Boyfriend Material Part Three
Apr. 13th, 2018 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: Sherlock has made it quite clear that he’s not boyfriend material, but that was before Molly needed to find a tactful way to avoid the attentions of a persistent admirer. Perhaps it’s just a matter of semantics.
Rating: T
A/N - Written for Glitterkitty4ever, for winning my 250 Followers on Tumblr giveaway. This fic takes place after TFP and is very nearly canon compliant. There is one teeny, tiny, huge, gigantic difference that makes this an AU – Mary Watson lived.
Boyfriend Material
Part Three
Sherlock let himself into the lab as if he owned the place, just before eleven the next day.
Molly continued extolling the virtues of the hospital’s newest digital microscope to Michael with only a brief pause to acknowledge Sherlock’s presence, giving him a smile and a warning that one of the students had moved his fungal samples to another shelf in the cooler.
She was completely surprised when he took the long way around the lab tables to join her and Michael in front of the microscope in question.
“Hope I’m not interrupting, luv.” Sherlock leaned down to press a quick kiss against Molly’s cheek. She knew she was flushed. She just hoped Michael would put it down to a blush from canoodling with her not-quite-fiancé at work rather than a flush of arousal that was completely out of proportion to a simple buss on the cheek and a deliciously rumbled endearment.
“Actually, we were just about to-“ Michael began, as Molly shook her head and squeaked, “Nope.”
“Excellent.” Sherlock slid his arm across Molly’s shoulders and pulled her against his side. “I was getting bored at Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson has threatened to stop bringing me tea if I shoot the wall again.”
Molly hummed in sympathetic understanding.
Michael blinked. “I’m sorry? Did you say ‘shoot’ the wall?”
Sherlock waved his free hand. “She complains, but Mrs Hudson always forgives me in the end.”
She nudged her hip against his. “You were bored?” she reminded him.
“Excruciatingly. So, lunch?” Sherlock grinned and Michael, Molly noted, looked a bit put out.
Good.
“Sounds wonderful. Just let me clean up here and we can head up to the canteen,” Molly cheerfully agreed.
“I was thinking something better than pork and pasta or dubious egg salad. How does Italian sound? I’ve already called ahead to Angelo’s.” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, he just began repacking the various accessories for the digital microscope as if it was a task he was well acquainted with. Which he was, although he shouldn’t have been as the department head’s indulgence for the consulting detective only went so far. “Why don’t you change out of your lab coat and get your bag, and we’ll finish putting things away and meet you at the locker room, hmm?”
Molly hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly leaned up and brushed his cheek with her lips. The accursed flush returned, making her keep her head down as she hurried out of the lab.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Lunch went about as well as one would expect.
Sherlock was attentive in a way that was both flattering and mildly disconcerting.
Michael was clearly disgruntled, and Molly couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Sherlock had said to him during the fifteen minutes they’d been alone while she’d been in the locker room.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the cab had pulled up in front of Angelo’s. She’d been there several times with Sherlock, John, Mary and Rosie and knew how good the food was.
Angelo had taken her hand when Sherlock led her into the restaurant, Michael following a few steps behind. The older man had escorted her to an out of the way table and held out a chair for her. Once they were all seated, Angelo had handed Michael a menu and then asked Molly and Sherlock if they wanted their usual. She’d smiled and said “Please” even though she had no idea what ‘the usual’ would end up being as she tended to try something new each time she came. Angelo assured Michael that he’d return shortly for his order, then bustled off to deal with another table.
As lovely as the personal attention was, it was more than she’d ever received before (although Angelo always had favoured Sherlock and his companions when she’d joined them in the past). Sherlock must have explained the Michael situation when he had called to arrange a table earlier.
Sherlock had stretched at one point, his arm along the back of her chair and his thigh pressed solidly against hers, as he told an anecdote about one of his cases. Molly had found herself wondering what it would be like if they had really been dating. The casual touches, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of her pony tail while he waited to see if she could figure out the solution to the mystery he’d presented, the pleased gleam in his eye when she worked it out without any additional prompting.
Sherlock had ridden back to Barts with them; although he stayed in the cab once they arrived, telling Molly he had work to do that afternoon, but he’d see her that evening.
Thankfully, Michael was scheduled to lecture all afternoon and Molly was free to get back to her work and enjoy the solitude.
Until she’d been called into her supervisor’s office around three.
Someone (Michael, obviously) had complained about non-hospital personnel having access to the labs. Considering Mike Stamford had also been present when she’d walked into the office, she knew the complaint wasn’t going to carry much weight. She’d received the same reminder she’d been given the first time she’d been informed that Sherlock was consulting with NSY and would be using the lab.
“He’s got friends in high places so we let him have certain privileges here as a favour, and those privileges can be revoked if need be. If he is being disruptive, do not hesitate to kick him out. If he is monopolizing resources needed for the hospital, put him on restriction. If he attempts to order you about, remind him that he is a guest, not your employer. I have met the man and let me assure you now—as I have assured every other member of this department—you will have my full backing to call security and have him escorted from the premises if he ever pushes you past the breaking point. Otherwise, we’ll continue to let him be.”
In other words, no changes to the status quo.
However, Molly was still fuming at Michael’s interference when she got home just before five thirty.
She angrily kicked her shoes across the room and tried to whip her cardigan off, only to get tangled in the arms. It took a fair bit of twirling around and grunting before she managed to pull the offending garment off and toss it against the wall with a dull, unsatisfying thud. She almost left the discarded items on the ground where they’d fallen but being upset was no reason to start living like a slob.
Molly swept them up and stomped to her room to toss the shoes into her closet and the cardigan into her hamper. Then she dropped, face first, onto the bed and screamed into her pillow.
It wasn’t fair.
Michael was supposed to have been her friend. He was supposed to be this nice guy, someone she could talk to without worrying about being attractive for (or to, for that matter) or giving out the wrong signals. Okay, she could understand how the one drunken phone call probably confused things a little. Yes, Michael had instigated the racier bits, but she’d eagerly participated at the time. She had thought they were on the same page once she’d explained why it had been a mistake.
A huge, huge, never to be repeated, mistake.
She sniffed and pressed her face deeper into the pillow. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to cry and he really wasn’t worth it.
The mattress dipped next to her and a large, warm hand settled on the small of her back. Molly didn’t panic, as Sherlock’s light cologne was almost as familiar to her as her own body wash.
“Did I do something that’s going to require an apology,” he asked.
Molly turned her head to offer him a small smile. “Not this time.”
She rolled away from him, onto her back; and they both pretended not to notice the way his fingertips grazed a sliver of skin on her tummy where her blouse had come untucked in her tussle with the cardigan. Molly cleared her throat. “It’s Michael. He tried to get you kicked out of the lab today. Well, Doctor Burtan didn’t say who complained, but . . .”
“It was Michael,” Sherlock finished for her. “He can’t do that. Can he do that?”
“No,” Molly assured him. “But I can, if you’re being a wanker, so try to remember that.”
“Duly noted.” He leaned back and gestured toward the nearby bag he’d dropped on the floor. “I brought some of my things. If Michael comes over, he’ll be expecting to see signs that I spend the night here if we’re as serious about each other as we say we are.”
“You do spend the night, all the time. And drink all the milk. And heaven forbid you ever change the empty loo roll.” Molly frowned and sat up, shifting around so she could hang her legs over the side of the bed next to him. “Why would Michael come here? I’m certainly not going to invite him.”
“Do you honestly think he wouldn’t just invite himself, if he thought it might help break us up?”
She nudged his arm with her shoulder. “Fair enough. I don’t know why you had to bring anything, though.” She pointed toward her dresser. “You’ve got spare clothes in there and the closet. One of your dressing gowns is hanging off my bathroom door. You’ve got a toothbrush in the holder by the sink, deodorant and the stuff you put in your hair in the medicine cabinet. I stock your favourite biscuits and tea in the kitchen. And don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to the wall in the guest room. My mum refuses to sleep in there now, because you left those double homicide photos up the last time she came to visit. You already have your stuff all over my house.”
He froze, eyes wide and unfocused for several seconds. “. . . I do.”
“If anything, I should be taking stuff to your place,” Molly laughed. “Michael’s much more likely to nose around there, especially since Mary’s roped Mrs Hudson into co-hosting the engagement thing at Baker Street this weekend.” Not that she could blame Mary. It would be best to keep Michael far away from the Watson house and Rosie (who would be staying home with a sitter). Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, had been more than happy to open up her home—and, by extension, Sherlock’s—for the small party. Molly suspected that Mrs Hudson would also be more than happy to introduce Michael’s face to the flat side of her frying pan if he so much as stepped foot in Baker Street uninvited.
Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eye and nodded. “You should.”
“I, what?” He couldn’t be serious. She’d been joking when she’d suggested it.
He hopped up and headed toward her closet. “Pack a bag, Molly. You’re moving to Baker Street.”
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Thankfully for Molly’s sanity, ‘moving to Baker Street’ actually meant packing up a few books, some extra toiletries she’d had stored in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, something comfy that she might wear if she were lounging about the flat after a relaxing lie-in, and a satin cami/short set she only pulled out of the drawer when she wanted to feel particularly decadent.
She didn’t want to think about how he even knew it existed, since she had never, ever worn it while he was staying over. Molly suspected there was going to be another lecture about respecting her privacy in the very near future.
Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat when they arrived. She rushed forward to grab Molly’s hands. “Oh, isn’t this exciting? Don’t you fret, Mary and I have everything under control. Saturday is going to be perfect.”
Molly thanked her for going to all that trouble.
“It’s my pleasure, dear. I never thought I’d see the day, our Sherlock getting engaged!”
Molly whipped her head around to look at Sherlock with panicked eyes. “It’s-We’re not-It’s not real, Mrs Hudson.”
“She’s well aware of that, Molly. She thinks she’s being clever.” He grasped Molly’s arm and gently tugged her free of Mrs Hudson’s hold. He nudged Molly toward the stairs and frowned at his landlady.
“It is a bit funny,” Mrs Hudson giggled.
Molly waited until they were in Sherlock’s sitting room to speak. “Please tell me everyone knows why you’re proposing on Saturday.”
“Everyone does.” Sherlock took her bag and set it on his desk, unbuckling the latch to flip it open.
Her relief was extremely short lived.
“Except for Grant.” Sherlock pulled a half dozen paperbacks out of her bag.
“Grant? You mean Greg? You didn’t warn Greg?”
He haphazardly tucked the books into several open spaces across his bookshelves. “Before I could mention why Mary was throwing a little dinner party, he’d asked if he could bring a date.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ve never even seen the woman. There was no way to tell if she’d be able to keep a secret or not, and I couldn’t risk her letting something slip. I’ll explain it to Grant when Michael’s left town.”
Molly gaped at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re going to let Greg think we’re engaged for an entire week? Do you have any idea how many people he’s going to blab to in that time?”
Sherlock frowned. “Why would he tell anyone?”
Her groan was loud and tortured. “Of course he’ll tell. It’s the sort of gossip people live to spread. Sherlock Holmes getting married!”
“How is that different from Molly Hooper getting married?” he parroted right back in the same tone.
“That’s different,” Molly huffed. “I’m not famous.”
“And thank fuck for that.” Sherlock shook his head as he continued to dig through her bag. “It’s a bloody nightmare.” He pulled out her shampoo and conditioner and shoved them into her hands. “I’d be honoured if you chose to take my last name; but I’d completely understand if you wanted to keep your own, at least professionally, just to discourage the press from breathing down your neck at work.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
They warily watched each other for several seconds until Sherlock broke and looked away. “You should put those in the bathroom.” He gestured at her toiletries. “Feel free to move things to make room.”
The short walk to the bathroom was a blur for her. Something odd had definitely happened, something relatively inconsequential and utterly momentous at the same time, and Molly had absolutely no idea what to think.
She stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. “What was that?”
Part One
Rating: T
A/N - Written for Glitterkitty4ever, for winning my 250 Followers on Tumblr giveaway. This fic takes place after TFP and is very nearly canon compliant. There is one teeny, tiny, huge, gigantic difference that makes this an AU – Mary Watson lived.
Boyfriend Material
Part Three
Sherlock let himself into the lab as if he owned the place, just before eleven the next day.
Molly continued extolling the virtues of the hospital’s newest digital microscope to Michael with only a brief pause to acknowledge Sherlock’s presence, giving him a smile and a warning that one of the students had moved his fungal samples to another shelf in the cooler.
She was completely surprised when he took the long way around the lab tables to join her and Michael in front of the microscope in question.
“Hope I’m not interrupting, luv.” Sherlock leaned down to press a quick kiss against Molly’s cheek. She knew she was flushed. She just hoped Michael would put it down to a blush from canoodling with her not-quite-fiancé at work rather than a flush of arousal that was completely out of proportion to a simple buss on the cheek and a deliciously rumbled endearment.
“Actually, we were just about to-“ Michael began, as Molly shook her head and squeaked, “Nope.”
“Excellent.” Sherlock slid his arm across Molly’s shoulders and pulled her against his side. “I was getting bored at Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson has threatened to stop bringing me tea if I shoot the wall again.”
Molly hummed in sympathetic understanding.
Michael blinked. “I’m sorry? Did you say ‘shoot’ the wall?”
Sherlock waved his free hand. “She complains, but Mrs Hudson always forgives me in the end.”
She nudged her hip against his. “You were bored?” she reminded him.
“Excruciatingly. So, lunch?” Sherlock grinned and Michael, Molly noted, looked a bit put out.
Good.
“Sounds wonderful. Just let me clean up here and we can head up to the canteen,” Molly cheerfully agreed.
“I was thinking something better than pork and pasta or dubious egg salad. How does Italian sound? I’ve already called ahead to Angelo’s.” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, he just began repacking the various accessories for the digital microscope as if it was a task he was well acquainted with. Which he was, although he shouldn’t have been as the department head’s indulgence for the consulting detective only went so far. “Why don’t you change out of your lab coat and get your bag, and we’ll finish putting things away and meet you at the locker room, hmm?”
Molly hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly leaned up and brushed his cheek with her lips. The accursed flush returned, making her keep her head down as she hurried out of the lab.
Lunch went about as well as one would expect.
Sherlock was attentive in a way that was both flattering and mildly disconcerting.
Michael was clearly disgruntled, and Molly couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Sherlock had said to him during the fifteen minutes they’d been alone while she’d been in the locker room.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the cab had pulled up in front of Angelo’s. She’d been there several times with Sherlock, John, Mary and Rosie and knew how good the food was.
Angelo had taken her hand when Sherlock led her into the restaurant, Michael following a few steps behind. The older man had escorted her to an out of the way table and held out a chair for her. Once they were all seated, Angelo had handed Michael a menu and then asked Molly and Sherlock if they wanted their usual. She’d smiled and said “Please” even though she had no idea what ‘the usual’ would end up being as she tended to try something new each time she came. Angelo assured Michael that he’d return shortly for his order, then bustled off to deal with another table.
As lovely as the personal attention was, it was more than she’d ever received before (although Angelo always had favoured Sherlock and his companions when she’d joined them in the past). Sherlock must have explained the Michael situation when he had called to arrange a table earlier.
Sherlock had stretched at one point, his arm along the back of her chair and his thigh pressed solidly against hers, as he told an anecdote about one of his cases. Molly had found herself wondering what it would be like if they had really been dating. The casual touches, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of her pony tail while he waited to see if she could figure out the solution to the mystery he’d presented, the pleased gleam in his eye when she worked it out without any additional prompting.
Sherlock had ridden back to Barts with them; although he stayed in the cab once they arrived, telling Molly he had work to do that afternoon, but he’d see her that evening.
Thankfully, Michael was scheduled to lecture all afternoon and Molly was free to get back to her work and enjoy the solitude.
Until she’d been called into her supervisor’s office around three.
Someone (Michael, obviously) had complained about non-hospital personnel having access to the labs. Considering Mike Stamford had also been present when she’d walked into the office, she knew the complaint wasn’t going to carry much weight. She’d received the same reminder she’d been given the first time she’d been informed that Sherlock was consulting with NSY and would be using the lab.
“He’s got friends in high places so we let him have certain privileges here as a favour, and those privileges can be revoked if need be. If he is being disruptive, do not hesitate to kick him out. If he is monopolizing resources needed for the hospital, put him on restriction. If he attempts to order you about, remind him that he is a guest, not your employer. I have met the man and let me assure you now—as I have assured every other member of this department—you will have my full backing to call security and have him escorted from the premises if he ever pushes you past the breaking point. Otherwise, we’ll continue to let him be.”
In other words, no changes to the status quo.
However, Molly was still fuming at Michael’s interference when she got home just before five thirty.
She angrily kicked her shoes across the room and tried to whip her cardigan off, only to get tangled in the arms. It took a fair bit of twirling around and grunting before she managed to pull the offending garment off and toss it against the wall with a dull, unsatisfying thud. She almost left the discarded items on the ground where they’d fallen but being upset was no reason to start living like a slob.
Molly swept them up and stomped to her room to toss the shoes into her closet and the cardigan into her hamper. Then she dropped, face first, onto the bed and screamed into her pillow.
It wasn’t fair.
Michael was supposed to have been her friend. He was supposed to be this nice guy, someone she could talk to without worrying about being attractive for (or to, for that matter) or giving out the wrong signals. Okay, she could understand how the one drunken phone call probably confused things a little. Yes, Michael had instigated the racier bits, but she’d eagerly participated at the time. She had thought they were on the same page once she’d explained why it had been a mistake.
A huge, huge, never to be repeated, mistake.
She sniffed and pressed her face deeper into the pillow. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to cry and he really wasn’t worth it.
The mattress dipped next to her and a large, warm hand settled on the small of her back. Molly didn’t panic, as Sherlock’s light cologne was almost as familiar to her as her own body wash.
“Did I do something that’s going to require an apology,” he asked.
Molly turned her head to offer him a small smile. “Not this time.”
She rolled away from him, onto her back; and they both pretended not to notice the way his fingertips grazed a sliver of skin on her tummy where her blouse had come untucked in her tussle with the cardigan. Molly cleared her throat. “It’s Michael. He tried to get you kicked out of the lab today. Well, Doctor Burtan didn’t say who complained, but . . .”
“It was Michael,” Sherlock finished for her. “He can’t do that. Can he do that?”
“No,” Molly assured him. “But I can, if you’re being a wanker, so try to remember that.”
“Duly noted.” He leaned back and gestured toward the nearby bag he’d dropped on the floor. “I brought some of my things. If Michael comes over, he’ll be expecting to see signs that I spend the night here if we’re as serious about each other as we say we are.”
“You do spend the night, all the time. And drink all the milk. And heaven forbid you ever change the empty loo roll.” Molly frowned and sat up, shifting around so she could hang her legs over the side of the bed next to him. “Why would Michael come here? I’m certainly not going to invite him.”
“Do you honestly think he wouldn’t just invite himself, if he thought it might help break us up?”
She nudged his arm with her shoulder. “Fair enough. I don’t know why you had to bring anything, though.” She pointed toward her dresser. “You’ve got spare clothes in there and the closet. One of your dressing gowns is hanging off my bathroom door. You’ve got a toothbrush in the holder by the sink, deodorant and the stuff you put in your hair in the medicine cabinet. I stock your favourite biscuits and tea in the kitchen. And don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to the wall in the guest room. My mum refuses to sleep in there now, because you left those double homicide photos up the last time she came to visit. You already have your stuff all over my house.”
He froze, eyes wide and unfocused for several seconds. “. . . I do.”
“If anything, I should be taking stuff to your place,” Molly laughed. “Michael’s much more likely to nose around there, especially since Mary’s roped Mrs Hudson into co-hosting the engagement thing at Baker Street this weekend.” Not that she could blame Mary. It would be best to keep Michael far away from the Watson house and Rosie (who would be staying home with a sitter). Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, had been more than happy to open up her home—and, by extension, Sherlock’s—for the small party. Molly suspected that Mrs Hudson would also be more than happy to introduce Michael’s face to the flat side of her frying pan if he so much as stepped foot in Baker Street uninvited.
Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eye and nodded. “You should.”
“I, what?” He couldn’t be serious. She’d been joking when she’d suggested it.
He hopped up and headed toward her closet. “Pack a bag, Molly. You’re moving to Baker Street.”
Thankfully for Molly’s sanity, ‘moving to Baker Street’ actually meant packing up a few books, some extra toiletries she’d had stored in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, something comfy that she might wear if she were lounging about the flat after a relaxing lie-in, and a satin cami/short set she only pulled out of the drawer when she wanted to feel particularly decadent.
She didn’t want to think about how he even knew it existed, since she had never, ever worn it while he was staying over. Molly suspected there was going to be another lecture about respecting her privacy in the very near future.
Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat when they arrived. She rushed forward to grab Molly’s hands. “Oh, isn’t this exciting? Don’t you fret, Mary and I have everything under control. Saturday is going to be perfect.”
Molly thanked her for going to all that trouble.
“It’s my pleasure, dear. I never thought I’d see the day, our Sherlock getting engaged!”
Molly whipped her head around to look at Sherlock with panicked eyes. “It’s-We’re not-It’s not real, Mrs Hudson.”
“She’s well aware of that, Molly. She thinks she’s being clever.” He grasped Molly’s arm and gently tugged her free of Mrs Hudson’s hold. He nudged Molly toward the stairs and frowned at his landlady.
“It is a bit funny,” Mrs Hudson giggled.
Molly waited until they were in Sherlock’s sitting room to speak. “Please tell me everyone knows why you’re proposing on Saturday.”
“Everyone does.” Sherlock took her bag and set it on his desk, unbuckling the latch to flip it open.
Her relief was extremely short lived.
“Except for Grant.” Sherlock pulled a half dozen paperbacks out of her bag.
“Grant? You mean Greg? You didn’t warn Greg?”
He haphazardly tucked the books into several open spaces across his bookshelves. “Before I could mention why Mary was throwing a little dinner party, he’d asked if he could bring a date.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ve never even seen the woman. There was no way to tell if she’d be able to keep a secret or not, and I couldn’t risk her letting something slip. I’ll explain it to Grant when Michael’s left town.”
Molly gaped at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re going to let Greg think we’re engaged for an entire week? Do you have any idea how many people he’s going to blab to in that time?”
Sherlock frowned. “Why would he tell anyone?”
Her groan was loud and tortured. “Of course he’ll tell. It’s the sort of gossip people live to spread. Sherlock Holmes getting married!”
“How is that different from Molly Hooper getting married?” he parroted right back in the same tone.
“That’s different,” Molly huffed. “I’m not famous.”
“And thank fuck for that.” Sherlock shook his head as he continued to dig through her bag. “It’s a bloody nightmare.” He pulled out her shampoo and conditioner and shoved them into her hands. “I’d be honoured if you chose to take my last name; but I’d completely understand if you wanted to keep your own, at least professionally, just to discourage the press from breathing down your neck at work.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
They warily watched each other for several seconds until Sherlock broke and looked away. “You should put those in the bathroom.” He gestured at her toiletries. “Feel free to move things to make room.”
The short walk to the bathroom was a blur for her. Something odd had definitely happened, something relatively inconsequential and utterly momentous at the same time, and Molly had absolutely no idea what to think.
She stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. “What was that?”
Part One