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Sherlock sends postcards, unsigned and addressed in a disguised script, tight and slanted. They arrive at Molly's flat every few weeks, and she is grateful for the regularity, the predictability that seems so unlike him, but then, it's important that the only person who that knows he was alive after Bart's knows that he is alive still or else how will anyone know when he is truly dead?
There's a philosophy question wrapped up in that somehow. If Sherlock Holmes jumps off a building and Molly Hooper is the only person who knows he still breathes, but she's not allowed to say, is he really still alive?
Gomel. Budapest. Krakow
They are bright things picturing famous landmarks, meant for tourists writing home about their grand adventures abroad. It's surprisingly easy to picture him in sunshine, on beaches, touring cavernous churches, and eating in tiny cafes. Maybe it's just easy because it's preferable than picturing what is likely a very grim reality.
Prague. Munich. Lyon.
She fears the day the postcards stop. The day she has to mourn him, on her own, never able to say just how wrong the newspapers were, never able to have a proper shout about all those people that he helped who were so quick to turn on him.
Montreal. New York. Washington.
She tracks his progress on a map she keeps tucked in the back of her phonebook. She never marks the trail because she is a part of this now and if someone discovers that, she wants to leave no trace of him here, no clues that could lead them back to him.
You aren't safe, he had said. You're the safest of everyone, but they could still find you. You must be careful. Lives depend on it. On you.
She still isn't quite sure who "they" are, but she burns each card to ashes, traces his path on the map with her finger, and waits in silence for the next. Waits for the one that finally says, It's done.