iv
Molly burst through the door of the forensics lab and shrieked in surprise when she saw John. He got up quickly as he could on his crutch. He'd started using the crutch again barely a week after Sherlock had gone. His limp was worse than ever but he managed to get to the lab's exit in record time.
"Oh, John, don't go just yet I've got files for you," Molly called and he stopped.
He turned but stayed at a distance, holding his hand out for the files, almost expecting her to throw them to him. He was at the lab to check out the cause of death of a couple of corpses from the Brecon Beacon murders, but he hadn't expected Molly to be out here too. Apparently anyone on the force who had more than one conversation with Sherlock counted as an expert on this case.
Molly had the unfortunate habit of blurting uncomfortable attempts at empathy or reassurance whenever John was around, quickly becoming the second person John went out of his way to avoid. The first had been Mycroft, the third had been Greg. Fortunately for John, Molly had always avoided him as much as he avoided her. All the same, Molly had been the only other person he knew who believed Sherlock was still alive.
It had slipped out once, when they were in the lab. She'd simply said You never know, it might be a trick, he might still be out there. Of course he had already thought of this, conjured up countless theories- but John had been stunned and pursued the idea with her. Unfortunately, seconds after she was in a fluster, denying ever having said such a thing. He didn't blame her really, he didn't exactly advertise the fact he had thought so too at first.
She handed him the files and he nodded, making to leave. Before he could close the door, however, she called out to him.
"Do you- I was just wondering- do you still believe that Sherlock's alive?" she asked.
John smiled. "It's the only reason I'm still here."
He wasn't sure if he really believed it any more, or if he was just hanging onto it to escape the aching, agonizing sadness that was so impossible to escape. Even with that slither of hope, dancing around his head, he couldn't avoid the gigantic cacophony of depression or the loss that weighed in his belly like a heavy meal that'll make him sick. John barely ate any more. Mrs Hudson said it's like he adopted Sherlock's diet just to keep driving her crazy with worry.
"Do you expect him to come back?" Molly asked.
"He's been gone so long, why would he come back now?" John shrugged, fighting back the tears. Why did Molly have to be here? Why did she have to ask him that? "I just want him to," he said.