"Tuesdays with Molly" - a Sherlock fanfic (4/4)
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Three weeks have passed since the funeral. Molly continued her work in the morgue, dealing with the dead. She was thankful that she didn't need to see his body before the cremation, as per request from his brother. But there was a small part of her that wished she did.
The days in the morgue were horribly quiet. There was no more surprise visits for murdered bodies, no more flattery to get eyeballs and tissue samples. And, for the first time since she took the job, Molly was bored.
Tonight was the end of another long day of holding her breath and hoping that a certain detective would barge through the door. But she only saw Lestrade once, awkwardly hobbling into the room to say hello and ask for autopsy results. She didn't blame him; everyone was awkward ever since, well, that happened.
Molly finished her checklist for the night and locked up the morgue, the familiar routine worked into her brain and muscles. She lived in a mindless haze of bodies and scalpels and white, sterile rooms, as she did four years ago, just before she met him for the first time.
She still remembered that day. She was a young assistant on her final days of training. She and her mentor were going through the final details of maintaining a sterile environment when a man barged in through the door, his black trench coat twirling behind him. “I'm looking for some fresh fingers. Do you have any?"
“Sherlock,” her mentor scolded, “you can't just barge in here expecting me to hand you some body parts for your 'experiments.'”
“You did before,” Sherlock reminded him.
“I'm busy,” her mentor stated, turning his back on the detective.
Sherlock turned to leave, but stopped in mid-turn. “Who's your little assistant?”
“Molly Hooper,” her mentor replied, still refusing to look at Sherlock. “She's going to be working here starting next week.”
“Oh, she's not just going to be another one of those servant mice you have working for you?” sneered Sherlock.
“They aren't servants,” her mentor corrected, “they're assistants. And at least I have people who are willing to work with me.”
“By obligation,” taunted Sherlock.
“I think it's best you leave,” her mentor replied, gesturing loosely to the door.
“I expect the fingers to be ready by four,” Sherlock said as he left the room, his coat trailing behind him.
It wasn't until a year later that Molly would have the chance to actually speak to him, even if it was to scold him for trying to sneak some extra toes out of the morgue. Since then, she's seen more and more of Sherlock, visiting her to use the lab upstairs even though he didn't need to and using flattery to convince Molly to help him with something, even though it wasn't necessary. She began bringing him coffee and tea during his visits and allowing him to spend the night working here as long as he promised not to steal anything important.
The only thing he stole, though, was her breath whenever he looked at her and smiled in a way that Molly couldn't tell if it was fake or genuine. But it didn't matter, as long as he noticed her. As stupid as it may seem, she lived for those moments, for that brief smile or that brief glance of acknowledgement that sent butterflies to her stomach Even if he simply nodded in her general direction, she could feel her heart speed up and her face flush red.
But Molly knew that there was no chance he would ever love her. Maybe it was because of the slight aversion he had when she tried to change her hair or makeup. Maybe it was because he never talked to her more than the fake flattery he used to get his way. Or maybe it was because she knew that John loved him, and that should be enough.
Molly left the building, the bitter cold biting into her skin. She held her coat close to her, trying to keep warm, but the chilly wind weaved through the fibers of her coat. The streets were still and she was alone.