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Eventually Molly gets it. She has spent a lot of her time watching Sherlock Holmes. First it was shock at his unorthodox methods, then eager curiosity, then something that hurt, something she called love, while others dismissed it as a rather immature crush or an absurdly misplaced hero-worship. Molly had learnt many things about Sherlock Holmes. She knew exactly the kind of shadow his long coat would cast, she knew the sound of his steps when he was walking to the morgue, and she knew he had a strength one wouldn’t expect from such a slender and cerebral young man.
Molly was used to observing and storing data while going unseen and unnoticed – it was her job, after all. And she started to notice slight but significant differences in Sherlock Holmes after Dr Watson came along. Sherlock had been a solitary man. He had his weird ways, and he didn’t seem to like the company of other human beings, or at least, of alive ones.
Then the doctor came into his life. Sherlock was no longer alone. Molly could see it: Sherlock had a welcome audience now; his deductions were always directed at him. She could see that Sherlock took pleasure in surprising and impressing John Watson. Sherlock has someone by his side, and it was something Molly had somehow never expected to see.
John was the only one who could talk some sort of sense into Sherlock, John was the only one allowed near. Near enough to praise him, scold him, share a flat, adventures and emotions with him.
There was a special glint in Sherlock’s eyes whenever John was around. But it was hard to catch, Molly had noticed it just because she had spent too much of her time watching him, hoping he would look back.
John was another matter. It was clear that he deeply admired Sherlock; that he liked the thrill of being around that unconventional genius. More than that, it was clear that he was the only one who could see past the wall of snarky remarks, coldness and social awkwardness Sherlock had built around himself.
She knew where this was going. They didn’t, but she knew. She saw it growing. She saw them protecting each other, lying, getting hurt, risking their lives, most likely killing, too. Then she saw Sherlock looking troubled, worried and sad, his cold and unconcerned mask slipping, but only when he knew John could not see.
“You look sad, when you think he can’t see you.” She had said. And for once she had managed to surprise the great and nearly omniscient Sherlock Holmes. Then she had known that he had something heavy on his heart, that he was doing all in his power to protect John. Only one thing mattered to him: keeping John alive, even if that meant hurting him.
When he told her his plan she felt tears in her eyes. And while she was gathering all that was needed, the tears just kept running down her cheeks.
“This will kill him.” She said softly.
“No. Moriarty will kill him if I don’t do this.”
“But…” and then she had stopped. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was too much: it spoke of love, and fear and regret, and she knew he hated himself for what he was going to do.
And Molly played her part, flawlessly and efficiently. And all the time she tried not to think about John, alone, wounded and shocked, loyal, trusting John, who was going to feel betrayed.
The burden of truth weighed heavily on her mind and on her heart. When she saw him for the first time after the fall she couldn’t help herself:
“I’m sorry, John, I’m so terribly sorry!” and she started to sob uncontrollably. She knew John couldn’t see what she really meant.
“I know.” He answered. But she knew he didn’t.
When no one sees, sometimes Molly keeps an eye on John. When no one sees, sometimes Molly cries.