Sherlolly Oneshots

'Til Death Do Us Part

Sherlock Hooper-Holmes's gravestone was the farthest to the right among the lineup of the Holmes family.  Siger Holmes, Violet Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and, finally, Sherlock Holmes. 

His gravestone was newer compared to the others.  Sleek and marble, the letters of the name carved into the front bold yet elegant.

It fits him, Molly Hooper—Holmes decided as she stood, staring at it, wisps of her grey hair falling in front of her face and dancing in the wind.  Her chin was tucked towards her chest and hands clasped in front of her.  A sad smile had worked its way upon her lips, however she had told herself she wouldn't cry.

/

"Are you going to cry when I die, my love?"

"Well it wouldn't come as much of a surprise if I did.  And how can you be so certain you will die first?  You're not much older than me."

"I just know."  Sherlock planted a kiss on Molly's forehead, his pale thumb brushing across the wrinkled skin of her cheek.  "Don't cry when I do.  You'll make me sad."

"No I won't.  You'll be dead." Was Molly's reply, though she pressed into Sherlock's hand.

"Ah, my little pathologist" the elder consulting detective chuckled lightly, "always the pragmatist."

/

Molly smiled.  Pragmatist she may be, but at that very moment, she swore that if she closed her eyes for a moment she could sense him standing right next to her, facing towards his grave but with his eyes trained on her.  She let out a small scoff.  He was waiting for the tears to come. 

Molly looked up, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear.  She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Molly."  The elderly pathologist blinked when she heard her name choked from behind her.  She turned, only to see the slightly hunched figure of John Watson emerge from the throng of people.  Surprised, Molly opened her mouth but no words came out.  It had been almost a full year since she had seen John.  His limp, the psychosomatic one that Sherlock so tirelessly tried to rid him of, seemed to have return when Molly saw the cane in his hand.  Lately, it had been coming on and off.  Sherlock had worked quite hard to get rid of it in his free time.

"John!"  Molly finally managed to exclaim, "I'm glad you could make it." 

"Your limp."  Molly could practically hear the scorning voice of Sherlock murmur in her ear, making her feel somewhat obliged to repeat it.

"Your limp," she murmured.  John looked at the cane he was holding and grinned.

"It's not back, actually.  I thought it would be, so I brought the cane.  Not to mention I figured it would annoy the bloody bastard," John's gaze flicked to Sherlock's grave.  A knowing look passed over the faces of Molly and John, and they turned to the grave.

"So he's really gone this time," Molly heard John whisper from beside her.

"That he is," was her reply.  She turned her gaze to the old man, eyeing the deep wrinkles upon his face, "he lived a good life, I think."

John met her gaze, a small smile upon his lips, "I think he did.  Not only did he manage to snag you and have two gorgeous kids and grandchildren," both their gazes flicked back to the smaller, assembled crowd behind them, "but he managed to stay a bloody nuisance through every last second of it."

Molly hummed in approval, nodding.  She had missed John.  She was glad he could be there with her, it reminded her of the old days.  A small grin formed on her lips.  She knew Sherlock would scold her for thinking like that.