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She watched the DVDs that had been brought to her once, twice, a hundred times each, studying this terrible Richard Brook persona. He tried to come off as normal, as sane in everything he did, but there was something a little off about the character. As the Storyteller, Richard Brook was no one in particular, just "himself." These videos were the most telling. While reading every story, no matter how happy, sad, educational it was, he wasn't quite right. It was in how he didn't fit his own skin. He was neither too big nor too small. It sagged in some places, stretched much too tightly in others. His eyes were as frantic and bulging as ever, despite the carelessly mussed hair and cardigan.
Richard Brook was not real, and he was continually fraying at the edges. The police had gone through these videos as well, how could they not see? They had all dealt with Jim Moriarty's terrible scheme not so long ago. They had seen how Sherlock had reacted, and everything. According to John, it wasn't good. He had been as brightly interested in the puzzle as always, but there was an underlying tension that revealed his fear. Fear. Sherlock Holmes was rarely ever afraid, and if he was, then it was a bad situation. He had been afraid well before Jim had strapped John into the bomb. It had sparked and ignited the moment he realized that the first voice was attached to a bomb as well.
No matter how poorly planned, you never express or even feel fear for anything that might come out of those plans. And if Sherlock really had been a psychopath, or sociopath, or whatever, he truly would not have cared.
Molly knew better. He might have been strange and aloof, but he wasn't uncaring. He was human, no matter what anyone said.
Jim Moriarty, on the other hand...
She could only breathe a sigh of relief at the knowledge that, unlike the consulting detective, he was well and truly dead. It would make it that much more difficult to prove Sherlock's innocence, really, but it was nice knowing that a psychotic criminal mastermind was absolutely dead. She had done the autopsy and everything, quietly and stoically. Though his plans had included nothing of the sort, she had taken...certain measures to ensure Moriarty's death, just in case. She, of all people, understood how capable people were of faking their own deaths. She was even certain that it was him.
Yes, Molly had been on the roof.
She had drawn blood biting into her hand to keep from screaming when Jim pulled the trigger.
She had prayed more in those seconds Sherlock was in the air than she had in her entire life.
She had marked Jim with a small brown marker between his left forefinger and thumb, made to resemble a freckle. She would be made certain that it was his heart she briefly separated from his body.
Molly Hooper was not just the quiet little mortician that everyone overlooked. She was fond of cats and Glee and knitting, of baking and books easily classified as "chick lit" and sweet cardigans. But one must remember that she took the job she did for a reason, that she absolutely excelled for a reason: Molly Hooper was not ordinary. She had a steel constitution and a loyal streak six miles wide, a peculiar interest in dead bodies, and a solid brain on her shoulders. Really, if anyone could be trusted with any part of Sherlock's mad (and thus, sure to work) plan, it was none other than Molly Hooper.