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He didn’t know when she had made herself at home there. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when she had started to take up residence in his mind palace. He knew she had gotten a room, shortly after he had met her, which had admittedly been unusual. He had known Graham…Gavin…Geoff…whatever his name was… He had known him longer and he didn’t have a room. But Molly had gotten one a week after they met, give or take. And it wasn’t the morgue at Barts, or her office. It was a warm, cozy room. Situated in yellows and peaches and pinks. Comfortable chairs and a sofa. Various cherry printed patterned things. A few knickknacks that he’d thought would suit her. Lace doilies.
Things that just seemed…her.
She stayed there, for the most part, and he never really ventured to her part of his mind palace. He knew she was there and he was curious about her and what she did there, why she was there, but he tried his best to keep her…well, out of mind. Or at least out of mind’s eye. It was best that way.
Gradually, though, he’d venture closer. He’d hear music. Fragments of whatever he’d hear playing in her office or path lab. He’d never take the time to learn the artist or title, but he’d listen enough to learn some of the words. Sometimes the songs wouldn’t be in English, which surprised him; he had no idea Molly liked world music. Most of her taste veered towards bubbly, infectious Asian pop or the very animated Indian music. He supposed that had to do with her circle of friends. The Indian music…that was probably Meena’s doing (why he remembered that particular friend’s name, he didn’t know, probably shouldn’t, but Molly liked her…why did it matter, though?). The Asian music, though…who knew?
When Moriarty’s game got ramped up, when Christmas came around, when she stood up to him…the door to her room opened and he went in. Christmas was the first time he went to her home as a bolt hole. Yes, he should have stayed at Baker Street, danger night and all, but John’s overbearing presence was cloying. He needed freedom, he needed air. He slipped out and made his way to Molly’s flat and…knocked. He could have easily let himself in, her security was that flimsy (he needed to have a talk with Mycroft about that) but knocking was better. And she was surprised to see him there but let him in anyway. Her room in his mind wasn’t off the mark, it seemed. There were distinct differences, yes, but not many. He’d crafted it well.
He stayed late into the night, with brief moments of talk and long moments of silence and three pots of tea and lots of music to fill up the gaps. One song piqued his interest in particular. He made note of it; his Japanese was rudimentary, but he had gotten the gist of the lyrics. He had wondered if Molly knew the meaning behind the words, but she appeared not to. Pity, that. He filed the song away and then, when he went back to Baker Street feeling a bit calmer and a bit more willing to deal with John and his “Where the bloody hell have you been?” theatrics, he knew he was going to get that song.
It was a theme to an anime. Molly had explained her brother lived in Tokyo, sent her all sorts of things from there, toys and art and CDs and whatnot, things he thought would interest her. She didn’t understand the language completely yet, was still trying to learn, but her brother had fallen in love with an anime called Bleach and sent her every CD associated with it because, he said, the music was amazing. This particular song was called “Thank You!!” and he knew that this would be, for now and forever, the song he would hear when he thought of her.
Soon enough, snippets of the song would filter through his mind palace. Normally only when Molly was in the room, when he had reason to acknowledge her presence. No other reason. He had started to realize each person he knew had a song he associated with them; the only difference with Molly’s was hers had words; hers was not a classical piece or the sound of one single instrument. There was no meaning to be taken that hers had lyrics, no.
He would reiterate that there was no meaning to that until his dying breath if anyone else asked.
Even if he told himself all it meant was she was a good friend.
Even if he couldn’t get the brass ones to tell her he considered her a good friend.
And then it all came crashing down. Moriarty made his play. The plan he and his brother made was put into action. He had to leave. But at least he was able to tell her she counted. At least she knew before he left, in case the worst happened. And then he was gone, off to do what could, quite possibly, be the impossible, left all on his own with the minimum of support. With no one by his side.
But he had a song in his head, it seemed, because more and more, the snippets of song came to the forefront in the quiet moments. He found himself humming along, or quietly singing “Apurishieeshon no kimochi yo todoke, itsumo arigatou hontou arigatou, tatoe doko ni itatte kimi no sonzai ni kansha shiteru yo” or “Furimukeba I’ll be there, just forever kimi ga ite kureta you ni...”
And it took him a while to realize it, but the fact that her song ran rampant in his head in all the quiet moments meant something. It meant something he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit. It was something he was rather afraid to admit, in all honesty: he loved her. It was beyond caring, really. He cared, of course, but he loved her, in his way.
And he just hoped, when he got to return to her, if he got to return to her, that…perhaps…she could love him too.