Molly had always talked to the dead. The first time was when her great-grandmother, Granny Bea, passed away. Molly was three at the time, but she remembered it with perfect clarity. They'd gone to view the body, laid out at home as tradition demanded, and Granny Bea had asked for her pearl earrings. So Molly had gone upstairs to get them. She'd climbed onto the dresser and after some searching came up with the earrings. She'd brought them back down with her, and when no one was paying attention to her, she'd pulled over Granny Bea's sewing basket and stood on it so she could put the earrings in the casket. Molly remembered they way Granny Bea had smiled and thanked her for being such a helpful girl.
Then her mum had spotted her peering into the coffin and promptly whisked her away. That was all right. Granny had gone once she'd got the earrings she wanted.
Molly didn't see dead people the way the boy did in The Sixth Sense. She'd watched the movie out of personal curiosity and found it interesting. Her own experience was simply different. Unlike the film, she had to be with the bodies of the deceased for them to talk to her. Like the movie, though, they always needed her help. She did what she could for each of them and eventually, they went on their way.
She knew all her life that she was interested in science and medicine. It was her years volunteering at a local hospital when she was a teenager that showed her she did not want to be a doctor or a nurse. The living made her nervous. The dead were much more predictable, their needs simple and specific. So she'd worked hard, scored well on her A levels, attended university, and finally ended up here at St. Bart's.
The dead of St. Bart's were more challenging than most. This was where the unidentified bodies and the violently or mysteriously dead were sent. Their requests were still straightforward, but much more difficult to fulfil. One wanted justice against his murderer. Another wanted her son to know that she'd thought of him when she accidentally drowned. She knew the deads' names because they told her themselves, but her hands were tied until someone with more worldly resources could identify them.
This was why she was always glad to see Greg Lestrade or Sherlock Holmes, and more recently John Watson, come into her morgue. While the presence of the men meant a crime had befallen the body on her table, it also meant a better chance of the deceased receiving the help he or she needed and that Molly couldn't directly give. And Molly could help on both sides. She'd become quite adept at leading Greg and Sherlock towards answers that would give the dead their resolutions.
She smiled at elderly Mr. Acker before sliding his drawer back into the cooler. There'd been no crime in his case. He was an Alzheimer's walk-away who'd sat down on a park bench one afternoon and passed away. It had taken two days to get hold of someone from the right care facility who could put a name to him and contact his family.
"Your daughter will be back in the morning to collect you," she said. "I'm sorry I couldn't get her here quicker for you, but you understand." He didn't answer her. He'd got what he needed and gone. She closed the drawer securely.
It was quiet in the morgue now. No one to chat with. Time to go home.
There would be someone else needing help soon. If not tomorrow, then the next day. Molly was in no rush. There would always be dead people who needed her, and she would always serve them to the best of her ability.