Moth To A Flame
Molly knew that she wasn't important in the grand scheme of things. Her only use was the information she could provide, the use of her lab now and then, her willingness to listen and nod uncomprehendingly. Now and then John would give her a sympathetic look, and she'd know that someone else felt like she did, not all the time, but on occasion.
She wasn't sure why she kept doing it. Why she always let him in. Why she kept trying. Christmas had been the worst, even more so than normal because he hadn't even realized how he was humiliating her until he'd done it completely. He was incredibly humble in that regard, if no other, he didn't see how loved he was, by her, Lestrade, John, his brother and Mrs. Hudson. It was as if he didn't really realize love existed, even though she knew he felt it for his brother and Mrs. Hudson and John. He had a bewildered type of loyalty to Lestrade and a bemused constancy towards herself and her laboratory. But that could easily be due to the fact that she and Lestrade let him in, let him invade their lives and space.
He'd been sorry afterwards, she'd known that, and she'd taken it as a token of his humanity that he truly wouldn't have hurt her if he'd been thinking at all that the gift was for him. That she'd dressed up and done her best to look pretty for him. She'd thrown the new lipstick away afterwards, feeling clownish and stupid and cursing herself for spending so much money on something she'd so rarely use. But he hadn't meant to be hurtful and so she forgave him, the way she always did.
So when he actually asked for her help, when he looked so lost, she wanted to kill Mycroft for being so proud and stupid. And she wanted to slap John for not being quick enough to keep up with him. And she felt like beating her head against the wall that this was all she could do. There was nothing else he needed or wanted of her. Just this one thing.
So she did it, and she watched the aftermath and wondered what he'd do now. And she saw John mourning and wanted to hit him again. She stayed in her lab and thought about the nature of moths and their attraction to the light they knew could kill them. Did they fly to close knowing their wings would be singed? Did they feel bereft when they strayed too far into the darkness away from that glow?
Did they just accept it as fate or the way of the world when they were inevitably burned? The way she always accepted it when she came up against that dizzying intellect of his and felt unavoidably foolish. Was that just how it always should be and would be? She couldn't match him, she couldn't even begin to try. And every time she did, each time she came away from an encounter feeling stupid and small and at the same time warm because at least then he was looking at her and seeing her, she was reminded of that silly poem she'd learned years ago.
She murmured it to herself as she tidied the lab, easier to do now that he wasn't there. "Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today I wish, I wish he'd go away..." She shook her head and sighed, "When I came home last night at three the man was waiting there for me. But when I looked around the hall I couldn't see him there at all."
No more admonishing him to not smoke in the lab. No more surreptitious sniffs to determine if he'd gone back to smoking or if he'd tried to overdose on nicotine patches again. No more getting annoyed when he ate the lunch she'd put away for herself or trying to give him water instead of coffee. No more resetting her microscope or washing lenses of things she'd never have thought to look at.
"Moths and stupid girls and brains and lights…" She shook her head again in disgust with herself. He wasn't going to ever come back. That bright light of his intelligence was never going to come into her lap again, wasn't ever going to befuddle her with fast speech and quick half smiles and the roll of his eyes that always seemed irritated and affectionate both. Her life was going to be routine and dull and simple and incredibly safe and boring.
She turned out the lights and hoped against every iota of common sense and uncommon sense and just plain old logic that she was wrong.
Author's Note: This is just a little thing I wrote up because I felt bad for Molly. There's something really awful about feeling small and ordinary. I don't normally write Sherlock but I love it. Can't wait for the next season.
But in the meantime, Molly's cut off. I feel bad for her. Am I the only one who thinks she and John should get together? They both love Sherlock, and they'd be good for each other.