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When it happened, Molly thought her mind was playing tricks on her. Maybe it was because she was working too much: since Sherlock’s death, she had covered her colleagues’ shifts every time they asked, no matter if she had to work a double shift, or during a holiday.
Mike tried to convince her to take some time off, but she always declined. She didn’t need to rest; she didn’t want to have some spare time. The truth was, that she feared it. She didn’t want to relax, and allow her mind to get assaulted by questions, worries, and regrets.
No, not doubts. She had no regrets about what she had done, for him; no doubts, about him. Of course, sometimes she wondered if he was still alive (more than some times, actually; it was her first thought when she woke up, and the last before falling asleep); if he was on his own, or if someone was taking care of him. Not that Sherlock Holmes needed someone looking after him, no matter how hard they tried to let him understand that he was loved, and appreciated, and that they wanted to help him.
Ironically enough, the last words he said to her in her lab, were words of help. “You. I need you.” Three simple words, that haunted her life since that day. Until one evening, six months after that fateful day at St. Bart’s, she heard those words again, whispered to her by the same man.
“Molly… I need you.” And nothing more, as he collapsed on her threshold, shivering and dehydrated.
She dragged him inside, praying that none of her nosy neighbours would open the door in that moment. With a strength that few knew she possessed, she lifted him on her sofa, and checked his vitals. His pulse was accelerated, and he had a fever, but when she opened his sweatshirt, she found no injuries… Not visible, at least.
“Sherlock, I need to know what happened. Did someone hurt you?”
One of his eyes cracked open, and she couldn’t help but startle at his still inquisitive stare. “I’m fine… I just need to rest, somewhere safe to recover…”, he uttered, before falling asleep.
She lost count of the hours she spent watching Sherlock sleep, monitoring his breathing, observing the new wrinkles around his eyes… until she fell asleep too, on her old armchair.
When she woke up, he was gone… or so she thought, until she listened to the sound of her shower going. She walked her short hallway, while rubbing her eyes, until she reached the bathroom.
She didn’t want to take a peep, but the door was open, and the shower curtain was not closed. Molly remained there, in silence, envying the water’s rivulet running down his broad back. She tried to memorize the details of his body, as if it were the first time she saw them… Or the last. His wet hair, curling over his nape; the scar on his shoulder blade, and the freckles on his lower back...
She watched, fascinated, as his hand went to massage his trapezius muscle, and his strong fingers kneaded the flesh, until she felt the impulse to help him; only then she realized that she was not supposed to be there, and moved backwards, to her kitchen, where she busied herself preparing some sandwiches.
“There’s no need for you to prepare dinner, I’m leaving.”
Molly turned to watch him, fully dressed, and shook her head. “Sherlock, you need to rest, and eat something. You can sleep in my bedroom, tonight, I- I can stay on the sofa… It’s not a problem”, she insisted, but she could see in his eyes that it was useless. He had already decided.
“Let me help you, Sherlock… Just this time”, she tried for the last time. He came closer, and gazed at her intently.
“Oh, Molly… You help me all the time. But I can’t stay.” His lips touched lightly her temple, and she felt his smile against it.
“Till next time, Molly Hooper…” he murmured, as he walked to her door, her eyes following his form until he opened it and went out.
It was only hours later, when she went to the bathroom, that she noticed that her shower gel was gone. In its place, she found a folded paper. “To remember the scent of your skin”, it was written on it.