Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely Katya Jade- Go and read her story "Falls The Angel," now! (Seriously, I'll wait). This is a follow up to, "Honeymoon in Croydon," though this should work as a stand-alone. It takes place just before "Adventures In The Tea Trade," and now officially counts as part 2 of the Be-Bop-A-Sherlock Trilogy. A third part of the trilogy will eventually appear, but it's not here yet, so enjoy.
**** VIVA STEPNEY! ****
~Once Upon A Time In Albert Square~
Sherlock doesn't know precisely when he starts doing it.
In fact, Sherlock doesn't know precisely why he starts doing it.
But for some reason, as soon as he and Molly come back from her aborted honeymoon in Madrid he notices it slipping into their conversations. Here and there, when he's teasing her. Here and there, when she occasionally shows that same propensity for subterfuge that she showed the day he stole her from her wedding and he's finding it entertaining. It's a tiny thing really, miniscule- He's not even sure Molly has noticed it, but he sure as Hell has.
Because he's started calling her, "princess."
Princess. I bloody ask you.
No matter the context, the word just seems to pop out of his mouth. Just like it did the day he stole her away from her wedding, just like he did when he was pretending to be her East End wide boy body guard. The word makes an appearance at the most inopportune moments, usually when she's done something rather clever or said something rather funny or charming, or, well, Molly-like-
And then out it pops. Princess. As in, "watch yourself, princess." Or, "That's enough of that, princess." Or, "stop pouting at me princess, Anderson had that coming." (In fairness, considering the state of the trace evidence when Lestrade's pet monkey was through with it, he deserved a great deal more than his phone being stolen and reset to Hindustani, and judging by how hard she was trying not to smile Molly agreed with him). Not that that matters at all.
That is emphatically not the point.
No, the point is that the word just seems to spring to Sherlock lips every time he and Molly are alone together and she's teasing him, and for the life of him Sherlock can't figure out why he's saying it. After all, he's not Danny Dyer. He is not applying for a job in The Queen Vic. In fact, he is the very dictionary definition of painfully posh; He'll never be a, "diamond geezer," and he's fairly certain that Molly wouldn't want him to be.
So why the Hell is he channelling the spirit of Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels?
He doesn't know, he really doesn't.
And if there's one thing Sherlock Holmes hates, it's not knowing something.
But he still keeps referring to Molly by this ridiculous nickname, so dangerously close to sounding like an endearment. Princess. Just like that, princess. Hand me that, princess.. Don't you look lovely, princess (though in fairness he's only thought that, not said it aloud). Sherlock is mystified: He's setting feminism back thirty bloody years every time he uses the word, he just knows it. His mother would be horrified. Mycroft would be apoplectic. He is not, emphasis not, the sort of man who was raised to have pet names for his pathologist-
And yet Molly says nothing. She doesn't seem to mind it.
In fact, if he were a more optimistic sort of a person, Sherlock might even suspect she… likes it.
The thought always causes the most inexplicable quiver in his belly.
Because she never tells him off or gets huffy about his using it. Occasionally- very occasionally- she even smiles at it. Swallows a little harder when he says it, her eyes going to his and then flickering away, her tongue slipping out to wet her lip as her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and her pulse flutters against her throat.
It's most distracting.
When Sherlock notices that happen he catalogues a most peculiar analogous reaction within himself, his pulse rushing, his mouth also dry. The tips of his ears turning the most mercilessly embarrassing shade of pink, a sense of something momentous tightening in his chest-
And then she'll go back to whatever she was doing, as will he, and the weird, muddled-up, what-on-Earth-is-this? energy between them will dissipate until they're plain old Sherlock and Molly once more. A situation which will last until the next time he calls her princess-
And there's always a next time.
One might almost be tempted to think, Sherlock sometimes muses, that his reiteration of the word holds some sort of hidden meaning. Like his subconscious mind's trying to tell him something and his consciousness won't hear it. But though that' an interesting theory he refuses to look at it- After all, there are cadavers and criminals and adventures and all sorts to be getting on with-
Which is why when he finally figures out why he's been using an endearment like that on Molly, and she finally shows him what she thinks of it, it takes The Great Detective Sherlock Holmes completely by surprise.
That the situation involves East End gangsters, Elvis songs and Sherlock capturing an opponent in a headlock whilst wearing a bright blue jumpsuit does not, however, come as that much of a shock. He's The Great Detective, after all.
Weird is simply what he does.
~He Smelled of Cigarettes, Lynx Africa and Complete Obfuscation ~
The Inciting Incident (as Sherlock will later term it) begins, quite unexpectedly, one Wednesday morning as he's popping into the morgue after a brief meeting with a client.
The client, Violet Dwyer, (feared matriarch of East End gangster family the Dwyer Firm and lifelong Elvis fan,) had contracted him to infiltrate her organisation and see who's been threatening her granddaughter, Lily. The old woman believes it's an inside job and Sherlock's inclined to agree, but neither of them can figure out who'd have the motive to do it. Such stupidity would seem entirely counter-productive to keeping on the old woman's good side, and she's already wiped out the younger generation of upstarts who'd want to take her on. Everyone else is apparently loyal, or terrified of her, or both.
It's this conundrum that makes the case more than a mere five.
Sherlock wouldn't normally want to become involved but the Dwyers sheltered him during his Hiatus and kept his secret from Moriarty's network, and now they're demanding payment for services rendered. He might still have refused, but the granddaughter being threatened is only fourteen years old, and he doesn't see how she should be held responsible for the life she was born into. She is an innocent, whatever can be said about her Dear Old Gran-
That the petite, brown-eyed girl reminds him ever so slightly of Molly is a) not something which hurts her case any nor b) the sort of thing on which he is willing to dwell.
So he acquiesces, goes so far as to agree to an undercover assignment. Infiltrating an East End family isn't easy; most of the communities are tight-knit, people coming up together through the ranks of school or criminality or both. Outsiders tend to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, one of the reasons so few Met operations against the London firms have gotten results.
On the other hand, he isSherlock Holmes, not the Met.
'Nuff said, really.
Mother Dwyer permits him to assume an identity, that of a former enforcer to her deceased son Winston who disappeared mysteriously ten years ago (and by "disappeared," Sherlock assumes she means, "was encouraged to shuffle off this mortal coil. Violently.") The older woman will vouch for him- nobody in their right mind would gainsay her- and then he will be free to come and go as he pleases. To poke in and out of the Dwyer Firm's affairs with ease and discover who might be threatening Lily. He even gets to come up with his own gangster nick-name and he might not be admitting it aloud, but Sherlock's actually looking forward to that-
He's rather smugly thinking this as he wanders into Molly's morgue, wanting to say hello and check on his liver experiments.
The smugness lasts about as long as it takes for Molly to see him, take in how he's dressed, blush whilst making a little "Eep!" noise and then rush from the room.
So not long at all, really.
Sherlock watches her go in mystification, wondering what on Earth is wrong with her. After all, he knows he's dressed for all the world like the ultimate "diamond geezer," (heavy coat, sharp- though he feels overly shiny- suit. A couple of gold rings have been added to his fingers for authenticity, and a diamond earring shines in his ear for the same reason).
But come on! He's seen Molly in her wedding gown, and there's no way he looks more ridiculous than she did.
And yet, out Ms. Hooper has run, moving so quickly she practically leaves vapour trails in her wake. She even locks the door to her office behind her.
What does she think he's going to do: Chase her in?
Sherlock frowns, moves to the door of her office and taps it lightly. "Molly?" he asks and as he does it he frowns. Rolls his eyes at himself.
He's been doing the East End accent all day and he used it when he said her name too. He feels like, as his character would say, a muppet. An almighty muppet.
"Sherlock?" he hears her say hesitantly from behind the door. "Sherlock… Why are you talking like that?"
Her voice sounds a little… breathless. Shy and breathless.
The detective grins: If she's going to be an idiot then he might as well have some fun with this. It's been a long time since she's been shy around him. So he pauses, thinks back to the day he stole her from her wedding and pretended to be her body-guard. "Why do you think?" he asks in the same East End accent. He even makes sure to lower his voice for good measure.
A bump sounds on the other side of the door, as if Molly's suddenly tapped her head against it.
Sherlock can't be entirely certain, but he thinks he might have heard a little moan too.
What on Earth is that about?
"Sherlock, why are you putting on that voice?" she asks again, and it's odd, she sounds a little… throaty. Pleading. He's never heard Molly sound like that before. "You don't really talk in that accent-"
"I might do, princess," he points out. He's starting to enjoy this, despite the arrival of the hated P Word. "I'm not around you all the time- How would a nice girl like you know what a bad man like me gets up to?"
And he leans against the door jam. Rests his forehead against the wood and waits.
He's surprised at his own words- He's not really sure where they came from- but before he can work it out Molly's office door opens a crack.
A pair of bright brown eyes peer out at him and he realises that she's-She's flushed. Blushing scarlet and biting her lip.
It's… It's rather attractive, is what it is.
But not so attractive as the way she's blinking up at him. The way she's gazing at him as if he is the most fascinating thing on the planet. Whatever he may have claimed about his own potential for awesomeness in the past, he's never had anyone look like that at him.
For no reason he wishes to fathom, Sherlock's mouth goes entirely dry at this notion.
Molly swallows hard and his own throat, without any prompting, follows suit.
Oh, he thinks. Oh my.
He doesn't remember deciding to lean further against the door, to tower over her. He doesn't remember deciding to lower his head so that they're nearly eye to eye, her form so much smaller and more delicate when they're inside one another's person space like this. He finds the fact that she doesn't cower back, that she leans into him, in fact, to be rather… interesting. Invigorating. (He wants to say arousing but he's afraid that might set the wrong tone by being absolutely truthful, so he holds back. He's good at that.)
"So when you're not around me you're actually some sort of… bad man?" Molly asks, and this time he has no doubt: Her voice is breathless.
One little hand has sneaked out from behind her door to rest on Sherlock's tie, straightening it distractedly.
Once she's straightened it, the hand stays pressed lightly against his chest. It is a small, delicate, soft, perfect weight.
Sherlock nods, half distracted himself, and for some reason when he's distracted playing a character usually comes easier than being himself. It's less scary, with this odd, twisting pull of… something tightening in his chest, to pretend he's another person. So that's what he does. He plays a character. He plays the character he's been playing all day.
"Oh, you have no idea what a bad man I am, princess," he whispers, leaning down and saying the words directly into her ear. She shivers. "I'd have you quaking in your boots, just to hear the 'alf of it."
"Are you very wicked?" she asks, and there's something in her voice now, her accent's getting more precise, more clear, more posh for want of a better word.
The fact that mousy little Molly Hooper is using it on him is rather, well… He hesitates to think the word but it applies: Sexy.
Actually, it's really very sexy.
The last time Sherlock heard Received Pronunciation that clear, Mummy was telling off Mycroft for liking A Flock of Seagulls' first album. The time before that Monica Gregson was trying to coax him into following her behind the bike sheds after school, the minx. And there's something rather wonderful about hearing Molly talk like that, just as there's something rather wonderful about the reversal of their positions, she speaking in the voice of one in charge and he speaking in the voice of someone who clearly isn't. It sets his pulse hammering even harder against his throat. Makes his heartbeat come in quadruple time.
He thinks… He imagines this is what being aroused feels like.
No, he's sure that this is what being aroused feels like.
Because Molly's pushing open the door now, she's inching her way forwards. She's holding onto him by his tie, using it to lever him backwards, and before he knows what she's doing she's backed him up against the wall to his right.
He feels it, cool and hard against his shoulder-blades, his backside. The backs of his knees.
It's rather soothing, what with the rest of him suddenly feeling so hot.
For a beat neither says anything and then… She leans in closer, her chest very nearly touching his (he refuses to move any further backwards). Stares up at him with those huge brown eyes. Again her tongue wets her lip.
"I could have your job for this," she says and Sherlock registers it, half-delighted and half mortified at his pleasure in her threatening him.(Is she going to play this game too? Is it a game they're playing? Why does it feel so good that she's pressing him against a wall? Why doesn't he want to push her away when he could easily do so?)
He summons as much East End wide-boy bravado as he can muster. "You might… But you won't. Too much of a good girl, aren't you, prin-"
And that's as far as he gets before Molly cuts him off, employing the glorious and entirely nefarious method of snogging him. Hard. On the mouth.
He's not really sure what to make of it.
Well- Certain parts of his anatomy, specifically his hands (tightened on her waist), his tongue, (trying to emigrate to her mouth, apparently), his knee (pressed between her legs the moment she touches him for what reason, he can't guess) and his, well…. You-get-the picture, know exactly what to make of it, but Sherlock doesn't. He doesn't.
No, he feels flummoxed. Horrified. Really bloody cooperative. He feels as if every nerve ending he possesses has been shot through with an electric current, feels as though his entire body has come alive even as he switches their positions so that now her back's against the wall and he's the one going for Tonsil Hockey Champion- He's the one breathing hard and holding onto her even harder-
"Like that, princess?" he gasps.
"Just like that- Now shut up," she gasps back at him, pulling his head down to hers for another, wonderfully debauched round-
And then, as quickly as she grabbed him, Molly Hooper is gone.
Gone.
In the space of a blink she's hopped free of Sherlock and is standing at her usual microscope, pretending to be entirely innocent and harmless and not the Snogger (rather than the Snogee) while her colleague, Doctor Bulgarov, flits through the lab, trying to find the paperwork for the Hilliard case-
This feat manages to be simultaneously infuriating and quite impressive.
Sherlock somehow feels his thunder is being stolen.
The detective just stares at her, not sure what just happened between them; He feels rather like a motor car which has been geared up for the Indy 100 and somehow left by the side of the road in Scunthorpe. He is out of breath. Bad tempered. Entirely ill-used- Or wonderfully used. (He can't decide which). As he thinks this Bulgarov notices him, finally. Takes in his blinking, slightly lost expression, and slows.
"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?" the elderly woman asks.
She's peering at him quite earnestly. It's nauseating.
Sherlock shoots a last bewildered look at Molly, apparently enrapt by her microscope, and shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you know, Dr. Bulgarov," he says, "I'm not actually sure- How extraordinary."
And with that he sweeps out of the Lab, leaving Molly behind him.
He doesn't want to admit it, but he spends the rest of the day hearing Molly's Received Pronunciation echoing around his head. It's mortifying, the things it does to him.
~ I Blame Tom Hiddleston ~
Apparently, Sherlock thinks as he tries to sleep that night, pretending to be an East End gangster carries more perils than I had previously imagined.
Apparently the accent has the power to make normally sane women go mad with lust.
And apparently women really do like bad boys.
Sherlock shakes his head to himself at that least thought: That can't be right.
How would a man like John ever get lucky, let alone earn the nickname Three Continents Watson, if that were the case?
He thinks of some of the sounds he's heard coming from The Watsons' bedroom when he's stayed over and he decides that there may be a flaw in that logic, but he doesn't want to investigate it. He doesn't.
Instead he lies back in the darkness and wonders what temporary insanity overcame his friend Molly today- Because temporary insanity is what it must be.
Sherlock's never seen Molly behave like that before, and he's seen her through their fair share of scrapes. He even saw her during her courtship with that loathsome miscreant Jenkins, and she never behaved like that. It was almost as if she were lost in the moment, almost as if she were playing a game too. Almost as if she enjoyed pretending she wasn't Molly and he wasn't Sherlock-
Which is preposterous, he thinks. Why on Earth would she want to pretend to be someone else when she's fairly near perfect as she is?
His inner Mycroft stirs at this, tells him that's a dangerous thought, but he ignores it. He'd much prefer to think about why on Earth would Molly get, get, well, you know, by the idea that he was some sort of… lout.
He knows well that tall, dark and haughty is her type: Why would she abandon that just because he put on an accent?
It makes, he thinks, not a jot of sense.
These thoughts bring no clarity- As with so many things to do with feelings, Sherlock is baffled by them. So he turns on his back and tries to sleep. He's up early tomorrow for his second full day in Mother Dwyer's employ: He's sure he'll have an answer for her by the end of the week, and it would be wise to focus on the matter at hand.
But he still falls asleep thinking of Molly Hooper.
Molly Hooper pretending to be posh, and him pretending to be common.
It's the beginning of a pattern, a pattern called Idiocy; It stays with him through the coming weeks, even though he really rather wishes it would go away.
Days pass, then a week, then a month, and still he can't get Molly and The Inciting Incident out of his head.
He tries everything- cases, needling Anderson, needling Lestrade, even- though he knows it's dangerous- needling Donovan. Picking fights with the men in Mother Dwyer's employ. Picking fights with John- though not, since he remains non-suicidal- with Mary.
He solves puzzles, goes on stakeouts, pores through every possible enemy the Dwyer Firm has which might have a reason to try assassinating their granddaughter, but he finds nothing. Nothing. The identity of the threat remains elusive, and the answer to what happened between he and Molly remains elusive too. It's driving him insane. He's afraid to go back to Bart's now and people are noticing, but still he won't discuss it. The Incident seems to be on loop inside his head and no matter what he tries it's not going anywhere-
It seems impervious to everything, even his attempts to delete it.
Although, even he must admit that, given he replays the incident in his head, over and over and over again at dead of night… Well, he may not be trying very hard. To delete it, that is.
In fact there are plenty of times when he delights in remembering it- And he suspects he should be… delighting himself that much.
Mycroft certainly wouldn't approve. Neither would Mummy.
John, on the other hand, would probably give him a round of applause.
After the first week John asks him what's wrong, but Sherlock can't bring himself to explain it. It's far too silly, he thinks, the idea that he snogged Molly Hooper whilst pretending to be a gangster, and he doesn't want John thinking he's, well, weird. (He doesn't mind anyone else thinking it, just not John).
Watson accepts his panicky, snapped answer and leaves it, decides to send in a professional. Mary corners him the next time he comes to the house to drop John off, offers him some chips and a chance to dry off his soaking wet coat before she and her husband go in for the kill. Eventually, after a great deal of build-up and argument and, surprisingly, an arm-wrestling match which John wins easily, Sherlock explains what happened-
He tells them that he doesn't understand it, that he's no idea what on Earth could have made Molly behave that way.
"I've thought about whether it could be a drug, some ort of hallucinogenic substance, but it can't be," he says earnestly. "All of her autopsies that day were perfect, and if she'd been high it would have shown. And that also means that it can't have been a blow to the head or some other sort of incapacitating injury-"
At this Mary snorts and she and her husband share a fond look. She reaches over and tussles Sherlock's hair.
"They grow up so fast," she says, mock-wistful. "Your mother's right, they're just on loan to you-"
"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock glares at her, indignant, but both she and John just shrug. Giggle.
This is why he hates talking about feelings with anyone else but Molly, Sherlock thinks.
Everybody else is just so bloody annoying. Annoying and smug.
Apparently his annoyance must show though because John raises his hands in surrender, apologises. Offers him some more tea and sits down. As he pours he watches Sherlock carefully, his expression thoughtful. Composed.
After a moment he starts talking in this irritatingly tentative voice which Sherlock just knows is going to drive him to distraction.
"Sherlock," he begins, "Sherlock… When you were a kid, did you ever play cowboys and Indians?"
The detective blinks. "I- No. Mycroft wouldn't play make-believe games. Said he was too old for them." He preens. "And too clever."
John snorts. "Which is why you got your own back by becoming a consulting detective, isn't it?"
Despite his annoyance, Sherlock shoots his best friend a conspiratorial grin. "Yes, John. Yes it is."
Mary tries next. "But you used to pretend to be a pirate when you were a kid: I know, your mum told me-"
Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, irritated at being reminded of such childhood fripperies. He knew well what people thought of those who played make-believe games. "Yes," he allows, "I played at being a pirate-"
"And you liked it?" Mary sounds encouraging.
"Well… Yes. It was fun." Sherlock glowers. "Until Mycroft found out about it, that is." Mycroft, who seemed, when Sherlock was a child, to exist merely to suck the joy out of everything, first for his baby brother, and now for the British tax-payer.
Sherlock's opinion of Mycroft's joy-sucking capabilities is not, apparently, where this is heading though.
"Well, the thing is, Sherlock," she begins, and it's astonishing, but Mary's cheeks are heating up slightly. In all the time he's known her, Holmes has never seen her blush. "You see," she tries again, "Adults… I mean kids…Sometimes they like… Being yourself all the time can be a little…"
And she sighs, puffs out a breath, at a loss apparently.
John shoots her a look which translates roughly as, Oh no, you got yourself into this, you can get yourself out of it. So Mary clearly decides to go for broke.
"Basically, Sherlock," she says in a much stronger voice, "enjoying playing pretend never really goes away for most adults."
Sherlock shoots her an unimpressed look. "A mere glance at the current fodder in cinemas and on television would be enough to tell me that, Mary."
She nods, doesn't let his derail her. "Fair point. But what that seems to mean in your case is, well, I think you've just stumbled across some sort of… fantasy of Molly's." She clears her throat a little awkwardly. "And, um, maybe, one of yours."
"Fantasy?" Sherlock says the word slowly. It sounds a little… intimidating.
"Yeah, fantasy." Mary shrugs. "Plenty of people have sexual fantasies about bad boys, or naughty nurses, or that one teacher in school you always fancied but knew was forbidden fruit-"
At this, John's ears turn bright pink and she grins wickedly. Revenge is a dish best served pink, apparently.
"Watch yourself, love," he tells her, and Mary beams.
"Whatcha gonna do Sir?" she asks, in her best impression of a cockney accent. "Give me detention?"
John rises from his chair, leans over his wife. "No," he says sternly. "But if you keep this up, young lady, and I'll put you across my knee-"
Mary snickers. Blows him a kiss. "Promises, promises-"
John gestures to Sherlock as he returns to his seat. "Not in front of the children, dear," he grins. But he reaches over the table and takes Mary's hand. Gives it a little squeeze to show there's no hard feelings. Looks up at Sherlock and actually winks. Grins more widely.
Sherlock is torn between being disgusted and slightly pleased for his friend's happiness.
A beat.
"Fantasies are often best if shared with a partner, mate," John says matter-of-factly then. "And I think… Well, I think maybe yourself and Molly already have the sharing bit down. After all, you've already been calling her by a pet-name for months, and you've been doing it in an East End accent-"
"I have not!" Sherlock is horrified at the notion. Yes, he knows he's been using the P Word a lot, but he has not been putting on voices and trying to charm Molly Hooper with his masculine wiles-
Has he?
One look at John's face tells him that he has.
Oh dear God.
"Look," his friend says, "you may have suspected. Deep down." He frowns. "Really, really, really bloody deep down. And then something may have come up in conversation which you- however unconsciously- decided to run with. And now- Well now Molly Hooper's snogging you like there's no tomorrow and you really don't seem to have any problem with it." He peers at Sherlock, suddenly worried. "You don't have a problem with it, do you? Because that's fine, but if you do then that's a whole other ball of beesw-"
"I have no problem with it," Sherlock says stiffly.
Mainly because he's realised that, if The Inciting Incident is not the result of Molly being high or injured but rather of her, em, fancying him, then it's not a problem. It's not.
He permits himself a small smile at the notion.
John and Mary whoop and tell him he looks adorable and he tells them to bugger off. It really is the only option at a time like this.
John clears his throat. "Well then, if you have no problem with it, and Molly has no problem with it, well… What are you waiting for? I mean, I think you two should have a chat about what to expect-"
"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupts, already impatient. "We'll decide who's doing what and what it means and everything…" He stands up and grabs his coat. "I really must be going… Thanks for the advice, however mentally scarring."
Mary crosses her arms. "Sherlock, it's a terrible night. Molly's likely not in work, and turning up at her flat without her permission is probably not going to make her like you any more-"
Sherlock blinks at her. "What are you talking about?" he demands. "Of course I'm not going over there tonight- I have to finish up the Dwyer case. I can't possible continue pretending to be an East End gangster in real life if I'm going to pretend to be a gangster for Molly- That's entirely too dangerous a situation to put her in, and I'll find it far too tiring- "
And with that he gets up. Stalks out of the house with the customary swish of his coat. He calls a distracted good bye from the front door before banging it shut. John and Mary watch him go, then turn and look at one another.
It's Mary who says it.
"How worried should I be that that last statement made a weird sort of sense?" she asks.
"I gave up on worrying about that long ago," her husband replies. "Now get your arse up those stairs, young lady- You have some explaining to do-"
"Yes, Sir," Mary purrs, and then she bounds up the stairs with a wicked laugh.
~ That's Why They Call Him The King ~
The next time Sherlock sees Molly, he's bleeding.
Not massively, you understand- He's bled massively before, and is painfully familiar with its effects- but he's bleeding… moderately. Alright then, lightly. He is bleeding lightly. He has a little cut on his lip and it's pumping blood out of him in a somewhat desultory manner, despite the fact that it hurts as much as if someone had taken an axe to his mouth-
Unfortunately for him however, she's with John and Mary Watson, which means Sherlock's in no danger of being offered sympathy whatsoever, despite the fact that he's just unmasked a would-be murderer.
Honestly, he thinks to himself as his three friends glare at him, sometimes I wonder whether this adventuring business is worth it at all, I really do.
"What did you do to yourself?" Mary Watson demands, crossing her arms and addressing Sherlock in the tone she normally reserves for little Emily when she's been misbehaving. John and Molly trail after her slowly, their eyes widening as they take in Sherlock's blood-spattered Armani suit, the knuckleduster on his fist.
Molly even licks her lips at the sight, though she blushes when she realises the Watsons have noticed; Sherlock has to fight the urge to grin at her like an imbecile.
That Holmes is also holding a man wearing Swarovski-crystal encrusted Elvis-style jumpsuit in a headlock is something on which nobody seems inclined to comment. .
"I didn't do anything bad!" Sherlock whines instead. "I caught an attempted murderer, see?"
And he gestures to the man he's holding, one Winston Dwyer, presumed dead son of Mother Dwyer and mastermind (Sherlock uses the word dubiously) behind the attempted assassination of fourteen year old Lily Dwyer. (Apparently he was planning on going after Mother Dwyer next). At the mention Dwyer spits out a string of curse words and attempts to get free of Sherlock's headlock, but he is unsuccessful; The Elvis-style jumpsuit, which looks like it was made for a man a good deal slimmer than he, is probably responsible for that.
Well, that and the fact that I am awesome, Sherlock thinks.
"So the teenaged girl is safe?" Molly asks quietly instead, her dark eyes flickering to Winston before coming back to rest on him.
Holmes can't help but notice that she's looking at him rather… intently, now that he appears to have been engaged in a spot of fisticuffs.
He has to fight the urge to preen.
"She is," he says instead. "I noticed the Elvis tribute act tonight didn't seem up to Mother Dwyer's usual high standards, and once I saw the state of his dentures I realised who it must be-"
John snorts. "Of course you did."
Sherlock beams. "Yes, of course I did. That's why I'm the Great Detective, after all." He lowers his voice confidentially, turning his attention to Molly. He pretends not to hear John's sarcastic snort of laughter. "Once I'd done that it was easy: I merely had to wrestle Winston here into submission and then call Lestrade who should be here in- oh, now I suppose-"
And as if summoned by magic, police sirens pierce the night sky, a patrol car containing Donovan and her guv'nor screeching onto the scene on two wheels, the two police officers hopping out with the car barely stopped. Sally skids to a halt in front of them, throws one slightly disturbed look at the gangster-on-Elvis tableaux and raises her eyes heavenward.
"I don't want to know," she mutters.
"I'm with you," Lestrade replies. "Entirely."
"Can someone get me out of here?" Winston whines, glaring up at Sherlock. "I don't want to be here when my mother-"
"Oh, she knows what you did," Sherlock says blandly. "I called her just after I called the Met and my friends here." At this news Winston's face pales and Sherlock grins his nastiest grin. "You tried killing a fourteen year old child," he says quietly, all joking momentarily gone out of him. "I wonder where you'd be safer- Serving at her Majesty's leisure, or being cast back on your family's kindness? Nasty choice, that." He lets the man go as Sally closes her cuffs on him. "But no more than you deserve, I'll wager."
And with that he straightens up, walks over to Molly.
(He pointedly ignores the happy little squeal Mary lets out, as if she's just watched her baby ask his first girlfriend to a secondary school dance. John's dismissively muttered, "Git," is especially welcome in this moment).
Molly's staring at him with wide eyes, her pulse pounding at her throat as he makes his approach. He stops about arm's length from her and lets her get another look at him. Lets her, he believes the modern parlance is, check him out.
She is more than welcome to look.
"Hello, princess," Sherlock says in his best East End geezer voice and it brings the most satisfyingly delicious thrill to see Molly blush in response and lean into him.
"Hello, Sherlock," she says breathlessly, in her best posh voice. "I see you've gotten yourself into some mischief."
Sherlock grins. Shrugs. He could get used to this game-playing business. "Bad man like me is always going to get up to no good," he tells her- Or at least he tries to.
Because he gets about as far as, "like me," and Molly launches herself at him again, snogging him, he believes the term is, absolutely senseless.
It's a good term. He finds himself warming to it.
And, to his delight, he finds himself warming to Molly too.
The Met are horrified, the Watsons are thrilled and after a moment the patrons of Mother Dwyer's pub (who have spilled out onto the street to watch Winston's arrest) burst into applause, happy with this development. They wolf-whistle and catcall and clap. They even offer, frankly, abysmal, bits of advice.
Sherlock hears none of it though, because he's busy, busy being debauched by little Molly Hooper.
When the two come up for air she grins at him, and once they get back to Baker Street they don't leave the flat for five whole days.
Mrs. Hudson is mystified, but everyone else is relieved.