My dad and I were having a conversation about John Wayne Gacy(a serial killer in the 70s who was also a clown). Anyways, while he was doing this he was married to this lady named Carole. Well, I turned to my dad and said “Why would you even marry a clown?!” And my dad says “Why would you marry a serial killer?!” And I just mumbled, “Depends on the serial killer…” like wHAT HAS JIM MORIARTY DONE TO ME TO MAKE ME THIS WAY
Sherlock fully expects that he is ready for fatherhood, but not even he is prepared to deal with the sleepless nights that accompany having a child. and so that is why one night john wakes up to a phone call from molly asking him for help aka pls take sherlock out on a case or something I beg of u and the first thing he hears is a loud crying noise in the background and he asks, “is that the baby?”
The coffin was small, lined in creamy satin. Sherlock stared at the offending box, frowning. It was wrong. Nobody fancied facing this sort of box, the final resting place for all. It had left a bad taste in his mouth since the Sherrinford incident. Seeing a similar coffin, this time meant for a much smaller occupant was not any easier.
“Sherlock,” he heard her voice behind him and turned. His gaze fell to what she carries, and suddenly the lump in his throat can’t be ignored anymore. “I thought this might be better…”
In Molly’s hands was a small chest, a proper treasure chest with a padlock and key.
“I just thought…” she trailed off, shrugging. “I thought maybe this might be more suitable.”
He took a step closer, there was a small engraved plaque on the top. It read:
‘Victor Trevor - Beloved Friend, ‘Pirate’’
“It’s quite-” Sherlock paused, touching his mouth with a crooked finger, unable to gather himself for a moment. He blinked twice, hoping to clear his vision. Heaving a sigh, he managed to swallow his tears. “It’s quite acceptable.”
“None of this is acceptable,” Molly shook her head, still holding the box, shaking her head. She looked at the child’s bones laid on the slab. “But it is what it is.”
Sherlock nodded, silent. For a moment, neither spoke.
“I didn’t feel right…” he said at last. “Not giving him a proper burial…his family is gone and…I couldn’t leave him.”
“No of course not,” Molly soothed.
“Will you-” he glanced at the table, then back to her, trembling. He gestured to the bones and then the far doors leading to the crematorium.
“I’ll see to it, I’ve asked if I could be the one,” she said, understanding what he wanted. “I’ll stay all night, and make sure nothing happens, I promise.”
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He stepped closer, pressing her cheek reverently. “Thank you.”
“Go home,” she urged gently. “Go rest and mourn, this has been a long time coming.”
Wordlessly he nodded, and turned.
He only got as far as the door.
She turned at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
“I wonder…I wonder if I could stay,” he shifted, looking at the floor a moment. “Please?”
Molly didn’t know what to say for a moment.
“The thing is,” hands in his pockets, he kept on staring at the floor, willing the tears that hung in his eyes to go away. “We never had a proper sleepover…Victor and I…we’d talked of it, our mums were planning the weekend but it um…never-” he shrugged, sniffling, looking up and around the room, anywhere but Molly.
She set the trunk down with a soft ‘thump’, crossing the room. Gathering him in her arms, she held him close. After a moment, he returned the embrace, burying his head in the crook of her neck. He cried only for a few moments, and Molly said nothing when he gently extricated himself from her, knowing he needed to regain control of himself for his own comfort.
“Go and fetch your violin,” she urged. “Go on, and something for dinner. I’ll be here, getting things ready,” he understood she did not want him to feel obligated to watch her place the remains in the crematorium. “It will be all set by the time you get back. You can tell me all about him while we eat.”
He regarded her with no small degree of thankfulness, grateful that she was in his life at this moment. Kissing her gently, he cupped her face, thumbing away the tracks of tears on her cheeks, she returned the favor, eyes shining, her smile gentle and strong.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he promised, and with one final kiss, headed out the door.
Quietly, Molly set to work, still blinking back tears.
“Come along,” she said, more to herself than to the remains. She gathered the tray of bones. “It’s time you were laid away at last.”
If Sherlock would find comfort and closure in staying while Victor Trevor’s remains were cremated, Molly would give him that. If he found solace in keeping the chest of ashes in Baker Street, rather than the plot of land in the orchard where he’d grown up, she would give him that too. It was a chapter of his life that had been left open for far too long, one that she was certain Sherlock would finally receive great relief in finally being able to close.