(no subject)
Though she knew it was physiologically impossible given her health history, Molly Hooper had spent the entirety of the day feeling like her heart was lodged in her throat, beating and pulsing and making it difficult to talk. It was a bit of a blessing, really; her hesitance only furthered the illusion that she was bound in shock and grief at the death, no, suicide of Sherlock Holmes.
Her infatuation with the consulting detective wasn't entirely unknown around her colleagues, and the glances and whispers they shared were clearly in relation to her. She wasn't blind. They were probably pitying her - her poor choice in men was made all the worse by the 'truth' about Sherlock in the papers; he was a liar, a fraud, who orchestrated the whole existence of Moriarty.
Molly went through the motions of her work day, the events of yesterday replaying in her mind. She had played her part, done exactly what Sherlock had asked and just as he'd needed. Then he'd disappeared (she had presumed forever, and was disappointed that he hadn't said good-bye), only to resurface later at her flat, having already made himself at home. Which was fine, it wasn't like he had many other places to go at the moment. Still, she would have appreciated the heads-up, rather than him covertly breaking in.
They had barely even spoken since the huge task of yesterday, which bothered Molly. She had so many questions now that she had to keep his secret. Biggest of all was simply - 'Why me?' Why not John or Lestrade or someone with, well, authority? She spent half of her shift trying to formulate how she would broach the topic with him, but when she returned to her flat later that day, the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting on her sofa in front of the telly was still too jarring.
"What, um...."
What did you mean when you said I'd always counted?
"...What can I get you? I mean, d'you need me to get you anything?"
Maybe, Molly, you ought to at least put down your purse and such first before you go to doting on Sherlock.
Her infatuation with the consulting detective wasn't entirely unknown around her colleagues, and the glances and whispers they shared were clearly in relation to her. She wasn't blind. They were probably pitying her - her poor choice in men was made all the worse by the 'truth' about Sherlock in the papers; he was a liar, a fraud, who orchestrated the whole existence of Moriarty.
Molly went through the motions of her work day, the events of yesterday replaying in her mind. She had played her part, done exactly what Sherlock had asked and just as he'd needed. Then he'd disappeared (she had presumed forever, and was disappointed that he hadn't said good-bye), only to resurface later at her flat, having already made himself at home. Which was fine, it wasn't like he had many other places to go at the moment. Still, she would have appreciated the heads-up, rather than him covertly breaking in.
They had barely even spoken since the huge task of yesterday, which bothered Molly. She had so many questions now that she had to keep his secret. Biggest of all was simply - 'Why me?' Why not John or Lestrade or someone with, well, authority? She spent half of her shift trying to formulate how she would broach the topic with him, but when she returned to her flat later that day, the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting on her sofa in front of the telly was still too jarring.
"What, um...."
What did you mean when you said I'd always counted?
"...What can I get you? I mean, d'you need me to get you anything?"
Maybe, Molly, you ought to at least put down your purse and such first before you go to doting on Sherlock.