Chapter One
Sherlock (penitent and cruel)
She looked at herself in the glass. The dress was black, form fitting, sparkly. Her hair was down mostly, pulled up at the sides with a festive bow. And then...the lipstick. Red, generously applied. Molly's mind wandered to the invitation she had received from John. It had been verbal, in passing.
"So...we're having a small get together, Molly. You know, for the holiday. Some wine...nothing big. It'd be lovely if you could come."
She had smiled. "That's nice, thanks John," she paused. "Do you think...do you think Sherlock would mind if I went?"
"Mind? I should hope not!" He laughed. "Nothing fancy. Be there about 6-ish, then?"
She nodded. "Right. Thanks."
She smiled at the recollection. She ran her fingers through her hair. Molly had thought that this was likely the first time Sherlock had ever seen her in something nice. Something not from work, or overly casual on the one or two occasions she had seen him outside of the lab. While he had been there countless times over the past few years, she had always been in a lab coat. She wished to make a favourable impression. She wanted him to notice her body, always so hidden in the lab.
Her crush was distracting. He was often aloof. Moody. Changeful and abrupt. Yet she had noticed recently, he had begun to confide in her somewhat. He had complained to her about John leaving for the holiday. Mrs. Hudson was often beleaguered with pain. His violin needed tending, he was too busy to see to it. John's many girlfriends were tiresome, and he wished he would just pick one already so he didn't need to constantly pick them apart and recall things about them. Like their name.
He had begun to treat her like a friend of sorts. She enjoyed the attention. She loved to listen to his voice. She sympathised with his tendency toward solitude, but understood his need for a few close friends. She thought they were alike. She thought they had grown close as of late. She thought, maybe, he had begun to reciprocate her feelings, which grew stronger by the day.
Molly thought that he only needed a push. Her dress, her makeup, there would be no mistaking her intent. She was going to give Sherlock the signal that she was very much interested...and not in merely a "I think you're cute, let's have coffee" way. No. She wanted more now, and this evening would demonstrate how very much more she wanted.
She hailed a taxi. Her large bag full of gifts weighed heavily. Though she couldn't say that she was intimately acquainted with the entire group she was about to join, she thought it rude to go empty handed. She brought a tie for Greg, some biscuits in a tin and tea for Mrs. Hudson, a new jumper for John, a bottle of wine for John and his girlfriend (she couldn't recall her name, so John's alone donned the package), and for Sherlock, his favourite cologne complete with shaving cream. She believed it to be appropriate, she had smelled it on him often, and it was suggestive enough without being presumptuous.
Off she went. Her heart and mind were racing. Though she didn't expect anything specific to occur that evening, she thought there was an outside chance her and Sherlock might meet under the mistletoe.
The note said to come up, so she did. She heard voices, and was glad that she wasn't the first to arrive.
After greeting everyone, she accepted a glass of wine, and began to make small talk.
And then it happened.
With such cruel nonchalance he humiliated her and her efforts to gain his eye. With stinging mockery he casually ripped her apart in public. Her boyfriend! How could he think that? Why?
He took the gift marked with his name to deal the final blow. She hoped his realisation would silence him. She was right.
But she was confounded. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always," shaking her head in mortified confusion.
He swallowed, she saw that. His pride wounded, no doubt. "I am sorry. Forgive me." He stepped toward her. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," and a kiss on her cheek.
He left soon thereafter, distracted by a rather crude text alert. Molly, too, was called into work, and left the party half an hour after Sherlock retreated to his bedroom.
Her exit couldn't have come soon enough. She had desperately wanted to leave, feeling like she only needed to be alone. With Toby. And some ice cream. And crap telly.
Her plans were thwarted by a call from work - no one can come in. Christmas plans.
Yes. She was alone, no family worth a mention, no friends without family. She heaved a heavy sigh and pulled on a silly Christmas jumper, brushed out her hair without pulling it back, and headed to St. Bart's.
In they waltzed, and Sherlock made mention of her not having to come in.
"Well, everyone had Christmas…" she mumbled. The other man smiled at her.
He asked to see "the rest of her," which made her blush a bit. This woman, this dead woman, had known him intimately. So intimately, indeed, that he knew her naked form. She was confused, he had never mentioned a girlfriend. He had talked to her about many things, but never a girlfriend.
Why would he, though? She pondered as she made her way home. He was clever. He knew she fancied him, she didn't exactly hide it. Why would he talk to her about a girlfriend? Because, she thought, she was his friend. So what if she fancied him? He talked to her about his life! He confided in her about things. He should feel as though he can speak to her.
Molly entered her darkened flat, closed the door behind her, and leaned on the closed door. She felt pathetic. She felt alone. Her chest filled with an oncoming sob, and she swallowed it. Molly's mind was filled with self pity, and she hated herself for it.
"Stop it, Molly. Just stop it," she rubbed her face, turned on the light, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
After the four digit code didn't work, he bought her a coffee. He had said that he was indeed, quite sorry for ever having made her feel badly Christmas Eve. It wasn't his intention. That's Ok, she had told him. He had been through a lot…his girlfriend and all. But no, she wasn't his girlfriend, and he left the lab.
Not his girlfriend. Molly smiled to herself. He was cruel. He was brilliant. He was her friend. And he was apologetic to her, something that she had never heard him utter to his closest friend John, despite the stinging vitriol he would sling at him. He apologized, he attended to the (very) basic rules of human interaction, even with the extreme cruelty of his moods.
Ok, she thought. She can almost deal with this.
Almost...except he didn't come into the lab for what seemed a very great while, and she began to think that he had forgotten about her. Well, par for the course. As soon as she thinks that he cares a bit, he pulls away. She would need to tread lightly, his capriciousness may even hinder a friendship without hope of a romance. And if nothing else, if he never wanted anything from her except a friendship, she would be there to offer it.
