Sherlock and Molly
Sherlock Holmes bent over a Petri dish, carefully studying the wiggling bacteria with his startling blue-green eyes. His calculating vision flicked this way and that over the specimen. It was a summer Friday night, the kind of night most people would be using to go out with friends, not the kind you would spend cooped up in a morgue. But Sherlock Holmes was not most people, and apparently, neither was Molly Hooper.
"Here, let me help you with that," a much-to-eager voice said, close behind Sherlock's ear: in fact, much closer than he had perceived. Startled, Sherlock snapped upright, and Molly Hooper jumped backwards, knocking over a microscope. The microscope hit a case of glass slides, sending them flying off the counter and crashing to the ground. They shattered upon impact, sending large glass shards everywhere. Sherlock dropped his head with a sharp intake of breath and closed his eyes, clearly trying not to say anything harsh.
"Oh no! I'm so sorry Sherlock! I just wanted to - I was just trying to - " Molly's chirpy voice faltered under Sherlock's glare. "Just – clean it up," he said shortly. Molly flushed and mumbled apologies as she went off to fetch a broom. She grabbed it and shook her head.
"Why do I always, always mess it up?" Molly groaned, knocking her head on the handle. Every time! Every damn time! Can you just, for once, not be an idiot?! Molly thought bitterly. She walked back over to Sherlock, broom in hand. She rounded the corner just in time to see his face creased with pain, and his leg held slightly above the ground. She gasped, causing Sherlock to twist around. He saw Molly standing there gaping and quickly put his leg down.
"You're hurt! Oh, God, I - "
"I'm fine!" Sherlock interrupted loudly, turning sharply towards her: a bit of a mistake. He winced as he applied pressure to his clearly injured leg.
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare lie to me! You sit down this instant!" Molly yelled. Sherlock looked at her, one eyebrow raised slightly in surprise. "I may not be a consulting detective, but I am a doctor, and I know when someone is injured!" she cried.
The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched up. "Technically, you're a pathologist," he said, stepping towards her. Instantly, his knee buckled and he fell to the ground in a crouch.
"That's it. You sit down right now and let me help!" Molly said.
"Oh, that's a marvelous idea, considering the last time you 'helped' worked out so beautifully," Sherlock said as he struggled up. Molly flushed deeply and took a step back.
"Sorry." Sherlock said quickly. He leaned heavily on the counter. Molly nodded her head, trying to say something – anything – but she couldn't. She fumbled around and finally managed to find and drag a chair over to Sherlock, and he dropped onto it with a sigh. Molly knelt down, took off his shoe, and rolled up his pants leg. She breathed in sharply as she looked at the five glass shards embedded deeply in his ankle. Blood trickled down from the puncture wounds.
"Right then, let's, uh, fix you up," Molly said nervously. She had never been this close to Sherlock before: it was wonderfully terrifying. Her fingers hovered over the glass. She took hold of the first shard with a pair of tweezers and yanked it out. Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth and threw his head back.
"Sorry! This is going to hurt a lot, I'm afraid," Molly said. She was in nearly as much pain as Sherlock: she couldn't stand seeing him like this.
"All right, that's alright, just hurry up with it," Sherlock said, breathing heavily. Molly nodded vigorously. She pulled out the second shard, causing Sherlock to yell and grip the arms of the chair until his knuckles were bright white. Molly began to do what she did best (or worst, considering your perspective) in times of crisis: talk.
"I recently had a man here, I think his name was Davies, yes that was it, Joseph Davies. He had died from seven glass shards that pierced his trachea. Quite a gruesome sight. Never really knew how it had happened, never really cared to ask, but –"
"Molly, shut up." Sherlock interrupted. Molly nodded, embarrassed. The third shard was removed, then the fourth. Sherlock slammed his hand down on the chair and quite literally roared. Molly jumped, startled. Sherlock stared at her, his look clearly saying 'finish this bloody thing before I rip it out myself, and we both know that's not going to be pretty'. Molly pulled out the final shard.
"There! They're all out now! But I think I'm going to have to put sutures in them, if you don't mind: they're pretty deep." Molly said.
"Do whatever, so long as I can get back to my case soon. It's a good one." Sherlock said in reply. His hair was damp, and beads of sweat trickled down his neck. Molly bit her lip. He's so attractive, she thought. Sherlock began to laugh, and Molly quickly realized she had spoken out loud.
"Oh God, no, I didn't, I mean, I did, but I didn't mean to –" Molly fumbled, her face cherry red. "No, it's, um, it's okay." Sherlock said, a moderately amused smirk on his face. Molly sighed and smacked herself on the forehead, causing Sherlock to laugh even more. Molly glared at him.
"You ought to be careful, laughing at me like that. After all, I am the one about to sew up your ankle." Molly said, her face still red. Sherlock nodded, the smirk still lingering on his face, and braced himself. Molly took the needle and thread and quickly sewed up all the wounds, much to Sherlock's great pain. She leaned back to admire her handiwork. Not the best, but it'll do, I guess, Molly thought.
"You're all good, Sherlock. But don't do anything stupid, and stay off that leg. It needs rest to fully heal. Here, let me fetch you a crutch." Sherlock nodded and ran his hand through his dampened hair. His purple shirt was stained with sweat, and it clung to his lean, muscled frame. Molly stood, trying not to stare, and turned to go find something that could serve as a crutch for him. Suddenly, she felt a hand grasp her arm. She turned to see Sherlock's icy blue-green eyes locked on her warm brown ones. He pulled her down towards him and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he murmured in her ear. Then he released her from his grip. She stumbled back in shock. She felt like dancing. As Molly turned away to finally go fetch that makeshift crutch and sweep up the remaining glass, she had to bite her lip to keep the ridiculously happy smile from showing on her face. Behind her, still in his chair, where Molly couldn't see, Sherlock was doing the same.
Hey readers! How did you like it? I tried very hard to keep to the personalities I have come to know and love from Sherlock. I realize that since Sherlock is a sociopath (and a high-functioning one at that), he couldn't really have much of an emotional response to Molly, but I just had to throw Molly (and myself) a bone there at the end. Did I do too much "Sherlock-in-pain"? Please review! This was my first story ever, and I plan to add more Sherlolly one-shots to this, but I haven't any more ideas yet. It may be a while before I add any more, because of my lack of creativity and the fact that I am still fumbling through this website. Any prompts? I absolutely adore this show, and I gave this work my best shot. I hope I made all you fellow Sherlockians/Holmies and Sherlolly shippers proud!
Please read and review! Everything is helpful!