Chapter Text
She should be used by now, really.
With that in mind, the petite pathologist returned to her usual spot in the morgue, trying to work away all of her nerves in this body. The whole deal was taking him too long, and she wasn't happy about it. Molly was perfectly aware that she shouldn't be pinning after him now. She was supposed to be pissed off at the Consulting Git! It was a matter of self respect by now. He had the time to tell anyone about the pink elephant and he never thought of her. It hurt her more than she was willing to admit to anyone.
It had also been a while since she slapped the life out of him, after that he retaliated in the best way he knew when he pointedly deduced her broken engagement, since he acted like a complete and utter idiot with her, not bothering to even tell her important things such as his suicidal mission, of which she had to know through others and by a bloody accident! If it wasn't because of the habit that Lestrade had of telling people things without thinking them through, she'd still be under the stupid assumption that Sherlock was away from the morgue because of her mean right and left hook.
Her mind wandered off as she pulled the instruments in order for the post-mortem at hand.
Lestrade wasn't happy, to say the least. He kept on mumbling things while punching a text on his battered phone. She tried to keep a blank face, but something in her guts told her that his dark mood and face, red and pissed, had something to do with Sherlock. Specially as he was taking tentative looks at her, torn between pity and anger. But something was hovering over his expression, the sort of sadness and resignation you'd see when one is diagnosed with a chronic or even terminal disease. It was so plain now that she was actively looking for it. Snapping out of her gloves, she focused her attention on the detective while walking up to him. Something was wrong, oh so wrong. This wasn't the usual problem in Scotland Yard, it was deeper, much more serious. His scowl told her so.
"What's wrong, Greg?" she said putting her hand over his arm in a soothing manner.
"What?!" he chimed in a high pitched voice, then did a double take and shook his head at her "Nothing, Molly"
"I think you know better than to try to lie to my face" she said, almost in a whisper "What's going on?" she repeated, and saw the moment when he relaxed and sighed.
"It's your bloody Consulting Idiot! He's being nonsensical, as much as his brother! This whole abroad mission as punishment is not at all my idea of justice. That guy Sherlock killed was an arsehole and he had it coming!" he trailed off, explained every single detail of the Magnussen case. How Sherlock killed a guy in cold blood, surrounded by witnesses. How he was manipulating the government officials, the way his power was the knowledge he had over people. And no one told her any of it. She was shocked, to say the least.
" Molly?" Greg prodded, looking anxiously at the pathologist that now had glassy eyes, and was blinking furiously.
This... No one... She didn't... Her hurt was overwhelming. She was red in the face. The tears were stinging her eyes, her throat felt tighter than ever. It felt like a punch to her stomach. This had to be a lie! No one told her anything. The hurt was deeper than what she ever expected to be. It bubbled up to the level of murderous anger, her eyes stung greatly and the tears started to fall. She felt so weak, crying over not being important for the bunch of them, no one told her about this. And this was a great deal for her, for him, for everyone involved. Balling up her hands, she punched the slab with a force that startled Greg.
"Molly?"
"NO ONE TOLD ME GREG!" she yelled, tears streaming freely down her face as she sobbed angrily "He murdered someone and not a single one of you lot bothered to tell me anything! And 'abroad mission'? Please! You and I know that's exile!"
"I thought that he..." he said in an apologetic whisper, twirling his hands together nervously.
"Well, he did NOT. And you didn't either. Not even John or Mary!" she shot while stalking over to him, looking much more menacing than any murderer that he'd ever seen walking in NSY.
"I'm so sorry Molls-" she shot her hand up and silenced him with the motion.
"You are only regretting telling me, so save it" the tears were no longer flowing, and she was so angry she could murder him, all of them. She fucking knew how!
"Molly..."
"Just get out. GET! THE! FUCK! OUT!" she screamed, while jabbing his chest with her hands, pushing him towards the door "LEAVE NOW!"
And now, three and a half months after the Fauxriarty scandal, after it had been reduced to mere hallway chatter, she was still hoping for him to stalk on her lab flaunting himself in the ridiculously sexy way he used to, just to mess with them all, to appease his drama-queen sense of importance. He was such a prima donna. Why did she loved this guy? This consulting nonsense? It beat her logic every time when Molly tries to figure it out. But then again, love wasn't easy to explain, to give a reason. And even so, she tried. Was the way he moved around flaunting his slender physique? It surely had something to do with the way his hair curled around the nape of his neck. Or the smell of sandalwood that he left behind.
"Maybe it's time to move forward" she mumbled to herself, snapping out of her memories. She sighed with a sad sense of culmination, and whispered to the body on the slab "To take a leap of faith... Off the building if you might". She scoffed at herself. This wasn't a thing that she would even dare to joke about in the past. But she was oh so tired of not daring, of staying in the place where being proper was required. To her, it seemed like the universe was trying to mess with her in the most ridiculous way imaginable, and she had to find a way to laugh it off, so she was known for having a morbid sense of humor. It was as if having it would guarantee some protection from all the death in her life.
All of which reminded her that she was a providential embodiment of her profession. That regardless of her good nature, Molly Hooper was always the mousy little pathologist with little to no life outside St. Barts. She was dead for everyone, as much as the bodies she did the post-mortems on. And as she probed around in the body, she pondered if her life was always going to be like her work. Limited to a basement, rooted in one place. Buried, if you might. She chuckled at that. How damning it was to find joy in the silly things, in the nonsense that saved her from going crazy in this place.
It also provided her with a sense of cleanness of mind, of protection from all the horrible sights that entered the path lab every single day. Helping her do her work correctly, allowing her to ignore the gore-y details while investigating, all to get her findings published with her own merits. She was good, damnit! This pinning after Sherlock was going to be the death of her. At a certain point, she hoped for him to barge through the doors, to acknowledge her as much more than just the one that saw him when no one else would. But now, weeks after being left behind, in the dark of it all, it was dawning on her how much the amazing Dr. Hooper was really worth to him. "Little to nothing, Miss" she whispered to herself.
With her skill set she'd be more appreciated in some other path lab anywhere in this damn world. Her published works, all those investigations one-upped many of the other pathologist resumés. She was talented in a way that made the guys in her profession wince. Not even the gore and blood and stench of the crimes managed to get her off her track, to make her sick.
Today, while elbow deep into Mrs. Romhain chest cavity the idea formed behind her chocolate eyes. Maybe than was what she really needed. To go away from all of this at once. And she damn well knew she needed her break, the lot of them she'd been saving up because he might need her assistance, so why go away? Vacations sounded marvelous. Salt water, sun, and sand between her toes sounded amazing. She knew exactly who owed her big enough as to cut all the strings that tied her to London.
After pondering the pros and cons, she was completely sure of her choice. It was easy. She was here because of him. And now that he wasn't even in the picture, why stay? She'd been crazy for him long enough to feel like utter crap. She deserves better than a guy who willingly goes into radial silence because he isn't allowed in her lab after being particularly imbecile to her, or to sulk after her denial to get him body parts for one of his obviously fake smiles. This past weeks proved her that much. She didn't matter much to him. Flicking through her contact list she found the British Government. After a stupidly unpleasant chatter with Mycroft, she was finally cashing in his favor for saving Sherlock after the jump, and taking her vacations. "All expenses covered, Miss Hooper" the replay of the older Holmes reminded her. Molly was very aware that she was being someone she wasn't at all, getting things trough machinations, but she knew that this would be one of the last enjoyments she'd have for a while, so might as well go overboard.
The guilt will be dealt with some time later.
She was left behind the veil and alone, oblivious to anything, and now she's going to leave them all behind.