I don't own Sherlock. That would be the BBC, in all its awesomeness. Sorry for a weird word occasionally; this was originally written for a vocab assignment. Enjoy!
XxXxX
John Watson walked into St. Bart's, following after the swirling black coat worn by none other than Sherlock Holmes. The aforementioned consulting detective was in the middle of an important case involving rare lizards and a poisoned casserole. He was conducting a few experiments on the effects of said poison on human fingertips. There was only one problem: Sherlock was currently out of fingertips. Mrs. Hudson had discovered his secret stash of severed digits in the back of the refrigerator and had thrown them out, as they were 'beginning to smell', which was, in John's opinion, a bit of an understatement. For a while, Sherlock had been in a rather querulous and irascible attitude, complaining about the loss of experimental material and being generally irritable toward anyone who spoke to him. John knew he looked like a man, but he was still a whiny child at times.
And so, as one thing led to another, Sherlock was on his way to the morgue to pick up some more. John doubted Molly, the mousy pathologist who followed any and all rules to a T, would be too keen on letting Sherlock 'borrow' any official samples, but John was pretty sure of how it would work out.
Molly was at her desk doing paperwork when the curly-haired man burst through the mortuary doors. Flustered, she stood quickly, which scattered a few papers and sent a couple floating to the ground.
"Sherlock!" she said, turning pink in the face and scurrying to collect the runaway paperwork. "What are you doing here?" She gathered her materials while simultaneously attempting to straighten her clothing and run her fingers through her hair in a quick spruce-up.
John winced. Just about everyone in a twenty-mile radius knew that Molly Hooper fostered a massive crush on the consulting detective. However, Sherlock had been anything but cordial toward her affections. For a very long time, he'd barely any idea she felt anything for him until that disastrous Christmas party last year when he had ripped her apart with a few teasing words before finding out she'd just been trying to give him a special gift. Since then, the sociopath had completely ignored most of her hinting, except when he wanted something from her, in which case he'd presumptuously demand whatever it was, then resort to flattering and sycophancy until he got it, then revert back to his usual supercilious self. Poor Molly. She fell for it every time.
This time was no different. Sherlock strode in haughtily, his piercing blue eyes darting around the room. He didn't even look at her when he stated, "Molly, get me some finger samples. They're for a vital experiment upon which rests a very important person's head." He turned to her expectantly, but she blushed again and looked away.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said, "but I can't let you have them. I couldn't lend out official samples, even if I wanted to."
"Come now, Molly, can't you spare six index fingers? I'm sure nobody would miss them."
"I said no, Sherlock. Find your own appendages."
Suddenly, Sherlock changed. His normally haughty appearance morphed into one of relaxed kindness. His face fluidly softened until it looked almost tenderhearted. To John, someone who had known Sherlock for quite a while, this would probably seem a bit unnerving, but he had seen this transformation several times before. It wasn't anything new.
"Are you wearing a new perfume?" Sherlock asked, and his voice was light (or as light as you can get in a deep baritone). "You haven't worn it before, and you're not really the type to purchase it yourself, so it must have been a recent gift. Your friend gave it to you, then? Was it Mary?"
Molly slipped a stray hair behind her ear and looked at the ground. "Well, yes, Mary, actually. Yes it was."
Sherlock stepped closer to her "Your aroma is perfectly lovely. Smells of lavender and… rose petals, is it?"
"W-well, yes, it is, but-"
"You do know you look absolutely stunning today, don't you?" He touched her chin with two fingers and gently lifted it so her eyes met his own. "You must know that."
"I… thank you, Sherlock," she whispered. She softly brought his hand down from her face. "I'll go get you those fingers. We don't really need them, anyways." She skittered off to one of the refrigerated cabinets and took out a small box. She came back and handed it to him. "Here you are. Index fingers. Should suit your purposes."
Sherlock smiled affectionately as he took the box from her. "Thank you very much, Molly Hooper. You're absolutely wonderful." With that, he kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked out of the morgue.
John stood there for a moment, surveying the scene. Molly stood in place, gazing at the spot from which Sherlock had just left. She had a subtle pinkness in her cheeks and an airy smile on her face. John shook his head and walked up to her.
"You really shouldn't give in to him that easily," he said to her. "I'm sorry, but he just doesn't have the same feelings for you that you have for him. I don't want to hurt you, but he's taking advantage of you with this act. You're being duped."
"I know."
"You… know?" John said, momentarily confused. "Then why are you letting him treat you like some sort of personal gopher?"
"I really don't mind it," Molly said, turning to look at John. "I know it doesn't make much sense, but it lets me pretend, even for a little while."
"But he's so superficial!" John remarked. "He only talks about what you smell like, or what you look like, or something small like that! Honestly, you deserve someone better, who would be kinder. In fact, I know Gregory Lestrade has been eyeing you for a while, and he'd treat you kinder than Sherlock any day."
"It's alright, John," she said sweetly. "Lestrade just isn't the one for me. And I know it seems like some sort of twisted joke, but… it makes me happy when I can delude myself into thinking that Sherlock is. I know it'll never happen, but those little compliments… they give me hope. Just a little hope, that maybe, somehow, in the complex workings of the universe, I might have a chance with him. And that little hope is all I really need. Now, please, go after him. He'll be lonely if he doesn't have someone to talk to." She turned back to the things on her desk and sat down.
John looked strangely at her for a moment, then headed out. As he was leaving, Molly called out, "And please don't mention this to him. I don't want to stir anything up..."
XxXxX
A few minutes later, John caught up with Sherlock, who was waiting for him outside the front door. The tall man was leaning against the wall, his fingers steepled and his eyes closed in thought. John didn't care if he was contemplating world peace; they needed to talk, now.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, marching up to his friend. "You are the most arrogant, self-centered… pompous blockhead I have ever met!"
Sherlock opened his eyes, then rolled them. "Really, John, do try not to be repetitive. It's dull."
"How could you do that to Molly? You pretend to love her, throw her little bits of flattery you don't really mean, then toss her aside? Do you know that right now, she still believes she might have a chance with you? She doesn't deserve this persecution."
Sherlock began to walk away. "It's not persecution. I just do things to suit my purposes. Molly's feelings are occasionally of use to me, so I use them. Very simple."
John was fuming. Sherlock could be so cruel, and he didn't even know the consequences of his actions. When would he ever learn? He began to stalk after his friend.
"Oh, and John," Sherlock added, turning his head, "your argument is completely unsound. Half of it was untrue, so the whole thing comes crumbling down."
"What are you talking about?" John snapped. "You're a jerk, and that's it."
"You claim I 'throw her little bits of flattery I don't really mean', and that is as wrong as you can get. Anderson would have it better than you. Come now, John."
"Wait… you meant everything you said back there?"
"Of course I did. Taxi!" He waved his arm into the street.
"But I thought that was just you trying to be all witty and clever to 'suit your own purposes'!"
"Yes, but I never said I lied. Molly Hooper has a plethora of pleasant qualities about her, and I have simply been calling them to attention." He saw John's surprised look as a cabbie pulled up. "Don't tell me you never noticed any of it." He opened the car door and slipped in.
"Hold on," John said as he got in on the other side. "That part I said about you only pretending to love her, was that false, too?"
"Of course it wasn't John, don't be stupid," the detective said, yet the soldier thought he could see a pinkish tinge in those usually-alabaster cheeks.
"221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie, and he sat back and wondered who truly reigned in Sherlock's icy heart, and if Molly might have more than a little hope.