid a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"He – we were playing fetch. I threw the ball as hard as I could. I loved watching him run: he was faster than a bullet. The ball bounced off a fence and rolled into the street. Redbeard ran after it before I could - before I could stop him," Sherlock blinked rapidly. Molly's eyes reflected his sadness in her growing tears. "A truck slammed into him. He broke a rib, his two front legs, shattered the back two, and fractured his jaw. I watched it happen. Every single detail, burned into my memory. He was still alive afterwards. We had to - we had to put him down." Sherlock breathed in deeply, trying to compose himself. "I decided that day I never wanted to feel like that again. I never wanted to feel anything ever again."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said. She was crying again, but these were soft, noiseless tears. She went and sat down next to Sherlock, who was reliving that day in his mind. He shuddered. Molly leaned over and rested on him, her head nestled on his shoulder. They sat like that for hours, neither moving, each treasuring the comfort the other offered. The sun soon set, and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, both he and Molly feeling considerably lighter.

The next morning, Molly Hooper was awakened by the sound of her doorbell. She sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her weary eyes, recalling the night before. It was the most emotion she had ever seen out of Sherlock before, and it was incredibly unnerving, but not unwelcome. She staggered to her feet, still half asleep, and opened the door. No one was there. She looked back and forth, and was about to shut the door when she heard a gentle purr from beneath her. Molly looked down to see a tiny brown kitten with big blue eyes staring up at her from a small wooden box. Around its neck was a strip of navy blue cloth, tied like a scarf, and a note. She bent down and picked up the kitten, it squirming in her arms and meowing affectionately. She opened the note. It read:

Hope she helps. Thank you. For everything.

-SH

And once again, Molly Hooper cried.

Hey readers! How'd I do? I really wanted to crank out another chapter because I absolutely adore Sherlolly hurt/comfort. I was contemplating storylines when I thought, hey, why couldn't Molly have a cat? and then, in the spirit of Moffat, I killed it off. This turned out a lot longer than it was originally supposed to be, because I hadn't planned on adding Redbeard. I was just going to write it as Sherlock comforts Molly and gives her the cat, but as I was writing it, I was just kind of like OH MY GOD REDBEARD so boom! here he is. Did I do a good job with John? Sherlock? Molly? Were they too dramatic? I've never had a pet before, so I was just kind of guestimating about how much sadness would accompany a death of a pet.

Thanks to all those who reviewed last chapter! Reviews are so helpful! If you're a person out there who's reading but not reviewing: REVIEW PLEASE REVIEW I NEED YOU SO MUCH!

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See you later!