Babble

The morgue had been silent for nearly an hour - save for the scratch of Molly's pencil as she took notes beside the former Mrs. Wilson and the tapping of the keys on Sherlock's phone as he made observations about the former Mr. Lynch - when Molly finally worked up the never to speak.

"Do you ever...um, talk to them?"

Sherlock bristled at Molly's question and straightened up, stepping away from the cadaver he'd been examining and fixing his glare upon her. Old insults hurled by peers in Uni echoed in his mind - psychopath, necrophile, freak - and when he spoke his voice was hard and cold.

"Doctor Hooper, my interest in human remains is purely scientific. I find the insinuation that I derive any sort of gratification" he said with a disgusted sneer "from my investigations insulting and the suggestion hypocritical, especially coming from someone whose entire field is - "

"No! No, no, no, God, no! I wasn't - I didn't mean - I only asked because...because I do."

Sherlock's phone hit the floor with a light thunk, and his expression showed more surprise than Molly had thought the man capable of feeling.

Molly fidgeted, even more uncomfortable with Sherlock's muted shock than his wrathful glare. Still, she was somewhat baffled by his reaction. Sure it was a strange habit, but she'd admitted far stranger and embarrassing things to Sherlock in the few months she'd known him and he'd never so much as batted an eye. She played back the conversation in her head, her words and his suggestion sinking in...

"Oh! No! No, I don't get gratification - No! I'm not - I meant I talk to them. Just- just talk."

Molly felt herself blushing furiously, even as comprehension dawned on Sherlock's face. Unsure why she felt the need to justify herself, Molly continued babbling.

"It's just, it's nice - you know? - to, to talk to someone and have them just...listen. Listen and not get mad, or-or upset or annoyed. The cadavers don't think you're boring or silly or weird, because they can't. Can't think, I mean. So you can just say anything and they just..listen. I mean, I know they're not actually listening - obviously, they can't hear me but I -"

"I have a skull."

Both Molly and Sherlock started at his abrupt admission.

"Sorry, what?"

"I..." Sherlock hesitated, and just for a moment, looked extremely uncomfortable. He bit his lip and averted his eyes, beginning to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. He caught himself and immediately smoothed his features into an expression of calm apathy and schooled his voice into his usual detached drawl. He forced himself to meet Molly's gaze.

"I have a skull. On my mantle. I obtained it from an anatomy lab at Uni. Sometimes I" he cleared his throat. "speak to it."

A slightly awkward silence descended, as both of the room's living occupants absorbed the strange sense of intimacy that their mutual confessions had created. Trying to dissolve the tension, and perhaps a bit giddy - because Sherlock didn't think she was weird, Sherlock understood - Molly grinned at Sherlock reassuringly.

"That's nice! Quite nice! I love skulls! I even have a pair of skull knickers!"

For the second time in one afternoon, Sherlock Holmes looked completely dumbstruck. Molly slapped a hand over her mouth in horror and spun around in humiliation, cursing her tongue. Sherlock would later insist, in no uncertain terms, that he did not blush. And his eyes most certainly did not drift south in search of...evidence of Dr. Hooper's claim.

Molly whirled around, her mouth opening and closing uselessly. Sherlock's eyes snapped back to her face. They stared.

He bit his lip.

She gulped, quietly.

A beep from Sherlock's phone shattered the moment. Sherlock bent down to retrieve it (and he certainly did not fumble while trying to pick it up - because obviously his hands were not damp with nervous sweat).

Lestrade. A crime scene.

Sherlock looked up at Molly.

"Is that about a - "

"Yes."

"Oh. So you're -"

"Leaving. Yes."

"Right. Okay. Well, nice, um, chatting with you...See you soon?" She'd meant for it to be a statement. Confident, perhaps even flirtatious. It came out a timid question.

"Yes. I expect you will." Molly smiled at the certainty in his voice.

"It's a triple murder. It highly probably that you will be asked to do the autopsy on at least one of them." Molly's smiled dimmed somewhat.

"Right."

"Afternoon, Dr. Hooper," He called, leaving with a final twirl of his dramatic coat.

"B-Bye!" She shouted, after the door had closed.

Later that night, Sherlock lounged on the sofa of his flat on Montague Street, pondering on the events of the day. The case had turned out to be disappointingly simple, but Sherlock found he could not rid himself of the ball of warm contentment that had been lodged in his chest sometime during his conversation in the morgue. He glanced up at his skull and found himself smiling. The ball expanded. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock didn't feel quite so...alone.

Across town, Molly was tucking herself into bed. She drifted off to sleep, wondering if someday Sherlock would show her his skull.

In his flat Sherlock began dozing, wondering if someday Molly would show him her skull knickers.