He just sighed, running his hand over the smooth blanket and falling back onto the pillows, staring up at the nice white ceiling. So here he was, staying with Molly Hooper, about to go meet some sad family and try to clean up their paranormal problems. Oh what a life he led. Sherlock spent a good twenty minutes unpacking, and by unpacking he meant wandering aimlessly around the room, looking for a place to throw his suitcase. He put his tooth brush and hair brush in the attached bathroom, and his book on the bedside table, but other than that he just looked through Molly's closet curiously, judging her fashion sense by the clothes hanging there. She was such a sweet girl, she had all of these sundresses and sweaters and large floppy straw hats, honestly he never deserved a friend like her. She never deserved him, either, in a sense that nice people shouldn't have parasites. Sherlock was just observing the pictures on the wall when he heard something outside his door, a sort of scratching, as if someone was on the ground clawing their way up the hardwood floors. A chill went down Sherlock's spine, wondering what kind of sick, twisted ghosts Molly had unknowingly hanging around her house. The noise continued, now it was at his door, he could hear it scratching against the wood and Sherlock went nearly rigid with fear. It would go away, it had to go away. Sherlock could only hold his breath, wanting dearly to shut his eyes and just wish it all away. But the scratching continued, and he wasn't going to let some mindless spirit out in the hallway stop him from getting out of his room to discover whatever lunch Molly had made. No, he had to face his fears, how horrible this spirit was would determine how many drinks he had tonight at the local bar. So he took a deep breath, walking nearer and nearer to the door, to the source of the scratching. Sherlock took a deep breath and flung the door open, letting out a shriek as a white streak darted by his feet and into his bedroom.
"Sherlock, Sherlock are you alright?" Molly called, coming rushing down the hallway to see Sherlock leaning against the closet, clutching his heart as a pure white cat rubbed up against the legs of the bed.
"Your cat scared me to death; I thought it was some sort of deranged ghost baby." Sherlock admitted, catching his and watching as the cat purred innocently.
"Oh, Helen? She doesn't want to hurt anyone, she's a sweetheart." Molly insisted, walking over and plucking the evil cat from the ground. She walked over so that Sherlock could say hello, but her black eyes seemed to bore into his soul, and he was only able to wave halfheartedly before insisting that Molly put her down. The cat scampered back into the hallway, and Sherlock was left blushing a little bit in embarrassment. What a show he had just put on, molly probably thought he was completely paranoid, not to mention crazy.
"Well on that note, lunch is ready. Are you hungry?" Molly wondered, leading Sherlock out into the hallway and down the stairs.
"Oh yes, that drive really took a lot out of me." Sherlock agreed with a nod. In fact that drive did nothing to increase his appetite, the fact that he had neglected to eat breakfast was probably the cause. When they got downstairs Sherlock was led into the equally adorable kitchen, complete with a high counter, bar stools, odd looking fruits and vegetables on the counter, and little flowered dishes on which she had arranged their lunch feast. Evidently she wanted to make a good impression on her guest, because Sherlock saw that she had a small stack of what looked to be ham and cheese sandwiches, a bowl of potato chips and some sliced vegetables on a plate next to a large pitcher of lemonade. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, and his stomach grumbled happily at the sight of so much food.
"Looks wonderful Molly." He decided with a large smile, helping himself to one of the sandwiches and perching on one of the bar stools. Molly smiled modestly, taking some food for herself and pouring them both tall glasses of lemonade.
"So is it weird being back here?" Molly wondered, standing at the other side of the counter and plucking a sliced carrot from her plate.
"Very weird. It's so peaceful, almost as if the town is trying to make itself seem...acceptable." Sherlock decided.
"That's an odd way to think of it." Molly decided, sounding impressed on his creativity.
"Yes, I suppose." Sherlock said with a shrug. "I told myself I would never come back to this place, it's funny how easily I broke that promise, almost as if I was looking an excuse to return."
"Well, you're here now. It can't be that bad." Molly insisted, looking at him hopefully. Sherlock just smiled at her, trying to assure her that her hospitality was up to par.
"It's wonderful." He assured, and Molly blushed a little bit more.
"So tell me more about this family, what are they like?" Sherlock wondered. Molly wobbled a bit on her heels, obviously thinking hard.
"Well, they have one daughter; I think she's around three, three to five range. Her name is Rosie, she's very sweet. They're nice people you know? Normal people, to think that something like this could happen around here, it's astonishing. I can't see what made that poor man a target." Molly admitted with a sigh.
"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Molly, you should probably have a doctor down here, not some idiot with the sixth sense." Sherlock insisted.
"You're not an idiot." Molly responded quickly, as if that was the only thing she had gotten out of that statement.
"And John's a doctor himself, they both are. Very good doctors I've heard, and pretty wealthy. But they don't show it, they're so modest, they're so nice." Molly said with a smile, as if she were so happy to have friends like the Watsons.
"That's good. Good, money." Sherlock said with a little laugh.
"Do you have a job?" Molly asked curiously. Sherlock just laughed once more, staring down at his lunch almost guiltily.
"I mean, I guess I do." Sherlock shrugged. "I go to people's houses and try to talk to their ghosts, and they pay me. It's not exactly honest work, but it pays the bills."
"That's um...that's nice." Molly muttered, looking almost nervous, as if she felt the need to say something positive.
"What do you do?" Sherlock wondered.
"I work in forensics, for now. I spend a lot of time around dead people as well." Molly said with a smile.
"Forensics? I never would've guessed." Sherlock admitted.
"Oh it's lovely work, but I know I don't really fit the profile." Molly admitted with a guilty little shrug.
"I guess we're both pretty messed up then, huh?" Sherlock wondered. Molly couldn't help but laugh, nodding in agreement and taking another bite of her sandwich.
"Do you ever get that feeling though, when you're around the dead so much?" Sherlock wondered, looking up at Molly curiously.
"That you start to prefer them to living people?" Molly wondered, looking almost hopeful, as if really wishing she weren't crazy. Sherlock just laughed, and Molly retreated a little bit, as if hoping she didn't sound like an idiot.
"Well that too I suppose, but then again, your dead don't talk. Mine might be twice as annoying as the living." Sherlock admitted.
"Then what do you feel?" Molly wondered, looking up at him with observant brown eyes.
"I almost feel...well, it's stupid." Sherlock decided, quickly ending his sentence before Molly kicked him out of her house for being a freak. He knew of course that she would never do that, in fact she was about the only person who had ever kept him around, but still, things changed.
"It's not stupid Sherlock, you're the only one in the world who has this ability, you're bound to feel things that other people don't." Molly assured. Sherlock sighed heavily, poking some potato chips around his purple plate and deciding how he should put this into words.
"I don't know, I just feel like when I spend too much time with the dead, talking to them and stuff, my own humanity slips away. There are times when I can't even tell if I'm living or dead, sometimes I...I walk around my flat and half expect to see my own body lying on the floor. Like I died and never noticed." Sherlock admitted. Molly looked at him in amazement, as if this tragic mindset was simply fascinating.
"Are you serious?" she wondered in a small little voice.
"It's crazy, right?" Sherlock wondered, looking at her hopefully, knowing that she would be one to reassure him.
"No! I mean, well, yes, a little bit, but all in all that's so interesting, have you told this to a mental health expert? I mean, you could be the only person to ever have this fear, this could go down in medical history!" Molly said excitedly, looking as if she were about to jump up in down in excitement. In her own, polite, unknowing way, she was basically calling him a freak, a social outcast, a medical mystery. But she was being so nice about it, putting a positive spin on his powers, that Sherlock almost wondered why he left her behind. No one ever reassured him that he was just an extraordinary human, well, Mrs. Hudson tried to, but being as she was dead that shouldn't really count.
"Well, I guess I never considered a therapist." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"Seriously? Well you should definitely get one; someone like you needs all the help they can get." Molly suggested, serious of course. Then again, she didn't know how horrible that could have been interpreted, so she started stuttering out the correct translation and apologies. Sherlock, however, just laughed, finding her ignorance somewhat charming.
"You're most certainly right. But I find that self-medication usually does the trick." Sherlock decided with a shrug.
"As in...drugs?" Molly wondered in a small little voice. Sherlock shrugged once more, not knowing what else to say to that.
"I mean, not usually, I find that common hallucinogens send me into a very dark place, but sometimes the occasional cigarette calms my nerves." Sherlock agreed.
"So you're talking more alcohol then?" Molly wondered. Sherlock nodded, well, alcohol and the beautiful men that come along with the drinks.
"Yes, I do spend a lot of my time in bars." Sherlock agreed.
"That doesn't sound very healthy." Molly decided. Oh of course, she was being such a health stickler because she worked around dead people, those who had paid the price of their bad habits. Sherlock took that as a silent cue and stopped talking about his pastimes, deciding that there would probably be a better time to mention that, if he ever had to mention it at all. They finished up lunch in silence, finally devoting their time to eating instead of talking when they saw that they were expected at the Watson's very soon. Sherlock changed into a nicer outfit, donning his purple shirt and jacket, making sure his shoes weren't scuffed and his hair was alright. He didn't know why he wanted to make such a good impression, to be honest this Watson family probably meant nothing to him. They were probably just faking it for media attention, or possibly the husband had a problem with sleep walking. Either way Sherlock seriously doubted that it was a possession. He had never seen a possession, nor heard of an occurrence where an actual possession took place, and therefore he had trouble believing. If someone like him hadn't seen such a thing, he severely doubted they existed at all. But nevertheless he pulled on his trench coat and knotted his scarf around his neck, hopping down the stairs to meet Molly in the doorway.
"Ready?" she wondered. Sherlock gave her a nod and a smile, and she pulled open the door and walked down to where her little car was parked. It was a Mini Cooper, an tiny, obnoxiously red car parked right in front of Sherlock's hunk of junk. The car was just so fitting for her that he almost had to laugh.
"Do they live that far away?" Sherlock wondered, remembering that when he was a kid he just walked everywhere. In fact, he couldn't even remember his parents owning a car.
"Ya, well, about a mile. I don't want to walk that far, especially when we're late." Molly admitted, grabbing her keys and getting into the driver's seat. Sherlock sat in the front seat next to her, his legs so cramped in the little thing that his knees almost came up to his chest.
"Well this is...cozy." He muttered sarcastically.
"You can move the seat back if that helps." Molly offered, trying to be as hospitable as possible. In the end Sherlock moved his seat back the slightest bit, not wanting to mess with her seats and more than necessary. They drove in style down the town, Molly was playing some sort of music that Sherlock didn't recognize, it was very chill, very relaxing. Everything about her was just so obnoxiously sweet and girly that it was just adorable, they were such polar opposites and yet they were perfectly compatible. If Sherlock were straight then she would've been a fabulous wife, but considering that he was about as straight as his hair, they would just stick to close friends. Now if Molly had a brother or something, then that would be ideal. The car pulled up alongside the Watson's residence a little bit later, they lived in a small development a little bit way from the town, so they had a driveway where she could park. As soon as Sherlock got out of the car he felt a shiver run down his back, he looked up at this house, a rather old looking brick house, and he just got this very cold feeling, almost hallow.
"This is it." Molly muttered, walking up the nice little cobblestone path. It was easily the oldest house on the block, and one of the only ones without ugly plastic siding. But nevertheless it was preened and neat looking, with a nice garden out front, a porch with some rocking chairs and a wind chimes, it was homey. And yet Sherlock had the strange urge to run. But dispute his gut feeling, he willed himself to keep moving forward, following Molly's swinging ponytail up onto the porch. Molly rang the doorbell, and almost immediately the door swung open.
"Molly!" said a sweet looking blonde woman, giving Molly a hug as soon as she saw her. Sherlock stood rather awkwardly behind her, putting his hands in his pockets so she didn't attempt to hug him as well.
"Mary this is Sherlock, the man I was telling you about. Sherlock, this is Mary, John's wife." Molly said with a smile, introducing them very nicely. Sherlock stepped forward and shook Mary's hand, getting a very warm feeling off of her. He could tell that she had all the best interests in mind, she cared about her husband and her family, and she would do whatever she could to protect them.
"Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you." Sherlock said with a smile, trying to make himself seem all warm and fuzzy as well. But obviously he wasn't too good at that, because Mary drew away rather quickly, and Sherlock's hands returned to his pockets.
"Well come on in, John's in the kitchen with Rosie, putting together some tea." Mary said with a smile, holding the door open so that they could walk into the house. Inside it appeared to be an old farm house, complete with wooden floors and walls, but that sort of old wood, polished so that it shone. The floorboards squeaked as they walked over them into the tiled kitchen, adding a sort of eeriness to their journey. If there was ever a house that was haunted, this would be it. But then again, every house was haunted; every house had some sort of spirit roaming around its walls. So why here, why this sort of evilness? Well that was precisely it, this was random, this was uncalled for, so most likely it wasn't real. When they walked into the kitchen Sherlock's eyes were immediately drawn to the man standing next to the stove. Maybe it was because he radiated a sort of energy different to everyone else in the room, or maybe it was just because he was totally hot. Sherlock was almost taken aback by how attractive that man was, and he knew for sure that he had asked Molly specifically. But her description didn't do him justice, not at all. His hair wasn't just blonde, it was this very odd shade of brownish blonde that shone in the sunlight, he had fairly tanned skin, but not too tan, and a face that was so perfectly arranged that it should probably hang in an art museum. When Sherlock saw John he immediately started to dislike Mary even more, purely because she had gotten to this masterpiece first. But John's beauty wasn't the only thing radiating off of him, there was an aura of coldness, a definite feeling that something wasn't right with that man. John's face broke into a polite smile, walking over to say hello to Molly. The little girl, presumably Rosie, was in a neat little flowered dress, standing on her tiptoes as she went through all of the multiple bags of tea, trying to determine which one she wanted to serve her guests.