One
When Molly walked back into the pathology lab of St. Bart's, she was greeted by two sounds: the computer's beeping that indicated a search was complete, and Sherlock's satisfied exclamation.
The combined sounds were more than enough to make her smile and put a spring in her step. "Any luck?" she asked as she made her way into the large room.
"Oh, yes!" said Sherlock in satisfaction, briefly turning his eyes from the computer screen to meet hers in an excited, conspiratorial gaze.
It was during moments like this that Molly loved him the most. This was when he was truly in his element: working on a case, absorbed in the task at hand, his concentration wholly focused where it needed to be. He really was an extraordinary human being; this was the thought that Molly would always have in moments like this. But her heart always filled up just a bit more in moments like this: when he had come a step closer to the solution, and his glee could rival that of any child winning a game.
Molly eagerly made her way over to Sherlock, so she could see the results of the search. These cases excited her just as much as it excited Sherlock, and she loved that she could make a contribution to his efforts, however small. She vaguely noticed his friend (what was his name?) move out of the way for her silently.
But just then, the door to the lab opened again, and a familiar voice said in an embarrassed tone, "Oh, sorry, I didn't…"
Looking up, Molly saw that it was Jim, hovering in the open door looking both awkward at barging in, but curious when his eyes landed on Sherlock and his friend.
"Jim! Hi!" Molly exclaimed in both surprise and slight embarrassment, her voice getting slightly higher in pitch, as though she had just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar – which was, in fact, true. Though she was dating Jim, Molly couldn't deny to herself that she still held a roaring flame for Sherlock, though she tried to every moment of every day.
Eager to make things clear to everybody, especially herself, Molly waved him towards her, saying, "Come in! Come in!"
She did not notice Sherlock giving Jim that look of his that sized a person up completely. Though his expression remained neutral, his eyes were sharp and cold as ice.
"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," she said as Jim made his way over to them. Though her tone was polite and courteous, she felt a sinking feeling begin to seep in when she saw that Sherlock had turned back to his microscope.
"Ah," said Jim, looking at the detective in recognition.
Not wanting to be impolite, Molly turned to Sherlock's friend. "And, uh…sorry…" Molly tried to recall the man's name, but it wouldn't come to her. She'd only ever seen him two or three times with Sherlock, once on the day that Mike Stamford had introduced the two of them. All she really knew was that they were flatmates, and it must have been going well or else this man would not be anywhere near here.
"John Watson, hi," said the man without enthusiasm. He looked somehow weary; perhaps he and Sherlock'd had a disagreement just before she came in.
"Hi," returned Jim, before turning his attention back to Sherlock. The detective was still wholly focused on his microscope, so Jim addressed the back of his neck. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"
Molly kept a friendly smile on her face, even though Jim's last words caused her to feel both embarrassment and guilt. I really do gush on about him, don't I? But what else in my life is half as interesting as this man and what he brings with him? And Jim never seems to mind; he loves hearing about him as much as I like talking about him! So what's the harm?
Jim walked away from Molly, past John, and to Sherlock's other side slowly, looking at the evidence sprawled out around Sherlock curiously. Eager to save face after her last train of thought, Molly piped up, "Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," she ended on an awkward chuckle, while inwardly cursing herself that she had let that expression slip from her nervous tongue.
Sherlock took one brief look at Jim before turning back to his microscope and saying one word: "Gay."
All traces of a smile or chuckle brought on by nervous awkwardness faded from Molly at that word; though it had been muttered quietly, to her it had sounded loud and clear. "Sorry, what?" she asked, no trace of a stutter or humor in her voice now.
Sherlock lifted his gaze from his microscope again and turned to Jim. "Nothing, um, hey," he said, giving Jim a pleasant grin that looked like he was about to eat rotten cheese. But Jim didn't seem to notice or care about the latter detail. "Hi," he said shyly, just before accidently knocking a Petri dish onto the floor. The noise echoed brutally in the large lab. "Sorry, sorry!" he said, picking it up again.
Molly closed her eyes and turned her head in complete embarrassment. Sherlock was not going to be happy about that, and who would he dump his frustration on? Good old me.
"Well, I'd better be off," said Jim, making his way back over to her. "I'll see you at the Fox, about 6:00-ish?"
The mention of her favorite pub caused Molly's spirits to lift somewhat. Of their two dates so far, she knew that Jim had much preferred the one where he had chosen the location: a loud and noisy dance club with lots of neon lights. She found the gesture he was making now very sweet. "Yeah," she replied as Jim put a hand on her back affectionately.
"It was nice to meet you," said Jim to Sherlock, who was once again focused on his microscope. An awkward moment of silence passed before John Watson said, "You, too," since Sherlock wouldn't.
Molly inwardly groaned at this awkward encounter, eager for it to be over. Jim just gave an embarrassed smile, gave her arm a light caress, and then silently made his way out of the lab.
But a moment after the door had shut loudly behind him, Molly addressed Sherlock in a pleasantly confused tone rather than an accusatory one, Jim's gesture and sweet caresses still lingering in her mind and soothing her fears. "What do you mean, gay? We're together!" She somewhat lamely made a hand gesture to emphasize her point.
As she spoke, Sherlock slowly lifted his head up and turned his head to her. The gaze he gave Molly was so quick that most people wouldn't think it more than a glance. But Molly knew better, and felt the gaze sweep over her like the strongest radar. When he spoke, his tone was soft, cold, condescending, and taunting.
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly – you've put on three pounds since I last saw you."
John knew immediately, from the moment Sherlock had called Jim from IT "gay" that trouble was inevitable. Though he was getting more and more used to the way that Sherlock behaved with other people, that didn't mean he had to like it. Truth be told, he hadn't really paid too much attention to the awkward meet-and-greet that had just occurred. His thoughts were occupied on the current case, and the haunting sound of the woman in distress he, Sherlock, and Lestrade had heard on the phone Sherlock had been given. But hearing Sherlock out the man caused him to wake up a bit – this could only mean trouble for the poor girl.
When Sherlock made the comment about her weight, John felt his entire stomach drop. How stupid can he be? It hadn't taken long in his experience with women to know that weight comments were never – and I mean never – a smart move, no matter how good the intentions were.
And it was clear that Sherlock had no good intentions whatsoever when he said that to Molly.
The poor girl looked as though she had been slapped. Her eyes became brighter, her jaw became tighter, and her whole body tensed up. She was glaring at Sherlock as if she would like nothing more than to ram his head against the microscope he had turned his attention back to.
"Two and a half," she practically snarled, her small hands curling into fists.
Sherlock pretended to consider without looking up. "Well, three."
Not good, very not good, thought John as he witnessed this. "Sherlock…" he began, hoping to abate an inevitable storm, but then the little pathologist seemed to snap a little.
"He's not gay!" she exclaimed at Sherlock, a note of desperation mixing in with the anger and hurt already in her tone. "Why do you have to spoil…he's not!" She turned a quick glance to John, as if begging for help.
Sherlock let out a snort and looked up from the lens, though not turning to look at either of them. "With that level of personal grooming?" he said in amusement.
Wanting to help the poor girl, John stepped towards Sherlock and argued, "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!"
Sherlock smiled at that and said, "You wash your hair, there's a difference," in a tone that said Oh, please, spare me, in amused exasperation. With that he began his deductions: "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubbers' eyes." His gaze turned back to the pathologist at that last one. "And then there's his underwear."
Now Molly looked horrified. "His underwear?" she said to Sherlock.
His gaze remained on her as he continued on. "Visible above the waistline, very visible. Very particular brand." He turned to the Petri dish that Jim had knocked over and pulled out a scrap of paper that had not been underneath it previously. "That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…"
John, who had been standing with his arms folded during this deduction, lowered his head in defeat at this last fact with an exasperated sigh. But Sherlock wasn't finished, and his last words caused John to look back at the poor girl at the receiving end.
"…and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain," he finished, waving the piece of paper before her. His tone lacked any kind of empathy, and only held cold finality.
Looking at Molly, John was now the one who wanted to slam Sherlock's head against the microscope. The poor girl had visible tears shining in her eyes, and her jaw was shut so tightly John could see the bones in her neck sticking out. The way she looked at his flatmate John could only describe as…well, if a look could say "Fuck you," it was the look that Molly was giving Sherlock.
For a moment, it looked as though she might tell him that with words as well as looks, but then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the lab. John could see that her lip was trembling before she was out of sight.
Sherlock's reaction was to get a look on his face similar to a little boy who had really upset his mummy and had no idea how.
John shook his head slightly. He really didn't know the young pathologist, so he didn't feel it to be his place to run after her and try to give comfort – that and the fact that Sherlock's deductions were brutally true. But he did know that the poor girl, who seemed so devoted and hopelessly head-over-heels for Sherlock (God help her), did not deserve that kind of cruelty.
"Charming, well done," he said both casually and sarcastically.
Sherlock's expression became confused as he looked at John. "Just…saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
"Kind?" said John, squaring up to Sherlock with his arms still crossed. "No, no, Sherlock, that –" His eyes went to the place Molly had stood before returning to Sherlock. "– wasn't kind."
Molly saw everything through metaphorical, blood-red spectacles as she stormed into the locker room. She paced back and forth, holding her fists tight to her sides so she would not hit anything. When she finally tripped over something she hadn't seen because of the tears in her eyes, she dragged herself to one of the benches and sat down. She held her shaking hands tightly together as tears spilled down her cheeks.
How can he be so…so…
What? Heartless? Cruel? Everyone else thinks that about him, and perhaps you've just been proven they were right.
But maybe doesn't know about –
Doesn't know? Oh, please! He probably read it on your face every time you ate something in the lab! You know how much he can see when he looks at a person, and after knowing you for three years, of course he would have learned it by now, even if he thinks of you as a doormat.
But with Jim…maybe he was just being a friend by telling me –
A friend wouldn't have been so cruel by saying that about your weight when he knows your history.
…At least his new friend seems nice…Perhaps he'll be a good influence on Sherlock…
One man can't stop an avalanche, Molly.
Her head was beginning to pound from what had just happened, keeping her sobs at bay, and the ongoing debate she was having with herself. Pull yourself together, she thought. Not at work. Save it for home, when you can soak in a hot bath and watch telly.
Molly got up from the bench and went to her locker. She opened it, and pulled out some tissues and a bottle of Excedrin. After taking two for her head and wiping her face, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her face clearly showed she had been crying, and she couldn't bear to go back in that lab and face that…But she also wouldn't hide in this locker room, especially since she had no idea how long they would be in there. So, she resolved to just walk right into her office, shut the door, and work on paperwork until her shift ended.
And after her shift, she would meet up with Jim and break things off. Despite the cruelty, she knew that Sherlock was right. Break it off now, and save yourself the pain…
Molly snorted. Save herself the pain? Knowing Sherlock Holmes made that task absolutely impossible.
Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, her eyes couldn't help but glance over her body, trying to tell how he had picked up on the three pounds. Her pants were too baggy for it to be the thighs…Stop this! Don't do this to yourself! Do go back there!
Another temptation reared when, in the mirror's reflection, she saw the sign that pointed to the loo.
No. I haven't resisted for fifteen years to chuck it all away now.
