SUMMARY: He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. AU. Part X – Aren't the villains supposed to lose in the end?
CAMELOT
I, sometime called the maid of Astolat,
Come, for you left me taking no farewell,
Hither, to take my last farewell of you.
I loved you, and my love had no return,
And therefore my true love has been my death.
Lord Alfred Tennyson, "Lancelot and Elaine"
She avoids him because while Molly Hooper has tasted invincibility she has not yet achieved it. Kyle, thankfully, is both confused and hurt which means that he would be the absolute last person to confront Molly on the issue (until his hurt turns into anger and insecurity) but for now, she's lucky. She's lucky because the only people that know about Kyle's proposal and her subsequent refusal will never bother to talk to her again and she's oddly okay with that.
She immerses herself in corpses and autopsies and duties and paperwork – which sounds a bit morbid, she knows, but she's always been a bit morbid hasn't she? Ever since she asked her father if she could be a doctor for the dead.
Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as she thought it would be – her days carry on but there's a sense of resigned contentedness that follows her around like a stray kitten that she took pity on. A guarded sense of happiness, she decides, is better than no happiness at all. It's not ideal, of course, but it's the best she's got and she'll work on the rest.
But at night the thoughts plague her dreams and when she finds herself unoccupied with nothing to distract herself – they come and conquer so suddenly that she is left gasping for air. She still isn't sure if she made the right decision – her insecurities tend to prey on her when she isn't constantly doing something to remind her of who she really is. They wait and lurk in the shadows of her mind regardless of how many times she adjusts the lights – and she knows now that maybe they had always been there (always waiting for her to slip and fall and fall so that they can pounce) – but she knows that she's a fighter.
She had been fighting since birth.
She slowly finds herself being slightly more outspoken – her backbone a slight bit more rigid – her eyes no longer as bright as they once were. She does not allow herself to dissolve into cynicism – she is still hopeful of herself, of this world, of others. Molly Hooper has always been and always will be a kind soul no matter how cruel her life seems to be.
.
.
.
"How are you?" Molly asks Mary earnestly as they're seated at a small café sometime in between Molly's corpses and Mary's life.
"A bit nervous but mostly excited." The blonde smiles, sipping her cuppa with a thoughtful expression.
"I suppose that's how all parents feel. How's John?"
"Still a bit shocked but he's easing into the idea quite well. We were picking out colors for the nursery the other day – he's convinced that we're having a girl but I managed to make him pick something a bit more soothing than a violent shade of pink." They laugh together and Molly enjoys the picture of John Watson the straight-laced army doctor looking at different shades of pink with a furrowed brow, as though trying to dissect the nuances of the universe.
"Have you planned the baby shower yet?" Molly asks quietly. There was a time ago when baby showers used to hurt more than weddings but now – now Molly is only concerned with Mary's happiness for the time being; her bitterness can wait until she gets back to her flat.
"Not yet but my mother-in-law's over the moon – she's probably going to plan the thing without telling me otherwise."
"How have you been, Molly? I haven't heard very much from John and I've been a bit worried since we haven't spoken very much since the wedding." Mary's eyes are serious – almost analytical – the way they look at Molly makes her want to squirm but she sits still.
Molly pauses, and stares down at the coffee in her hands.
"I've been better but I think I'm in a much better place now." She answers truthfully before sipping.
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.
.
"Do you want some coffee?" His rich, deep voice asks her and once upon a time she would have jumped on such chance – once upon a time she had dreamed about those particular words falling from his silvertongue like the clearest of diamonds.
"Cream with two sugars, please."
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.
.
There is something to be said when the first thought Molly Hooper has when she is told that Sherlock Holmes has been shot is – he didn't tell me. Followed by, oh god. And ending with slight hysterics – not enough so anyone could tell but enough that her heart freezes in place and her throat swells but the tears, the tears stay where they are because she's been through one death of his and she isn't sure that she could take him being really dead.
She almost wants to ask if they're actually sure this time. Are they sure?
She isn't quite sure what's expected of her – not many know of the part she had played in his faked suicide – as a friend, a confidant, a pathologist.
Molly does well with instructions. Orders. Structure. Orderly.
He's alive.
John states that like mantra as though it will keep darker thoughts away but he looks like he is on the verge of a collapse – a building that is completely unprepared to be demolished again. It becomes all of their mantras, really. Sherlock's bullet wound is too much too soon.
Always too much.
She visits him briefly. He's unconscious at the time and she doesn't really enter the room because it doesn't feel proper. When she sees him lying in the hospital bed as he's being fed through an IV. She can't help but wonder when his luck will eventually run out.
She can't help but imagine him laid on a slab in her morgue – skin paler than lily-white and the tell-tale signs of a cold corpse – all because she failed to save him, one last time.
It could be an overdose tomorrow as he works undercover – a hit from an unknown assassin tomorrow – a bomb planted by terrorists the next. The list runs – never ending. She wants it to end, desperately. She wants him to find the same peace that she thinks she's found.
.
.
.
"He, um, asked for you."
Molly is starting to wonder if all of her conversations with John are going to straddle the line awkward small talk and serious discussion of their mutual consulting detective.
John frowns – not at her of course but more like he's still trying to put something together that still doesn't quite fit. Like he's gluing together puzzles pieces that are different colors, different sizes, different shapes – that clearly do not fit.
"He asked for you before they put him on morphine."
"Oh."
"Says he owes two lives to you now." He smiles a bit at that. Thankful – relieved that Sherlock will survive and that they will catch his would-be killer.
Molly shows her discomfort by biting her bottom lip and looking away. She isn't comforted by those words – not one bit. She has always felt a bit uncomfortable when it came to the living – not because they're the only ones that can really hurt her – but mostly because there's a guilt that she cannot describe. She furrows her brow, not quite understanding John's words and what he means by them – or what Sherlock meant by them.
Molly understands life debts. She owed one to her mother, after all.
.
.
.
Molly Hooper.
The woman who saved his life.
Twice.
.
.
.
"Did you miss me?"
She can hear those words echoing in her skull whenever she's alone. Greg Lestrade immediately calls her after his message floods London. His voice attempts to convince her that they will track down this mad man – that he will be stopped.
"Did you miss me?"
Somewhere deep in her subconscious, Molly had felt that she had known. She had wondered that if Sherlock had been to fake his death – why not him as well? It had really been more of a hushed whisper than a solid thought that she never dares to let out of its cage. Regardless, it would sound softly in the background of her nightmares playing eerily like a deranged music box.
"Did you miss me?"
She's gasping for breath – veins frozen solid – as she tries to focus on only breathing. Her heart, however, is pounding – wailing for release from its prison, wailing for safety, freedom and safety.
"Did you miss me?"
Even after they've gotten the message off the air – she can still hear those words.
"Did you miss me?"
And she cannot help but wonder whether they're directed at her. Those words.
"Did you miss me?"
Does he know?
"Did you miss me?"
She had known the risks when Sherlock explained what he needed from her. Molly isn't stupid and she never had been. Life worked in tandem with consequences and decisions and she knew that all too well.
She damn well didn't regret her decision.
She had put her dignity, her job, her passion, her life – on the line to save him.
To save him when no one else could.
"Did you miss me?"
It looks like their work isn't finished just quite yet.