I might end up writing a Molly oneshot with these snippets, but I also might not. Regardless, enjoy these! (The second one is a 221b.)
Dead bodies have their own language, and they talk to her quietly. She considers herself a reader of their silent last secrets, someone who can help souls rest easier. To her, there’s nothing black about death. Violent deaths are red, or the purples and pea soup greens of half-faded bruises; natural deaths are pale, peaceful yellows and whites. Death is the inevitable rainbow of human experience, not bleak and dark. Molly thinks it’s sad that most people can’t see that.
Molly cries. She’s cried quite a bit since what happened, not because she’s sad—she is a little sad, although she feels she has no right to be—but because of the stress. Her superiors don’t know what to do with her, the woman who worked so closely with Sherlock Holmes. She doesn’t think they’ll let her go, but they’re angry and she worries. She loves her job. And on top of all of that, she has The Secret she can’t possibly tell another living soul. She can only cry it out on the roughest of evenings and whisper it to her corpses during the day.
“You know, he’s not really dead,” she tells them. “He’s off in Russia,” or, “I think he might be in India, but I’m not sure,” or, “The last time he called me from Times Square. Can you believe that? Times Square!”
They can only talk back in their limited death-language, though. Corpses are no good at empathy. She has to smile and flutter and compose a response herself. “I’ve always wanted to go to Times Square,” she’ll say, a little more softly. “I’ve never been.”
She worries her lower lip and wonders if she’s going crazy, but talking to dead people is safer than anything else. Her bodies, unlike other people, unlike her, can’t blab.