[sherlock holmes voice] molly hooper? she’s so lame i don’t- [trips] [hundreds of pictures of molly hooper spill out of his coat] s-she’s such an idiot, so dumb, i- [gathering them up frantically] listen i just fuck [thousands of pictures of molly hooper scatter across the floor] shit, fuck i’m just holding them for a friend just listen

Because it wouldn’t leave me alone.

Molly dies during Moriarty’s return. Sherlock doesn’t show any outward signs of emotion, maintaining his stoic, unfeeling demeanor. John notices, however, that he begins spending more and more time in his mind palace, a small smile alighting the detective’s face every-so-often. John never mentions the time he heard Sherlock utter the pathologist’s name, and Sherlock keeps pretending he’s not affected by Molly’s death, but John knows.

Is it the hair? The cheekbones? The days spent cutting up dead people?

Another one for @half-past-late

“Do you…,” he began saying in a low voice, eyebrows knitted together. “Well…I mean…” he continued before trailing off. Sherlock cleared his throat – “- - I could give you a massage?”

The words just dangled out there.

Massage? She had been rubbing her shoulder ever since he’d escorted her home, then made her a cup of tea, and forced her to put her feet up (she’d been trying to throw him out for ages). Molly stared at him confused, tea cup hovering by her lips.

“What? - - Really?” she said crinkling her nose.

It wasn’t that he gave the air of being the most in-efficient masseuse, though the way he asked gave the impression that he wasn’t very willing to begin with. “Um… Sorry, it’s not that you’d be bad-,” she continued, feeling immediately like she was implying he would be, but it felt intimate. Too intimate.

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