Waited so long to post this!
Again, I'm American and so all my knowledge of the UK and King's Cross Station comes from Wikipedia and Harry Potter. Sorry for any errors!
Hope you like it!
"So what are you doing for Easter?"
(It was in a little under a week, coming up on the fourth of next month.)
Not an invitation or anything, just a casual question to make casual conversation because that's what Molly tended to do to avoid awkward silence.
And the conversation really was casual, despite it's setting (the morgue).
Molly was on one side of the cold metal table across from Jim from IT who had 'popped in just to say hello'.
Molly was comfortable around dead bodies and so was able to have a conversation with a live human while a dead one lay on the slab between her and Jim from IT…
…who seemed to be perfectly comfortable as well.
It should have been her first clue.
(But Molly didn't do clues. She did post-mortems. Sherlock was the one who did clues.)
"Oh, nothing really." Jim shrugged, "I'm not really all that religious despite being raised one of those thoroughbred Irish Catholics. Maybe I'll visit my parents or my brother or something…"
"Yeah," Molly replied, "Most people I know don't go to church or anything, neither do I. It's just a time to be with family and friends and all that—"
"An excuse to get together?" Jim defined, smiling a little.
"Yes, I guess so." Molly agreed, mimicking his expression, not just out of politeness but because she genuinely did agree.
"I always wondered why people do that," Jim said, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, "get together only on holidays that they don't even really believe just so that they can see each other when they could just organize a time…"
He began to pace slowly around the room, probably to keep from fidgeting. Molly watched him, listening and hoping that he wouldn't knock anything over.
"….or, on the other hand," Jim continued, "why they continue to meet up with people they don't actually want to be around every holiday even though they don't really have to…"
It was a bit philosophical, Jim from IT's ponderings and Molly liked it when he talked philosophical as he would do whenever the two of them went for coffee (which had been three times in the past two days).
"I suppose people do that because that's what they've always done..." Molly stated, wanting to contribute, "what people have done for hundreds of years, get together for Easter, or any holiday, really..."
Jim stopped pacing, turning to look at her.
He was now on her side of the table.
Jim was hiding.
What else did people do when the police were looking for them?
Of course, Jim's version of hiding was sitting on a bench in King's Cross train station, tapping his touchscreen with his thumb in plain view of all people in the expansive main room.
Including several police officers.
The four uniforms stood in a circle, travelers and commuters hurrying around them on their way to and from the trains, discussing something.
Each of them held a piece of paper and when the circle broke, the four officers walked away in separate directions.
North, South, East and West.
Jim was in the west end of the high-ceilinged hall.
He was watching the busy little bees bustle about the station, always in a rush, truly believing that where they were going, what they were doing was actually important.
(That they were actually important.)
One of these bees, a professionally dressed woman (wearing far too much make-up that she had obviously put on while sitting on the jolty bus, squinting into a fold-open mirror) sat down next to Jim on the bench.
She assumed he would scoot over to make room for her because it was the polite thing to do and people didn't do was sit that close to strangers.
But when Jim didn't, the woman pretended not to notice because, after all, she was only stopping briefly to adjust the back of her six-inch pump that was digging into her heel already enough to draw blood that soaked through her panty-hoes.
Without looking up from his phone, Jim held his free arm out as if he was yawning and stretching, laying it to rest against the back of the bench and around the woman's shoulders.
She couldn't pretend not to notice this.
This was the kind of thing a pervert would do and not needing anymore perverts in her life (her boss was more than enough), the woman all but jumped up from where she sat and stomped away, the backs of her feet stinging as she hadn't yet fixed her shoes.
Comfortably positioned in the middle of the bench, he continued to click away at his phone, as if unaware of his surroundings.
There was an overweight man who had just hefted himself up the stairs after taking the train back from a hard night's work at an out-of-town construction site and was in desperate need of a place to sit down.
Just as the man approached the bench, breathless, Jim decided to make it even more uninhabitable and inconvenient by lying down across the entire seat with only his legs bent so that he (and he alone) would fit.
Assuming that Jim must have simply not noticed him, because being that deliberately rude was something that people just didn't do, the man sighed and continued his journey home, hoping to find another bench on his way.
Once he was gone, but still close enough to see the bench, Jim sat back up, straight and confined to one side of the bench, leaving a wide space open.
However, the man didn't look back (because people didn't do that in a train station) to see this, annoying Jim and so Jim went back to his phone.
In its screen's reflection Jim could see what he had been hoping for the whole morning.
Something to do.
One of the four police officers, the one who had walked west, was strolling in his general direction, examining his piece of paper and then glancing up at the crowds of people and then scanning each face carefully.
West's own face was disappointed, contorted in concentration and frustration (since he obviously wasn't finding what (who (Jim Moriarty)) he was looking for).
Noticing this, Jim decided to brighten West's day (and his own) and jumped up from the bench that had been his home since early that morning after his play-date at the pool.
"Help me!" he called and then ran towards West, "Help me, officer!"
"What is it sir?" West snapped, looking up from his print out at Jim distractedly.
He was on the hunt for a dangerous criminal and some random guy was interrupting him.
"I lost my bag…"Jim said sadly, "I can't find it anywhere!"
"Report it to the train station authorities." West told him, trying not to roll his eyes, "And check the lost and found."
He tried not to make it obvious, though, that he was annoyed.
Police officers didn't do that, they had a job to do, which included civility towards the public they pledged to protect.
"But I did that already!" Jim complained, "It wasn't there and the people working here didn't help me! They were very unhelpful! That's why I need your help!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help you with that." West apologized.
"But why?" Jim sobbed.
West paused for a moment, tapping his foot impatiently.
He was in a hurry to locate a fleeing mass murderer but it's not like this civilian with the lost bag knew that and there was no way he was going to tell him classified case information.
Police officers didn't do that.
"Because…um…" West trailed off, trying to think of an excuse, "Because it's not my jurisdiction. I'm sorry."
He tried to step around Jim but Jim moved to block him from passing.
"But officer!" Jim begged, "My bag!"
"I'm sorry." West insisted and, as politely as he could, pushed past Jim.
Normally people, especially police officers, didn't do that; but these were extenuating circumstances given that there was a killer on the loose and this civilian was being very uncooperative.
Jim waited until West was halfway down the stairs to call out after him.
"Oh, and by the way," Jim shouted, "I saw something suspicious down on the terminal. A group of shady-looking foreign blokes, Arabs I think, muttering some gibberish in another language and packing suitcases onto a train. They didn't get on it."
West stopped.
So far trying to find this Moriarty fugitive was proving fruitless, but what if he was to stop a terrorist attack?
That would be much better then finding some criminal. He would be a hero!
This day could still go well for him, he decided.
"Where?" West asked, turning around to stand in the middle of the stairs and face Jim who was now standing at the top of them.
"Right over there." Jim answered, pointing down at the terminal below.
Indeed a group of men that stood out particularly because of their turbans, were loading luggage onto a train that they were 'suspiciously' not boarding.
Without another word, West turned again and dashed down the remainder of the stairs.
He knew what he had to do.
Jim watched from the upper floor, leaning forward against a slight balcony's railing, as West went running across the terminal.
West shoved his way through people, both walking and standing, who turned to glare angrily.
He even knocked one elderly woman over, that the rushing travelers and commuters strode right past without helping up or calling for aid, too busy, too much in a hurry and too important to do anything but what they did everyday; travel and commute.
Despite the fact that he was already wearing his uniform, West pulled out his badge, flashing it in front of him as he ran and dropping his paper in the process.
Finally, he reached the group of shady-looking foreign blokes, demanding to know what they were up to.
A crowd of onlookers congregated to see the show. Suddenly no one was in a hurry anymore.
Against the protests of the men, West started pulling the bags out from the compartment they had been putting them into, opening the first few and tossing their contents out as he searched for something illegal (a bomb, maybe, because setting bombs is what Muslims do).
He even went so far as to pat one of the men down before a train station authority arrived and informed him that these men were the Sikh immigrants from India and employees of the particular train company of the train they were loading the luggage into.
Jim watched for a little while longer as West tried to explain himself, defend his actions and then finally apologize.
He strolled down the stairs and across the terminal to get a closer look, joining the cloud of bees buzzing around this unexpected disruption.
On his way over, Jim stopped only once, bending over to pick up the paper West had dropped in his haste.
It was a pencil drawn portrait of a very handsome man (it was a police sketch of a suspect).
Jim grinned down at the print out, noting that any similarities between his face and the image were completely coincidental (yeah, sure) and any discrepancies between his face and the image were completely deliberate.
(As Sherlock Holmes probably had a photographic memory and would be able to describe in perfect, exact detail what Jim Moriarty's face looked like to the police sketch artist. (This of course meant that dear Sherlock didn't want police to catch his new arch-nemesis and wanted that pleasure himself, after the pleasures of a few more games.) )
Jim chuckled to himself, turned and went back up the stairs.
From up on the balcony, he locked eyes with a flustered, embarrassed and distressed West, waving and smiling to him.
From the look on his face, it seemed that West blamed Jim for the mistake he was now getting berated for by the train station authority (and several outspoken members of the onlookers who criticized West's ethnic profiling of what he thought to be Arab Muslims as terrorist criminals and his ignorant insensitivity of mistaking Sikhs for Muslims).
Jim winked at West and then carefully folded the police sketch into a paper airplane.
He sent the paper gliding through the air, from the upper floor all the way down to land at West's feet. West bent, picked it up, and unfolded it.
As soon as he was sure that West finally recognized him and was trying to push through the crowd towards him, Jim disappeared into the masses.
Scotland Yard loomed above ahead of Molly as she approached it.
Normally it didn't loom and was actually quite a nice building to visit where the people were formal but polite and those she had seen once or twice before even offered her a smile as she passed them in the hallway on her way to explain her findings on a particularly unique corpse or practice testimony for court.
But this morning it loomed over Molly while she walked purposefully slow towards its front doors.
It continued to loom as she crept through its halls, passing people passing her or sitting at desks in rooms that stared at her accusingly or worse, right through her as if she wasn't even there (or rather didn't deserve to be there and so they were going to pretend as if she wasn't).
Maybe Molly was imagining all this, maybe it was just her nerves.
Yes, Molly was nervous.
What else would a girl be when police awoke her in the middle of the night (early morning) to inform her that her ex-boyfriend was a killer and criminal mastermind and so now she was coming to their headquarters to tell them what little information she had on him which she had forgotten completely (suspiciously) about the night (early morning) before?
"I could go on forever like this, probably will too."
"I'll make sure that never happens. Personally."
It was a vague threat, but a threat all the same.
And so, yes, Molly was scared too.
But it wasn't just for her own self-preservation that she was planning to talk to the police, it was the very selfless fact that if Moriarty (as she was now insistently calling him, rather than 'Jim' or 'Jim from IT') ever did decide to make good on his vague threat they could use her as bait and capture him.
However, Molly didn't actually think that Moriarty was very likely to do whatever it was he had intended to do personally now that he had just committed many major crimes including blowing up a building and killing twelve people.
Any criminal smart enough to be labeled a mastermind by the likes (and there were few likes) of Sherlock Holmes would be smart enough to flee the country since the entire British government would be searching for him.
Which is why (along with the sheer shock) that Molly hadn't mentioned what Moriarty had told her the evening she and 'Jim from IT' had 'broken-up'.
The threat itself was vague and not actually all that threatening and now there was little chance it would be acted upon.
And so why was Molly even bothering to tell police (Lestrade (and not Donovan) hopefully) about this now?
Because it was something to do.
Something better to do.
(Rather than go to work, cut open and examine the charred explosion victims of Moriarty).
"Sorry, Molly! I'm gonna have to cancel our date tonight, seems I've found something better to do!"
Was Molly really that boring?
"There's not point in asking her about him, she won't be of any help. She knows nothing!"
Was Molly really that useless?
No.
She would make sure that she wasn't. Personally.
She would tell Lestrade (hopefully he would be here and available) about the vague threat Moriarty had made to her on the slim chance it would actually help the police find and arrest him.
Who knows, maybe for once, Molly would be lucky.
Molly turned the corner into the hallway she knew Lestrade and his team's offices were located.
When she entered the room it was well-lit but empty, full of desks messy from files and papers and computers messy with files and database searches.
Before she could call out hello and make her (meek) presence known in the large (looming) room, Molly heard a conversation being muttered in Lestrade's office across over on the other side of the room.
Being a quiet girl, Molly was never any good at making conversation but always very good at overhearing one.
She could make out the whispers and recognized the voices as she inched closer, making sure to stay out of sight as she listened in.
"He's gone. Hopefully for good, or at least a good while. Let's be thankful for that."
Doctor Watson.
"I'll be thankful when he's behind bars."
Lestrade.
"I'll be thankful when we put him there."
Donovan.
"By 'we' you must mean 'me' since the entirety of Scotland Yard has absolutely no chance whatsoever of catching him without my assistance."
Sherlock.
Molly blushed involuntarily at the sound of his deep voice, as she always did.
She didn't know if it was because she had a crush on him or because she was embarrassed by the fact that she used to since she was no longer quite sure of her feelings about him or anyone (Jim) anymore.
She decided it was somewhere in the middle.
Thankful no one could see her or her red face Molly continued to eavesdrop on the conversation that was obviously about Moriarty.
"Don't forget, freak, that without your 'assistance' all this business with the bombs wouldn't have started in the first place." Donovan's voice reminded.
"You can't blame Sherlock for this!" Doctor Watson's voice countered, "Moriarty was already a criminal anyway, he was killing long before he started messing with Sherlock and if it wasn't Sherlock it would've been somebody else."
"John's right." Lestrade's voice agreed, "You can't blame Sherlock for this, Sally."
"I'm not blaming him, I'm just saying—" Donovan's voice protested.
"He's as much a victim as the rest of them!" Doctor Watson interrupted, "In case you've forgotten Moriarty tried to have Sherlock shot!"
"I am not Moriarty's 'victim'." Sherlock's voice declared, "I am his opponent…or was before he changed his mind, left, changed his mind again and came back trying to kill us and then changed his mind a final time after receiving a phone call and walking away."
"…He's quite the, um, 'changeable' guy, isn't he?" Doctor Watson's voice said with an awkward laugh.
Sherlock's voice joined him in the awkward laugh.
Lestrade and Donovan did not.
It must have been some kind of inside joke between Sherlock and Doctor Watson that even they couldn't decide whether or not it was 'too soon'.
Then there was a cough.
Molly decided it was Lestrade who had coughed to break the tension and return the conversation to its previous topic.
"That strange behavior is just more proof that Moriarty is a psychotic killer." Lestrade's voice began, "It's only a matter of time before he kills again. We can't have him on the loose."
"Well he's obviously fled the country." Donovan's voice stated, "Who wouldn't do that when all of Scotland Yard is after you? He's probably hiding in some third world country by now. If he kills again there, it's not our problem."
"That's cold." Sherlock's voice commented coldly, "And people say I'm the sociopath."
"No, freak, you say that about yourself." Donovan's voice corrected, "And the only reason you care about what Moriarty is up to, wherever he is, is because you want to play your little games with him again."
"We've had uniforms canvassing all the airports, train and bus stations in the greater London area since we heard what happened at the pool..." Lestrade's voice continued, "But so far they haven't found him."
"Well it's not like he'd be catching a bus out town just like that." Doctor Watson's voice snorted.
"No, you're right, John." Sherlock's voice agreed, "He wouldn't leave the city at all."
"Why wouldn't he!" Donovan's voice demanded, "He knows he can't stay here, everyone's looking for him!"
"He has to stay here." Sherlock's voice explained, "He has a business to run."
"He can do that from anywhere." Donovan's voice scoffed, "Internet? Remember?"
"He can, but he won't." Sherlock's voice stated, "He'll stay here in London."
"Well alright then, you seem to know everything about him," Donovan's voice baited, "where is he? Tell me that, genius."
"In London." Sherlock's voice answered.
"Ugh!" Donovan's voice groaned, "Greg he is not helping. Can you make him leave! Just leave, freak, if you're not going to help. Just go."
"Hold on now, he is helping." Doctor Watson's voice insisted, "You're just not listening."
"Sherlock if you do have any idea where Moriarty might be could you please share it with us." Lestrade's voice asked politely but frustrated-ly.
"We won't find him unless he wants to be found." Sherlock's voice decided.
"So you're just giving up?" Donovan's voice exclaimed.
"There are bigger things to worry about at the moment than the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty." Sherlock's voice told.
"Oh yeah, like what?" Donovan's voice asked, "The different types of cigarette ash?"
"So you do read my website, Detective." Sherlock's voice sneered, "I'm flattered. At least someone does."
"I don't read your stupid website—" Donovan's voice started but was interrupted.
"And to answer your question…" Sherlock's voice continued, "one of the bigger things to worry about at the moment other than the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty, the one that you would find most relevant to this current case, is the fact that Moriarty planted all those clues for me to solve, kidnapped all those people to get my attention all so that I would go after him…"
"Yeah, so?" Donovan's voice replied, "I thought we'd established that this was all about you already."
"Yes I know." Sherlock's voice agreed, "And so why then did Moriarty, when I did go after him, tell me to back-off and then threaten to kill me and John if I didn't?"
There was a dramatic moment of silence after Sherlock's words in which everyone (including the listening intently Molly) attempted to answer his question.
"…well you guys did say he was 'changeable'." Lestrade's voice attempted after a bit, also with an awkward laugh since he was attempting not only to break the silence but join in on Sherlock and John's 'too-soon' inside joke.
"Yes, we did." Sherlock's voice noted without even a chuckle out of politeness to Lestrade, "And so did he. But I don't believe that change was intrinsic. I think outside forces forced him to stop playing with me."
"Why?" Lestrade's voice inquired.
"I'm not sure." Sherlock's voice admitted, "But I have several theories. The most likely of which being that I know his name."
"But it's not like it was a secret or anything…" Doctor Watson's voice reminded, "I mean, sure you'd heard it around before and suspected and all that, but at the pool he told you. He introduced himself, for god's sake."
"And that was the problem." Sherlock's voice explained, "Somebody didn't like that. Didn't like that I knew Moriarty's name and what he was doing. And so somebody told Moriarty to stop playing with his food and just eat it already. Telling me to back-off and ending our game wasn't enough. I know too much. Somebody wanted me dead…and for Moriarty to stay in the shadows."
"Do you think you're in danger?" Lestrade's voice asked, "We could put a protective—"
"I'm not in danger." Sherlock's voice answered, "And neither is John or anyone else. Not from Moriarty or any of his associates for the moment, at least. He's going to lay low until this all dissipates, perhaps even forever. He'll go back to running his operation in secret."
"But what about…um, that woman who works in the morgue, um, Molly?" Doctor Watson's voice inquired, suddenly as if he had just remembered, "Wasn't she, well, seeing Moriarty? What about her? Is she safe?"
Molly almost squeaked at hearing her name but managed to stay silent and listen carefully to this discussion that now included her as a topic.
She was pleasantly surprised that someone had remembered her involvement (however miniscule, unwitting and embarrassing it was) in the situation although she did wish that it had been Sherlock.
"We spoke with her." Lestrade's voice said, "She said that she had already broken up with him before this all happened and had no idea who he really was. We didn't put a protective detail on her house because we didn't deem it necessary and we needed all available officers to search for Moriarty."
"She could be in danger!" Doctor Watson's voice declared, "Moriarty could go back and kill her if he thought she knew too much. He already tried to do that with Sherlock."
"She didn't know anything." Donovan's voice reminded.
Molly, again, really wanted to prove Donovan wrong.
And she was going to stop listening in, march into Lestrade's office and do just that when—
"For once I agree with you, detective." Sherlock's voice stated, "Molly knows nothing. She didn't even know that her own boyfriend was gay. Or that she makes a third less then all the others at the hospital who have the same position, qualifications and experience as her simply because she doesn't have the sense and the nerve to ask for a raise. She lives in a world even more stupidly oblivious then the rest of the general population, save, of course, for myself. She doesn't need protection, she'd be too oblivious to even know when she's in danger. No, she doesn't need protection, except, maybe, from her own ignorance and if you were to put a police detail on everyone who…"
Molly heard Sherlock's voice taper off into the silence caused by the others in the room having probably the same (although much less strong) reaction as she was to his statement.
Shock at the lack of tact (even for Sherlock) and sheer harshness of his words.
Doctor Watson, Lestrade and Donovan must have also had pity towards Molly (whom they had no idea was listening at the time).
Molly, herself, was done with (self) pity.
Sherlock didn't like her. She got it.
Sherlock really didn't like her. She really got it.
And she wasn't going to go home and cry about it.
If Sherlock thought she was stupid she would prove him wrong.
And if Scotland Yard thought she didn't know anything and couldn't help them she would prove them wrong too.
Personally.
"Sherlock…" Doctor Watson's voice began carefully, "We're not any help here right now…I think we should leave…"
"….Alright…" Sherlock's voice uncharacteristically agreed, also very carefully "Let's go, John…"
Molly didn't stick around to hear what else was she said since she wanted to get out of the room before Sherlock or anyone saw her and realized she had been listening the whole time.
She darted quickly and quietly out of the room and down the hall, dipping into the first bathroom she saw knowing there would be no way she would run into Sherlock in there.
Molly waited in the bathroom for exactly thirty minutes, after which she decided Sherlock and Doctor Watson were long gone and it was safe for her to escape Scotland Yard without being seen by Lestrade or Donovan either.
She hurried towards home, her mind racing, remembering.
"You don't have to be so dramatic about it. Lies or not, I've been living this way my whole life. It's easy. And I could go on forever like this, too…I probably will."
"….No you won't. No. you. won't. I am going to personally make sure that doesn't happen. I promise you…"
A threat, yes, albeit a vague threat, a threat not likely to be carried out but still a threat that scared Molly.
And excited her.
Why wouldn't it?
Change was always scary but it also could be very exciting.
The prospect of her life changing, of not going on forever like this; living a lonely, isolated lie her whole life' excited Molly.
Just a little (okay, maybe a lot) she hoped that Moriarty would make good on his 'promise' or perhaps, that Jim would…
It was why after 'Jim from IT's' unexplained (at the time) outburst, which had freaked her out and frightened her, Molly still went home and apologized on her blog to him.
She thought she might never see him again otherwise after she had watched him disappear into the crowd of people on that London street.
He didn't comment but…
…she did notice that that blog post had had one hit…
(And there was only one person, so far, that had ever read her blog.)
So when Molly got home from her trip to Scotland Yard which did not go as planned she sat down in front of her laptop again on the couch to update her blog.
She stated that she would no longer be keeping this blog (like anyone cared) and that she was going to stay positive (she had been living this way her whole life).
And inside the paragraph of her post she embedded one sentence, a direct message to the only reader:
It was all a lie.
It had been Moriarty not 'Jim from IT' who had lectured her about lying and living a lie (staying positive).
It was him; he was the one who told her that he would 'personally' make sure that she didn't.
Molly really did hope he would keep his promise.
Maybe that would mean Moriarty would kill her and so she could no longer go on living the way she had been forever because she was dead…
…Or maybe Moriarty would change her life by giving her a hobby until she became the hero that located and lead to the arrest of the dangerous consulting criminal.
Maybe Molly would be lucky.
Either way, Jim Moriarty made her a threat, made her a promise that he would decide to make good on.
And since Molly had discontinued her blog and no one could comment he would have to do it in person…
"I never asked you what you were doing for Easter, Molly." Jim from IT stated, "So what are you doing…?"
(The polite, casual question in response to her original question.)
Before she could answer, Jim added, "…visiting your parents?"
Quick and deliberate, as if he knew the answer.
(It should have been her second clue.)
"…my parents, they've, um…they've passed away." Molly replied.
The hesitance in her words more because of the awkwardness that came with telling someone this information, rather than the actual information itself.
"Oh…oh my-!"Jim from IT fumbled , "I'm really—I'm so sorry…"
"It's okay." Molly said and then smiled to show that she meant it, "Really it is."
Jim from IT was trying not to look Molly in the eye, his face reddening, and so his gaze found the body lying on the table.
Its (his) eyes were closed politely but it's (his) torso was cut cleanly open, the red incision visible through the white sheet Molly had placed over the body when Jim had 'popped in just to say hello'
Molly moved to stand in between Jim and his view of the table, forcing him to look up at her.
"Still…" he said, "It must be hard…I'm sorry…."
"You don't have to apologize." Molly stated.
"I guess—I mean-" Jim from IT said, "I feel like I have to cause it's just what you do, you know, when you say something like that and then the other person…it's like you saying you're okay, it's just what you have to say...even if you don't mean it."
"But I do mean it, I'm fine." Molly insisted, and then to prove it she laughed, gesturing around the metal room, "I work morgue, remember. I'm around death all the time…it doesn't bother me."
"I know but…" Jim continued, as if he wanted Molly not to be okay and that if she was okay then he was going to convince her that she wasn't, "I know it's hard. When my uncle died I was a mess and I don't even want to imagine how I'd be if my parents…"
"I was very little when my mom died so I can't really remember her…" Molly explained, "and when my dad finally died…well we all knew it was coming for a while then and so I guess that made it easier…yeah it is hard but at the same time you carry on because life goes on. I mean even though your loved one is gone you're still alive so you have to…you have to, well-"
"Live?" Jim finished her sentence.
"Yes. Live." Molly nodded, "That's what people do, isn't it?"
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