His Best Friend (sherlolly)

2

Slowly my eyes opened. My alarm was going off. Honestly, 7 AM is too early to be waking up. I rolled over and closed my eyes.

"You're going to be late, Molly!" my mothers voice rang in my head. It would appear that I can't get away from her nagging no matter where I am.

I sighed and rolled out of bed. I walked to my closet, not exactly sure what to wear. I settled on a basic blue cardigan. It was soft and warm, something I would need to work in a morgue.

I slipped on a pair of dark skinny jeans, and black flats. I went over to the mirror to see if I looked as awful as I felt. I did.

I smoothed my hair back, but nothing was helping. My hair looked too scraggly for a ponytail, so I attempted a French braid. I looked decent enough.

When I was younger, I would wear full face makeup, but they're aren't exactly a bunch of cute guys to impress in a morgue. Most of them are dead, and the others I would rather throw myself off a cliff than converse with them more than I had to.

I threw on my coat and walked outside, facing the harsh winds that nipped at my cheeks. I'm not hungry in the morning due to midnight snacking, so that usually gave me an extra 5 or 10 minutes.

The walk to work wasn't far at all. Mostly it was navigating through the people, and trying not to get my pockets picked.

I arrived at St. Bartholomew's hospital 10 or 15 minutes later. I didn't look at anyone, and I sure as hell didn't talk to them.

I hopped in the elevator and pressed the button that had a big black "3" printed on it. The button glowed a dim yellow as the shaky room climbed up 3 stories, and came to an abrupt halt.

I stumbled out of the elevator, and headed to the morgue. Working in a morgue is not as creepy as you might think. Most of the time it's elderly people who passed away from old age or cancer. Rarely do I get a body that's ripped up and doesn't have a head, which is good.

My workday was obviously quiet and went fairly fast, so when I heard my phone ding I was surprised to find that it was 6:30 already!

There was two texts from john.

When are you coming over?

Where are you?

Shit. I was supposed to go to his new apartment tonight and I was already late!

I typed a quick reply on how I had lost track if time and I was on my way and hit 'send'.

I packed my things up, and grabbed my jacket. I locked the door to the morgue and made my way downstairs.

I, once again, stepped into the brisk London air. I opened up my phone, and looked up "221B Baker Street Camden, London" the GPS on my phone took me strait to it in less than 20 minutes.

A little restaurant was right by it. It looked very inviting.

I hesitantly knocked on the door, to which an older woman opened the door.

"Oh, hello dear" her soft voice spoke "you must be Molly! Johns right in here." She ushered me in.

The air was heavy with dust in 221B, but I didn't mind.

John was sitting on a chair when I walked in. He was wearing one of his red sweaters. He stood up to greet me.

"Molly..." he huffed. "You're finally here." He clapped his hands together.

I just smiled, knowing he had been waiting there for at least 30 minutes. I felt a tad guilty.

I looked around. The place was quite nice. White wallpaper with these brown sort of... flower things covered one half of it.

The place was messy. Papers everywhere, piled high on a table, books everywhere, some lying on the floor.

I didn't mention the mess, I mean my place was messy, and John had only just moved in, surely a mess was guaranteed.

"How's your new roommate?" I asked. He looked at me and his eyes widened. Then he cracked a smile.

"He's...." John struggled to find the right words "weird." He seemed to settle on.

"Weird?"

"Weird."

After a few moments of extremely awkward eye contact, John looked away."

"Fancy a cup of tea?" he asked. I nodded and he left the room. I sat down on the chair adjacent to his. Minutes later I was sipping some Earl Grey tea out of a fancy white cup.

John and I talked for about an hour. About everything, really. Work, people, the news. Right when I was about to ask him about his mother, a voice scared me half to death.

Behind me, one of the deepest voices I had ever heard croaked.

"John, who's this?"