A/N: My contribution to Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Day 5: Sherlolly with a focus on Molly.
Molly kept her eyes fixed on the tile flooring of St. Bart's lab as she steered herself in autopilot to her workstation. It wasn't hers technically, but she had ceremoniously laid claim to the area by leaving her belongings, marking her territory. Her lab coat was placed prominently on the high-seated chair, and clipboard decorated with stickers of saccharinely large-eyed cartoon kittens was laid out so as to ward off fellow professionals.
Well, the way things stood lately, Molly did not feel any sort of fellowship with her colleagues.
Ever since the erstwhile deceased consulting detective––publicly absolved and reputation restored––resurfaced on the Twittersphere and then along Barts' corridors, quiet and unassuming Molly Hooper became the subject of rumours. Speculation abound, among local press and hospital staff, as to what her role was exactly in Sherlock Holmes's supposed death and subsequent resurrection.
Molly herself anticipated as much. And Sherlock––who, neither for the first nor the last time, demonstrated that a heart did in fact reside in his chest––even warned her during their reunion in the ladies' locker room. "People might… talk," he said, guilt and apology hidden just at the edge of his voice.
"They probably will," Molly agreed, with a forced cheerfulness that oftentimes succeeded in fooling everyone, except the man standing in front of her. And in an unperturbed tone that came naturally to her, she shrugged and said lightly, "S'okay," so convincingly, she almost believed herself. She didn't see the disapproving frown that darkened Sherlock's face briefly before he announced he was going to meet John for dinner, but that he would call on her soon.
Sherlock and Molly's prediction of workplace gossip came dully to pass. Strangers seemed to speak of her in hushed tones, and she sometimes earned an extra serving of gravy on her herb and parmesan mash in the cafeteria. When she was in a more self-indulgent mood, she glided past groups of lab-coated professionals, who suddenly lowered their voices and surreptitiously gawked at her, with a small triumphant smile on her face. Once, she even caught an intern trying to take a photo of her while they shared a ride on the lift. It was more embarrassing for said intern, who forgot to put his mobile on vibrate, and the digital shutter clicked loudly, making for an uncomfortable ride to Bart's ground level. Thankfully, though, the rumours and glances dwindled as soon as she started to tire of the attention, and everything returned to normal.
(Well, as normal as could be, notwithstanding attending John and Mary's rather eventful wedding, breaking it off with her fiancé, and berating Sherlock for relapsing into a drug habit.)
That is, until the man formerly known as Richard Brook and lately-revealed James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, highjacked Britain's airwaves.
Once Molly's safety was ascertained by Mycroft Holmes's people, and by the consulting detective himself, Molly returned to work, and began to attract a rather different, more noisome sort of attention.
Though she was aware of the pernicious nature of public opinion, she did not fully grasp its extent until she found herself at the receiving end of such enmity. While Sherlock's return elicited awe, Moriarty's appearance cast doubt and suspicion as to whose side she was really on. Even Meena kept her distance, sending her a noncommittal "Hope everything's okay" text one afternoon.
Molly told herself she didn't care a toss for what people thought of her, and focused on being upset by the fact that people stopped congregating around places she frequented, mostly because she was robbed of the chance to be the one to shun them. Still though, she couldn't help but feel angry with herself while she stood in a cafe, queuing to buy a day-old sandwich, a few blocks' walk from Bart's.
On the second week of the Hooper Embargo, Molly returned from the third floor ladies' slightly out of breath, to find Sherlock––whom she hadn't seen in as long––by his favourite microscope, examining some slides he had prepared. Without looking up and in lieu of a greeting, he requested, "Molly. Could you pass me the P-20 pipette?"
She moved closer to him, and instead of handing him the pipette, she queried, "Aren't you going to ask?"
"Ask what?"
"Everyone's talking about it––me." She explained pointedly when Sherlock returned her with a blank stare, "Moriarty."
He didn't respond, but instead lowered his head so that his eyes rested again on the microscope's ocular lenses, his fingers fine-tuning the focus knob. Before her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach, Sherlock replied in a low voice, "Don't need to. They're all idiots."
It was the first genuine smile that lit upon her face in the past two weeks. She placed the pipette by his elbow and went back to work.
The two of them settled into a quiet rhythm, sharing Molly's work area for the past half-hour or so, ignoring the white-coats who threw them curious glances as they drifted in and out of the lab.
"Molly…"
Without breaking her concentration from the charts she was revising, Molly anticipated that Sherlock will probably be needing the hydrolyzing enzyme by now. "It's there, on your right."
"No. I wondered if, er… would you like to have dinner later?"
This got her attention. "What?"
"Dinner. Later. All you've had today was your usual coffee, and that grotty rubbish from the cafe round the corner that vaguely resembled a sandwich in a previous life, oh, and––" he paused to sniff the air like a bloodhound, "a satsuma. No, two." A frighteningly accurate bloodhound. He cleared his throat before he started again, "Your shift ends at nine tonight. Late dinner, then." Without waiting for her to respond, he began tidying up his area and stood to slip on his Belstaff. "I need to see Lestrade for more data. I'll be back to pick you up before your shift ends."
"Wh––I thought you didn't eat while you're on a case."
"Out of habit, yes, but not as a rule. Neither of which would pose a hardship to break." He paused to wrap his scarf around his neck. "I know a good Thai place."
"Let me guess," she teased. "The owner owes you a favor?"
"No, actually." He paused just briefly for dramatic effect, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Mary recommended it. I believe the word 'orgasmic' was used to describe their five-spice duck roll. Tremendously ambitious, if you asked me."
The sound of Molly's laughter followed Sherlock as he left the lab.
When he returned later that night, he waited no longer than two minutes after sending Molly a text alerting her to his arrival, for her to gather her belongings and meet him in the lobby. The prospect of dinner, and the presence of dinner companion, lifted her spirits as she emerged from the lifts.
That Sherlock, in his impatience to depart, took the duffel bag from her shoulder and carried it for her, then took her hand as they walked, well, Molly didn't complain. And that the busybody receptionist tweeted a photo she snapped of the two of them walking out of Bart's together, well… by the time the photo reached its thousandth retweet, there was no doubt in all of London's minds whose side Molly was really on.
end
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