{this is based off of Anderson's theory in TEH fyi}
Molly Hooper stood staring out the window on a typically chilly London afternoon. The air of waiting and dread for the future was almost overwhelming. She wanted to help Sherlock, but she didn't want him to go. When he had asked her to help fake his own death, her thought were a mixture of "This man is a complete psycho," to "Oh God does this mean I'm his friend?" to "Oh Sweet Jesus he's flawless". But she pulled through with it anyway although she knew this may well be Sherlock taking advantage of her.
But she was kind of okay with that. She guess she'd rather be seen and taken advantage of as opposed to invisible. Which was what she normally was. Normally. Normally, she was just normal. Regular woman, trying to find the right guy, trying to find the strength to trust again. But there were only two things on the planet she trusted. One was her cat. Yes, afraid so.
She likes cats. Her blog is completely chock full of pictures of cats, and all written in Comic Sans. A first glance at her blog suggests she's quite girly and sweet, but her job speaks otherwise.
She was a morgue attendant. The person who examined and wrapped up deceased bodies of people in the area. She spent long lengths of days completely surrounded by humans, dead or alive. The only small glimpses of happiness she had at her job was when Sherlock came to visit. He seemed to be the only one who appreciated her knowledge and remembered her name. That always seemed hard for people, despite the fact she has quite a basic name. Molly. Hooper. Molly Hooper. It shouldn't have been that hard to remember, so she figured she just wasn't worth remembering.
The only other person Molly trusted was Sherlock. With tassled black curls and icy blue eyes. He had often given her a cold shoulder and a dismissive look. But he didn't anymore. He'd remembered her name since they'd met, but he had only ever called her "Molly". But he'd now almost always call her by her full name. She didn't know why she liked it, maybe it's just nice for someone to remember both your names, letalone one. Sherlock was a peculiar one. He was a "consulting detective", an unpaid one. Unfairly, Molly thought. Half of the cases the police solved were due to his deductions and impeccable smarts. And he never took the credit if he could help it, making him appear humble to those who didn't know him. But most of the time he was far from that.
He was a self proclaimed show-off. Molly had only gotten the receiving end of his smart-arse deductions once. At a Christmas party at he and John's flat, all dressed up with her high hair and her black dress. She had Christmas gifts and apparently one had gotten far more attention and supposedly it was one for "a new boyfriend". But it was for Sherlock. This resulted in almost tears from Molly and a gentle apology and a cheek kiss from Sherlock. That was the turning point for her. When she realised Sherlock could feel guilt and had a conscience. That's when she decided Sherlock was more human than he made himself out to be. He had made an attempt to push all emotions and feelings to the wing, disregarding them as completely unimportant. But he did care. He cared for his friends. And Molly was wondering if she fit into that category now.
And now she did. Sherlock came to her for help when he was in trouble. She asked him what he needed and all he said was "You." And although she was terrified and tired, Molly put all of her faith and all of her trust into Sherlock. For just that one night.
{the sign of three in thirteen hours i'm not ok}
