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Dear John,
I know this must seem a bit strange, getting a note from me. I know we never really talked all that much, but we did spend a lot of time together, so I hope you won’t find this too odd.
Anyway, I’ve been thinking…I don’t want you to think this is some letter telling you that everything will be alright and you should be feeling better soon. I’m sure you’ve heard enough of that from everyone else. I noticed how well you handled it all at the funeral, I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but you were…incredibly brave. If I had been you, getting talked to by all those people who couldn’t have possibly understood what I was going through, I would have just gone mad. You’ve always been like that, though. Brave when you needed to be.
I just felt like I needed to let you know some things about Sherlock. Things I noticed about him, things we talked about before…You know that look he would always get, the one where his expressions would just freeze so it looked like he wasn’t making any expression at all? I noticed how little he started to make that face, the last few days. He used to be so good at putting it on around everyone to cause them as little worry as possible. If Sherlock Holmes was panicking, then what were the normal people to do, right? But in the last few days, it seemed like his walls were crumbling. We all started seeing what was underneath the stony Sherlock exterior: the drive, the pain…the fear that he tried so hard to hide. But…he couldn’t do it anymore. Not in those last few days, not all the time. He was just getting too weak, John, with everything that was going on, he was just getting so tired. It was like he wasn’t strong enough himself to be strong for anyone else.
Except for you.
Every time you two were in the lab, it was like seeing two different faces-the frightened Sherlock, and your Sherlock. Somehow he just knew whenever you were looking, it was as if he had some sort of sixth sense. One moment, he would be the frightened Sherlock, brows furrowed and shoulders hunched as he worked feverishly. But the next, whenever you looked up to check on him, his face would take on that mask, and he would sit a bit straighter, move a bit more surely. I’m not sure how he found the strength to do it, but he did it. Day in and day out, I saw him being as strong as he could for you, John.
I know that this probably isn’t helping, so far, and I’m sorry that everything must seem like it has to hurt before it gets better, but please, keep reading.
Sherlock found the strength, somehow, to be strong for you, because he cared for you more than anyone else. I really hope you know that, John, don’t doubt it for a moment, please. I know you miss him so badly it aches, but please, listen to what I wanted to tell you. I know he isn’t around anymore, but…as you try to move on with everything, remember that he somehow found the strength to be strong for you even though everything around him was collapsing, because he wanted what was best for you. If he were here…he would want you to do the same. Be strong for his memory, even though you feel like everything around you is collapsing, because it’s what he would have wanted. You were his solider, his rock, and he never would have wanted to see you give in. Be his soldier now, too, John. He thought you were the bravest man he had ever known. You proved that he was right time and time again, and you can now, too.
I, as I’m sure he would, have faith in you, John. Never give up.
Love, Molly
P.s. I’m always here, if you want someone to talk to. I promise not to say it’s okay like everyone else. I just…I’ll be here, okay? I hope I’ll see you around soon.
Molly closed her notebook quickly as she heard the approaching footsteps. You havn’t done anything wrong, she told herself. The other half of her said that it would be wrong by Sherlock’s standards, but she didn’t care. John needed this, and she would do anything, even get in a fight with Sherlock Holmes if that’s what it took to make sure he got her note.
Not even a moment after entering the kitchen, Sherlock’s eyes went directly to the notebook below her outstretched fingers, “Molly,” he began warily, “What were you writing?”
She swallowed as she stood quickly, “Nothing,” she nearly squeaked as she attempted to make a quick escape. Unfortunately, she was no match for Sherlock as he deftly plucked the notebook from her hands, rounding the table out of her reach.
“Give that back, please. It’s my diary, that’s none of your business,” she lied, becoming flustered.
Sherlock only glanced up at her before continuing to flip to the latest page of the notebook, “Nonsense, you only write in your diary before you go to sleep.”
“How could you possibly know that?” she asked incredulously.
Just then, he found the proper page and began to read. It appeared his eyes reached no further than the middle portion before he abruptly tore out the page, folded it in half twice, and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Molly rounded the table, demanding, “Sherlock, give that back, that’s my letter,”
“Concerning me,” Sherlock countered, impassive.
“That doesn’t matter, it’s still mine! What are you monitoring all my communication now? I’m allowing you to stay in my apartment, that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you becoming my warden!”
Sherlock ignored the warden comment, “I am only concerned about your communication with John.”
“What does one letter matter?” Molly cried, upset that her attempt at comforting John was being met with such hostility.
“Molly, don’t,” Sherlock looked away and said in that dangerously low voice that would have previously shaken Molly back to her previous mouse-like self. But, after the last few weeks, nothing was ever going to do that again. She was the new and improved Molly Hooper, the woman who was needed by Sherlock Holmes and who would speak to him however she bloody well pleased.
“No, Sherlock, I want my letter back right now. You’re not his guardian!” Sherlock’s fist crashed down onto her kitchen table. A cold cup of tea spilled, quickly streaming onto the floor.
Neither moved to right it.
“I know I’m not,” Sherlock ground out, “I know I’m not his guardian, I know I can’t and can never be, but I am trying.” He sank into a chair, looking dazed, “I’ve done everything I can, and all I can do now is hope it’s been enough. My hands are tied, and I can’t have you making me out to be some sort of hero to him when I’m nothing but…” he took a shallow breath before murmuring, “helpless.”
Molly stood motionless, her eyes shimmering as she was overcome with empathy for the broken man before her. The image before her, Sherlock hunched over with his forehead propped on the heels of his hands, shook her more deeply than his low, dangerous voice ever could.
“You said-you said you weren’t a hero. You don’t…really believe that, do you?” she asked hesitantly.
He shook his head, giving a dark chuckle, “Oh, Molly, when will you realize that heroes don’t exist?” he asked as if she were a naïve child chasing a fairytale.
But Molly knew that she wasn’t.
Heroes existed, and she believed in that more than anything else, because she was looking right at one. He had been beaten down, bruised, and battered, but she knew a rise was coming after this fall. She spoke firmly, he voice surprisingly unquavering, “Maybe I would have by now, if I hadn’t seen you when you thought you were going to die. Maybe I would have, if I hadn’t seen you jump off the roof of the hospital. Maybe I would have, if I didn’t see you know, holding yourself back with all the strength you have left to save everything that matters.”
Molly slowly began to round the table towards Sherlock, “You’re a scientist, like me. You know that you can’t ignore the facts when they’re right in front of you, no matter what anyone says. You say heroes don’t exist…but I see evidence that they do right in front of me. What do you expect me to believe?”
“Believing something doesn’t make it true,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes flickering sideways as she kneeled down beside him.
“I don’t believe,” Molly, to her amazement, reached up and brushed his dark hair away from his face, “I know.” He didn’t react, simply meeting her eyes inscrutably. She sighed and gave him a small flicker of a smile before standing to leave give him some privacy.
“Molly,” Sherlock murmured. She turned back. He slowly stood, straightening from his hunched, defeated position to his full height. He met her eyes unwaveringly, and she felt as if the oxygen was being slowly drained from her lungs.
“I…I know that I was right, about at least one thing I can believe in, after all this.”
“What is it?”
“You.”