Post-Fall: A John and Molly RP

There. A smile. That's good, right? He hasn't made someone smile in months. Of course, it's not the smile he's really looking for, but still. It'll do. And anyway, Molly looks happy that he made the suggestion. He gives her a smile back. That's easy to fake. He's got lots of practice. But he has to admit, seeing her smile does make his own a bit more genuine.

She's confident. About her job. He notices that, as they leave. Less stammering. She's smart, she knows she's smart. She's good at her job, too. Maybe she knows that as well. But she doesn't show that often. Why doesn't she? She should, he decides. It suits her. But he doesn't say that aloud. He'd likely only make her nervous again.

She seems to do that herself, though. Damn leg. "It's fine," he says. Reassuring smile. It's really not, of course. It's never been fine. The leg, at least. Her forgetfulness really is fine. People tend not to notice things like that. Because you're an idiot, he can hear Sherlock saying. He disregards it. As always. "Maybe we could take a cab?"
 
His smile seems genuine enough, there is a hint of sadness to it, though. She wants him to be happy, she really does. She feels terrible about not noticing his leg, he didn't limp a lot while he was with Sherlock. You should have noticed that before. You probably seem insensitive....No, no, don't beat yourself up over this. No one is perfect. No matter, just get a cab, like he suggested.

"A cab should be fine. Well, then........shall we?"

She nods towards the door with her head, pushing it open with her elbow. She's very good at working without her hands, doing multiple things at once. There's lot's she is good at... Conversation just isn't one. Outside, she looks to John as he comes out of the door. She adjusts the bag slightly and says, "Would you mind- I mean- Could you.... ah, my hands are full, so could you..." She nods towards the street apologetically, "Do you think you could?"

She hopes he knows what she means.
 
He gives her another reassuring smile and starts trying to wave down a cab. Just keep smiling at her, he tells himself. Just keep smiling. Even if you don't feel it. She won't know. She's smart, but not that smart. He hopes. He can see that the smiling makes her feel better, anyway.

It takes a minute to get a cab. He still hasn't gotten used to that. Sherlock seemed to have a strange magnetism to cabs - the second he stepped up to a curb with even the faintest hint of intent, one would magically appear, just like that. So quick. With Sherlock Holmes, everything moves quickly.

Things are much slower now.

He opens the door for Molly, dragging himself out of this thoughts. Still the gentleman, even now. He can be courteous, right? That's something he's good at.
 
She climbs into the cab, carefully trying not to drop anything. She manages to give the driver her address without messing up, something that makes her feel good. She takes some time to study John's face. He's smiling, at least, he's pretending to. He has been since leaving the cafe. But just seeing the smile helps her feel a bit more comfortable. Just don't mention it to him. Say something, just don't bring up the smile. Don't do what you did to Sherlock...... She remembers exactly what she said..... "Are you ok-and don't just say you are, because I know what that means...looking sad when no one can see you." "I can see you," Sherlock had replied. "I don't count."

What Molly didn't realize was that she had said, "Are you ok- and don't just say you are, because I know what that means..looking sad when no one can see you," outloud. Not in her head.
 
John blinks. He doesn't know how to answer that question. Not at all. Not phrased that way. He knows how to answer "Are you okay?"; far too many people have asked him that Since. He knows how to reply. "Yeah," "I'm fine," even the rare "No, but I will be." None of which are true. Not one. But he's not prepared for this. He's not prepared to be asked and then have his only answers, the automatic ones, the ones he can fake, taken away from him.

And there's something else, too... He can't quite put his finger on it, but he feels like he's heard this before. Familiar. A strange sense of deja vu. Except not quite, not really; more like something half-remembered. Something that makes his heart feel like a lead weight. Tragic. A tragedy.

Don't be maudlin, John, his mental Sherlock chastises him.

Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up.

John looks down at his hands, left one shaking ever so slightly in his lap. He clenches his fist. Releases it. "I'm coping," he says quietly. Like a confession. It's true enough, right? He's at least acting like he's okay. At least he's not- he's alive, he's living, he's continuing. Staying. That's what matters.
 
She realizes what she said, "Oh, I...uh...... I am sorry......"

Nicely done. Put him on the spot like that. Only because you were thinking back. Be. More. Careful. Sherlock would be saying something to you right about now. He'd be saying something along the lines of what a terrible person you are and how you really shouldn't be making conversation. And he would be right, just look at the mess you've gone and created. John looks downright uncomfortable and it's your fault.

The cab pulls up to where her flat is located. She thanks the driver and asks him to wait, saying that she'll be right out. She looks to John, "Do you want to wait here? You can come in...if you'd like."
 
He'd like to wait here. He knows what he could say. Oh, I really shouldn't, this bloody leg, see you in a minute. She would be back soon anyway. It would be so easy. But her voice is nervous, her hands clutch at her bag, her lips are twisted into a grim smile. She regrets having asked him, then. She does. He can see it. He notices it. And with that in mind, he can hardly blow her off as if she's offended him by asking.

He plasters a fake smile onto his face. "Sure," he says. Follows her out of the car. Steadfastly does not wince at the pain that lances through his leg at the motion. She hardly needs to see that now. To think she caused him pain.

He's good at this reassuring thing.
 
She gives him an 'are you sure?' look, then says, "Follow me. There are some stairs, though. Sorry," she mumbles.

Somehow, she manages to unlock and open the door without dropping her bag. Clearly, she had to have done it before. Her flat is simple. White walls, with a few pictures sitting on tables. It's very clean, almost too clean. No papers lay out on the desk in the corner, no dishes left out in the sink. The only part of her flat that is a mess, is where the litter box is located, litter has been move outside of the box from a cat pawing at the litter in the box. Molly doesn't say anything to John as she moves back into her bedroom, but he can hear the sound of a closet door opening and more noise as she moves items around, searching for a bag.
 
He manages to make it up the stairs and into Molly's flat with a minimum amount of pain from his leg, which is a small miracle in and of itself. He looks around her flat as she heads for the bedroom. He feels obligated to say something. To break the silence.

"It's nice," he calls back. It's not, of course. It's unbearably lonely. Solitary. Impersonal. The pictures on the tables are one of the few personal touches around the flat. And it's so neat it's stifling. Like she's always prepared for someone to stop by. Hopeful. Waiting. Lonely. It's terrible, really. But he doesn't say this. Sherlock would have; he would have mentioned it straightaway. He was- is- Tact has never been Sherlock's strong suit.

When he thinks about it, Molly's flat and 221B are so similar. Not in appearance - where Molly's is plain, clean, and orderly, 221B is haphazard, different styles of furnishing and wallpaper all clashing together, mess everywhere, clutter left untouched. But both flats seem to have an air of waiting. John hasn't touched a single thing of Sherlock's, Since. He can't quite bring himself to. If he moved something, tidied, it would have made it all the more obvious that Sherlock was no longer there. And if he packed it all away, it would make it seem like he was never coming back.

The only thing he's touched is Sherlock's bed. He sleeps there, sometimes. It's starting to smell less like him.

John hates it.

((I'M SORRY ABOUT THE ANGST OKAY I JUST COULDN'T WITH THE FEELS))
 
Molly returns from her room holding a different bag. It isn't anything fancy, just a plain canvas bag. She's already changed the items into it and she puts some of the files that were in the broken bag, onto the desk. She looks at John in a seemingly happy manner and says, "Shall we go, then? The- ah- cab is still waiting...and we're...well, we're late..."

She looks at him, studies him a bit. He isn't happy. He doesn't like her flat, she can tell. She shouldn't have brought him, she should have told him to meet her at Bart's.....She wishes she had done that instead. He's hurting, remembering, and it was her fault. She did this to him, of that she's sure.


((GOOD GOD! I am so sorry. To both you, and to anyone (if anyone) reading this! Things have been crazy and I'm sorry for not replying sooner!))
 
John blinks. Pulls himself out of his own head. It's not a pleasant place to be, anyway. It's just easier not to think. He's gotten very good at that, actually. Not thinking. Most of the time. Sometimes it just can't be helped.

"Sure, of course," he says, smiling at Molly again. "Sorry for making you late." Polite. Courteous. Smile. He can do this, working with Molly. She's fairly easy to please, easy to work with. Hopefully easy to convince. She's just a very comfortable person, really. As long as they can avoid the great big elephant in the room, this might not go too poorly.

He follows Molly out of the flat, waiting as she locks the door, and trails after her as she heads out. She slows her pace for him, slightly. He notices that. It's nice of her. Courteous. She's good at that, too. People sometimes forget that he can't keep up with them, or they walk too slowly, struggling to match his languid pace, or they keep eyeing his leg as they walk, as if he's suddenly going to crumple. It's not like that with Molly. She doesn't even seem to be conscious of the fact that she's slowed - she just does it naturally, simply, as if she always walks that way. He likes that. It's nice of her. Nice of her subconscious, anyway.

This job might actually work out.

((Perfectly all right, dear! Take your time. :D))
 
Back in the cab, Molly directs the driver to Bart's. The ride has been quiet so far. She tries to figure out a way to break the silence, also wondering if she should. Why don't you ask him if he's had any experience with post mortems? Well, he probably has......You know he worked as an army doctor. It isn't hard to do, Molly. Just open your mouth and ask him, go on, ask him..


She stumbles a bit trying to get the first few words out, "Actually, John, I was- that is to say- I mean..... well," her eyes dart around the cab, trying to convince herself to actually say what she meant, "I was- uh- wondering if you've ever had any experience with......well, post mortems?"

She slumps over, horrified. Her hands cover her eyes and she shakes her head. Of course he's going to know! He isn't a bad doctor! Now he probably thinks that you're second guessing yourself about giving him the job, and things are going to be terribly awkward. Why, why, why would you say something like that. It seemed like a good conversation starter, but when you stumble it out like that, he's going to think something's wrong!


"It isn't that I think you're going to be terrible at the job, really...I just...." She continues like this for a good minute or two.
 
He wonders if it's going to be like this all the time. Molly saying something, panicking, trying to make up for it. She really doesn't need to. She's too self-conscious. But that's what she's like. That's what she's always been like. Is he making it worse? Probably. He probably is. She was never all that comfortable around him to begin with. Though that might have been because he was inevitably always around Sherlock. Maybe now that- maybe with less distraction, she'll be able to open up. Calm down. Not panic.

She really is a smart girl. She doesn't need to worry so much. Maybe he can help with that. He can try. Friendly is easy to fake, especially if you're faking because you're trying.

So he smiles again, says, "No, no, I get it. You can hardly hire someone with no experience, now can you?" A joke. Jokes are good. Jokes ease tension. Make people laugh. "I've had some experience, yeah. Training, couple of jobs here and there, and then running around with-" He shrugs, inclining his head as if to say, you know.

He probably shouldn't have mentioned that. It's not going to help Molly stop worrying. But no damage done, really. He brushes past it. "And I'm a quick study," he adds. "Shouldn't be too hard to get back into practice." He smiles at her kindly.
 
"Sorry. I really don't mean to freak out like this. It's just, I don't even know..... In-in my head, I don't sound so....so jumbled up, I really don't. And it isn't your fault, John. Really, it isn't."

She looked at him- smiling sadly. Ever since....ever since Sherlock "jumped" life had been hard for the both of them. She had to work very hard not to look up happily when someone walked into her lab. He wasn't coming back anytime soon. She was just so used to him walking in unexpectedly. And John..... John had lost his best friend. This would be good for the both of them. She could find a friend in John and he could find one in her, she hoped. He told you a joke...kinda....Well, smile! Her sad smile turned into a happier one, her eyes brightened. She gave a small snort, "No, I guess I can't...Hire someone without knowing."

Good. Better. This will be good. For both of you. Just smile, smile and act. Try to make him feel better too. He got the worst end of the deal, Sherlock being alive.....and him not knowing. She does, but she can't tell. And for that, she feels terrible. But smiling will make it better.
 
He studies her for a moment, thinking over her words. She's just too self-conscious. That's what it is. Nervous. Jittery. She can't stop her mouth from making mistakes when her brain knows exactly what it wants to say. Second-guessing everything she says as she says it. No wonder she sounds so foolish sometimes. Her nerves are getting in the way of her words.

He should say something. About that. Show her that he understands. That she doesn't have to be nervous around him. Maybe it would make it easier for her to talk around him. Would it? It might. It might help. Just to show her he cares. He does want to help, after all. It's what he's good at, helping. Most of the time. Isn't that why he became a doctor? To help people?

He decides to speak up.

"You don't have to be so nervous, you know," he says. "Around me." He gives her a reassuring smile. "You worry too much."
 
She takes a deep breath and smiles at him. She looks at him and sees that he understands. That he cares. Just keep smiling. That might as well be her motto. John's too.
"Thanks. I don't mean to be, for some reason, the words in my head aren't the same ones that come out my mouth. It's better, easier- I mean- to talk to you. It isn't as bad. Well actually, it's still bad, but not so much. Maybe it's just because- because you were his- and your personality is- Well- you are easier to talk to."
She laughs a bit, "I'm just babbling... Sometimes I do that..."
 
It's strange, but he feels like he understands Molly. Really understands her. Even when she's babbling and stammering. Even then. He seems to get what she's saying, really. To follow her train of thought, even when her words aren't making sense. They probably would have been great friends, Before, if they had the chance. If they had the time. Joking about time at Bart's, cup of coffee now and then, fond stories about- about him.

He never asked her what he was like, before they were flatmates. He had a suspicion he didn't really want to know. Does he now that he was- is- now that things are different? No. No, he supposes not. Not really. It's still not something he wants to know. He wants to keep his version in his head. His Sherlock.

Bloody hell.

But they could have done that, him and Molly. Been friends. Helped each other. They still could, probably. Even without Sh- without him. Maybe because they're without him. Both of them are unfinished, now. Incomplete. Missing pieces. He did that to people. Took up space inside you that you can't get back.

Maybe they can try to fill it for each other. As much as they can.

"You overthink it," he tells her, trying to be helpful. "You don't need to. You're very smart, Molly. Just say what comes naturally."
 
She just smiles. She feels reassured knowing that he understands- that he has confidence in her. The cabs slowly rolls to a stop in front of Bart's and Molly fumbles through her bag, looking for her wallet. She wants to say something- anything really- she just doesn't know what to say.

"Thank you," she says, still digging through the bag, "Really, John. Thank you."

She finally pulls out the wallet, and pays the cab driver. She steps towards Bart's before turning back to look at John. She casts him a worried glance, this is where Sherlock... Where he- She realizes that John could change his mind. He could still decide that it was too soon to return to Bart's, return to the place where Sher- he died.

What makes it worse is that you know, Molly. You know it was an act. John doesn't- not even a warning. Don't get too upset if he decides to leave. It isn't his fault. Sherlock is- was?- his best friend. This can't be easy. But don't blame yourself, he did agree. Remember? Oh for goodness sakes, say something to him.

"Well, here we are."
 
He keeps his eyes to the ground. Doesn't look up. Doesn't look around. It's easier, far easier, to just keep looking at feet and pavement, instead of up at sky and heights and too late and falli-

He swallows, mouth twisted into a grimace. He can do this. He can. Really. It's just a building, that's all. A place. More good memories than bad, right? That should count for something, he thinks. Something to hold on to, at least. So he finally looks up, but not up; no, still not that. Just enough to see Molly's face. Straight ahead, instead of straight down. She said something, didn't she? He smiles at her. Or he tries to. It comes out more of a grimace. Not good enough, he tells himself. You have to lie better than that. He has to be able to be convincing. To seem okay.

He takes a deep breath and forces the smile to be more genuine. It's not that hard, really. It's getting easier, with practice. "Shall we?" he says, gesturing with his cane towards the door, and he's gratified to hear that his voice is not as tight as it should be. Not as thin. He's a better liar than he thought.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top Bottom
Back