#post!reichenbach

It was at times like this that Molly Hooper felt her interest in photography was actually useful. 

Intelligent eyes scanned through each photo as two deft hands flipped through the small stack that she had assembled swiftly. "Just thought you'd like to see how he's doing." Molly whispered, eyes trained on her shoes. Ever since that incident, she hadn't been able to look Sherlock in the face without feeling a deep and resonant pang in her heart. Sherlock had been silent the whole time as his gaze lingered on a photo of John standing by his --Sherlock's, but not Sherlock's-- grave, back pencil straight like the military man he was. John’s gaze however, was cast downwards; his entire being radiated an aura of mourning. It was terribly unfitting. In an attempt to fill the silence, Molly headed to the pantry and began preparing tea. "Fancy a cup-" "Is he better?" Molly looked up from the delicate teacup which she cradled in her hand. "I'm sorry?" Sherlock's eyes left the pictures and met Molly's own. "Is he... coping?" Molly bit her lip, contemplating what to tell Sherlock. She debated lying, but Sherlock's gaze told her that he wanted to know. Besides, even if she lied, he would see right through it. "... He's moved out of 221B." Molly began hesitantly, nervously fidgeting with the cup in her hand. "Says he can't stand to be around things that remind him of you." Sherlock was silent. He had not moved an inch. But Molly knew. Molly could see the sadness in Sherlock's eyes and pick up on the small things like the small, sudden intake of breath that he made and her heart ached because Sherlock couldn't be with his friend without endangering his life. He was all alone. "Thank you." Sherlock said, breaking the silence, as he placed the photographs onto the cluttered desk in Molly's room. His long, thin fingers stretched briefly over an old photo of him and John smiling into a camera. It had been taken in what seemed like centuries ago when Sherlock and John had bumped into Molly when she was in town buying a new lens.

Sherlock's smile looked so forced that it was laughable, but John's was genuine. John was always genuine. And just as quickly as the fingers were there, they were gone. Gone with Sherlock as he strode out of the room, his coat billowing to mark his exit. And Molly just looked on sadly.

She wished she could do more than sit behind a camera lens.