Not my best work, but this is my first attempt at writing from Molly's perspective.

Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

Molly Hooper saw, not looked. She could see through the toughest mask that people put on, including a certain Consulting Detective. Her doe brown eyes pierced straight through the protective barrier that Sherlock erected, yet he was oblivious.

"You look sad," Molly had uttered out of astonishment and disbelief. Even though Sherlock told her that she wasn't good at making conversations and hence she should shut up, she repeated the phrase. There was a tinge of barely discernible sentiment swimming in his silvery turquoise eyes, threatening to make itself visible to every privy person any time.

It was a look she was familiar with - the same feeling that the late Mr. Hooper experience before he passed, which Molly read clearly in his eyes. Her father had been a solemn person by nature, only smiling whenever something pleases him ardently; even though he had grown mellow over the years, it didn't make him of a less solemn man. Yet when he was about to die, he had a distant, thoughtful look shining through his pupils, especially when people weren't looking.

Now that Molly meditated on it, the look had always been present in her father's eyes when he smiled and when he had company. It was, however, masked exquisitely by mirth, and became visible only when Mr. Hooper thought he was alone.

You're never alone, you know, she thought. She had longed to tell Sherlock this, that Sherlock wasn't alone in this world with his brilliance. Solitude alone couldn't protect him; friends could. That was what John was for, but the thought didn't stop her from offering her assistance, even though she knew she didn't count.

"I don't count," she admitted right after Sherlock realized that only she could see him for who he was. Yes, she was an insignificant pathologist in St. Bart's, assisting him in experiments and giving him access to cadavers. She was who everyone would miss, whom everyone would disregard, whom everyone would walk by without so much as a backward glance.

Yet it was this self-awareness that prompted her to offer to help Sherlock. She knew she couldn't be Sherlock's girlfriend, or so much as to date him, so helping him was the least that she could do.

She had to admit, she did struggle for a little bit when Sherlock questioned her. Would you still help me if what I told you was false, he asked, and she merely asked him what did he need. It was her response - no nods, no stuttering, only startled doe brown eyes widening at the sight of Sherlock's advancing form, focusing directly on his enigmatic eyes.

Molly Hooper knew Sherlock Holmes. She could tell from his eyes that he was lying, but he needed her help. He needed her, specifically. As he proceeded to explain his plan to commit suicide because he was claimed to be a fraud, but needed help to fake his death and stay alive in order to prove his innocence, Molly saw through the tale right away.

The truth was right in his crystal clear irises.

He needed help in taking down Moriarty, she noted, mutely decoding Sherlock's speech. He had to die to avoid dire consequences; but at the same time, he needed to live to avenge on the Consulting Criminal.

At that moment, she finally understood Sherlock, and why he looked sad a few days prior.

He had known his fate all along, starting from the moment when Moriarty was declared not guilty unanimously by the jury for stealing the Crown Jewels. Sherlock, however, wasn't sad that he had to die - perhaps just a little bit - he was afraid of the impact it would have on Mrs. Hudson and John. It was why he didn't look at John when they talked, why he only stared hard at Molly.

She wasn't included, Molly bitterly thought. But it didn't matter anyway.

She prepared everything Sherlock asked, her chocolate brown eyes skimming every minute detail to ensure that no details were missing or erroneous. He hadn't spoken a word when he entered the lab for the last time before his suicide; only locking gazes at Molly with a curt nod.

Thank you, he had said. Molly replied with a small smile. As he turned to leave with the objects gathered in his arms, his black Belstaff coat billowing around his shin, Molly let her gaze follow the greatest and best man she had ever known in her life, silently wishing him courage and fortune.

And now, as she stood in the lab in the morgue of St. Bart's, looking at a live CCTV screen and waiting for Sherlock to be carted in on a gurney, she saw how his hands trembled as he called John. She saw how his eyes grow slightly misty as he denounced himself right in front of the only friend he had ever had. She heard his voice break slightly, an occurrence she never thought would be observed from Sherlock.

Molly squinted at the CCTV feed, and gazed at the silvery turquoise orbs that held so much ice and sentiments. There she saw, for the first time since she first met Sherlock, a fine haze of mist clouding his vision, and the same mist clouding hers as well.