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Molly Hooper was having one of those days that made you wish you’d just stayed in bed. She’d gotten up very early, well before the sun, to go in for an early shift. First she spilled her coffee, then she had a pen burst in her pocketbook. They were annoyances, for certain, but she dealt with them. Then Greg had come in later in the morning to fill her in on what had happened at Baker Street. He let her know to ignore whatever the news might tell her, that Sherlock, John and Mycroft, and of course Mrs. Hudson were all fine but that they didn’t want that to be general knowledge. Probably for some plan they were brewing. Rosie had been with a sitter, thank goodness, because Molly had to work. 221B was salvageable at least. Apparently the blast was reduced from what it should have been, according to Mycroft.
Molly was happy to hear that everyone was all right, that they had escaped relatively unscathed and that 221B was repairable. A small part of Molly’s brain couldn’t help but think, why didn’t Sherlock tell her himself? The rational part told her there were probably good reasons, knowing Sherlock. He had been a little standoffish after she had, once again, given him a stern scolding about his drug usage, but he had remained clean after the incident with Culverton Smith with careful watching from her and John and others. Thankfully things between John and Sherlock had worked out, she had hated being caught in the middle and had tried to just be there for Rosie. The boys were working cases together again, which is probably what led to this morning’s happenings.
“Anyways, thought I’d fill you in, and like I said, probably gonna be on the telly, but just disregard whatever they say, yeah?” Lestrade said to her after a moment’s silence while she processed the information.
“Yeah, no, thank you, Greg,”
“I know things haven’t been easy. How you holdin’ up?’
“ I’m…tired but okay, I guess. I worry.”
“Yeah,” Greg empathised. “You still helping John with Rosie?”
“Mmhmm, yeah, when I can. She’s my goddaughter so, I mean, I don’t mind helping. John’s been doing better, though.”
“Well, take care, Molly, and I’ll let you know if anything new comes up, okay?” he said as he took out his mobile that had just chimed. He got up from the chair he had been sitting in.
“Thank you, and be careful yourself, never know what this one might be,” Molly said, referring to Sherlock and John’s case that had gotten the flat blown up.
Lestrade nodded and left the hospital’s lunchroom where they had chosen to sit and talk.
Molly felt drained. The fresh cup of coffee she had grabbed when she had first sat down with Lestrade was doing very little to energize her.
Was Sherlock truly okay? Why hadn’t he at least texted? She was pondering all the ‘whys’ and the ‘what ifs’ when one of the new orderlies approached her table and asked if she minded if she sat down.
Molly had seen the woman around a few times, she seemed friendly enough. Molly really wasn’t in the mood for company but she didn’t want to be rude. She waved her hand in a gesture that told the woman she was free to have a seat.
“Who was that?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Molly answered hoping the conversation wasn’t going to turn into twenty questions.
“Was he giving you any new news about Sherlock Holmes?”
“How…?” Molly started to ask. In response the woman nodded to the breakroom television that was on the news channel. The screen showed various emergency crew at the flat on Baker Street. “Oh, um, nothing new, I don’t think.”
“You’re his friend aren’t you? I mean, the others, they said you were. They said you work with him and Doctor Watson on their cases sometimes too.”
“I’m sure they say a lot of things,” Molly hated how gossipy everyone was.
“Yeah,” the woman said sheepishly. “They think that, er, that you’re involved.”
“Involved? Involved how? With what?”
“Oh, erm, with whom, actually. They think that you have a thing for Sherlock Holmes. That you were Moriarty’s girlfriend before. That you have a…a type.”
It was strange that the woman had phrased it that way. Hadn’t Molly herself said nearly the same thing after Sherlock had walked out of that stairwell? That maybe sociopath was just her type.
“Well, first of all, people shouldn’t gossip, it’s rude. Second, I wasn’t really Jim Moriarty’s girlfriend, we went on three dates, I ended it, and he was only using me to get to Sherlock. Third, my personal life is no one’s business,” Molly said getting a bit worked up.
“Ah, but you’re not denying the fact you have feelings for him then? For Sherlock, I mean. You were pale earlier, when you were talking with the detective, hearing about what had happened, but now you’re blushing,” the woman annoyingly observed. “Do you love him?”
“Look, I’m sure a nice enough person, but it really is none your business, and I really don’t feel comfortable with your questions.”
“Because I’m right?”
“Because you’re being entirely rude,” Molly got up to leave.
“So you do love him,” it was a statement not a question. “You’re in love with Sherlock Holmes! Does he know? That you love him, I mean? Does he love you back? Or is it a non-reciprocal, unrequited kind of thing?”
“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Molly rounded on the woman.
“It’s a fault of mine. You didn’t answer my question,” the woman insisted as if she truly had a right to know, that she honestly expected to get an answer.
Molly spun on her heel and left the woman. She tried to shake the encounter for the remainder of the morning at work but couldn’t. The woman’s questions and accusations rolled around in Molly’s mind.
Of course Molly loved Sherlock, she sometimes wished she didn’t, that she really could move on. She’d tried that, moving on, with Tom. She was only deluding herself and no one had truly bought it. It had been easier to pretend when Sherlock was away, when everyone thought he was dead, but then he came back and al the feelings came right back up to the surface.
It really was a wonder why she loved him. There was his drug addictions to contend with. He thought people were ridiculous, that playing with their emotions and reactions were experiments. He always thought everything was a game. Life wasn’t a game. Life was precious, it was fleeting, and it was fragile. Death was inevitable; it was only a question of when and how.
Molly finished the last of the post-mortems she had to do that day. She cleaned up the morgue and lab and closed up. She had every intention of going home and relaxing for the afternoon. Holding back tears all day, and not entirely succeeding, had exhausted her. She told herself that she wouldn’t entirely fall apart, that she’d hold it together.
Fixing a hot cup of tea seemed like a good idea, something warm to make her feel better. She tried to pay careful attention to the process, the water, the teapot, the lemon, and the tea leaves. She couldn’t help it, when she was slicing the lemon her mind wandered, the tears came. She went over to the sink and tried to breathe, regain her composure. She wished she didn’t feel so utterly dreadful.
She was still leaning over the sink when her mobile began to ring and vibrate. A quick glance told her it was Sherlock, the last person she was prepared to talk to right now. Molly went back to assembling her tea. She let the call kick over to voicemail.
The second time the phone went off she thought maybe it was important if he was calling right back. Whether truly important or Sherlock’s idea of important remained unknown until she answered. She squeezed her slice of lemon rather forcefully into her tea, slammed the slice down on the counter and wiped her hands on a towel. Molly hesitated a half-second before answering.
“Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent, ‘cause I’m not having a good day.”
“Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why.”
“Oh, god,” she sighed exasperatedly, “Is this one of your stupid games?”
Was he high again? Playing more head games? Gotten some crazy idea that usually ended up with someone getting hurt?
“No, it’s not…a game. I…need you to help me.”
Molly fiddled with the lemon on the cutting board and her tea, just talking to him on the phone was putting her on edge. Her emotions were already too close to the surface, her feelings raw. She was angry and confused and hurt from the conversation with the orderly and she needed time alone to sort out her thoughts and feelings. It didn’t help that the subject of those confused feelings was calling for help. He knew she’d help him, blast it, but she wished she could say no.
What kind of help? With a case? Coming down off a high?
“Wh- I’m not at the lab.”
“It’s not about that,” he said rather forcefully, making her drop her spoon into her tea.
“Well, quickly then,” she wanted to help him and hang up so she could let go of the day. Instead he fell silent on the other line. Again she made an exasperated noise. “Sherlock? What is it? What do you want?”
“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.”
Okay, maybe he was playing a game with John? Or maybe made some kind of boyish bet with John or Mycroft. Saying a few words seemed a simple enough favour. She smiled a little thinking about what the boys might be up to, what Sherlock might be up to.
“What words?”
“I love you.”
It was like being slapped. Was this some sort of sick cosmic joke? Were Sherlock and the orderly from Barts colluding against her? Some sort of twisted mind game, an experiment? Molly instantly became incensed and hurt.
“Leave me alone,” Molly said and made to hang up.
“Molly, no! Please, no! Don’t hang up!” Sherlock’s voice sounded so urgent. Molly really wanted to hang up but something in his voice made her hesitate. How could he be acting so cruel but then have that much concern in his voice? They contradicted themselves. Why was this emotional torture so important to him?
“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?”
“Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me,” his voice was firm but back to his even tone, not the panicked pleading of a few seconds ago. “Molly,” his voice turned to sweetly cajoling, “this is for a case, it’s sort of an experiment.”
“I’m not an experiment,” Molly wanted him to realize this wasn’t okay and she wasn’t going to stand for it, “Sherlock,” she said his name waspishly.
“No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend, we’re friends, but…please, just say those words for me.”
“Please don’t do this,” Molly could feel her resolve starting to crumble. “Just- just, don’t do it.”
“It’s very important, I can’t say why, but I promise you it is,” his tone was still soft.
“I can’t say that, I can’t…I can’t say that to you,” she choked back sobs.
“Of course you can, why can’t you?”
“You know why,” please don’t make me say it aloud, don’t make me explain what you already deduced a long time ago, Molly thought.
“No, I don’t know why.”
Why was this so important to him? Why today of all days? Molly sighed and wiped away tears.
“Of course you do,” there was no way he missed it, he noticed everything, deduced everything about everyone.
“Please, just say it.”
“I can’t, not to you.”
“Why?”
“Because…because it’s true,” her voice faltered on the last. “Because…it’s true, Sherlock. It’s always been true,” She forced the words out but again her voice faltered as her sobs took over.
“Well, if it’s true just say it anyway,” Sherlock said so matter-of-factly, so coolly logical, it rankled her. Really, she should stop expecting any different from him.
“You bastard,” Molly told him with a calm tone that belied her emotional turmoil. A bitter part of her wanted to be able to toy with his emotions the way he did hers.
“Say it anyway,” he demanded.
“You say it. Go on, you say it first,” Molly told him. Maybe it was because of the day she’d had. Maybe she’d finally reached her limit of what she could take. Maybe she thought she could get to him somehow. Maybe she thought making him say it first would make it easier, even if he didn’t mean it. Maybe, just this once, he could help her pretend that he gave a damn.
“What?”
“Say it. Say it like you mean it.”
“I…I love you,” Sherlock said after a hesitation. He sounded like he was in disbelief that the words had passed his lips with a degree of sincerity. Molly took a second to relish hearing it. “I love you,” Sherlock repeated, this time with reverence, as if in revelation that he truly did. It was so convincing that for a moment Molly really could pretend to believe it. She held the phone away from her ear, she wished she could see his face.
“Molly?” Sherlock prompted when she didn’t respond. “Molly, please?!” there was real desperation in his voice. What put that there? Surely those three words were not making Sherlock Holmes emotionally hang in the balance. Molly allowed herself to feel for the moment that he meant it, that she really was that important to him.
“I love you.”
The words were quietly spoken but they seemed to echo in her own ears. Molly couldn’t believe she’d said them.
Molly didn’t have to wonder what his response would be, she heard the familiar sound of the call being ended. She still held on to the phone as if it were a lifeline as she slipped down to the floor into a kneeling position. She clutched at her middle as if it could stop her from falling apart; she felt like she was hollow and she was just a shattering shell.
When Mary had died Molly had held it together for John and for Rosie. Mary was the first real female friend of near the same age that Molly had really had for a long while, losing her was devastating. Molly told herself that John had it worse losing his wife and Rosie had lost her mother, so she forced a stiff upper lip and offered to be there for whatever they needed. John had fallen into the bottle, not surprisingly, and Molly had taken turns looking after Rosie. Molly had hated being caught in the middle of the feud between John and Sherlock. Then Sherlock had nearly killed himself with drugs and a stupid stunt on a case. His self-destructive path to solving a case succeeded in repairing things with John. It was a precarious juncture in their friendship and through Sherlock’s overdose and his recovery from it and trying to keep him sober again Molly had to be the strong one. She had just been going from one crisis to the next, never having the chance to grieve, never having the chance to let it all out. Now everything seemed to be crashing down. Everything that had happened put her on a precipice, left her hanging, now she felt as if she had slipped over the edge, she was falling, plummeting into the darkness below.
Cup of tea forgotten, Molly slowly got up off the floor and made her way to her bedroom. She’d managed to control her crying enough to strip off her clothes and change into bedclothes. She looked at the striped sweater she had haphazardly thrown on the floor. She picked it up and remembered a different day she’d worn it. The day Sherlock had invited her to work cases with him. He’d kissed her on the cheek sweetly that afternoon and wished her happiness with Tom. The day was a thank you, he’d said. His words echoed in her mind.
“Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake, because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me…was the one person who mattered the most.”
Those words had her questioning her heart all over again. Truth was, anyone else would have paled in comparison in her eyes next to Sherlock. Goodness only knew why she still loved him, even with all his faults and flaws. Unconditionally.
Molly curled up on her bed. She huddled herself under the covers. All the conversations and moments with Sherlock rattling around in her brain.
“Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”
“You can see me.”
“I don’t count.”
“You do count, you’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you. But you were right, I’m not okay.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Molly, I think I’m going to die.
“What do you need?”
“If I wasn’t everything you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”
“What do you need?”
“You.”
Molly wanted to be able to turn off her mind. She wanted the oblivion of sleep. She wanted to not have to second guess every interaction with him and question his sincerity. All the past conversations where he’d said she meant something to him. She’d always doubted if he were telling her what he thought she wanted to hear to get what he wanted out of her or if he truly meant those things. His words sounded so sincere, he’d sounded like he actually meant it. He didn’t ask for anything else, just for her to say those words. It hurt not to believe the things he’d said, it also hurt to believe them.
“I…I love you. I love you.”
Molly finally fell asleep, tears still on her cheeks, Sherlock’s forced declaration still echoing in her head.