DC (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darnedchild) wrote2016-01-15 04:11 pm
darnedchild) wrote2016-01-15 04:11 pm
Entry tags:
- (admin) smut,
- (character) anthea (sherlock),
- (character) janine (sherlock),
- (character) martha hudson,
- (character) mary morstan/watson,
- (character) molly hooper,
- (character) mycroft holmes,
- (character) sherlock holmes,
- (event) sherlolly big bang challenge,
- (fandom) sherlock,
- (ship) sherlock/molly,
- (title) a vicious motivator
A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Two
Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.
She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.
Chapter Two
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
A foul taste in her mouth and a faint pounding in her head were the first things Molly noticed as she woke up.
Next was the realization that she was definitely not in her own bed. Her sheets are soft, but not nearly this soft. The mattress was much more comfortable than her sturdy, serviceable one. The warm light from the window was on the wrong side.
One eye cracked open just enough to confirm her suspicion that she wasn't in her own bedroom, then snapped shut while her mind scrambled to put two and two together to get an answer that didn't equal her tucked into the extremely comfortable bed of Sherlock Holmes. Because the very idea was incredibly unlikely, utterly insane, and far too exciting to fully appreciate while she was miserably hung-over.
She gave up trying to convince herself she was wrong, and screwed up the courage to open both eyes to face the day. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you wanted to look at it) the other side of the bed was empty and unrumpled, so she had clearly slept alone. Sherlock had left a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer tablets on the nightstand next to the bed; and Molly carefully sat up so she could make use of them. Once she'd downed most of a fizzy glassful, she finished taking stock of her situation.
She was wearing Sherlock's shirt from the night before, and a quick check reassured her that she was still wearing her knickers. Not that there had really been much of a likelihood that she wouldn't have been. Her bra, however, seemed to have disappeared along with the rest of the things she'd been wearing the evening before, and there was no sign of the clothing she'd had on when she originally arrived at the flat. She had changed into her disguise in the bathroom; she clearly remembered leaving her things draped over the towel rack so perhaps they were still in there. Sherlock had left a dressing gown across the foot of the bed, for which she was very grateful.
It took a few moments for her to wrestle the gown on and adjust it enough that she was no longer in danger of tripping over the hem. She had to roll up the cuffs and fluff the sides up over the tied belt until her feet were visible. Molly was nearly covered from neck to foot, and yet she felt extremely exposed as she carefully shuffled her way to the bathroom. The towel rack was bare other than a haphazardly hung bath towel that was in danger of sliding off the rod. No clothes. But there was a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging, on the rim of the sink. Someone had also cleaned up the detritus from her first aid efforts the night before.
She mumbled, "Bless you, Sherlock Holmes," through a mouthful of toothpaste once her teeth no longer felt fuzzy and the rancid taste had left her tongue.
A look in the mirror told her that her hair was a rat's nest. She borrowed his comb without a second thought. Her scalp hurt by the time the last of the tangles had been dealt with, but she was finally starting to feel human again. A shower would have made things even better, but there was no way that was going to happen until she managed to get back to her own flat. And that would require figuring out where her clothes had disappeared to.
Eventually, when she could delay it no longer, Molly went searching for Sherlock. She poked her head out of the bathroom, then eased into the short hall just far enough to see that he wasn't in the kitchen. There was, however, a plate of fry-up on the kitchen table. Tentatively, as if she were a cautious mouse afraid of being pounced on by the household cat, Molly crept into the room and snatched up a piece of toast. It was buttery and still warm, and surprisingly delicious considering the state of her hangover.
Sherlock was in the sitting room, sprawled in his chair. His long legs were stretched in front of him, ankles crossed. Unlike her, he was fully dressed. His hands were steepled together under his chin, eyes open but unfocused. She assumed he was tucked away in his mind palace as he was wont to do.
Her gaze remained on Sherlock as she finished her toast. Other than an eye twitch or two, his expression never changed. It was a bit of a relief, really, that he was lost in his thoughts. When he was like this she could prance around the flat naked and he'd never notice. Considering her state of near undress, she practically felt as if she were.
She quickly devoured a sausage link, then quietly moved into the sitting room to look for her things. With any luck she'd find her clothes, get changed, and be gone long before Sherlock returned from his mental excursion.
Unfortunately, they weren't there. She remembered leaving her coat on John's chair; but it and her purse had been hung up on the back of the door next to Sherlock's Belstaff. Someone had taken the time to line her shoes up next to a pair of worn house slippers that had seen much better days. None of her other things were visible. John's chair was empty, the table in front of the sofa was clear. She even double checked the kitchen, just in case she'd somehow managed to miss them on her first pass through.
"She's got them."
Molly started, and spun around to see that Sherlock was no longer in his mind palace. He was watching her. She gathered the dressing gown tighter, hands holding it closed at her neck as if she were someone's prim maiden aunt. "Pardon?"
"Mrs Hudson. She took them earlier; to put into the wash, she said. Didn't want you toddling off looking like some sort of rumpled walk of shame. Whatever that means. She brought you something to eat, which I can see you've already found."
"She brought me food?" She realized how ridiculous she sounded the moment the words left her lips. Who else would have made breakfast for her, if not Mrs Hudson.
"Didn't I just say?" Sherlock frowned, eyes shifting to the side as if he were running through their brief conversation to confirm he had actually spoken aloud. Seconds later his gaze returned to her. "You look like death warmed over."
"Always the flatterer, you are," Molly mumbled under her breath, well aware that she wasn't at her best. From the way he tilted his head slightly and the narrowing of his eyes, she knew Sherlock had heard her.
"Are you always so out of sorts early in the morning, or is just because you're hung-over?"
Molly opened her mouth to issue what would surely have been a scathing retort, if only she could have thought of one. Her jaw snapped shut again, and she settled for a glare, which he promptly ignored.
"Eat your breakfast, then go clean yourself up. Take a shower, you'll feel better. Definitely look and smell better. I suggest you stay in there long enough to let your pores fully open and purge the last of the alcohol out of your system. Your things should be dry by the time you're done."
The urge to turn around and lock herself in the bathroom for a good cry was strong. Sherlock had never been one to pull his punches simply to spare someone's feelings, so Molly had no idea why she would have expected him to do so in this instance. Still, it hurt.
"I don't feel like eating." She could hear the sullen whine in her voice, and silently prayed for some form of divine intervention to extract her from her current predicament.
"Of course you do, you've already had a piece of toast and some sausage. For God's sake, I can hear your stomach complaining from over here. Stop being petulant and eat, Molly."
Utterly uncomfortable and wanting nothing more than to escape from the flat--from Sherlock, from life in general at the moment--she reluctantly settled into one of the kitchen chairs and studiously ignored him as she finished the meal that Mrs Hudson had prepared for her.
Sherlock didn't say another word while she was eating; and a brief glance in his direction as she put the empty plate in the sink showed her that he was once again deep in thought.
Grateful to no longer be under observation, Molly disappeared into the bathroom to take her shower.
Half an hour later, when she finally emerged from behind the shower curtain, her clothes were waiting on the toilet lid, nicely folded.
Molly hoped--really and truly hoped, with all her heart--that Mrs Hudson had been the one to put them there. That it may have been Sherlock . . .
That there was a tiny chance that Sherlock Holmes had been in the same room while she was wet and naked, separated from her by only a thin shower curtain . . .
Would it be worse to think that he might have been tempted to peek behind the curtain, or that he hadn't been tempted at all? She wouldn't, couldn't, let herself contemplate either option at the moment.
It took most of her willpower, and a brief pep talk, to get her out of the bathroom and into the sitting room.
He wasn't there. He wasn't in the flat, period.
Rather than the relief she should have felt, there was a small wave of disappointment that she struggled to ignore.
She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered Sherlock's comment about a walk of shame. He may not have understood the reference, but Molly did. If Mrs Hudson had bothered to mention it to him, then she must have thought that Molly and Sherlock had . . .
Shite. Double shite.
Molly redoubled her efforts to sneak out of the building as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, luck was not on her side. She was nearly to the front door when she heard the one to Mrs Hudson's flat open behind her.
"Good morning. I see Sherlock managed to pass on your things before he left, then?"
Molly turned to discover the older woman leaning against her doorframe with a knowing grin.
It had been Sherlock. He'd been in the bathroom. While she'd been in the shower. She filed that information away to thoroughly panic over later.
"It's not what it looks like." Molly winced, horrified to hear her denial come out as high-pitched squeak.
Mrs Hudson shook her head and came closer. "Oh, I don't judge, dear. I was young once, too, you know. I remember the things Frank and I used to get up to when we were dating. A little dress-up and role play to spice things up was probably the least of it."
Molly's horror level went up several notches. "I--uh--but we didn't . . . It was for a case!"
"That's what Sherlock said when he brought my things back this morning. That he'd borrowed them for a case." Mrs Hudson winked at Molly. She actually winked.
"Still, I told him there were plenty of stores out there that sold that sort of thing. You can even order them off the internet now, if you're worried about being spotted going into a specialty shop or whatnot. That scarf was expensive, and I was very cross to hear that it had been ruined."
Admittedly, the exact details of everything that had happened between leaving the bar and when she'd woken up in Sherlock's bed were a little fuzzy, but Molly was fairly certain the scarf had been fine when Sherlock had taken it off of her. Unless something happened to it after she'd fallen asleep?
"Sherlock's offered to replace it, of course; but I told him he really needs to plan ahead next time. He can't be digging through my things every time he gets the urge to tie up his girlfriend."
Molly coughed and choked hard enough that Mrs Hudson felt the need to pat her on the back a few times.
"It's okay, dear. I've read those Fifty Shades books." There was that wink again. "Live and let live, that's what I like to say."
Molly literally had no clue how to respond to that. Plenty of half-formed options floated through her head, but not one of them managed to make it to her lips.
"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you both. Sherlock's been so lonely since John left. I never thought he'd get over that break up. But it's so sweet how they've remained friends. Still close enough for him to be John's best man at the wedding. That's a true bond, that is. Not everyone can stay on such good terms with their ex."
Molly sputtered something that must have sounded like an agreement because Mrs Hudson took it as her cue to keep talking.
"I don't think he even stopped feeling lonely when that woman was still coming 'round all the time and staying the night. I never did like her. What's her name? Jenny? Geraldine? Unimportant really. She kept hinting that Sherlock should change this or stop doing that, moving things around his rooms; and you know how Sherlock hates to have someone move his things. She even asked me why I kept coming upstairs to tidy up when I went up to bring him tea, accusing me of being nosy, as if she had some right. I don't know why he put up with her constantly being underfoot for so long."
"He said it was for a case, Mrs Hudson."
"Everything is always for a case with him, isn't it? Well, I suppose it makes more sense than the two of them actually dating. She never did seem to be his type. You know, I don't think Sherlock ever spent more than a handful of nights here when she was staying over. I remember thinking how strange it was, to find her upstairs alone in the mornings, and Sherlock popping in after being out all night, just as she was leaving for work. Almost as if he'd timed it that way on purpose."
As he had spent several of those nights tucked into her bed whilst she had tossed and turned on her own sofa, Molly had been well aware that Sherlock had ditched his girlfriend on several occasions. He'd told her that it was difficult to think with Janine laying next to him--something about the sound of her breathing setting his teeth on edge--and that he'd needed the peace and quiet of Molly's flat to concentrate. She'd thought it odd that a man who had never before bothered with a girlfriend would finally get one, then spend so much time trying to avoid her. Then again Molly found most of the things Sherlock did to be odd, so she'd simply agreed and resigned herself to being kicked out of her own room from time to time.
Sherlock's unscheduled visits and the way he would take over her bedroom with very little notice had annoyed Tom to no end. Sherlock hadn't been the sole reason behind the end of her engagement, but his nearly unrestricted presence in her flat had caused a fair amount of tension between her and Tom. It had also instigated the fight that had been the death blow to the relationship. The final straw had been the morning Tom had shown up unexpectedly and discovered Sherlock impatiently waiting outside her bathroom while she'd been in the shower. Sherlock had been wearing her best dressing gown, a cream coloured bit of satin froth that Tom had given her shortly after they'd become engaged. Molly herself had only worn it a handful of times. She'd tried to make light of the incident by pointing out that at least he'd been wearing something since Sherlock preferred to sleep in the nude; which, in retrospect, had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
Tom had refused to let her explain that she only knew about Sherlock's sleeping habits because John liked to tell very amusing anecdotes about all the various times he'd seen Sherlock wrapped in only a sheet. Even once at Buckingham Palace, strangely enough. And then there was the especially hilarious story about the time Sherlock had forgotten (or just didn't care) he had a flatmate, and had wandered into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea--completely starkers, not even a sheet--only to find John speaking with a potential client. John had regaled everyone at Mrs Hudson's last birthday dinner with that one (complete with a pantomime). Tom hadn't stuck around to hear Molly try to retell it.
Mrs Hudson was still talking, shaking her head in disapproval. "I've seen in the papers that they've been out a few times since they broke up. I just figured they were trying to give it a go, again. See if they could make it work, you know? It was always such a relief each time when nothing much seemed to come of it. Does that make me a horrible person, being happy that Sherlock can't make it work with that woman? Although, if it really was just for a case, I suppose it doesn't matter what I think, does it?"
Molly eyed the front door, and wondered if Mrs Hudson would notice if she were to slip out.
"Sherlock never acted himself around her, did he? Too attentive. Too . . . affectionate. Extremely unsettling to see, really. Unnatural. Anyway, I'm sure you'll make him so much happier."
Mrs Hudson seemed to be winding down. Molly saw her opening and jumped on it. "Uh huh. Thank you for washing my things and breakfast, and it's been lovely to talk to you this morning; but I really, really need to get home and feed my cat."
"Of course, dear. You let me know next time you're coming over, and I'll make sure there's something to nibble on in his cupboards. You know Sherlock never remembers to do the shopping."
"Right. I'll be sure to do that." Molly scampered before Mrs Hudson offered to pick up contraceptives to tuck into Sherlock's nightstand, or something equally inappropriate.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Since Molly had slept later than usual--Thank you for nothing, Sherlock.--there hadn't been time to swing by her place before she had to leave for work. The weather was nice enough and she thought stretching her legs would help work off the last of her hang-over, so Molly decided to walk to Barts.
On the way, she called Jacob, her neighbour, to see if he'd be willing to pop across the hall to feed Toby. He'd offered to send his husband over, much to her relief. The chances of discovering a particularly nasty hairball in her house slippers dropped considerably if Toby's feeding schedule remained consistent. She'd listened the entire walk to Barts as Jacob explained that Mike had taken a work holiday, and wouldn't be leaving on any business trips for an entire week. They were planning to explore London as if they were a pair of tourists. A second honeymoon according to Jacob, who had been giddy about the idea.
Molly didn't even try to pretend she wasn't envious of how happy the couple were. It had been a tiny bit of a relief to end the call as she walked through the doors of the hospital.
Her morning was busy--two suspicious deaths, both straight forward enough not to warrant Sherlock's interest, thankfully--and she'd been very grateful for Mrs Hudson's thoughtfulness in making her breakfast.
Now, however, it was nearing one and Molly was starving. Meena had made her swear that they'd meet up for lunch; and thanks to her afternoon line-up of an arson victim and several hours of backlog in the lab, the hospital canteen was the obvious option.
Even if the food occasionally made her want to crawl onto one of her slabs and wish for death. She'd learned to avoid the gluten-free eggplant parmesan for just that reason.
Once she finished passing through the line and paying for her tuna melt and crisps, Molly paused to look for her friend. It didn't take her long to realize that she wasn't the only one looking at the very pretty black woman waiting at a small table.
Molly set her tray down on the table and took a seat next to her friend. "The radiology intern seems very keen on you."
She nodded in his direction and they both turned their full attention on the newest addition to the hospital. After realizing he'd been caught staring, the gentleman quickly looked away and began gathering up the remains of his lunch.
Meena shook her head and grimaced. "Nah."
Molly continued studying the man in question, her lips turned down in slight frown. "What's wrong with him? He seems fit enough."
"Dumber than a lamp post." Meena's expression started to turn cold as the intern finished shoving his things onto his tray, squared his shoulders, and began to head in their direction. "Case in point, neither of us looks at all welcoming or encouraging, and yet he's coming over."
She turned her head slightly toward Molly and lowered her voice just enough to keep from being overheard by anyone at the next table. "Clarisse in reception dated him for a few weeks, said he was rubbish in bed. Utterly apparent that he had somehow managed to make it through most of med school without cracking the spine of a single anatomy textbook."
Molly snorted, then broke into a fit of giggles.
He stopped next to their table and cleared his throat.
"Nope." Meena shook her head before he had a chance to say a single word. "I'll save you the bother; neither of us is interested in coffee, or dinner, or whatever else you were thinking about suggesting."
He flicked a glance toward Molly, who had finally managed to contain her giggles.
Meena continued, "Listen, you seem like a sweet guy from what I've been hearing, so I'll help you out. Barbara, up on the second floor, thinks you're cute. And, most importantly, she doesn't run in the same circles as your ex Clarisse so . . . You've already got that going for you."
He looked confused, and Molly didn't blame him. "Thanks? I think?" He fidgeted, shifting his weight from side to side for a second. "Second floor, you said?"
"Second floor. Barbara. Tall. Blonde. She's got a name tag, you can't miss her."
He continued to stand there for a moment longer, then said, "Well, thanks again. Good afternoon, ladies."
Rubbish in bed and dumb as he might be, at least he was polite.
Molly waited until he'd wandered out of the canteen, probably in search of the tall and blonde Barbara, to give in to another fit of laughter. "You are horrible."
"I should have let him embarrass himself instead?" Meena shook her head and reached for her turkey sandwich. She removed the top slice of bread and pulled the wilted lettuce off with a look of disgust. "No, I did him a kindness."
The tuna melt was surprisingly edible. Molly quickly ate half of it, and was debating saving the rest for later in the afternoon or just finishing it off right then, when Meena finally got around to the topic Molly had been dreading.
"So, I thought you said last night bombed?"
Molly slowly pulled her hand out of her crisps packet and wiped her fingers on a serviette. She felt a little paranoid about the overly innocent way her friend had asked that. "I did."
"Hmmm." Meena nodded, then pointed at Molly's cardigan and blouse. "Then why are you wearing the same clothes you put on for your date last night?"
Molly closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, annoyed at being caught out. Somehow she'd managed to forget that Meena had demanded pre-date clothing approval, and had been at her flat before she'd left for dinner with Harry.
Or was it Harold? No, Harry. Definitely, possibly, most likely Harry.
Once again she regretted that she hadn't been able to return to her flat before work.
Molly shrugged and tried to look interested in the rest of her lunch. "Must be a coincidence. I put them on straight out of the dryer this morning. I don't think I even realized they were the same as last night until you mentioned it."
Meena nodded again, looking completely unconvinced. She waited until Molly had shoved some more crisps in her mouth to ask, "Whose dryer?"
Somehow managing not to choke, Molly desperately reached for her water bottle to wash the mouthful of food down. She knew she was blushing and she hated it.
"I knew it! If not Harry, then who?" Meena crowed, looking thoroughly scandalized and utterly delighted. "Did you pick someone up at the restaurant while you were ditching your date? You sly cow."
"Jesus, Meena, keep your voice down! I didn't, I swear. This really was the first thing I got my hands on this morning." And that was completely truthful, even though it felt like a huge lie.
Her friend leaned back in her chair, looking extremely disappointed. "So what happened anyway? Harry said you got a bunch of texts and had to leave."
"Yeah. That pretty much sums it up. Things weren't going great anyway, so it was probably a blessing in disguise."
"Was it the arsehole?"
Molly shoved the rest of her cold tuna melt to the side, no longer hungry. "I've asked you not to call him that."
"It was the arsehole, wasn't it? Seriously, Molls, put him on restriction or something. You spend way too much time at his beck and call for a guy you don't even get to see naked."
"Meena!"
"It's true. We are going out after my class Saturday, and if you get even one single text from him, I'm going to toss your phone in a rubbish bin. I swear it."
Molly shook her head, half annoyed and half amused. "Fine. But not in the garbage, you can keep it in your purse. Fair enough?"
Meena grinned. "No promises."
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
The morgue was ominously still and quiet, which was actually a bit of a relief for the pathologist.
Quiet meant the thick basement walls muffled the loud rhythmic rainfall and percussive cracks of thunder from the storm that had been carrying on most of the afternoon and evening. She sent a silent word of thanks upward for the London cabs that were still on duty in the torrential downpour, and an equally heartfelt prayer that they'd still be around when her shift ended.
Quiet meant there was no current need for a rushed autopsy.
It meant no ravenous ghouls trying to free themselves from chilled drawers, regardless of what the new file clerk teased in that ridiculous 'scary' voice as he backed out of the morgue with his cart. Molly made a mental note to speak with his supervisor the next day.
It meant no grieving relatives wanting to view a loved one.
And it meant no brooding consulting detectives, her traitorous mind whispered.
It had been over a month since she'd abandoned her blind date to help Sherlock, and she hadn't seen a sign of him since she'd left his flat the next morning. She'd run into Greg a few times, and he'd never failed to drop a word or two about how Sherlock was fairing out in the wilds of wherever he'd run off to for the last several weeks. Almost as if he thought she was desperate for news. Not that she was. It was simply reassuring to hear that he was still in contact with colleagues back home, even if she wasn't one of the chosen few. Not that she was going to let that bother her.
Liar.
Resolving to drown out that annoying inner voice, she slipped in a pair of ear buds and started the play list designated for late nights at the morgue. Once Rob Zombie's Living Dead Girl had begun, Molly turned her attention to the brain of Bryant Campbell. Bryant had died of a glioblastoma, and it was her job to skilfully forage through the grey matter to recover the small mass so that it could be taken up to the lab and biopsied.
She reached for her scalpel and lost herself in her work, quietly singing along to her music; her soft voice and bouncy head bop at odds with the lyrics.
"Interesting musical choice. A little clichéd given our present location though, don't you think?"
Startled, Molly's hand jerked and she nearly cut herself with the scalpel. Without bothering to look up--she'd recognize that voice anywhere, after all--she carefully set the extremely sharp instrument aside and stripped off her latex gloves so she could yank the ear buds free. "The morgue isn't open to the public."
"We both know I'm not part of 'the public', don't we?"
She could hear his footsteps coming closer and wondered how she had missed his entrance. He usually blew in like a miniature hurricane, impossible to ignore.
A quick dance of her finger across the iPod screen stopped the music.
"I think I prefer your hair loose." The observation, like so many others about her appearance, came out of nowhere. It lacked the usual cloying insincerity that often tainted his comments about her lips, weight, or hair. If it was anyone other than Sherlock, she might have believed him.
Molly whipped around, self consciously lifting her hands to smooth down any flyaway strands that might have escaped from her ponytail. "I'm working, Sherlock."
He stood next to her, stiff and tall, wrapped in that coat of his, hands tucked behind his back. His hair was a bit longer than the last time she'd seen him, but other than that he looked very much the same as always. "I didn't say you should take it down now, I merely said I prefer it loose."
Molly started to snap that he couldn't just let himself into the morgue whenever he felt like it, without a word of warning. That he couldn't just barge back into her life as if it hadn't been weeks without a word. Before a single sound escaped her lips she realized that it wasn't really Sherlock's unexpected reappearance that had her so irritated.
She'd dealt with his absences many times before, with little more than the usual worry and annoyance; but she'd never had to deal with four weeks' worth of awkward phone calls from their mutual acquaintances before, and that was guaranteed to put anyone on edge, really.
It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John had called to thank her for keeping the consulting detective out of his hair. That whatever she'd done had been worth it because Sherlock had called to let him know that the case had been solved; and, more importantly, John hadn't been forced to follow through with his threat to unman his friend if Sherlock showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night one more time.
It wasn't even Sherlock's fault that Mrs Hudson kept calling to invite her over for tea, even though she had carefully explained each time that she and Sherlock were not a couple.
It might have been his fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if she knew when Sherlock would be back. There'd been a strange smell coming from his flat, and Mrs Hudson thought it may have been one of his experiments. Then again it could have also been the milk going off. Several minutes worth of reminiscing about the disgusting things she'd found in fridge had culminated in a request for Molly to come by to see if she could help figure out which of the mouldy things were important, and which were simply cheese that had been left out. That afternoon had at least ended in a slice of homemade cake.
It was definitely Sherlock's fault that Greg had called because he needed to retrieve something from Sherlock's flat; and the consulting detective had insisted that Greg needed to be watched to ensure no unnecessary drawers were rifled through. John had still been on unofficial paternity leave from his partnership with/indentured servitude to Sherlock, so she'd been volunteered to chaperone. No cake that time, although Greg had offered to buy her lunch for her trouble. She'd been running late for work, or she might have taken him up on it.
It was inarguably Sherlock's fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if Molly had had a chance to go by one of those shops they'd discussed before; because Mrs Hudson had been reading an article in one of those ladies' glamour magazines about light bondage in the bedroom, and it had some rather good advice if Molly would like to borrow it. Molly had politely declined, and briefly considered getting a new number or tossing her current phone all together.
Molly had finally snapped three days ago and given up protesting that she and Sherlock were not a couple during Mrs Hudson's latest phone call. Instead, she'd told the older woman that she and Sherlock had broken up. It was a mutual parting, she had assured Mrs Hudson. No one to blame really, but they had both agreed that Sherlock's erratic schedule made it too difficult for them to ever be anything more than friends.
Mrs Hudson had clucked and fussed over the phone. "You feel free to come visit anytime you like. Just because things didn't work out for you and Sherlock, that does not mean that you need to cut yourself off from the friends the two of you share. I've come to think of you as one of our quirky little family, and I insist you come 'round next week for tea. I'll bake a cake."
Molly had actually been considering it. Mrs Hudson's cakes really were delicious, and the offer did sound tempting.
"Does my schedule bother you?"
"Pardon?" She realized she'd been lost in her own thoughts and not paying attention.
"The way I run off at a moment's notice, disappearing at all hours, for days or weeks on end when I'm working on a case."
She frowned, confused at first, and then a wave of embarrassment made her want to do a disappearing act of her own. "You've been talking to Mrs Hudson."
Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure you can imagine my surprise in returning home only to be accosted by my concerned housekeeper-"
"Landlady."
"-telling me that she was sorry to hear we'd broken up."
He waited, obviously expecting her to offer some sort of apologetic explanation. She stubbornly kept silent.
That entire thing with Mrs Hudson was clearly his fault. He was the one who hadn't bothered to correct Mrs Hudson's assumptions. Molly wasn't about to make excuses for something she hadn't been able to avoid.
They continued to stare at each other for a full--extremely awkward--minute before she buckled and looked away. "I could use a cup of coffee. Do you want one?"
Sherlock frowned, thrown by the non sequitur. "All right. Black, two-"
"Sugars. Yes, I remember. Meet you upstairs." Molly swept out of the morgue in an exit that could have rivalled one of Sherlock's melodramatic retreats. It was against proper hospital protocol to leave him unsupervised in the morgue like that, but she didn't particularly care at the moment.
Ten minutes later Molly was ready to face Sherlock again. She found him sitting on the stool in front of the microscope he tended to favour when he was utilizing the lab. She placed a cup of coffee on the table near him. "What do you have this time?"
"I'm not sure. I got bored waiting, and found a slide over there." He gestured in the general direction of the rest of the lab, not even bothering to look up from the microscope.
Molly settled onto a nearby stool and waited. She blew on her coffee, then took a tentative sip to give herself something to do.
"You never answered my question. Does my schedule bother you?"
Molly took another sip as she considered it for a moment. She wondered if there had been a grain of truth in the excuse she'd given Mrs Hudson and realized there really wasn't. "No. It doesn't bother me. It's what you do, it's part of what makes you, well, you."
He finally stopped fiddling with the microscope and looked up, turning his head to watch her.
"I mean, I do worry. Can't help it, really. When you disappear without a word, I understand, I really do. But I worry. The two years you were gone . . ." She took another drink of her coffee to keep from babbling any more.
Sherlock turned his entire body toward her. He leaned his hip against the table, giving her his full attention. The scrutiny made her fidget.
His brows drew together, forming that sharp vertical line that appeared when he was considering something particularly complex. As she watched, Sherlock's eyes grew unfocused, darting from side to side as if he were reading a book or searching for some bit of data locked away in his mind. His lower lip quivered slightly as his gaze sharpened, until she felt like he was once again studying her.
"I told Mycroft to keep you updated. You couldn't have been told any details, obviously, but I instructed him to make sure you knew I was all right whenever I checked in. I know it wasn't as often as it should have been but-" The rapid shaking of her head brought his words to a stop before he had a chance to finish his thought.
"Not a word. I never even saw your brother after he took you away that day. Not until you were back."
"That rat bastard."
Molly jumped, startled by his vehemence, and nearly spilt her coffee. She quickly put the cup on the table next to her to get it out of her hands.
The look on his face told her that Mycroft Holmes was going to get an earful very, very soon. She had to admit that she didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.
The knowledge that Sherlock had wanted her to know he was safe, that he'd been thinking of her while he was away . . . It was a dangerous feeling. One she desperately wanted to ignore and couldn't.
Eventually Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, which must have grown cold while they'd been distracted, and grimaced.
Molly caught sight of the wall clock near the door, and jumped up off her stool. "I've really got to get back to work, Sherlock. Just tell me what you want so I can get back to Bryant before he dries out."
"Who?"
Molly winced. She really needed to stop giving names to the body parts that she worked with. Or she needed to stop admitting to people that she was naming body parts. Although, if anyone would understand, it would be someone who kept a skull named Billy on his fireplace mantel.
She shook her head. "Not important. What do you want?"
Sherlock somehow managed to look insulted. "What makes you think I want something?"
She held up her hand and started counting off with her fingers. "One, I haven't seen you for a month, and then out of nowhere you show up here. You don't do small talk and you haven't got an experiment running, so there has to be another reason."
Molly held up a second finger. "Two, you complimented my hair. Sort of. You don't do compliments unless you're trying to butter someone up. Don't think I haven't cottoned on to that, by the way."
She knew she was getting sidetracked, but she couldn't help giving voice to something that had been irritating her since not long after Sherlock had returned from his two years away. "Sometimes you are not as clever, or as quick, as you think you are. I've seen your flirty expressions drop as soon as you get what you want and your victim turns their back. I may not have caught you doing it to me, specifically, but I'm not delusional enough to believe you haven't been."
He opened his mouth, but she didn't bother waiting to see if he was going to try to deny it. Instead, she waved a third finger in his direction. "Three, you haven't said anything obnoxious or insulting, intentional or not, and you've been here for half an hour. That's got to be some kind of record for you. You don't make a habit of watching what you say, unless you're trying to stay on someone's good side. Add those up, it is obvious that you want something from me. So spill."
He stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed as he carefully observed her. Even after all this time he was still clearly unused to the new and improved Molly Hooper. The one who spoke her mind and didn't stutter just because he'd paid her a little attention. "Is it so inconceivable that I might simply want to check in on a . . . a dear friend?"
"Thank you. And yes."
Sherlock looked around the room, gaze flitting everywhere but at her, as he considered it. After an uncomfortably long moment, he conceded her point.
"Mycroft has requested my presence on his behalf for a formal gathering at the country estate of Mr and Mrs Abraham Barrett. In Wantage, Oxfordshire, of all places. I hate the countryside. Nothing to do until someone manages to get themselves murdered. And even then, it's rarely more than a three or four at best. Dull. Unless there's a hound involved, that one was intriguing. Anyway, I'll need a plus one, otherwise I'll be inundated with eager bachelorettes hoping to snag 'Shag-a-lot Holmes'."
His lip curled in distaste as he grumbled, "Thank you very much for that, Janine. May your cottage end up infested with bees."
Molly busied herself with removing the borrowed slide from the Sherlock's scope and returning it to the station he'd pinched it from. "There you go, take her. Problem solved."
Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tabletop, and hummed disapprovingly. "Not an option."
"I thought you two worked something out. How did Mary describe it? You get a no-pressure escort to 'boring social obligations' that you can't weasel out of; and she gets her picture in the papers as your on-again/off-again love interest, with the added bonus of a chance to meet rich, eligible men?" Molly realized she sounded a tad catty about the whole thing. She would have to work on that before someone brought up the topic of Janine again.
"We did. And she was successful. But they're also invited to the party. He's the jealous sort, according to Janine. Been wining and dining her nearly every evening for the last two weeks; so I very much doubt he'd appreciate my borrowing her for the night. Although I did consider asking. I believe tonight they'll be at some expensive hotel, as it is their one month anniversary, or some other equally inane nonsense. I don't know, I stopped listening fairly early in the conversation."
He started to reach for a batch of test tubes that someone had carelessly left out, and Molly reflexively slapped his hand away. They both froze; her with a look of horror on her face, him with an expression of surprise mixed with something she couldn't quite name.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he left the test tubes alone. "Having not met the man, I can't be one hundred percent certain, but I feel there is a high probability of a celebratory gift--a minimum of two carats--followed by three more weeks of domestic bliss, give or take two days. Then his jealousy and insecurities, coupled with her independent nature, penchant for drama, and vengeful streak will lead to a rather spectacular and well publicized break-up."
Molly blinked and wondered, not for the first time, how he managed to vomit out so many words in one breath like that.
"Be that as it may, no. Find someone else." She thought about it for a second, then offered an alternative. "Ask Mary."
"I considered that option as well. She's very good at reading people and has above average observational skills. She'd be an excellent choice. But then John would want to come along; and that would give people even more ideas about the nature of our relationship. Not that I have a problem with people thinking that sort of thing, but John seems to. I'd almost certainly start getting male undergarments in the mail in addition to the usual assortment of knickers and obscene propositions. Mrs Hudson already complains enough about having to dispose of such things. I can't be bothered and she insists I'm not allowed to throw the whole lot into the fireplace anymore. You melt one pair of incredibly cheap nylon panties-"
"Right. Ask Mrs Hudson then."
He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
Perhaps she had, because she could feel her resolve beginning to waiver. "I'm busy."
Sherlock frowned and ran his gaze over her from head to toe. When he glanced at her hands, which were anxiously twisting together, she froze. His eyes darted back up to her face, and she got the impression he'd deduced something. Something she probably didn't want him to know, although she hadn't a clue what that could be.
"You didn't even ask what day it is."
"Fine. What day, then?" Molly huffed, crossing her arms to keep her hands from fidgeting.
"Saturday."
Her smile wasn't nearly as confident as she would have liked, but she gave it her best shot anyway. "Pity. I'm busy on Saturday," she bluffed.
His smile, however, had all the confidence hers lacked. "No, you aren't."
Molly folded. Her shoulders slumped and she looked utterly resolved to her fate. She never had been any good at lying, not unless it involved keeping a not-so-dead man's secret (and even then she'd been forced to avoid their mutual acquaintances as much as possible). "No, I'm not. Damn it. I know I'm going to regret this, I can already tell."
She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. "Is there suggested attire? Or are you planning to bring me something from Mrs Hudson's wardrobe again?"
He dismissively waved his hand in the air. "Black tie, formal gown. I'll take care of it. You don't own anything appropriate." He grinned, clearly pleased about getting his own way.
"I'm not going to let you buy me a dress, Sherlock."
Somehow his grin managed to grow even larger. It was beginning to make her nervous, causing her to wonder what devious thoughts were forming in that strange mind of his.
"I'm not. Mycroft will. Consider it part of his repayment for being such an utter arse."
Fair enough.
He reached up to tighten his scarf, clearly ready to leave, and Molly put her hand out to stop him. "Wait. What, exactly, am I expected to do at this thing? I'm assuming there's no bartender to distract this time. Or should I stuff a coaster in my clutch, just in case?"
Sherlock stopped fiddling with his scarf and narrowed his eyes in warning, visibly annoyed with her sarcasm. "Stay by my side. Engage in the usual pointless social customs with the other guests so I won't have to. Make excuses for my behaviour, if necessary. Honestly, we both know it will be necessary. Fend off any admirers. That sort of thing."
She nodded in understanding. "Right. Show up, run interference for the egotistical detective, and defend his virtue from the naughty ladies who are dying to slip their numbers into his pocket. Got it."
His eyes narrowed again, and she had to fight to hide her smile. She wasn't very successful.
"Essentially, yes."
Part 1 / Part 3
She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.
Chapter Two
A foul taste in her mouth and a faint pounding in her head were the first things Molly noticed as she woke up.
Next was the realization that she was definitely not in her own bed. Her sheets are soft, but not nearly this soft. The mattress was much more comfortable than her sturdy, serviceable one. The warm light from the window was on the wrong side.
One eye cracked open just enough to confirm her suspicion that she wasn't in her own bedroom, then snapped shut while her mind scrambled to put two and two together to get an answer that didn't equal her tucked into the extremely comfortable bed of Sherlock Holmes. Because the very idea was incredibly unlikely, utterly insane, and far too exciting to fully appreciate while she was miserably hung-over.
She gave up trying to convince herself she was wrong, and screwed up the courage to open both eyes to face the day. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you wanted to look at it) the other side of the bed was empty and unrumpled, so she had clearly slept alone. Sherlock had left a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer tablets on the nightstand next to the bed; and Molly carefully sat up so she could make use of them. Once she'd downed most of a fizzy glassful, she finished taking stock of her situation.
She was wearing Sherlock's shirt from the night before, and a quick check reassured her that she was still wearing her knickers. Not that there had really been much of a likelihood that she wouldn't have been. Her bra, however, seemed to have disappeared along with the rest of the things she'd been wearing the evening before, and there was no sign of the clothing she'd had on when she originally arrived at the flat. She had changed into her disguise in the bathroom; she clearly remembered leaving her things draped over the towel rack so perhaps they were still in there. Sherlock had left a dressing gown across the foot of the bed, for which she was very grateful.
It took a few moments for her to wrestle the gown on and adjust it enough that she was no longer in danger of tripping over the hem. She had to roll up the cuffs and fluff the sides up over the tied belt until her feet were visible. Molly was nearly covered from neck to foot, and yet she felt extremely exposed as she carefully shuffled her way to the bathroom. The towel rack was bare other than a haphazardly hung bath towel that was in danger of sliding off the rod. No clothes. But there was a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging, on the rim of the sink. Someone had also cleaned up the detritus from her first aid efforts the night before.
She mumbled, "Bless you, Sherlock Holmes," through a mouthful of toothpaste once her teeth no longer felt fuzzy and the rancid taste had left her tongue.
A look in the mirror told her that her hair was a rat's nest. She borrowed his comb without a second thought. Her scalp hurt by the time the last of the tangles had been dealt with, but she was finally starting to feel human again. A shower would have made things even better, but there was no way that was going to happen until she managed to get back to her own flat. And that would require figuring out where her clothes had disappeared to.
Eventually, when she could delay it no longer, Molly went searching for Sherlock. She poked her head out of the bathroom, then eased into the short hall just far enough to see that he wasn't in the kitchen. There was, however, a plate of fry-up on the kitchen table. Tentatively, as if she were a cautious mouse afraid of being pounced on by the household cat, Molly crept into the room and snatched up a piece of toast. It was buttery and still warm, and surprisingly delicious considering the state of her hangover.
Sherlock was in the sitting room, sprawled in his chair. His long legs were stretched in front of him, ankles crossed. Unlike her, he was fully dressed. His hands were steepled together under his chin, eyes open but unfocused. She assumed he was tucked away in his mind palace as he was wont to do.
Her gaze remained on Sherlock as she finished her toast. Other than an eye twitch or two, his expression never changed. It was a bit of a relief, really, that he was lost in his thoughts. When he was like this she could prance around the flat naked and he'd never notice. Considering her state of near undress, she practically felt as if she were.
She quickly devoured a sausage link, then quietly moved into the sitting room to look for her things. With any luck she'd find her clothes, get changed, and be gone long before Sherlock returned from his mental excursion.
Unfortunately, they weren't there. She remembered leaving her coat on John's chair; but it and her purse had been hung up on the back of the door next to Sherlock's Belstaff. Someone had taken the time to line her shoes up next to a pair of worn house slippers that had seen much better days. None of her other things were visible. John's chair was empty, the table in front of the sofa was clear. She even double checked the kitchen, just in case she'd somehow managed to miss them on her first pass through.
"She's got them."
Molly started, and spun around to see that Sherlock was no longer in his mind palace. He was watching her. She gathered the dressing gown tighter, hands holding it closed at her neck as if she were someone's prim maiden aunt. "Pardon?"
"Mrs Hudson. She took them earlier; to put into the wash, she said. Didn't want you toddling off looking like some sort of rumpled walk of shame. Whatever that means. She brought you something to eat, which I can see you've already found."
"She brought me food?" She realized how ridiculous she sounded the moment the words left her lips. Who else would have made breakfast for her, if not Mrs Hudson.
"Didn't I just say?" Sherlock frowned, eyes shifting to the side as if he were running through their brief conversation to confirm he had actually spoken aloud. Seconds later his gaze returned to her. "You look like death warmed over."
"Always the flatterer, you are," Molly mumbled under her breath, well aware that she wasn't at her best. From the way he tilted his head slightly and the narrowing of his eyes, she knew Sherlock had heard her.
"Are you always so out of sorts early in the morning, or is just because you're hung-over?"
Molly opened her mouth to issue what would surely have been a scathing retort, if only she could have thought of one. Her jaw snapped shut again, and she settled for a glare, which he promptly ignored.
"Eat your breakfast, then go clean yourself up. Take a shower, you'll feel better. Definitely look and smell better. I suggest you stay in there long enough to let your pores fully open and purge the last of the alcohol out of your system. Your things should be dry by the time you're done."
The urge to turn around and lock herself in the bathroom for a good cry was strong. Sherlock had never been one to pull his punches simply to spare someone's feelings, so Molly had no idea why she would have expected him to do so in this instance. Still, it hurt.
"I don't feel like eating." She could hear the sullen whine in her voice, and silently prayed for some form of divine intervention to extract her from her current predicament.
"Of course you do, you've already had a piece of toast and some sausage. For God's sake, I can hear your stomach complaining from over here. Stop being petulant and eat, Molly."
Utterly uncomfortable and wanting nothing more than to escape from the flat--from Sherlock, from life in general at the moment--she reluctantly settled into one of the kitchen chairs and studiously ignored him as she finished the meal that Mrs Hudson had prepared for her.
Sherlock didn't say another word while she was eating; and a brief glance in his direction as she put the empty plate in the sink showed her that he was once again deep in thought.
Grateful to no longer be under observation, Molly disappeared into the bathroom to take her shower.
Half an hour later, when she finally emerged from behind the shower curtain, her clothes were waiting on the toilet lid, nicely folded.
Molly hoped--really and truly hoped, with all her heart--that Mrs Hudson had been the one to put them there. That it may have been Sherlock . . .
That there was a tiny chance that Sherlock Holmes had been in the same room while she was wet and naked, separated from her by only a thin shower curtain . . .
Would it be worse to think that he might have been tempted to peek behind the curtain, or that he hadn't been tempted at all? She wouldn't, couldn't, let herself contemplate either option at the moment.
It took most of her willpower, and a brief pep talk, to get her out of the bathroom and into the sitting room.
He wasn't there. He wasn't in the flat, period.
Rather than the relief she should have felt, there was a small wave of disappointment that she struggled to ignore.
She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered Sherlock's comment about a walk of shame. He may not have understood the reference, but Molly did. If Mrs Hudson had bothered to mention it to him, then she must have thought that Molly and Sherlock had . . .
Shite. Double shite.
Molly redoubled her efforts to sneak out of the building as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, luck was not on her side. She was nearly to the front door when she heard the one to Mrs Hudson's flat open behind her.
"Good morning. I see Sherlock managed to pass on your things before he left, then?"
Molly turned to discover the older woman leaning against her doorframe with a knowing grin.
It had been Sherlock. He'd been in the bathroom. While she'd been in the shower. She filed that information away to thoroughly panic over later.
"It's not what it looks like." Molly winced, horrified to hear her denial come out as high-pitched squeak.
Mrs Hudson shook her head and came closer. "Oh, I don't judge, dear. I was young once, too, you know. I remember the things Frank and I used to get up to when we were dating. A little dress-up and role play to spice things up was probably the least of it."
Molly's horror level went up several notches. "I--uh--but we didn't . . . It was for a case!"
"That's what Sherlock said when he brought my things back this morning. That he'd borrowed them for a case." Mrs Hudson winked at Molly. She actually winked.
"Still, I told him there were plenty of stores out there that sold that sort of thing. You can even order them off the internet now, if you're worried about being spotted going into a specialty shop or whatnot. That scarf was expensive, and I was very cross to hear that it had been ruined."
Admittedly, the exact details of everything that had happened between leaving the bar and when she'd woken up in Sherlock's bed were a little fuzzy, but Molly was fairly certain the scarf had been fine when Sherlock had taken it off of her. Unless something happened to it after she'd fallen asleep?
"Sherlock's offered to replace it, of course; but I told him he really needs to plan ahead next time. He can't be digging through my things every time he gets the urge to tie up his girlfriend."
Molly coughed and choked hard enough that Mrs Hudson felt the need to pat her on the back a few times.
"It's okay, dear. I've read those Fifty Shades books." There was that wink again. "Live and let live, that's what I like to say."
Molly literally had no clue how to respond to that. Plenty of half-formed options floated through her head, but not one of them managed to make it to her lips.
"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you both. Sherlock's been so lonely since John left. I never thought he'd get over that break up. But it's so sweet how they've remained friends. Still close enough for him to be John's best man at the wedding. That's a true bond, that is. Not everyone can stay on such good terms with their ex."
Molly sputtered something that must have sounded like an agreement because Mrs Hudson took it as her cue to keep talking.
"I don't think he even stopped feeling lonely when that woman was still coming 'round all the time and staying the night. I never did like her. What's her name? Jenny? Geraldine? Unimportant really. She kept hinting that Sherlock should change this or stop doing that, moving things around his rooms; and you know how Sherlock hates to have someone move his things. She even asked me why I kept coming upstairs to tidy up when I went up to bring him tea, accusing me of being nosy, as if she had some right. I don't know why he put up with her constantly being underfoot for so long."
"He said it was for a case, Mrs Hudson."
"Everything is always for a case with him, isn't it? Well, I suppose it makes more sense than the two of them actually dating. She never did seem to be his type. You know, I don't think Sherlock ever spent more than a handful of nights here when she was staying over. I remember thinking how strange it was, to find her upstairs alone in the mornings, and Sherlock popping in after being out all night, just as she was leaving for work. Almost as if he'd timed it that way on purpose."
As he had spent several of those nights tucked into her bed whilst she had tossed and turned on her own sofa, Molly had been well aware that Sherlock had ditched his girlfriend on several occasions. He'd told her that it was difficult to think with Janine laying next to him--something about the sound of her breathing setting his teeth on edge--and that he'd needed the peace and quiet of Molly's flat to concentrate. She'd thought it odd that a man who had never before bothered with a girlfriend would finally get one, then spend so much time trying to avoid her. Then again Molly found most of the things Sherlock did to be odd, so she'd simply agreed and resigned herself to being kicked out of her own room from time to time.
Sherlock's unscheduled visits and the way he would take over her bedroom with very little notice had annoyed Tom to no end. Sherlock hadn't been the sole reason behind the end of her engagement, but his nearly unrestricted presence in her flat had caused a fair amount of tension between her and Tom. It had also instigated the fight that had been the death blow to the relationship. The final straw had been the morning Tom had shown up unexpectedly and discovered Sherlock impatiently waiting outside her bathroom while she'd been in the shower. Sherlock had been wearing her best dressing gown, a cream coloured bit of satin froth that Tom had given her shortly after they'd become engaged. Molly herself had only worn it a handful of times. She'd tried to make light of the incident by pointing out that at least he'd been wearing something since Sherlock preferred to sleep in the nude; which, in retrospect, had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
Tom had refused to let her explain that she only knew about Sherlock's sleeping habits because John liked to tell very amusing anecdotes about all the various times he'd seen Sherlock wrapped in only a sheet. Even once at Buckingham Palace, strangely enough. And then there was the especially hilarious story about the time Sherlock had forgotten (or just didn't care) he had a flatmate, and had wandered into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea--completely starkers, not even a sheet--only to find John speaking with a potential client. John had regaled everyone at Mrs Hudson's last birthday dinner with that one (complete with a pantomime). Tom hadn't stuck around to hear Molly try to retell it.
Mrs Hudson was still talking, shaking her head in disapproval. "I've seen in the papers that they've been out a few times since they broke up. I just figured they were trying to give it a go, again. See if they could make it work, you know? It was always such a relief each time when nothing much seemed to come of it. Does that make me a horrible person, being happy that Sherlock can't make it work with that woman? Although, if it really was just for a case, I suppose it doesn't matter what I think, does it?"
Molly eyed the front door, and wondered if Mrs Hudson would notice if she were to slip out.
"Sherlock never acted himself around her, did he? Too attentive. Too . . . affectionate. Extremely unsettling to see, really. Unnatural. Anyway, I'm sure you'll make him so much happier."
Mrs Hudson seemed to be winding down. Molly saw her opening and jumped on it. "Uh huh. Thank you for washing my things and breakfast, and it's been lovely to talk to you this morning; but I really, really need to get home and feed my cat."
"Of course, dear. You let me know next time you're coming over, and I'll make sure there's something to nibble on in his cupboards. You know Sherlock never remembers to do the shopping."
"Right. I'll be sure to do that." Molly scampered before Mrs Hudson offered to pick up contraceptives to tuck into Sherlock's nightstand, or something equally inappropriate.
Since Molly had slept later than usual--Thank you for nothing, Sherlock.--there hadn't been time to swing by her place before she had to leave for work. The weather was nice enough and she thought stretching her legs would help work off the last of her hang-over, so Molly decided to walk to Barts.
On the way, she called Jacob, her neighbour, to see if he'd be willing to pop across the hall to feed Toby. He'd offered to send his husband over, much to her relief. The chances of discovering a particularly nasty hairball in her house slippers dropped considerably if Toby's feeding schedule remained consistent. She'd listened the entire walk to Barts as Jacob explained that Mike had taken a work holiday, and wouldn't be leaving on any business trips for an entire week. They were planning to explore London as if they were a pair of tourists. A second honeymoon according to Jacob, who had been giddy about the idea.
Molly didn't even try to pretend she wasn't envious of how happy the couple were. It had been a tiny bit of a relief to end the call as she walked through the doors of the hospital.
Her morning was busy--two suspicious deaths, both straight forward enough not to warrant Sherlock's interest, thankfully--and she'd been very grateful for Mrs Hudson's thoughtfulness in making her breakfast.
Now, however, it was nearing one and Molly was starving. Meena had made her swear that they'd meet up for lunch; and thanks to her afternoon line-up of an arson victim and several hours of backlog in the lab, the hospital canteen was the obvious option.
Even if the food occasionally made her want to crawl onto one of her slabs and wish for death. She'd learned to avoid the gluten-free eggplant parmesan for just that reason.
Once she finished passing through the line and paying for her tuna melt and crisps, Molly paused to look for her friend. It didn't take her long to realize that she wasn't the only one looking at the very pretty black woman waiting at a small table.
Molly set her tray down on the table and took a seat next to her friend. "The radiology intern seems very keen on you."
She nodded in his direction and they both turned their full attention on the newest addition to the hospital. After realizing he'd been caught staring, the gentleman quickly looked away and began gathering up the remains of his lunch.
Meena shook her head and grimaced. "Nah."
Molly continued studying the man in question, her lips turned down in slight frown. "What's wrong with him? He seems fit enough."
"Dumber than a lamp post." Meena's expression started to turn cold as the intern finished shoving his things onto his tray, squared his shoulders, and began to head in their direction. "Case in point, neither of us looks at all welcoming or encouraging, and yet he's coming over."
She turned her head slightly toward Molly and lowered her voice just enough to keep from being overheard by anyone at the next table. "Clarisse in reception dated him for a few weeks, said he was rubbish in bed. Utterly apparent that he had somehow managed to make it through most of med school without cracking the spine of a single anatomy textbook."
Molly snorted, then broke into a fit of giggles.
He stopped next to their table and cleared his throat.
"Nope." Meena shook her head before he had a chance to say a single word. "I'll save you the bother; neither of us is interested in coffee, or dinner, or whatever else you were thinking about suggesting."
He flicked a glance toward Molly, who had finally managed to contain her giggles.
Meena continued, "Listen, you seem like a sweet guy from what I've been hearing, so I'll help you out. Barbara, up on the second floor, thinks you're cute. And, most importantly, she doesn't run in the same circles as your ex Clarisse so . . . You've already got that going for you."
He looked confused, and Molly didn't blame him. "Thanks? I think?" He fidgeted, shifting his weight from side to side for a second. "Second floor, you said?"
"Second floor. Barbara. Tall. Blonde. She's got a name tag, you can't miss her."
He continued to stand there for a moment longer, then said, "Well, thanks again. Good afternoon, ladies."
Rubbish in bed and dumb as he might be, at least he was polite.
Molly waited until he'd wandered out of the canteen, probably in search of the tall and blonde Barbara, to give in to another fit of laughter. "You are horrible."
"I should have let him embarrass himself instead?" Meena shook her head and reached for her turkey sandwich. She removed the top slice of bread and pulled the wilted lettuce off with a look of disgust. "No, I did him a kindness."
The tuna melt was surprisingly edible. Molly quickly ate half of it, and was debating saving the rest for later in the afternoon or just finishing it off right then, when Meena finally got around to the topic Molly had been dreading.
"So, I thought you said last night bombed?"
Molly slowly pulled her hand out of her crisps packet and wiped her fingers on a serviette. She felt a little paranoid about the overly innocent way her friend had asked that. "I did."
"Hmmm." Meena nodded, then pointed at Molly's cardigan and blouse. "Then why are you wearing the same clothes you put on for your date last night?"
Molly closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, annoyed at being caught out. Somehow she'd managed to forget that Meena had demanded pre-date clothing approval, and had been at her flat before she'd left for dinner with Harry.
Or was it Harold? No, Harry. Definitely, possibly, most likely Harry.
Once again she regretted that she hadn't been able to return to her flat before work.
Molly shrugged and tried to look interested in the rest of her lunch. "Must be a coincidence. I put them on straight out of the dryer this morning. I don't think I even realized they were the same as last night until you mentioned it."
Meena nodded again, looking completely unconvinced. She waited until Molly had shoved some more crisps in her mouth to ask, "Whose dryer?"
Somehow managing not to choke, Molly desperately reached for her water bottle to wash the mouthful of food down. She knew she was blushing and she hated it.
"I knew it! If not Harry, then who?" Meena crowed, looking thoroughly scandalized and utterly delighted. "Did you pick someone up at the restaurant while you were ditching your date? You sly cow."
"Jesus, Meena, keep your voice down! I didn't, I swear. This really was the first thing I got my hands on this morning." And that was completely truthful, even though it felt like a huge lie.
Her friend leaned back in her chair, looking extremely disappointed. "So what happened anyway? Harry said you got a bunch of texts and had to leave."
"Yeah. That pretty much sums it up. Things weren't going great anyway, so it was probably a blessing in disguise."
"Was it the arsehole?"
Molly shoved the rest of her cold tuna melt to the side, no longer hungry. "I've asked you not to call him that."
"It was the arsehole, wasn't it? Seriously, Molls, put him on restriction or something. You spend way too much time at his beck and call for a guy you don't even get to see naked."
"Meena!"
"It's true. We are going out after my class Saturday, and if you get even one single text from him, I'm going to toss your phone in a rubbish bin. I swear it."
Molly shook her head, half annoyed and half amused. "Fine. But not in the garbage, you can keep it in your purse. Fair enough?"
Meena grinned. "No promises."
The morgue was ominously still and quiet, which was actually a bit of a relief for the pathologist.
Quiet meant the thick basement walls muffled the loud rhythmic rainfall and percussive cracks of thunder from the storm that had been carrying on most of the afternoon and evening. She sent a silent word of thanks upward for the London cabs that were still on duty in the torrential downpour, and an equally heartfelt prayer that they'd still be around when her shift ended.
Quiet meant there was no current need for a rushed autopsy.
It meant no ravenous ghouls trying to free themselves from chilled drawers, regardless of what the new file clerk teased in that ridiculous 'scary' voice as he backed out of the morgue with his cart. Molly made a mental note to speak with his supervisor the next day.
It meant no grieving relatives wanting to view a loved one.
And it meant no brooding consulting detectives, her traitorous mind whispered.
It had been over a month since she'd abandoned her blind date to help Sherlock, and she hadn't seen a sign of him since she'd left his flat the next morning. She'd run into Greg a few times, and he'd never failed to drop a word or two about how Sherlock was fairing out in the wilds of wherever he'd run off to for the last several weeks. Almost as if he thought she was desperate for news. Not that she was. It was simply reassuring to hear that he was still in contact with colleagues back home, even if she wasn't one of the chosen few. Not that she was going to let that bother her.
Liar.
Resolving to drown out that annoying inner voice, she slipped in a pair of ear buds and started the play list designated for late nights at the morgue. Once Rob Zombie's Living Dead Girl had begun, Molly turned her attention to the brain of Bryant Campbell. Bryant had died of a glioblastoma, and it was her job to skilfully forage through the grey matter to recover the small mass so that it could be taken up to the lab and biopsied.
She reached for her scalpel and lost herself in her work, quietly singing along to her music; her soft voice and bouncy head bop at odds with the lyrics.
"Interesting musical choice. A little clichéd given our present location though, don't you think?"
Startled, Molly's hand jerked and she nearly cut herself with the scalpel. Without bothering to look up--she'd recognize that voice anywhere, after all--she carefully set the extremely sharp instrument aside and stripped off her latex gloves so she could yank the ear buds free. "The morgue isn't open to the public."
"We both know I'm not part of 'the public', don't we?"
She could hear his footsteps coming closer and wondered how she had missed his entrance. He usually blew in like a miniature hurricane, impossible to ignore.
A quick dance of her finger across the iPod screen stopped the music.
"I think I prefer your hair loose." The observation, like so many others about her appearance, came out of nowhere. It lacked the usual cloying insincerity that often tainted his comments about her lips, weight, or hair. If it was anyone other than Sherlock, she might have believed him.
Molly whipped around, self consciously lifting her hands to smooth down any flyaway strands that might have escaped from her ponytail. "I'm working, Sherlock."
He stood next to her, stiff and tall, wrapped in that coat of his, hands tucked behind his back. His hair was a bit longer than the last time she'd seen him, but other than that he looked very much the same as always. "I didn't say you should take it down now, I merely said I prefer it loose."
Molly started to snap that he couldn't just let himself into the morgue whenever he felt like it, without a word of warning. That he couldn't just barge back into her life as if it hadn't been weeks without a word. Before a single sound escaped her lips she realized that it wasn't really Sherlock's unexpected reappearance that had her so irritated.
She'd dealt with his absences many times before, with little more than the usual worry and annoyance; but she'd never had to deal with four weeks' worth of awkward phone calls from their mutual acquaintances before, and that was guaranteed to put anyone on edge, really.
It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John had called to thank her for keeping the consulting detective out of his hair. That whatever she'd done had been worth it because Sherlock had called to let him know that the case had been solved; and, more importantly, John hadn't been forced to follow through with his threat to unman his friend if Sherlock showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night one more time.
It wasn't even Sherlock's fault that Mrs Hudson kept calling to invite her over for tea, even though she had carefully explained each time that she and Sherlock were not a couple.
It might have been his fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if she knew when Sherlock would be back. There'd been a strange smell coming from his flat, and Mrs Hudson thought it may have been one of his experiments. Then again it could have also been the milk going off. Several minutes worth of reminiscing about the disgusting things she'd found in fridge had culminated in a request for Molly to come by to see if she could help figure out which of the mouldy things were important, and which were simply cheese that had been left out. That afternoon had at least ended in a slice of homemade cake.
It was definitely Sherlock's fault that Greg had called because he needed to retrieve something from Sherlock's flat; and the consulting detective had insisted that Greg needed to be watched to ensure no unnecessary drawers were rifled through. John had still been on unofficial paternity leave from his partnership with/indentured servitude to Sherlock, so she'd been volunteered to chaperone. No cake that time, although Greg had offered to buy her lunch for her trouble. She'd been running late for work, or she might have taken him up on it.
It was inarguably Sherlock's fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if Molly had had a chance to go by one of those shops they'd discussed before; because Mrs Hudson had been reading an article in one of those ladies' glamour magazines about light bondage in the bedroom, and it had some rather good advice if Molly would like to borrow it. Molly had politely declined, and briefly considered getting a new number or tossing her current phone all together.
Molly had finally snapped three days ago and given up protesting that she and Sherlock were not a couple during Mrs Hudson's latest phone call. Instead, she'd told the older woman that she and Sherlock had broken up. It was a mutual parting, she had assured Mrs Hudson. No one to blame really, but they had both agreed that Sherlock's erratic schedule made it too difficult for them to ever be anything more than friends.
Mrs Hudson had clucked and fussed over the phone. "You feel free to come visit anytime you like. Just because things didn't work out for you and Sherlock, that does not mean that you need to cut yourself off from the friends the two of you share. I've come to think of you as one of our quirky little family, and I insist you come 'round next week for tea. I'll bake a cake."
Molly had actually been considering it. Mrs Hudson's cakes really were delicious, and the offer did sound tempting.
"Does my schedule bother you?"
"Pardon?" She realized she'd been lost in her own thoughts and not paying attention.
"The way I run off at a moment's notice, disappearing at all hours, for days or weeks on end when I'm working on a case."
She frowned, confused at first, and then a wave of embarrassment made her want to do a disappearing act of her own. "You've been talking to Mrs Hudson."
Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure you can imagine my surprise in returning home only to be accosted by my concerned housekeeper-"
"Landlady."
"-telling me that she was sorry to hear we'd broken up."
He waited, obviously expecting her to offer some sort of apologetic explanation. She stubbornly kept silent.
That entire thing with Mrs Hudson was clearly his fault. He was the one who hadn't bothered to correct Mrs Hudson's assumptions. Molly wasn't about to make excuses for something she hadn't been able to avoid.
They continued to stare at each other for a full--extremely awkward--minute before she buckled and looked away. "I could use a cup of coffee. Do you want one?"
Sherlock frowned, thrown by the non sequitur. "All right. Black, two-"
"Sugars. Yes, I remember. Meet you upstairs." Molly swept out of the morgue in an exit that could have rivalled one of Sherlock's melodramatic retreats. It was against proper hospital protocol to leave him unsupervised in the morgue like that, but she didn't particularly care at the moment.
Ten minutes later Molly was ready to face Sherlock again. She found him sitting on the stool in front of the microscope he tended to favour when he was utilizing the lab. She placed a cup of coffee on the table near him. "What do you have this time?"
"I'm not sure. I got bored waiting, and found a slide over there." He gestured in the general direction of the rest of the lab, not even bothering to look up from the microscope.
Molly settled onto a nearby stool and waited. She blew on her coffee, then took a tentative sip to give herself something to do.
"You never answered my question. Does my schedule bother you?"
Molly took another sip as she considered it for a moment. She wondered if there had been a grain of truth in the excuse she'd given Mrs Hudson and realized there really wasn't. "No. It doesn't bother me. It's what you do, it's part of what makes you, well, you."
He finally stopped fiddling with the microscope and looked up, turning his head to watch her.
"I mean, I do worry. Can't help it, really. When you disappear without a word, I understand, I really do. But I worry. The two years you were gone . . ." She took another drink of her coffee to keep from babbling any more.
Sherlock turned his entire body toward her. He leaned his hip against the table, giving her his full attention. The scrutiny made her fidget.
His brows drew together, forming that sharp vertical line that appeared when he was considering something particularly complex. As she watched, Sherlock's eyes grew unfocused, darting from side to side as if he were reading a book or searching for some bit of data locked away in his mind. His lower lip quivered slightly as his gaze sharpened, until she felt like he was once again studying her.
"I told Mycroft to keep you updated. You couldn't have been told any details, obviously, but I instructed him to make sure you knew I was all right whenever I checked in. I know it wasn't as often as it should have been but-" The rapid shaking of her head brought his words to a stop before he had a chance to finish his thought.
"Not a word. I never even saw your brother after he took you away that day. Not until you were back."
"That rat bastard."
Molly jumped, startled by his vehemence, and nearly spilt her coffee. She quickly put the cup on the table next to her to get it out of her hands.
The look on his face told her that Mycroft Holmes was going to get an earful very, very soon. She had to admit that she didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.
The knowledge that Sherlock had wanted her to know he was safe, that he'd been thinking of her while he was away . . . It was a dangerous feeling. One she desperately wanted to ignore and couldn't.
Eventually Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, which must have grown cold while they'd been distracted, and grimaced.
Molly caught sight of the wall clock near the door, and jumped up off her stool. "I've really got to get back to work, Sherlock. Just tell me what you want so I can get back to Bryant before he dries out."
"Who?"
Molly winced. She really needed to stop giving names to the body parts that she worked with. Or she needed to stop admitting to people that she was naming body parts. Although, if anyone would understand, it would be someone who kept a skull named Billy on his fireplace mantel.
She shook her head. "Not important. What do you want?"
Sherlock somehow managed to look insulted. "What makes you think I want something?"
She held up her hand and started counting off with her fingers. "One, I haven't seen you for a month, and then out of nowhere you show up here. You don't do small talk and you haven't got an experiment running, so there has to be another reason."
Molly held up a second finger. "Two, you complimented my hair. Sort of. You don't do compliments unless you're trying to butter someone up. Don't think I haven't cottoned on to that, by the way."
She knew she was getting sidetracked, but she couldn't help giving voice to something that had been irritating her since not long after Sherlock had returned from his two years away. "Sometimes you are not as clever, or as quick, as you think you are. I've seen your flirty expressions drop as soon as you get what you want and your victim turns their back. I may not have caught you doing it to me, specifically, but I'm not delusional enough to believe you haven't been."
He opened his mouth, but she didn't bother waiting to see if he was going to try to deny it. Instead, she waved a third finger in his direction. "Three, you haven't said anything obnoxious or insulting, intentional or not, and you've been here for half an hour. That's got to be some kind of record for you. You don't make a habit of watching what you say, unless you're trying to stay on someone's good side. Add those up, it is obvious that you want something from me. So spill."
He stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed as he carefully observed her. Even after all this time he was still clearly unused to the new and improved Molly Hooper. The one who spoke her mind and didn't stutter just because he'd paid her a little attention. "Is it so inconceivable that I might simply want to check in on a . . . a dear friend?"
"Thank you. And yes."
Sherlock looked around the room, gaze flitting everywhere but at her, as he considered it. After an uncomfortably long moment, he conceded her point.
"Mycroft has requested my presence on his behalf for a formal gathering at the country estate of Mr and Mrs Abraham Barrett. In Wantage, Oxfordshire, of all places. I hate the countryside. Nothing to do until someone manages to get themselves murdered. And even then, it's rarely more than a three or four at best. Dull. Unless there's a hound involved, that one was intriguing. Anyway, I'll need a plus one, otherwise I'll be inundated with eager bachelorettes hoping to snag 'Shag-a-lot Holmes'."
His lip curled in distaste as he grumbled, "Thank you very much for that, Janine. May your cottage end up infested with bees."
Molly busied herself with removing the borrowed slide from the Sherlock's scope and returning it to the station he'd pinched it from. "There you go, take her. Problem solved."
Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tabletop, and hummed disapprovingly. "Not an option."
"I thought you two worked something out. How did Mary describe it? You get a no-pressure escort to 'boring social obligations' that you can't weasel out of; and she gets her picture in the papers as your on-again/off-again love interest, with the added bonus of a chance to meet rich, eligible men?" Molly realized she sounded a tad catty about the whole thing. She would have to work on that before someone brought up the topic of Janine again.
"We did. And she was successful. But they're also invited to the party. He's the jealous sort, according to Janine. Been wining and dining her nearly every evening for the last two weeks; so I very much doubt he'd appreciate my borrowing her for the night. Although I did consider asking. I believe tonight they'll be at some expensive hotel, as it is their one month anniversary, or some other equally inane nonsense. I don't know, I stopped listening fairly early in the conversation."
He started to reach for a batch of test tubes that someone had carelessly left out, and Molly reflexively slapped his hand away. They both froze; her with a look of horror on her face, him with an expression of surprise mixed with something she couldn't quite name.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he left the test tubes alone. "Having not met the man, I can't be one hundred percent certain, but I feel there is a high probability of a celebratory gift--a minimum of two carats--followed by three more weeks of domestic bliss, give or take two days. Then his jealousy and insecurities, coupled with her independent nature, penchant for drama, and vengeful streak will lead to a rather spectacular and well publicized break-up."
Molly blinked and wondered, not for the first time, how he managed to vomit out so many words in one breath like that.
"Be that as it may, no. Find someone else." She thought about it for a second, then offered an alternative. "Ask Mary."
"I considered that option as well. She's very good at reading people and has above average observational skills. She'd be an excellent choice. But then John would want to come along; and that would give people even more ideas about the nature of our relationship. Not that I have a problem with people thinking that sort of thing, but John seems to. I'd almost certainly start getting male undergarments in the mail in addition to the usual assortment of knickers and obscene propositions. Mrs Hudson already complains enough about having to dispose of such things. I can't be bothered and she insists I'm not allowed to throw the whole lot into the fireplace anymore. You melt one pair of incredibly cheap nylon panties-"
"Right. Ask Mrs Hudson then."
He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
Perhaps she had, because she could feel her resolve beginning to waiver. "I'm busy."
Sherlock frowned and ran his gaze over her from head to toe. When he glanced at her hands, which were anxiously twisting together, she froze. His eyes darted back up to her face, and she got the impression he'd deduced something. Something she probably didn't want him to know, although she hadn't a clue what that could be.
"You didn't even ask what day it is."
"Fine. What day, then?" Molly huffed, crossing her arms to keep her hands from fidgeting.
"Saturday."
Her smile wasn't nearly as confident as she would have liked, but she gave it her best shot anyway. "Pity. I'm busy on Saturday," she bluffed.
His smile, however, had all the confidence hers lacked. "No, you aren't."
Molly folded. Her shoulders slumped and she looked utterly resolved to her fate. She never had been any good at lying, not unless it involved keeping a not-so-dead man's secret (and even then she'd been forced to avoid their mutual acquaintances as much as possible). "No, I'm not. Damn it. I know I'm going to regret this, I can already tell."
She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. "Is there suggested attire? Or are you planning to bring me something from Mrs Hudson's wardrobe again?"
He dismissively waved his hand in the air. "Black tie, formal gown. I'll take care of it. You don't own anything appropriate." He grinned, clearly pleased about getting his own way.
"I'm not going to let you buy me a dress, Sherlock."
Somehow his grin managed to grow even larger. It was beginning to make her nervous, causing her to wonder what devious thoughts were forming in that strange mind of his.
"I'm not. Mycroft will. Consider it part of his repayment for being such an utter arse."
Fair enough.
He reached up to tighten his scarf, clearly ready to leave, and Molly put her hand out to stop him. "Wait. What, exactly, am I expected to do at this thing? I'm assuming there's no bartender to distract this time. Or should I stuff a coaster in my clutch, just in case?"
Sherlock stopped fiddling with his scarf and narrowed his eyes in warning, visibly annoyed with her sarcasm. "Stay by my side. Engage in the usual pointless social customs with the other guests so I won't have to. Make excuses for my behaviour, if necessary. Honestly, we both know it will be necessary. Fend off any admirers. That sort of thing."
She nodded in understanding. "Right. Show up, run interference for the egotistical detective, and defend his virtue from the naughty ladies who are dying to slip their numbers into his pocket. Got it."
His eyes narrowed again, and she had to fight to hide her smile. She wasn't very successful.
"Essentially, yes."
Part 1 / Part 3