"Well, I must say, faking your own death feels rather less glamourous than I expected. Still exciting though," Molly quipped, trudging through the bush behind Sherlock. He snorted and turned to look at her briefly, keeping pace. "Wait till you are on your second round. This is all old hat for me now."
She laughed and grabbed his hand, coming up beside him. Normally she'd be jogging to keep up with him, his legs were so long, but his injury made him slower. She felt guilty as she realized she was a tiny bit glad. She liked walking next to him, and she really liked not having to jog.
He smirked as he looked sideways at her. "You're enjoying my weakness, aren't you?"
She jumped at his words, reddening and looking away. I wish he wasn't so very good at that. "Really, Dr. Hooper. If you love nurturing injured people so much, I wonder at your field. You can't care for the dead."
She knew he was teasing her, but his phrasing made her flinch. Sherlock stopped walking and turned to her inquisitively, his face falling as he noted hers. "Have I said something not good?," he blurted out. "You'll have to let me know, John normally does, but.. I- I'm sorry if I did..."
Molly gave him a hesitant smile and quietly continued on walking, carefully measuring her steps. He was warring internally as to whether he should pursue the answer he wanted or swallow his curiousity. He probably did hurt her; after all, it was his specialty. Nevertheless, his nature won out and he asked her to tell him what was wrong.
She sighed, running her dainty fingers through her hair. His eyes caught the momentary glimmer of sun through the strands. "It's nothing, really, I just-" she looked away. He couldn't read her face, but her voice was strained. "I was in a different field, originally. I was going to be an oncologist. My dad, he had.... he had cancer. And when I was in school, I kept telling myself that I would take care of him. I would fix him and he would be safe, and we would be happy. But-", she swallowed hard, looking at the frost-covered leaves crunching underfoot, "I didn't finish in time."
"When he died, I watched them roll him away to the morgue, where he would be tagged, bagged, and shelved. I realized no one takes care of the dead. They get cut open, examined, and shipped off to cemeteries and crematoriums. The coldness of it made my heart break. My father, my hero, would be just another corpse in an endless lineup of autopsies and embalmings. I didn't want that to happen.
"It's stupid, I guess, but I think that, I care for people when everyone else stops. I mean," she paused, a grimace on her face, "I cut them up and let you hit them with riding crops. So that's not especially... But their memory, who they were, I keep that. I record their life, their death. Entrance and exit. And I try to give them the dignity of being remembered. Being cared for a little longer. When everyone else has put down the paddles, taken out the IVs, and gone home, I say goodbye. Plus," she added, a wistful smile on her face, "I'd like to think the work that.. that you and I do together, will save someone else someday."
Sherlock listened silently as Molly gave him her thoughts. She hadn't looked at him as she'd spoken, and he was glad for it. He wanted her to stay focused, unflustered. As she finished, she turned to him with a pink tinge settling in her face. "You must think -"
"I don't. It wasn't. You're not."
Her eyelashes fluttered slightly, the spattering of gold through her irises glowing in the morning sun. He took his hand away from Molly's, cupping her face and leaning in close. She stood motionless, hands at her sides as he rested his forehead against hers, smiling at her intense blush.
"Are you ever going to stop being embarrassed around me?"
"Are you ever going to stop doing embarrassing things?" Her retort made him laugh, and she smiled in spite of herself, watching his lips part across pearly teeth. "What do you think of me, then?," she asked quietly, nervous but knowing she wanted to hear the answer. He gave her his best wicked grin and pulled her in by the still damp sweater. "I think you're brilliant," he replied, the words making her fidget shyly, with happiness blooming in her tender heart. "You're lovely, pure and perfect."
