Sherlock begins to fall.
Sherlock and Molly had a routine. Every day she came home, she would give him a bath - as always, he loved getting baths - and she'd tell him about her day. She liked to tell him about her work and the things she discovered about her deceased patients.
Apparently, Molly didn't have many people she could talk to about her career, as it was considered disturbing to the ordinary human being. That was a lot of rubbish, in Sherlock's opinion. If anyone thought she was morbid or had some fascination with death just because she was a pathologist, they were idiots, plain and simple. Molly Hooper was a sweet soul who felt that her calling was the field of pathology.
Death did not fascinate her. It was a silly thing, but she felt more comfortable around corpses than living people sometimes. They were less complicated, but that wasn't the sole reason Molly loved pathology.
Her eyes had been opened to the sadness of a lost life. Being a pathologist also taught Molly that it was important to treasure life because time was fleeting and no one could get back the time they had lost.
To Sherlock, Molly was a brilliant woman and he found it hard to believe that she was still single. Clearly, the morons in London were blind to how special she was. Of course, Sherlock was glad that he had her all to himself, but he saw the effect that being alone had on her. Sometimes, when Molly was in the privacy of her own home, she'd cry, holding him close to her chest.
She never said anything, but Sherlock was not a fool. Molly wept because she believed that she was alone and that she would always be alone. She felt as if she were missing out in a way, like her life wasn't complete. She was thirty-five years old and the prospects were very slim. With a pang, Sherlock thought of how she'd be considered an old maid in the 1800s. It was ridiculous that society would have limited a woman based on her age, condemning her to spinsterhood if she did not marry young.
Sherlock had always felt like he was a man out of time - perhaps now, more than ever! - but he understood much better the unfair standards that women were given in his time and the struggles they still went through to this very day. Particularly when it came to things like matrimony and motherhood. It was extremely sobering.
Although Molly did go to bed with her face strewn with tears and sadness in her eyes, she always seemed to light up whenever Sherlock hopped up on the mattress with her. He would meow softly as he always did, making her smile and hug him to her body.
More than anything in the world, Sherlock wanted to hold her in his arms as a man, kiss away her tears and tell her that she would never be alone again. Spending more time with Molly, seeing her in her own environment, observing her endearing personality quirks and her sweetness of spirit, all made Sherlock realise that he falling for her.
He stopped thinking of her as just Molly and began thinking of her as his Molly, like she belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.
That must mean that the spell is half complete, he mused. All I need now is for her to love me, but how will that work? I've heard her say often enough that my eyes are familiar. I wish I could find out if I knew her in my past.
Luckily, for Sherlock and Molly, Janine was keeping track of their progress with great interest. In only a month, woman and cat had developed strong feelings for each other. A smile spread on the enchantress' lips. From the first moment they saw each other in the pet shop, Janine suspected that things would happen very quickly.
Now, it was time to start the dreams.
Molly came home, tired from another long day at work. After changing into her nightgown, she got in the bed, and, as usual, Sherlock lie next to her, curled up on his side, chest moving up and down steadily. He seemed to be exhausted himself since he was not sleeping in the cat bed in the corner. Perhaps he wanted to know that she was close by.
The pathologist smiled at the thought and gently ran her hand over the cat's black fur. "Goodnight, Sherlock." Soon afterwards, Molly fell into a deep sleep.
That was when the dream began.
Molly saw images and visions of people whirling around her. It was as if old memories were resurfacing after being repressed for a long time.
She could see herself at Bart's, but it wasn't the hospital as she knew it now. This was Bart's in the past, perhaps the eighteenth century. Gas lamps lit a darkened hallway as Molly walked through the corridors, past many different doors. From the smell and markings, she recognized that she was in the morgue.
Her footsteps clacked along the floor and finally, she stopped at a door that said Dr. Mortimer Hooper. Confusion riddled her at this name. Mortimer? That couldn't be right. Molly knew her ancestry quite well and she didn't remember a doctor who worked at Bart's years ago. What in the world was this dream supposed to mean?
When she opened the door, a sense of agitation rose up within her as she faced the person on the other side of the door. She glared at the tall man who stood, leafing through one of her medical journals. "Holmes," she said in a stern voice.
The man turned to look back at her, matching the intensity of her glare with his own. "Hooper," he drawled and that baritone voice rolled over her like an ocean wave. From the cold greeting, Molly surmised that they were acquainted and not fond of each other.
That was when she realised in shock that those blue-green eyes peering at her were eyes she knew extremely well.
They were Sherlock's eyes.