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Her boss tries to argue, but Molly is absolutely adamant.
“No,” she says, her heart beating wildly. She has never, ever spoken up against her superior before. “No, I must do it; I want to do it.”
“But Molly, you know the hospital policy…” he tries again.
“No!” she says with more spirit this time. “It’s my-my duty, I have to do this, don’t you see?”
Doctor Lambert clearly doesn’t see; he puts a gentle hand on her arm.
“Molly,” he says gently, “I know you liked Sherlock very much. Surely you can see that personal involvement with the deceased is a difficult…”
“Look,” she interrupts and pauses to take a deep breath. Calm down, take it slowly and logically. The voice in her head is deep and caressing and sounds unnervingly like him.
“Look,” she says again, “I know that’s what it looked like, and I know you all think I got involved with Jim because of Sherlock didn’t want me, but it really wasn’t like that at all. I mean, I liked him – Sherlock, I mean, not Jim – well, I liked Jim too at first, but when he turned out to be…”
Molly takes another shaky breath.
“What I’m trying to say is this.” She looks up at Doctor Lambert and her gaze is steady.
“We weren’t together – Sherlock and I,” she says firmly. “No matter how much I might have wanted us to be, it didn’t happen and it would never have happened, I know that now. So, you see, he’s not a relative or a-a lover. He’s not even a friend because he didn’t have friends.”
Molly set her mouth in a firm line.
“I want to do this for John,” she says. “He wouldn’t want a stranger dealing with it. With him.” She sighs.
“Doctor Lambert, I know it’s not strictly in line with hospital policy,” she says, “but Sherlock was John’s… was his… well, they were close and I promised John I’d do this. Don’t make me into a liar, Doctor Lambert – please?”
Molly crosses her fingers behind her back and waits while her superior debates the merits of flouting hospital rules for the sake of one, albeit persuasive, junior pathologist.
“Alright, Molly,” he says reluctantly, and pats her shoulder. “Just this once, I’ll turn a blind eye.” He turns the pat into a light caress.
“Thank you, sir,” she says with less relief than she feels. “I really hope this will be the only time I have to ask.”
She smiles brightly and ducks away from his clinging hand, trying to make the movement unobtrusive, and returns to her lab to collect the paperwork.
It is nine-thirty in the evening and Molly has carefully arranged several crises during her day that have demanded her immediate attention. The post-mortem examination of Sherlock Holmes has already been put off three times and Molly’s superior has given her until the end of the day to complete it before he reassigns the task. Fred, the mortuary technician, is understandably extremely glum, it being a Friday evening when he should rightly be getting plastered down the pub with his mates, not standing over a slip of a girl – a girl doctor, but still a girl – while she takes the guts out of someone who anyone can see has snuffed it due to an irresistible force coming into contact with an immoveable object, eh? Fred sighs in disgust; jumpers.
Molly switches on her voice recorder and begins to describe what she sees. Sherlock’s body is surprisingly well preserved for someone who has fallen several stories onto a hard asphalt surface. There is evidence of soft tissue trauma, a couple of broken ribs, fractured collarbone, dislocated shoulder and hip, nasty skull fracture, but what killed him outright is the broken neck. Molly swallows and speaks on a suddenly husky voice.
After a few minutes, she looks round at Fred and smiles apologetically.
“Look,” she says, gesturing around her, “this is my fault, I’m afraid. I’m really sorry; I just didn’t get things sorted properly this week. It’s been really awful, my boss is angry with me, and now you’ve got to stay late too.”
Fred grunts gloomily in agreement; apologies are all very well but they don’t make up for lost pints. Molly seems to think about this, biting her lower lip in concentration.
“Listen, Fred,” she says with just the right amount of reluctance, “I feel really bad about you being here, particularly as I know you had plans for tonight.”
Fred nods; he really did.
“I really shouldn’t do this,” she says, her voice wavering slightly, “I’ve never suggested this to anyone before, but look – why don’t you just take off now and meet your friends, okay?”
Fred stares at her.
“I mean,” she gestures to the body, “it’s not as though there’s any doubt about how he died. This one’s routine, I just need to get it done tonight. I can manage without you, honestly.”
Molly smiles.
“Go on, Fred,” she says, “Just put your mark at the bottom of the page – I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
Molly holds her breath. She is certain in her head that he will take the offer, but she’s not good at this sort of thing.
Steady, Molly, you can do this.
I can, she thinks, smiling winningly. Fred considers for a very short time, then leans over to put his signature on the dotted line. Molly gives an inward sigh of relief.
“Not a word to anyone, mind,” she says cheerfully, “I wouldn’t want either of us to lose our jobs.”
Fred merely grunts on his way out – he knows the drill; he’s not stupid.
The breath Molly lets out as she hears the slam of the door is like a gust of wind. She is mortified to note that she has broken out into a cold sweat.
“I’m really, really not cut out for this,” she mutters, wiping her palms on her lab coat before picking up the voice recorder again.
Sherlock’s head has been straightened, but the fracture and the spinal cord damage is evident. Molly catalogues it dutifully along with the other injuries. She brushes the black curly hair, now matted with blood, back from his face and notes the tell-tale line of latex along his hairline. She nods and checks his body once again, spotting but not voicing the fact that the hair under his arms and in his groin area has lighter roots. She carefully notes but does not record the appendix scar and the evidence of hasty liposuction.
Finally, she measures his feet, recording a size eleven when her measure clearly says nine.
Molly steps back and regards the body once again, seeing it now with knowledge, and she has to admit to herself that although it is a good job, it wouldn’t fool anyone who knew Sherlock personally for one moment. She wonders fleetingly how it was done and almost immediately discards the question; Sherlock’s older brother – Mycroft, is it?
Molly quickly dispatches the rest of the job in just under two hours. She works in silence with total concentration and her clinical mask only starts to slip when she is sliding the body back into the refrigerated draw.
Keep it together, woman; you’re so nearly there! She bites her lip and forces down panic.
The samples are ready for the lab. This is a simple suicide, so little further investigation is necessary, but there needs to be a DNA test to verify the identity of the body. It is possible that someone in the lab will spot that the samples were taken two days ago and have been frozen, but Molly doubts that. She is also certain that elder brother of Sherlock’s would sort it out if anything did go wrong.
Molly puts on her coat, checks her handbag and her desk draws and prepares to leave the Morgue. She says a quiet goodnight to the night porter and exits St Barts Hospital by the front entrance, already phoning for a taxi.
Molly’s flat is small but cosy and warm; the central heating came on hours ago. Her cat, Toby, barrels into her legs, meowing fiercely; his supper is clearly well overdue. Molly sees to him first, then hangs her coat on its peg and kicks off her shoes. She rummages in the freezer, pulling out two very similar freezer/microwave curry meals.
She can’t choose between them. She struggles, but it’s impossible.
Molly blinks and stares sightlessly at the packaging before shoving both packages roughly back into the freezer and burying her face in her hands. Her breath comes in great hoarse gasps and she bends over almost double with the force of it.
Easy, Molly.
“I – I can’t do this!” Molly sinks to the floor, the weight of her deception forcing her to her knees.
You have already done it. Now all you need is to keep silence. Can you do that?
“I don’t know; I don’t know!” Tears start to form in her eyes. “What do you want from me? What do you need?”
I need you.
Molly holds her breath; the memory of those words and what followed is as clear as the night sky. She made a promise and she will be strong enough to keep it.
“Oh, Sherlock!” she breathes miserably. Toby butts at her hand, rubbing his face over her fingers. Molly pets him absently then sighs and rummages for a tissue, blowing her nose awkwardly with one hand. She gets to her feet, goes to the freezer, grabs a meal at random and pushes it negligently into the microwave.
Life goes on.
fin