Chapter Text
As he entered the morgue the usual cold embraced him.
Molly was there, her well-known face greeted him. But this time she didn’t welcome him with a shy smile; her face was cold and unmoved.
There was another pathologist standing at her side. His face gave witness of the troubled days of work; His eyes were reddened and tired, his cheeks a little sunken and unshaved. A cloud of grief followed him. “I… I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, so sorry.” His voice trembled.
Sherlock didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed upon Molly’s but all affection for him was gone. The young pathologist’s gaze flickered between the two and then sank to rest upon his shoes. “I’ll leave you alone and give you … two… some time.” He said as he slowly approached the door.
Before he left he took a deep breath and dared to look in Sherlock’s face, there was no emotion, not a twitching of an eye lid, not a trembling of his lips, just a cold expression, solid and perfect as marble. And it was as lasting as stone.
A little warmth entered the room as the pathologist left. But as soon as the door closed again, it was completely overtaken by the cold temperature of the morgue.
The lone man swiftly approached the cold silver table on which the still, cold body was lying. He looked down in this well-known face, this face that used to smile as soon as he entered the room, the cheeks that used to blush as soon as he started talking, the eyes that used to shine when they found his.
And now they lay cold and empty staring at the ceiling above. It was no typical reaction of Sherlock Holmes; it was in fact completely irrational. He kept staring at her, hoping for a movement, hoping for the warmth of her pulse to come back, yearning for her voice to fill his ears again.
But somewhere in the centre of the storm inside his head there was the steady and solid fact that Molly Hooper, his Molly Hooper was once and for all gone.
A single tear was able to break through his perfect poker face. It fell on her cheek.
And as he saw that not even this could cast a reaction in her, he allowed himself to give up.
His head fell on his chest, his hands folded on his back, his features failed to keep the poker face up. No more tears, no sobbing. He grieved silently.
With a swift turn he kicked the nearest object that couldn’t fall over; in his case it was a sink to clean the instruments after the autopsy.
He paced up and down the morgue and tried to catch his breath that out of a sudden trembled.
After a few minutes of complete agitation he simply walked out the door, with a last painful glance on the woman that used to be a constant and fixed point in his life.
He couldn’t bear another second in this room.