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There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors and window sills…
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust…
This is a place where I don't feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home…
***
Out in the garden we planted the seeds
There is a tree as old as me
***
By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top
I climbed the tree to see the world
When the gusts came around to blow me down
I held on as tightly as you held onto me
I held on as tightly as you held onto me…
Cause I built a home
For you
For me
Until it disappeared
From me
From you
-Cinematic Orchestra, To Build a Home
Her head filled with the thumping musical notes from her ipod, Molly enters the apartment she has lived in with Matt for the past two years.
They had moved a year after Mohinder's death, unable to continue living in a place that housed his essence in the walls, the floor, even the furniture.
Inescapable, at the age of seventeen she had agreed with Matt's suggestion to relocate, to make an attempt at a new life. Again.
There is sadness to the truth that permeates her life. Tragedy has run rampant in her limited years. Always devastating, she has learned the hard way how to soldier on.
Nineteen years old now, she is in her second year of a Fine Arts program at NYU. Life is anything but simple, but she has come to accept that what is normal for her is unusual for others her age.
As a detective, Matt's long stressful work hours render him the epitome of the working class single father. She prefers to think of him as the dutiful older brother trying to take care of them both.
Matt rarely, if ever, brings up Mohinder's name.
Not out of dislike, Molly believes, but because he does not know how to deal with the permanent rip in her heart that came of his death.
So cautious are Matt's words out of fear of a misstep that Mohinder has regrettably become an avoided subject.
That is another thing Molly has learned; how to bite her tongue. So badly does she want to talk about the man who she loved as her smart, protective, at times unintentionally reckless, but sweet older brother, that when the feelings of ordered silence overwhelm her she locks herself in her bedroom and pulls out all her physical mementos that hold pieces of him within. Books, letters, photos, she even has two Tamil lullabies on her ipod that he used to sing to her as a child.
Mohinder is only allowed to exist in the four walls of her room. Some days she hates Matt for perceived cowardice, but mostly she understands his wayward logic. She just does not agree with it.
Molly closes the apartment door behind her and walks into the kitchen. She rummages through the refrigerator before settling on the carton of orange juice she had picked up and dismissed three times before. Pouring herself a glass, she puts the carton away and walks into the living room.
She drops the messenger bag Mohinder had given her when she was fourteen to the floor and, with her free hand, removes her ipod from her pocket and turns it off. Pulling the headphones from her ears she is about to call out if Matt is home when she hears his panicked voice.
"Molly, run!"
The voice is coming from inside her head, and then it is coming from above. The sight that greets her upward moving eyes drops her mouth open in awe.
Matt is pinned to the ceiling.
There is no time to react when she hears the second voice.
"And you were doing so well, Detective Parkman."
As Molly redirects her gaze, Sylar steps out from the corner. He levels an unwavering look at Molly.
"Careful. You don't want to spill that," he points to her glass of juice.
Even in a state of shock Molly tries to keep her wits about her. Of the numerous things she learned from both Matt and Mohinder, learning how to handle, or at least survive, Sylar was one of Mohinder's most important lessons.
Molly puts her glass down on the coffee table in front of her and takes three steps back. She turns her head only slightly at the same time that Matt yells at her again to run.
"Uh-uh," Sylar tsks at them both.
With a simple hand gesture to the front door he dead bolts it shut.
"You really are a pain, Parkman," Sylar scolds the detective as he telekinetically fires a drying frying pan from the kitchen at Matt's head and knocks him unconscious.
Letting Matt's body fall to the floor, Molly jumps back out of the way before rushing forward to check on him.
Sylar steps past them, picking up her juice and taking a sip.
"No need to worry dear," he says with no emotion, "He'll wake up in a little while."
Sylar walks into the kitchen and puts down the half empty glass on the counter before turning back towards Molly. He leans against the partial wall separating the kitchen from the living room, and folds his arms across his chest.
Assured that Matt is still breathing, Molly stands up to face the man who has disfigured her life in the most nightmarish of ways.
"What the hell do you want?" Molly demands hoping her voice sounds bold and aggressive with no trace of the terror she actually feels.
"Well that's no way to greet someone, even if you don't like them," Sylar jokes cavalierly.
"Neither is pinning someone I care about to the ceiling, so I guess we're both lacking in the manners department," she counters angrily.
Sylar smirks and Molly sees a brief hint of something in his eyes, some recognition of déjà vu.
A moment passes before Molly works up the courage to again try to figure out why Sylar is here.
"If you're here to kill me--,"
The look that Sylar directs her way immediately silences her. It is a look that tells her to drop that particular line of accusations because she is far off the mark. It only leaves her more confused.
Unable to disguise the worry beginning to take over, she asks in a shaky voice, "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"
Sylar thrusts his hands in his pants pockets and, with a sigh, slowly begins to walk around the simple layout of the modest apartment. Molly watches him with curious eyes. Glancing backwards at Matt on the floor she hears Sylar's voice calmly break the silence.
"You got the letter?"
Molly snaps her head back in Sylar's direction and finds him regarding her closely. Even with two years gone she knows exactly which letter he is referring to but is unsure how he knows anything about it.
With no point in lying about what he already seems to know she nods and says, "Yes."
Sylar gives her a subtle nod and lets his eyes wander around the apartment again. His expression, focused eyes slowly following along the walls and furniture, reads of someone looking for something that he cannot find.
It is Molly who breaks the silence next.
"How did you--,"
"I sent it for him," Sylar states bringing his eyes back to hers.
She imagines that her face conveys her shock at this unexpected revelation given the derisive snicker Sylar directs her way. She realizes she is unconcerned about continuing the pretense of being aloof or disengaged, not when Mohinder seems to be the reason for this unexpected visitation.
Sylar lets her off the hook and addresses her wordless prompt.
"What did they tell you about that day?" he asks.
"Not much really," she pensively admits. "I know he was shot by someone from that…group of mad men you used to work with."
She studies Sylar's face, looking for any indication or give away of unmentionables.
"They never said you did it. Then again they never said you didn't and since you disappeared right after…"
Her voice drifts off leaving the unfinished sentence with nowhere to go except hanging between them.
Sylar walks towards the kitchen table, pulls out a chair and sits down, facing Molly's direction. He says nothing. Instead he rests his arms on the table and holds her eyes with a commanding gaze.
Molly rationalizes that this day cannot get any stranger as she walks over to the table and sits down in the chair directly across from him. She ponders him while nervously tapping the fingers of her right hand on the table clothed surface. She makes a mental note that Sylar has not bothered to set the record straight about any part he may have played in Mohinder's death and her mind starts to run with possibilities.
"Mohinder—," Sylar begins.
The sound of his name being said intentionally, out loud in the apartment, brings forth a well of unexpected tears to Molly's eyes.
With one word Sylar has opened up the padlocked box of buried feelings. He stops himself as Molly quickly wipes away her tears with the sleeves of her shirt, embarrassed at losing her composure in front of him so jarringly.
"He was never really cut out for the life he lived," Sylar continues after a minute of stilted quiet, his words empty of emotion.
"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Molly reprimands him while trying to sniffle back her tears.
"I'll speak of Mohinder any way I want," Sylar chastises her abruptly. "You weren't the only one who knew him."
"Threatening him and his family is hardly knowing him," Molly snaps, but even she hears the lack of conviction behind her words.
Sylar says nothing.
"He rarely spoke of you," she eventually says.
Seeing Sylar roll his eyes in annoyance at his perception of her apparent attempt at callousness, Molly holds up her left hand to indicate she is not finished.
"I don't mean that in a rude way."
Molly is not entirely sure why she is…reaching out? Trying to engage in some sort of peace offering? What she does know is that she has wanted to talk about Mohinder for the longest time and this is the first true opportunity she has had. She wants to hold onto it for as long as possible even if it is with Sylar.
"There were certain things Mohinder held close to him. I don't know the extent of your—I know the basics—you were one of those things he didn't share."
There is a trace of emptiness, a hint of loss in Sylar's eyes at her words.
"We had a…history," Sylar shares tentatively.
"I'm aware of that," Molly states somewhat coldly. "It actually didn't start off too differently from ours."
As she points from him to her, referring to their shared past, Sylar cannot help but let out a small smile.
Put off by his connotation of enjoyment, Molly glares her eyes.
Sylar preemptively cuts her off.
"You have his bitter snark. Are you sure you're not blood related?"
Simultaneously Molly wants to punch him in the face and smile over the compliment.
"He taught me how to see through your bull," Molly tosses at him, caught between wanting to talk about Mohinder with the only person willing to and fearful of establishing some unwanted rapport with Sylar as a result.
Almost immediately in defensive mode Sylar leans back in his chair and fixes his dark eyes on hers.
"Not hurting you does not mean Parkman is off the table," he taunts cantankerously.
"Please don't!" Molly instinctively pleads.
The undeniable panic in her voice grounds Sylar's death infused thoughts.
"Consider me off the clock tonight," he jests.
Letting out a deep breath of relief Molly shuts her eyes and tries to steady her erratic heartbeat.
She wonders how Mohinder played this game of mixed messages, seriousness with sarcasm and threats, each time he dealt with Sylar. Was it as uncertain and maddening as she finds it right now or was it their normal? Was it their undeniable reality? Did Mohinder come to enjoy their time together, look forward to it? At what point did his want for it, his acceptance of it, surpass his innate desire to make Sylar pay for the destruction he caused? What had Mohinder kept vaulted deep below the surface?
Sylar cracks through her thoughts with a question.
"The letter—it covered everything?"
The awkwardness of the question brings up a puzzled look on Molly's face.
"I'm not saying you have to tell me what he wrote, just that it did whatever it was supposed to," Sylar clarifies.
"Yes," she answers cryptically.
Seeing the curious look on Sylar's face she realizes that the letter is her own secret shared with only Mohinder. Those words she had committed to memory years before were just as much an unknowable mystery to Sylar as his relationship with Mohinder was to her. That he had sent the letter on Mohinder's behalf without reading it first strikes Molly as significant of something that she cannot completely put her finger on.
For the first time Molly feels as comfortable as she can in asking a question she has debated for years with herself.
"Did you…" Molly awkwardly starts before stopping to rethink.
She knows it is a perfectly legitimate question, given everything; yet verbalizing it seems suddenly strange, almost juvenile considering the suggestiveness laced in the interactions she witnessed or assumed occurred in the unspoken details of otherwise casual stories.
Sylar stares at her intensely and crosses his arms along his chest. He patiently, mockingly, waits for her to work up the nerve, guessing at what the jagged question stuck in her throat is.
"You and…with Mohinder—did you love him?" Molly finally forces the words out.
Sylar says nothing but holds her questioning gaze. With a hesitation in his movements he then pushes his chair back and stands up. He and Molly do not break their look while he walks around behind her. She turns in her chair, throwing her right arm over the back end, and watches him direct his focus to Matt's body still lying motionless on the floor.
With his right foot Sylar, first lightly then with more force, nudges Matt's body by pushing at his chest.
"I never liked him," Sylar asserts.
"He has been good to me—looking after me—," Molly answers, her annoyance unmistakable.
Sylar throws a dark look her way.
"You being alive has nothing to do with him," Sylar retorts nodding his head at Matt. "Never did."
The darkness of his hooded eyes peering into her with such solemnity induces her heart to speed up painfully.
"Calm down," Sylar says briskly, but there is little emotion in his voice.
Molly breathes in deeply trying to relax. Nervously she gathers herself together and stands up to face him.
"And his being dead has everything to do with you," she points out morosely.
"Mohinder was…in over his head," Sylar pointedly repeats, seeming oddly at a loss for words. "It was just a…matter of time and I—,"
"Evasion is still an answer," Molly cuts him off, her voice rising with frustration.
"Evasion of what?" Sylar snarls swiftly recomposed from a second earlier as he takes a few steps towards her and using his height advantage to look down on her.
"The question!" she yells, glaring, up at him. "Did you--,"
"No, I didn't love him!" Sylar booms defensively in a voice that seems to rattle the walls and startle them both.
Molly jumps but keeps her eyes firm. She takes a step back and folds her arms across her chest. Methinks you doth protest too much is the thought that flashes through her brain at his extreme act of denial.
"Right," she mutters sarcastically. "You just liked to make him feel like crap, worried and panicked, always on edge."
A few more steps back and she is able to perch herself on the edge of the kitchen table, half sitting and half leaning.
Sylar furrows his brow and takes a deep breath.
"No, that's not--," he starts before changing course. "Even after everything we had a…an understanding. He was the only one I could…he was the only one…"
"Of course," Molly replies still reeling from the heightened emotion circling around them. "You only came for the stimulating conversation, nothing else."
Unimpressed with her attitude Sylar charges, "Why ask a question if you apparently already know the answer?"
Molly's face falters breaking the mask of confident aggression she has tried to hide behind.
"Because I want to understand," she says with the finest trace of a plea at the tips of her words.
In the most minute of ways Sylar's brooding eyes slightly soften. Dipping his head in a nearly caring gesture he relinquishes his stranglehold on total control and allows Molly to briefly see what he had only shown Mohinder.
"You can't understand," Sylar informs her quietly. "It's not your place to."
Molly jumps up, confused yearning in her eyes, and asks, "But what does that mean?" while throwing her hands up in helplessness.
"It means the question is too complicated to put into words, to answer in two sentences," Sylar replies with resolve.
Molly walks away from him running her hands through her hair, a habit of irritation. Turning around she puts her hands on her hips and snarks, "It's actually a pretty straightforward question."
"No, it's not," Sylar contradicts her while delivering a steely gaze her way. "And you know that."
Molly lets out a breath; her body deflating as she dejectedly lets go of the anger that has coursed through her from unanswerable questions and unknowable truths. She looks to the floor between them, feeling suddenly alone. Her mind turning inwards is only halted by Sylar's next words.
"All you need to know is that Mohinder—you were the one…the sister he could save and try to protect with everything he had. He knew—,"
"That you wouldn't--," Molly looks up with a flicker of hope in her eyes and cuts him off.
Sylar continues to speak over her words and restates with conviction, "He knew."
For Molly the answer, this simple declaration with so many meanings, will have to do. Not enough to quench her curiosity in its entirety it still lessens the rumbling hunger that has pitted itself in her stomach since she received Mohinder's letter, and even before that.
This time the silence that hangs between them is not heavy with animosity but muted understanding. Molly sees Sylar glance at his wristwatch.
"Sylar--,"
"There shouldn't be any major problems for you," Sylar distractedly says while reading the time.
"Huh? What do you mean?" asks a confused Molly.
Sylar looks at her and, with the strangely unemotional taunting voice she has come to associate with him, he says, "He's on his own," nodding his chin towards Matt's body.
"You," Sylar continues dismissively pointing at her, "Can spend your time worrying about what trouble he is going to get himself into. You don't need to worry about yourself."
Hands thrust back into his pant pockets; Sylar begins his move to the front door.
"Sylar!" Molly calls out.
He stops and turns towards her. She hesitates with uncertainty at having his full attention. Although her words are assertive her body language is protective with her arms folded across her chest. Head held high the slight shake in her voice suggests otherwise.
"Don't come back here," she orders. "We—,"
Quickly she looks over her shoulder at Matt.
"He's trying," she says looking back at Sylar. "We're—don't come back here."
Sylar lets her words repeat in his head before smiling teasingly.
"No one tells me what to do, let alone you," he jeers. "Don't delude yourself into think you have any say here."
Again he turns to the door. With his right hand on the knob he places the palm of his left hand against wood grain and commands the deadbolt to unlock. Turning the knob he begins to open the door.
"Sylar?" Molly's voice calls out to him again.
He turns his face towards her, a look of disinterest settling in at the visit being prolonged.
"About Mohinder—that day—," Molly rushes out, "I—I know it wasn't you."
Taken aback there is a brief show of startled relief that crosses Sylar's face. An unspoken familiarity reaches out between them.
Molly is certain that Sylar is holding something back, something that he is unsure about telling her. She imagines the wheels turning in his head as he contemplates his next words.
"He's waking up. You should get him some aspirin for the headache," Sylar finally says with a reserved smile.
Puzzled, Molly turns to look at Matt who is groggily starting to come to, groaning and reaching for his head.
When she turns back the front door is closed.
Sylar is gone.