The bathtub would make a good crying nook, I’d decided. Narrow, contained, and just comfortable enough to wallow in self pity in for hours on end, but still hard and cold enough so as to not be too kind to myself.
I curled up ready for a good sob, but there’s a knock at the door.
‘Miss Hooper, Molly, I know you’re in there. I can smell your perfume.’
Oh, this is awkward. Confession time: I’m not hiding in my own bathtub and I’m not in my bathroom....or even my flat....Ok, maybe it isn’t such a good place to have breakdown after all...But in my defense my near perfect boyfriend, Harold - the name being the only imperfection - had just dumped me on a packed tube carriage and there was no way I was going to stick around to cry in front of all those embarrassed commuters, so I leapt off at the first station not even caring which one it was.
I was in a daze and I don’t remember Mrs Hudson letting me in. She must have thought me a client. I just knew the address: 221B Baker Street, that’s where people go when they need help but no one but him can help.
The door opens and I briefly think about snatching at a towel to hide under, but that would be one step too far towards madness. I’m not sure that I care too much in any case.
Sherlock Holmes - or The Jerk as I sometimes think of him - is a recent acquaintance. He sneaks into my corner of the hospital and beats the corpses with a riding crop. He can be rude, but I think he’s okay. He certiantly likes to think of himself as being the smartest person in the room, because he is usually.
Right now, he just looks baffled.
‘Why are you crying in my bathtub?’ he eventually asks. ‘Obviously, I can see your boyfriend has just ended things with you, quite brutally, but why are you here?’
I glance around the room searching for inspiration.
‘It just seemed like a good place to hide from the world. Don’t you ever feel like hiding?’
For a moment the cold mask of arrogance slips and a softer expression shows on his face. He comes sits by the tub.
‘Sometimes,’ he admits. ‘You’ll be okay, Molly, you’ll find someone.’
Fat tears begin to fall once more.
‘I don’t understand people,’ I choke, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘I mean, when they’re corpses they’re easy to understand, but when alive....they don’t make sense....that’s why my relationships don’t last...I’m a freak, Sherlock. I’ll always be alone.’
I jump when I feel his hand close around mine. I open my eyes, he’s looking so tenderly at me.
‘You won’t be alone because I’ll be your boyfriend,’ he says.
‘What? But we don’t know each other.’
He brushes the wet strands of hair out of my eyes. The light touch of his fingertips against my skin sends a chill down my spine. I’ve never felt anything like it before.
‘Isn’t love not being able to stop thinking about one another?’ he whispers, sounding unsure of himself. ‘To think that someone is the most beautiful, interesting person in the world? To care about them? And to not be afraid of being vulnerable in front of them? I think that’s what love must be, although I’ve never been in love before, but I feel it for you, Molly. I felt it since I first saw you eight weeks and three days ago. Would you like me to be your boyfriend?’
I rest my face again the warm palm of his hand and nod.
‘I think I love you too,’ I hear myself say.
‘Perhaps we can figure love out together? Please stay.’
I can’t help but laugh a little with relief and happiness and sadness and shame and confusion, a huge mixed up swirl of emotions I can’t identify. I just know I feel strongly. I want to laugh and cry and dance around and bite and kiss, kiss, kiss him.
‘I’d like that. I’ll stay,’ I say shakily, clinging to him for comfort. ‘Please hold me.’
He sits on the side of the tub and wraps his arms tightly around me, rocking me, kissing my hair.
This might be love, feeling safety and exhilaration all at the same time.
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