The Worst Kind of Illusion

Prompt: Flowers

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Today was not the day for fighting, but one was brewing whether Molly Hooper liked it or not.

"He is not an idiot," John Watson said through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing dangerously at the well-dressed embodiment of the British government. "Don't you dare ever say anything like that near me again." John's hands were balled tightly in a fist, and from an outsiders perspective, the former army doctor was quickly losing his cool.

Molly took this moment to step between Mycroft Holmes and John Watson, putting a restraining hand on John's chest. "Alright boys," she said tiredly, glancing between the two. "I take it no one has seen him?"


"The purpose of this service is for sentimental reasons. I'm sure he has found something better to do than mourn over—"

"Mycroft!" Molly hissed, narrowing her eyes. For the most part, she got along with the elder Holmes, but he was toeing a line that didn't need to be crossed, especially considering the day. "You go and you find your brother," She pointed a finger shakily at the exit of the church. "And you won't step one foot inside this building until you do."

Mycroft regarded the typically shy pathologist with annoyance before he nodded his head once and stepped back, following her orders. She tore her eyes away from Mycroft and smiled apologetically at her friend. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine…idiot," he growled. He exhaled slowly and relaxed his shoulders, carefully unfurling his fists. "Mary ought to be here soon. I'll just…" he trailed off, glancing from Molly to the door where guests were still filing in. Molly nodded her head once and then moved to the front of the church.

Funerals were not her forte. She could handle postmortems and gruesome crime scenes, but funerals always broke her.

No one had seen Sherlock Holmes in over a week.

Mycroft and John were both worried that the younger Holmes relapsed and was either wandering the streets high or had overdosed somewhere within his homeless network. A day after the funeral, Greg Lestrade began canvasing London, looking for the Consulting Detective. Surprisingly, Sally and Anderson volunteered in the search.

Molly was overwhelmed with worry when a week passed and he hadn't returned any of her texts, voice messages, e-mail, or notes left taped to the entrance of 221B Baker Street. When the eighth day began without contact from her boyfriend, Molly was determined to join the search. She woke up that morning and ate a quick breakfast of toast and tea, and then she put on old jeans, pulled an old St. Bart's sweatshirt over her long sleeved shirt. With an old pair of trainers on her feet and a black knit cap on her head, she slipped out of her flat and locked the door behind her.

It was cold out, but Molly shoved her hands into her pockets and made the ten minute journey from her flat to where she thought Sherlock might be.

She dodged the people commuting around London, keeping her head ducked low and her shoulders hunched. She tried to ignore how cold it was as she crossed the street and walked through the entrance gate of the cemetery.

Her walk through the cemetery was eerily quiet, the overcast sky and wind making her hunker down in her sweatshirt and wish she brought a coat. There weren't any visitors yet, just groundskeepers tending to the lawn. Molly kept her head down and avoided eye contact with the few men.

She halted when she found Sherlock. She wasn't surprised that she found him on her first try, but she was surprised to see him sitting on the ground, his arms resting on top of the knees that were pressed against his chest. She could see that he was clutching a bouquet of pink carnations in his hands, and the pain that ripped across her chest made her gasp. Sherlock stiffened, but he didn't look to see who was behind him.

She cleared her throat softly and said, "I thought I would find you here."

"I wanted to be alone."

Silence enveloped them both and Molly bit her bottom lip. Her eyes and nose were stinging as she tried to hold back her tears. "Do you want me to leave?"


"Those are beautiful flowers."

"I gave her a bouquet every year for Mother's day since I was nineteen." She flinched as he cleared his throat, knowing he was fighting the onslaught of sentiment that was overwhelming him. She waited for him to say something else—anything else!—and when he didn't say a word, Molly swallowed thickly. She couldn't even bring herself to look at the headstone, knowing that seeing the name would make her crack. Instead, she stared at the lilies and roses that were already surrounding the grave.

"I tried to pretend that I didn't feel, but I couldn't fake the illusion." Sherlock managed to choke out, "She was more than just my landlady, you know."

And that was it. Molly crossed the small distance between them and sank down to her knees behind him. She pressed against his back and wrapped her arms around his chest. She buried her face against the back of his neck and held him tightly. "I know sweetheart, I know. I'm so sorry." He didn't sob wildly or clutch her tightly. He just dropped his head and cried softly, his body trembling.

It would take a long time for Sherlock Holmes to get over the death of his beloved Mrs. Hudson.


A/N: Sorry for writing something sad. I couldn't get this short little thing out of my head. Thank you for reading.