Realise (or Realize, for my fellow 'Murrikans)

It was that kind of day.

Molly Hooper is embarrassed and depressed and angry and frustrated with the world, and she feels a great need to be hugged.

It was a child- those days are never good, when it's someone so much younger than her laid out cold and stiff on the slab. Sherlock swept in and delicately examined the girl with his long, beautiful, sensitive hands, then looked up at her, cold gray eyes clouded. "Moriarty," he said harshly, his dark voice thick with disgust. And they went on, and examined the child, Sherlock returned to his microscope and then...it was a simple question, she gave a simple answer. But...she said "Jim." She meant Moriarty. She meant cold-blooded, dangerously brilliant, ice-cold, bloodthirsty killer. She said sparkling eyes, sweet smiles, adorably awkward, soft kisser...

No, no, no, no. You can't let the lines blur. You can't mistake the actor for the character.

Molly was just getting a breath of fresh air. Outside, where quiet traffic noises could distract her, where she could sit on the steps and curl into herself. If this was a fairytale, this is the moment where she'd meet Prince Charming.


Greg leans back on the seat of the cab and thinks about cigarettes, which is all he's been thinking about all day despite the fact that he has quit the damn things for over five years now and the cravings are supposed to be over and done with. It's not a craving, though, not exactly. It's just a want. A need. Greg needs a fag when people die. Especially when kids die.

It's not right. It's not right in the slightest. And it makes him want to smoke. The alternative is drinking, and Sherlock needs him sober for this (although why he couldn't hope to imagine because all the bloody detective needs him for is to stand there and look impressed while he spouts off deductions and why he couldn't use a cardboard cutout of a man instead will always be beyond Lestrade.) So he ignores the urge to drink, because his job is always to cater to Sherlock's every whim, and god help him, he always will. Because he loves the bugger, even if a kid turns up dead and the detective claps his hands and declares that Christmas has come early.

So Greg ignores the urge to drink and focuses on his urge to smoke, lamenting the fact that he owns no cigarettes and cannot buy any. He leans back on the seat of the cab and closes his eyes and wishes for cigarettes and a world in which kids did not end up on slabs as corpses with gunshot wounds through their foreheads and a world where he did not have to deal with this right now.

He pays the driver, and he gets out of the cab, and he stows his hands deep into his pockets because it's cold. His breath ghosts in the air as white mist, like smoke, and he thinks longingly of cigarettes once more. He rubs thumb and forefinger together and imagines one. But Sherlock has not yet broken, not for a good three years now, and Greg will not be the first. If Sherlock does not smoke, Lestrade does not smoke. This is the agreement.

The cab pulls away and he hurries up the steps toward the hospital, head bent slightly. The cold stings at his ears. It is just past night and the lights of the city are beginning to come on - shops and streetlights and headlights of cars, all illuminated. Despite this, it's dark on this stretch of pavement - the space between one streetlamp and another, and in this darkness he almost does not see Molly Hooper until he very nearly runs her over.

She is dressed in a dark coat and she stands in shadow, and he walks smack into her as he's reaching for his mobile to see what the hell Sherlock has texted him about this time. The mobile clatters on the pavement, a little square of light in the dark. Lestrade doesn't mind. He's dropped that thing hundreds of times - infernal device. He's more concerned about the human being he's just walked into and completely knocked off balance.

"Oh, god." he says, reaching out to help her up. "I'm so sorry. I- Molly." He recognizes her as she takes his outstretched hand to keep her balance. "Molly. Hi. Sorry - Is Sherlock still in there? Have you found anything?" He runs his free hand through his hair, embarrassed.


Molly takes a second to answer, letting her brain sort through what exactly has just happened. "Er- yeah," she stammers, which is almost an acceptable answer to everything Lestrade just said. The poor man looks about ten years older, wound up so tight and tense he might just shatter. His face is lined with about fifty different kinds of worry, and he generally looks like his day has been just as long and awful as hers.

She realises she's back on her feet and still hasn't released his hand, and does so quickly. "He- he's rambling on about keys or something," she says lamely.

Greg nods, looking up at the hospital. "Right...yeah. Alright." He rocks back on his heels, stowing his hands deep into his pockets. "Right. Thanks." He realizes his mobile phone is still on the pavement and leans down to retrieve it. Unfortunately Molly realizes the same at about the same time and moves to pick up the phone as he bends down. Their heads smash together and Greg straightens up holding his forehead. "Ow."

"I'm sorry!" he says, again. "God - I don't know what's wrong with me today-"

"No." replies Molly earnestly, looking mortified, "No, it was my fault- here." She bends down again, this time successfully retrieving the phone, and holds it out for him.

Greg grins, a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, thanks." His smile widens slightly as he takes the mobile from her and slides it back into the pocket of his coat. He takes a few steps toward the door, and hesitates when he realizes Molly is not following. "You - you're not coming?"

It's strange and slightly sweet that this would matter to him, but Molly's not sure why it does. "Well, I- wasn't," she says haltingly. "Do you- need my help?"

Greg pauses, looking back at her. "Well... if Sherlock-" He thinks this over for a few seconds before abandoning the sentence and taking a few steps back toward her. "Well - if you're going to stay out here, take this." He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out to her. "It's cold out."

He's gone and taken the jacket off, so it feels strange to refuse it, but Molly shakes her head. She takes a step up the stairs. "John isn't here. You'll need all the help you can get." She almost manages a smile, which ends up translating into a shrug of her shoulders. Greg is a much better actor; he smiles back and they enter the morgue together.

So now he's not thinking about cigarettes or thinking about thinking about cigarettes, which is nice. He doesn't even realise that the uncontrollable bit of his mind has stopped screaming for attention, because as they walk the cold, white hallway to the cold, white room containing the consulting detective, Greg is focused on her. It's stupid. It's completely moronic, if he does...you know...which he won't admit even to himself, she's been head-over-heels for Sherlock since the day they met. But if you forget that, and take a second to look at her: petite little Molly, long brown hair swept back in a ponytail that's seen a hard day, dark, pretty eyes...

Stupid.


It's late when Sherlock runs off. And he literally runs off, like a child, leaving behind the mess for the normal people to clean up.

But that's okay. Molly pulls the sheet back over the girl's face gently, softly. She glances at the door Sherlock just swept through, hoping she doesn't look too hopeful. Lestrade's gone. He must have left sometime in the last busy hour, because she can remember bumping into him not so long ago. The room is quiet as ever, only the hum of the sharp greenish lights and the small noises of her gathering her papers and clipboard. She returns to her empty lab, eyes running over the forms.

It's mindless after a few minutes, paperwork. The whole weight of the day is building up in Molly, every detail turned grey in her mind, every mundane occurrence a slap in the face from the cruel universe. It builds and builds until it's a physical pressure, starting somewhere near her heart and pressing it, pressing into her throat and head and eyes and cold fingers. And then...a sob pushes itself out, then another, and then a tiny drop is on the forms she's filling out...

And before Molly can reign it back in, she's curled up, knees to chin, in her seat, crying.


He should have gone home a long time ago. Granted, lying awake at home didn't beat busy at work, but on principle, any reasonable person should be in bed at this hour. With any luck, Molly had left the forms in her lab, and he could pick them up to drop them off at the office before heading to bed.

The not-quite-cravings are back. His throat is dry, the edges of a headache coming on...and he hears a quiet crying. Well, you're bound to, in a morgue. It plucks at his heart, but he keeps walking, listening to the gasps and sobs peak in volume as he reaches the laboratory. Is the crying in there? Cautiously, he opens the door. There she is, curled in on herself like a child. Molly's shoulders shake with sobs, and she doesn't look up when the door clicks. Greg doesn't think she heard him.

It takes a moment to decide what to do, but eventually he can't suppress his instinct. She jumps about ten feet when he lays a hand on her shoulder, then looks at him with tear-filled eyes for just a second. "Sorry, Greg," she sniffs, "Sorry, I- I'll-" but she breaks back down.

"Shh." He pulls her into a comforting hug, which she doesn't resist. Molly's fists are curled up on his shoulders, her face in the side of his neck, and he's briefly guilty for enjoying it. One of the DI's hands rubs her back while he murmurs, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

They stand like that for what might be a very long time. Or not, but either way, Molly's sobs eventually subside into silence and so does Greg, and yet they remain there.

She pulls away a little to look at him. "Thank you," she whispers. "Needed that."

"'Sokay," Greg whispers back. His heart is in his throat. How is this happening, and how long is it going to take for him to completely screw up the moment? It's peaceful. He's surprised to realise this, but holding Molly, he feels warmer, calmer, happier.

"So..." he says quietly. "...wanna do this again sometime?"

She laughs. "No, but..." Pause. "I could go for a drink." And she slips her hand into his.

It's nice, not having to fake a smile.