Body Heat

Disclaimer: I own the complete works of Sherlock Holmes, a deerstalker cap, and every adaptation of Holmes on DVD I can get my hands on, but I do not own Sherlock.
Summary: Molly Hooper died last night of hypothermia. She was thirty-two years old and stubborn. One-shot.
Author's Note: This takes place between seasons one and two, although it's not really related to either. Typically I ship Sherlock/Irene but in this case I much prefer Sherlock/Molly. I like to think she brings out something in Holmes; she's kind and she's sweet and she's sincere. I want to see in him with a more protective side, a caring side, and also a side that is so confused because of the nature of affection, love and lust. I was hoping to play with that while still keeping them in character. I undoubtedly failed.

His eyes were the exact color her lips probably were – a vivid, brilliant blue. She shivered; it came up from the tips of her toes and took over her body entirely. It did nothing to still her convulsions, but she wrapped her arms around herself, bloodless hands attempting to rub some circulation into her thinly covered arms.

He studied her, intense gaze, which usually made her so warm she thought she might combust now barely got her to thaw. She brought her hands up to her mouth and tried to exhale some heat into her palms. Her lips, unresponsive from the cold, blew an undignified raspberry instead. So she gave up. Of all the times to be without her lab coat or surgical smock. Even the horrible itchy burlap like fabric would make her more comfortable. But no, they had been evacuated from the lab for fifteen minutes now and she had nothing but a severed testicle in an evidence bag to show for it. To be fair, she had wanted to retrieve her emergency sweater from her desk and leave the evidence but Sherlock of all people, had insisted that the bell was to be heeded. She hoped he felt a little guilty watching her shiver out in the unseasonably cold evening. She also knew he wasn't the 'feeling' type.

"W-would you hold this please?" She finally asked him, extending the tightly sealed organ to him. He had offered her his scarf as a wrap when they had first ventured into the chilly air. A polite gesture John must've drilled into him. She had demurred. Being literally wrapped in his sent was the last thing she needed. Her heart already did a gold metal worthy floor routine on those rare occasions his sent clung to her and followed her home. She had trouble enough with him in her head; the scarf would have been too much. It would have been a rational thing to do, taking him up on the offer. She was absolutely freezing now. Her purple paisley blouse with the bowtie collar was actually fashionable but hardly warm. Yet she would not renege and ask for his scarf. Molly Hooper was many things and one of them was stubborn. Stubborn was what got her to the top of her class, got her into and out of med school and how she became one of the youngest pathologists on staff at Bart's. Stubborn was what also earned her all those whacks from mummy. And stubborn was going to be her cause of death. Well, hypothermia was, technically. She could just see her obituary:

Molly Hooper died last night of hypothermia. She was thirty-two years old and stubborn.

Sherlock took the testicle with his usual eye roll and dropped the bag into one of the deep pockets of his lush coat. He, of course, had had time to prepare for this weather. Probably deduced the fire before the alarms even triggered. He should hold the bloody ball, she needed both her hands to try and keep herself from nipping out too badly. She had lost a lot of vanity over the years but she still had her pride.

Both hands now completely free she rubbed her palms together more vigorously and then attacked her arms, rubbing up and down. She beat her biceps a little, punctuating the rubbing with the smack of cold flesh on cold flesh. She was so focused on the sting of nerve endings firing back into life that she didn't see Sherlock move until he was right there.

Molly shrieked a little as she felt herself being pulled against the lean chest of the world's only consulting detective. On instinct she tried to push away, in response she felt his grip on her waist tighten. She looked up at him, only seeing the underside of his smooth jaw thanks to their height difference. He looked down at her pointedly, effectively ending further struggle. Defeated Molly resigned herself to her new, bizarre position – her head resting on his chest, hands finding no better place to go than around his waist, her body pressing against his from her temple all the way to her knees. He had opened his coat and enveloped them both in its black depths. She shivered again, this time because of the sudden warmth around her. For being such a cold bastard Sherlock Holmes threw off a tremendous amount of body heat.

"The longer you are exposed to the elements the less deft your hands will be and you are the most competent cutter in Bart's. I cannot do without your autopsy reports." It rumbled through his chest and her, she could feel his words and his heartbeat in her cheek. It seemed faster than she imagined his heart rate would be.

Contrary to popular belief Sherlock Holmes rarely told outright lies. He didn't always tell the truth but never did he say something frivolous. Lies, most of the time, were an utter waste of words. Not useful at all. With Molly especially he rarely wasted words. He told the truth, always. Even the harsh truth – especially the harsh truth. To counteract all the misinformation she'd gotten from her mother as a child. Her romantic issues clearly stemmed from troubles with her father (absentee to neglectful but paradoxically affectionate). Her lack of self-confidence, however, was something only a mother could crush.

The fire was caused by a careless cigarette, a vent, and some lent in an unrelated part of the building, but the air circulation system brought the smoke to the entire building forcing the evacuation. It was a simple enough problem to deduce but the firefighters would still have to check the entire building in a complete waste of time and energy. The subbasement would be the only area to see any consequences. The threat of smoke inhalation was the only reason Sherlock left the autopsy. In retrospect he could have allowed Molly to grab some sort of covering before sweeping her out of the building but he had not. Molly was slightly asthmatic; she would not have fared well with the smoke. He wanted her out of the autopsy room before she had an attack.

She had refused his offer of another layer and with pertinent evidence in hand they could not duck into one of the local shops for warmth. So they would have to wait, at the rate the fire brigade was going, another fifteen minutes at least. Molly's lips were blue, her nose scarlet, but all the rest of her extremities ashen. Her feeble attempts to rub some warmth into her did nothing except wrinkle her ridiculous 'vintage inspired' blouse (some things needed to remain in their past era) and annoy him.

"W-would you hold this please?" Christ, her lips were hardly responding, her words were slurred from the cold. Stupid woman. Stubborn woman. He took the offered evidence bag and dropped it in his pocket. The man's testicle was evidence, but hardly vital. The true clues were in other individual bags resembling fillets from the butcher. He needed Molly back in the morgue to show him these pieces – those clues. But at the rate things were going her hands would be too cold to function.

There was only one thing for it. If she couldn't keep herself warm he would have to do it. He unbuttoned his coat and opened the flaps wide, then pulled her wordlessly into the tented fabric. At first she recoiled, as stiff and shocked as a victim of Medusa, but he held her easily. She weighed next to nothing, even less after the 'Jim from I.T' fiasco. She needed to eat more and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he could take control of some of the other aspects of her life, not just her lab, and currently, body temperature. If she wasn't going to take care of herself he …

He could feel her looking at him. She did that a lot - look at him. So often he could read her thoughts without even seeing her pupils, instead he could just read how her gaze felt on his skin. She never outright touched him, but her eyes did – often. This was a gaze of question, of the unarticulated why?

"The longer you are exposed to the elements the less deft your hands will be and you are the most competent cutter in Bart's. I cannot do without your autopsy reports." He told her briskly. The response stilled her struggle. It was either satisfactory or she was simply resigned to her position, or more likely, she was so cold at the moment she was paying no attention to anything but the return of feeling and blood flow to her body. He had no such luxury, he could not ignore as she could. His awareness was his curse and he was hyperaware of everything about this moment. The way her small body fit against his like a puzzle piece filling in the gaps, making two parts one unit. Her head rested against his chest, tucking further into his coat and he could feel her heart against his sternum. Considering her usual squirrel-crossing-the-road-esque behavior around him he had anticipated a thunderous heartbeat, but instead her cardiorespiratory system was calm, even, and slow.

His own heart rate was another matter.