May. 20th, 2017 01:09 pm
darnedchild: (Default)
[personal profile] darnedchild
Summary: A short fic for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day Six(Canon Compliant – Season 4). Sherlock said he deletes every text that starts with 'Hi'. Molly wonders if he's fibbing.

Rating: T

A/N - The first scene includes dialogue from "The Six Thatchers".


“Father, we ask you to send your blessings on this water.” Vicar Thomlin drew the sign of the cross in the baptismal font. “And sanctify it for our use this day, in Christ’s name.”

He turned to Mary, John, and their tiny baby. “Now, what name have you given your daughter?”

John and Mary share a look, then Mary proudly told the Vicar, “Rosamund Mary.”

As if he were surprised, Sherlock lifted his gaze from his phone for a moment. “Rosamund?”

“Means ‘rose of the world’,” Molly whispered. She smiled. “Rosie for short.”

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes before returning his attention to his phone.

“Didn’t you get John’s text?” she asked, wondering if there was some chance John had accidentally forgotten to inform Sherlock of the latest (and final, thank goodness) name choice.

“No, I delete his texts.” His thumbs continued to fly across the mobile screen. “I delete any text that begins, ‘Hi’.”


Molly was bored. The morgue was quiet, nothing waiting to be dealt with in the lab, not even a pouty Sherlock hoping to weedle access to body part out of her.

She drummed her fingers atop her desk and wrinkled her nose, pulling open the top desk drawer in the hopes for a bit of inspiration. Her eyes fell upon her mobile and Molly snatched it up.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day of Rosie’s Christening. Sherlock had said that he deleted John’s texts, that he deleted any text that started with hi out of hand.

Was he fibbing, she wondered. Molly tried to remember how many, if any, texts she’d sent him over the years that might have begun with the friendly greeting. Surely there had to be some. Of course, most of their text conversations were about his work, and she tried to strive for a professional tone in those.

The three dreadfully long hours left on her shift made the decision for her, really. Molly pulled up his contact information and sent a text.

Hi. Bored silly. I’ve found kidney in the back of the freezer this afternoon. I was going to dispose of it, but I thought you might like to observe the effects of freezer burn.

An hour later Sherlock and John walked into the morgue.

“Oh, did you get my text?”

Sherlock leaned back against one of the examine tables, and casually crossed his ankles. “Hmm? No, was it important? Gavin-“

“Greg,” John corrected without a hint of heat in his voice. Clearly it was something he was used to doing at this point.

“-should be here within the hour. He’s got what could be a seven, possibly an eight; and he’s promised to make sure the body gets sent here.”

That should leave her plenty of time to get ready, and still have time to kill.

As if he’d read her mind, Sherlock grinned at her and slapped his hands together. “So, what do you have to keep me out of trouble in the meantime?”


Two days later she sent another text.

Hi. Read about your case in the paper. Your seven turned out to be a nine, then? Nurse Meghan in OB says you are ‘extremely lickable’, in case you’re interested.

That should earn her a ‘Don’t make jokes, Molly’ or a ‘Why would I be interested, you know I’m married to my work’ if Sherlock actually read it.

She went to bed without receiving a reply.


It became a habit over the next few months. Whenever she was bored or distracted—or even just wanting to talk to someone—she would send him a text. Each one started with ‘Hi.’

Hi. Mary said you took her on a case and left John with Rosie. That sounds fun. If you ever need a pathologist running around with you, I’ll volunteer!

Hi. Pasta and pork in the canteen again. Reminded me of the night you asked me to bring out the two murder victims so you could look at their feet. I’ve thought about getting a tattoo. Cherries, maybe. Haven’t figured out where, though.

Hi. Rough day. Back to back to back autopsies. Nothing you would be interested in. Gonna veg out in front of the telly with some ice cream. Maybe take a bath.

Hi. I know you don’t read these, but sometimes I like to pretend you do, and that you smile just a bit when you see that someone is thinking about you. Not for a case, just because. I hope you have a good night, Sherlock.

Hi. I miss sex. Meena says I should just go out to a bar and find a guy, but that just seems so cold. What if he’s absolute rubbish in bed? It would be very disappointing to go to all that trouble only to find out he doesn’t even know where the clitoris is.

Hi. Met a guy (not at a bar), offered to make him dinner on our third date. Toby threw up in his shoes. Turns out Toby is a great judge of character. He’s always liked you, hasn’t he?

Hi. You wore that purple shirt into the lab again. Do you purposely buy your clothes a size too small? You do know the buttons aren’t supposed to strain quite that much, right? Not that I’m complaining. As a matter of fact, give me the name of your tailor and I will personally give that man a huge tip.

Hi. Mary is a horrible horrible awesome friend. She got me very very tipsy. She bet me I wouldn’t tell you that I would like you to bend me over your chair and make me scream. By shagging me. In case there was any confusion. Consider this me telling you. Ha, I win the bet! Bite me, Mary.

Hi. I apologize for everything I wrote last night. I was drunk, which is a horrible defence, but it’s all I have. Thank God, you don’t read these. I could barely look at you today without wanting to die from embarrassment. And the hangover. Mostly embarrassment.

Hi. I heard about your case. I know everyone else has already told you that it’s not your fault, you can’t save them all. You’re probably sick of hearing it. But it’s true. Remember how many people you’ve helped, Sherlock. How many lives you’ve made better. The world needs you. I need you.

Hi. You’re right, Steve was a jerk. How did you even know, you met him for maybe five minutes? Maybe I should take your advice and just stop dating all together. That’s a depressing thought.

He never responded.


Molly leaned back in her office chair nearly three months after she’d started using the texts to Sherlock as her personal diary. Yet again, there was another long and boring afternoon stretching out before her. And then she had errands to run after that, which she was definitely not looking forward to. She pulled out her mobile and sent off a quick text.

Hi, Sherlock. Dreading going shopping, but a girl needs new knickers from time to time. I’m thinking something lacy. Thoughts? I wonder what your favourite colour is?

Ten minutes later, the morgue phone trilled with an incoming call from dispatch, letting her know there was a high priority body coming in, and DI Lestrade would be following close behind.

Molly was ready and already leaning over the body, taking photos of a strange discoloration on the victim’s cuff, when Greg, John, and Sherlock arrived.

“Hey, Molly,” Greg offered in greeting as he came to stand at the foot of the exam table.

John offered his own hello. Molly answered them both in a slightly distracted manner as she discovered a shard of plastic embedded deep enough into the shirt material that it had punctured the skin below.

“Sherlock, look at this.”

He bent down until he was eye level with the body’s wrist, and pulled out his magnifying glass. “Mmm. Could be something, could be nothing.” He straightened and looked down at her, one brow arched inquisitively. “Thoughts, Molly?” He dragged the last two words out in a way that seemed to attach quite a bit of significance to them.

Her mouth went dry and her stomach clenched. He couldn’t have. He didn’t read her texts, not those texts. “I-I wouldn’t hazard a guess yet, I’ve only just begun.”

“Right.” Greg looked back and forth between them. “Sherlock, you’ve got any theories to share with the class?”

Just like that, Sherlock was all business, and Molly realized she must have imagined the whole thing.

Eventually he had run out of observations, Greg had run out of questions, and John had run out of patience. “I hate to interrupt the party, but I need collect Rosie from the creche. Mrs Hudson is willing to watch Rosie for a few hours, but she doesn’t have a car seat for pick up.”

“Drop you off at your place and you can meet up with us at Baker Street?” Greg offered as they headed toward the door.

“Oh, Molly?” Sherlock called her name.

“Yes?” She looked up from the corpse on her table, her mind already focused on the samples Sherlock and Greg wanted her to collect.

He shrugged into his coat and moved to follow the other two men. “It’s Red.”


“Cherry red. You wanted to know my favourite colour.” Then he winked and disappeared through the morgue door before she could think of anything coherent to say.

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