jumping off from the theory molly helped sherlock prepare a body double. and this might go on ao3??? i haven’t decided if i like it that much yet :|
It was odd. Being so close to him. He stood behind her as she prepared the body and his breath ghosted over the skin behind her ear, the nape of her neck. She couldn’t understand why her colleagues thought him cold; how could they, how could anyone believe this marvelous human being— heart, mind, shifting muscle—
When he turned, coat open and loose at his sides, shirt moving across his chest with every shaking breath, she could feel him radiating a dull heat, like the pavement in summer. The thin space between them narrowed as he leaned closer. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, this will do.”
He stepped away, then, and her fingertips twitched. Something about him. It had always been a something. It made her feel odd lonelinesses, strange hungers. She hated him, but then she loved him, loved his innocence, his frailty, and the way his mouth formed foreign words such as ‘sorry,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘please.’
And then, there, in the darkened morgue, “No. No, I’m not.”
She had thought, some months ago, that he would be disappointed in her for being so utterly taken in by James Moriarty, so charmed, so swept, but she grew to know better. One cannot be disappointed in something for which one had no expectations in the first place— it was a simple rule of nature. Parity. Give and take.
Molly peeled the gloves from her hands. “Well,” she said. “I am.”
He smiled at that, as she’d hoped he would. And then, “I have to go.”
“I…” He bit his lower lip. “I don’t know… what will happen. Afterwards. But. If you need… anything…”
She nodded. “It’ll be fine.” Her voice was shrill. “Gosh,” she laughed, breathless, “it’s going to be awful quiet without you bustling about.”
“You’ll be better— everyone will…” He stiffened. Again: “I have to go.”
He was afraid, then. Sherlock Holmes. Afraid to die, afraid to lose. She thought of taking his hand in hers, but supressed the urge, instead let him leave, square shoulders and a measured pace, across the cold room and out the door.
Some months later, with summer rains sweeping across London, she came home to an envelope wedged between her door and the frame. No return address, but the postcard inside pictured mountains, tall, stony, dark. Nothing written.
Molly smiled to herself, briefly, then settled on the sofa with Toby in her lap and the card in her hands and, carefully, evenly, tore it to bits.