Title: Deconstructing Death

Author: Emmyjean

Rating: T

Summary: Sherlock Holmes sees the finest and most obscure details on every case he works, but there are always things he misses. As his own life is put on hiatus, he is left with only Molly Hooper's life to investigate and finds himself increasingly astonished by his discoveries regarding the life of the woman who helped him cheat death.

Author's Note: The general idea behind this fic was inspired by the old film noir "Laura", in which a detective investigating a woman's death finds himself falling in love with her just by going through her things and learning more and more about her and her life. I have always thought the concept was very romantic. My first Sherlolly, and my first fanfiction after a LONG hiatus. Finally found a ship that makes me want to get at them keys again and type away!

Sherlock Holmes sat on Molly Hooper's sofa, silently contemplating the past couple of days. Molly, for her part, was sitting on a chair, absently picking at a pillow and trying to look at anything but him. He could practically feel the discomfort radiating from her, but wasn't ready to make an effort to ease the tension.

He had to think first.

The day before, he'd jumped off the rooftop of St. Bart's and 'died'. Molly had come through and had done everything they'd planned without missing a detail or hesitating at all. Afterwards, with nowhere else to go, he slipped back to her flat with her where they then proceeded to avoid conversation all evening, both of them emotionally drained. Sherlock himself didn't know whether he should feel relieved or hollow now that the deed was done and everything seemed to have been pulled off successfully...he imagined Molly felt similarly.

He was awake all of the previous night replaying the look on John's face as Sherlock had said what everyone believed to be his final goodbyes to the world, and to John in particular. The actual jump from the roof was a very mild traumatic experience compared to having to deliberately break your only friend's heart.

No, he amended silently to himself, glancing at the woman sitting not five feet from him, chewing her thumbnail to bits. That wasn't something he could say anymore. 'His only friend'.

He had more than one, it seemed.

She left early for work the next morning, determined to put on a 'brave' show for everyone while also making sure nothing slipped through the cracks that she would need to obfuscate after the fact. He'd spent the day lost inside his mind as the adrenaline that had propelled him waned and he could finally process what he had done, and what he needed to do next. Molly had returned from the hospital to find him in more or less the same spot she'd left him, only now he was sitting up. Here they were, half an hour later, and they still hadn't spoken two words to each other.

He glanced at her again, her eyes red-rimmed as she stared at the floor. He wondered what the cause of the redness was...had she been crying, pretending to mourn him as she went about her business despite the whispers and sniggers that had surely dogged her today? Had she slept as badly as he had the night before? Perhaps a combination of both. He didn't know.

All Sherlock knew was that he owed Molly Hooper his life. His friends owed her their lives as well. Somewhere in the most repressed part of his social consciousness, he knew that he had to somehow express not only the gratitude that he felt, but the gratitude that the others didn't know they were supposed to be showing her.

The problem was that he had no idea how to do this.

Not only was he not exactly in his element in situations that required tact and humility, but he was also coming to the disturbing realization that he might not actually have any idea who Molly Hooper really was, and it made him hesitant to interact with her. He felt he was on unfamiliar terrain, and he hated that feeling.

He knew the superficial things. He had thought he'd garnered enough of that information to make fairly accurate assumptions about her personality and how her mind worked. Over the past couple of days, she had proceeded to take his assumptions and tear them to shreds, starting with a single frank, brave and unpretentious conversation that she'd initiated.

Are you okay? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.

He hadn't expected it. He hadn't realized she could be so keenly perceptive. Even John hadn't really noticed his agitation and somehow she had, just by observing.

"Should I make some tea?"

Her soft voice cut through the silence so suddenly that she might as well have screamed. He looked at her then. She had leaned forward in her chair, her palms rubbing her knees absently as she continued trying to avoid looking at him. For some reason, it bothered him.

Sighing, he asked, "Got anything stronger than tea?"

She finally glanced up at him, a bit surprised. Standing quickly, as though she were simply glad to have something to occupy herself with, she padded over to her kitchen and grabbed a bottle and two tumblers out of a cabinet. Coming back to sit down, she set about filling each glass with a generous pour of what turned out to be Red Brest.

He raised an eyebrow, astonished . "Whiskey?"

She shrugged and said, "It's all I've got in."

Sherlock took the glass, watching almost raptly as she swirled the liquid in her glass and took a healthy gulp. She raised her eyes to his, and he blinked before taking a sip of his own. It was good whiskey. He appreciated the burn that traveled down his throat and the warmth as it settled comfortably in his stomach. They sat in silence for another few minutes, both of them finishing their drinks inordinately quickly, before she finally spoke again.

"Are you hungry?"

"No," he answered bluntly, and then added, "You?"

"Not really."

"I will take some more of that, though," he said resignedly, holding out his glass. He rarely drank, but tonight he felt that he – that they had both – needed it. She didn't smile as she refilled his glass, and then her own.

They didn't talk much. No sharing of childhood stories or funny anecdotes or whatever it was that people normally did when they were drinking together. It was a way, he supposed, that they could avoid speaking about the people they knew who they were currently causing to suffer with this charade. They would both no doubt feel guilt wash over them in thinking about them - the broken-hearted few who were crying their tears for the late Sherlock Holmes tonight.

He knew on some level, they should be thinking about those people - but he, at least, couldn't bring himself to dwell on it. Dwelling on it wouldn't help them. He needed his mind to be sharp and anyway, he despised sentiment. Molly seemed to understand all this without needing it explicitly stated because she didn't make any feeble attempts at conversation. She just sat there, her eyes hazy as the alcohol tempered her usual awkwardness, content to simply be company for him without expectation. She was calm and serene.

Again, it occurred to him that this was a Molly Hooper to whom he had never been introduced.

"Well," she said, draining her glass and running a palm across her forehead, "I have to work tomorrow. I should really have gone to bed hours ago."

He nodded absently and twirled his glass in his hands, a bit of whiskey still left in there. She stood up and started to walk out of the room, then stopped and turned back. "You'll be alright in here?"

Sherlock looked up at her and found her staring softly at him, her gaze tinged with concern. Surprisingly, it didn't annoy him as much as it normally would.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry my sofa is so..."

He waited, watching her with uncharacteristic patience as she searched for a word. Finally, she exhaled and concluded with,

"...wonky."

His eyes widened and, before he could censor himself, let out an equally uncharacteristic chortle. It seemed to surprise her, and she smiled back a bit wanly.

"Goodnight," she said softly.

He didn't reply, but instead simply watched her as she retreated into her bedroom and closed her door. After sitting for a good while, he stood and found himself idly scanning Molly's flat. On the surface, everything seemed in line with what he'd always assumed about her – the décor, the furniture, the cat.

Then something had caught his eye...a photograph. He'd walked over and picked it up, and found himself thoroughly confused by what he was looking at.

It was a picture of a man and a teenaged girl. The man had a weathered face and some horribly old-fashioned mutton chop sideburns, and the girl boasted a head of fiery ginger hair. At first he'd thought he didn't recognize them, but then something in the girl's eyes looked familiar...all of a sudden, it dawned on him that the girl was Molly. He stood there for a long time, staring at the picture and trying to reconcile her familiar brown eyes with that startling mane of hair. Eventually he set it down and retreated back to the sofa to think, knowing he wouldn't get much sleep.

He never did manage much sleep when he was presented with a riddle.

People don't develop new personalities overnight, which only left one possibility. That was that even with all the skill he possessed, he had somehow missed things - large and small - about Molly Hooper over the years he'd known her.

He hated it when he missed things.