"ARGH!" Yelled Sherlock, and Molly heard a large, unfortunate thump from the other room. Her heart dropped. "I swear, if he threw that bed table across the room again, John can be damned! I'll quit, and I'll go home to a nice cuppa!" She muttered to herself, marching into Sherlock's room.
The place was utter chaos. Clothes were flung everywhere, papers and pens decorated the most unlikely of places, and most of the furniture was toppled or unfindable. A pool of spilt water lay on the ground, and Sherlock was lying dramatically on his bed, sheets and pillows thrown about. "What. Is. Going. On." Molly said, teeth gritted and hands clenched. Sherlock didn't reply, just sighed dramatically and flipped over onto his stomach.
"Get up!" Molly growled, pulling on Sherlock's shoulder. "I can't!" Sherlock replied irritably, glaring over his shoulder like a petulant child. "I'm on bedrest!" He yelled, curling up tighter into a small ball. 'I don't have time for this!' Molly thought, sighing in exasperation. 'I am an independent young woman! I should be seeing the world, not babysitting a spoiled brat!'
"Well, we don't always get what we want!" Sherlock muttered into a pillow, and Molly realized she had yelled all that out loud. Steeling herself, she grabbed hold of Sherlock's navy robe and yanked. With a loud squeak, Sherlock tumbled off the bed onto the ground.
Jumping up almost immediately, Sherlock towered over Molly, glaring at her in a way that once would have intimidated her into submission. Not now, however. Not now that she had been forced to clean out his bed trays, do his laundry, and cook his meals. So, Molly set her jaw, placed her hands on her hips, and glared back up at him.
"You are going to go take a bath, and I am going to clean this cesspool of a room up. Then, you will get dressed, in respectable clothes, and you will eat your lunch at the table, like a respectable human! Go!" Molly growled, and Sherlock looked at her blankly.
"GET in the shower, you imbecilic moron!" Molly yelled at the top of her lungs, pushing a reluctant Sherlock into the bathroom. A few minutes later, and after hearing quite a lot of grumbling, Molly heard the shower creak on and an insulted, defeated Sherlock enter it.
Feeling much better after having gotten Sherlock to do the impossible, Molly regrettably entered his disgusting room. She sighed. Where to begin? She thought, looking around helplessly at the chaos. Finally, she decided to work her way in. Picking up clothes, Molly located the hamper, sitting atop the closet. That was a disaster, too. But she steeled herself, told herself that she had pulled brains out of bodies and chopped out lungs. This was child's play, compared to that.
When Sherlock entered his empty room, he was astonished. Not much could surprise him, but this turned out to wreck his mind. When Molly had told him she was going to clean his room, he thought she would follow the same routine he did; throw all the laundry out the window, and hide the rest under the bed. However, Molly had turned a room that looked like it was ransacked by pirates into what appeared to be a five star hotel. She had even laid out 'respectable' clothes for him; jeans, a grey sweater, and blue socks. Gaping, Sherlock picked up the denim. Where had these even come from? Sherlock had never bought a pair of jeans in his life, let alone denim.
Deciding Molly was meddling too much for her (or his) own good, Sherlock opened up his window, letting a brisk fall breeze waft in. Swinging one leg over the sill, he climbed out onto the fire escape. But, much to his dismay, one Molly Hooper was standing out there, unnecessarily bundled up against the cool wind.
Acting as if he had known Molly was on the escape, he tapped her shoulder, startling her from staring over the London view. "I believe you said you had lunch for a respectable personage ready? Sherlock asked, attempting to establish his supreme unconcern with the sound of his voice.
Molly jumped, putting a hand on her chest and turning around. "Good lord!" She cried, breathless. "Sherlock! Don't scare me like that!" She said, swatting his chest.
Sherlock was at a loss for his usual sharp remark. When Molly had come in contact with his chest, he felt as if his stomach flipped around and his heart beat out of his chest. Dear god! Sherlock thought, alarm flitting across his features. Am I still injured!? However, Molly seemed unconcerned, climbing back through the window into his room. "Put these clothes on!" She called over her shoulder, before walking out into the kitchen.
"Yes, about that!" Sherlock shouted after her, tripping through the window. "I do NOT own any denim, and neither do I plan on wearing denim!" He scoffed, holding up the scratchy material with supremacy. He heard Molly's faint, melodic voice calling from the kitchen. "Yes I know! It's ridiculous! Everyone wears jeans. Just put it on, Sherlock! It's not like anyone is going to hate you for it." She said, then muttered, "They might even begin to like you."
"I heard that." Sherlock said as he limped into the kitchen with his cane, head held high all the more. Molly rolled her eyes, setting a plate with a sub sandwich on it. "Good." She said, arching one eyebrow. Molly struggled to keep a blush rising from her cheeks. Sherlock did look really good in those dark, flattering jeans.
Shaking herself internally, she slid a bowl with tomato soup over to Sherlock. He looked at it in disgust, flabbergasted at the thick red substance. "What is this?" He asked, a look of incredulity settling on his face. Molly said nothing, just plopped a plate with a grilled cheese on it next to the bowl. If possible, Sherlock looked even more confused at the steaming sandwich.
"I don't eat soup." Sherlock said with disdain, attempting to stand up. He stumbled, and crashed onto the floor, arms flailing. "God damn it!" He yelled as Molly patiently picked him up and settled him on his chair. Curls flopping over his head, Sherlock sat and stared at his lunch, eyebrows furrowed like a petulant child. Finally, after much cajoling on Molly's part, Sherlock tasted the soup.
Molly waited tensely as Sherlock steadily ate the soup, face unreadable. When he finished, scraping the bowl clean, he looked up at her expectantly. "Well?" He asked, arching an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to get me more? After all, I am a poor little sick person." Molly glared at him, wordless. "You know what?" She asked finally, aggression spread over her words. "I'm done taking care of you! You're just a child, Sherlock! Just an angry child who can't run around solving mysteries so you take it out on me! I've stayed here for a week, taking care of you and your stupid gunshot wound, holding your hair when you caught the flu at that insipid hospital! Well I'm done, Sherlock. Done! Goodbye!"
And with that, Molly stomped out of Sherlock's apartment, ignoring the hurt, surprised look on Sherlock's face. She stormed down the stairs, muttering about Sherlock's idiocracy. Of course, Sherlock had to go and get himself shot the month John was on his ridiculous anniversary trip. Who even wanted to go to the Americas? There was nothing there but terrible politics and McDonalds anyways.
As Molly stormed down the street, she couldn't help but feel sorry for Sherlock. Sick, alone, helpless. No wonder he was more trying than usual. "Still, that doesn't excuse him from being such an insufferable prat!" She muttered to herself, shouldering her bag and stomping aimlessly down London streets. It was just her luck that her apartment was getting fumigated today, too. She didn't feel like spending over $100 at a London hotel, and, of course, the only person she could stay with was Sherlock.
Molly found herself standing in front of her usual pub. "Might as well," Molly muttered to herself, and walked in. Who knows-maybe she might get laid. God knows she needed it-and that way she wouldn't have to go crawling back to that insufferable Sherlock's apartment.
Three hours later, Molly was laughing, completely drunk, with a tall blond man. She was regaling him with tales of Sherlock's unbelievable idiocracy. She grinned, running her hand down his arm, her other had occupied with her drink. She leaned in for a kiss, only half registering the sobriety of the man's breath.
Just before she could embrace the stranger, A long, lithe hand pulled her arm, dragging her away. "Hey!" She slurred, glaring through a haze of smoke and noise. Sherlock's face swam before her vision, face tight and worried-an unusual look for Sherlock. "Don't kiss that man." He said authoritatively, guiding her through the clumps of drunk patrons.
Outside, Molly pulled her arm from Sherlock's grasp. He had changed into his pajamas, robe hanging loose. She glared at him. "Why not!" She yelled, her senses heightened by the alcohol. "He's sober. Been ordering virgins all night. Not literally, I suppose." Sherlock replied in a business-like manner, his face schooled. Molly furrowed her brow, staring cross-eyed at Sherlock's finger on her nose. "Who cares?" Molly asked, words sliding into one another. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He was going to... To take advantage of you!" He yelled, anger lacing his words. "Well maybe I wanted him to!" Molly screamed, staring into Sherlock's shocked face. "Ever think of that, huh? Yeah! Maybe I don't... Maybe I just needed to feel needed for once, okay? All you ever do is push me around. I just... I just want to be wanted, okay?" Molly's rant petered off, resulting in her leaning on Sherlock's shoulder, sobbing.
Sniffling, Molly sobbed her drunken heart out on Sherlock's shoulder, the detective standing rod-straight, unsure of what to do. "There, there?" Sherlock said, stiffly patting Molly's back. "It'll be... Okay?" He said, scrunching his face in confusion. He hadn't really ever had a sobbing, drunken girl on his shoulder before.
Trying to gain some composure, Sherlock cleared his throat. "You really shouldn't drink so much tequila. Or vodka, really. Mixing them doesn't bring out... The best in you." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Molly released his dressing gown, looked up at Sherlock fiercely, and kissed him, pulling his tangled curls to deepen it. Sherlock stood, unresponsive for a second, before his natural instincts (disgusting things, really, Sherlock thought) engaged and he kissed her back.
Quickly, Sherlock broke the kiss. Insufferable bastard he was, he wasn't that kind of bastard. "Molly," he said softly, looking down at the heartbroken girl he held in his arms. "Let's get you to bed." Molly nodded numbly, taking Sherlock's extended hand and following him down the winding streets.
Sherlock tucked Molly into his bed, still made from that afternoon. She curled up in a ball, falling asleep with her clothes still on and her hair still up. Sherlock sat down quietly in his armchair, watching analytically as Molly slept.
Slowly, Sherlock dissected and analyzed his.. Feelings. He wasn't used to using that word. It had felt so.. Nice when Molly kissed him, Even though she tasted like alcohol and drunkenness, Sherlock's whole body turned to fire-in the good way. Kissing Molly was just like solving a trying case-the rush of adrenaline, burst of energy. It was better than getting high. His fingers tingled and his brain short-wired, something that hadn't happened in a long, long time.
Interesting, Sherlock mused, steepling his fingers. He had never felt that when The Woman kissed him. Nor in school, when silly, flouncing girls pinned their lips to his. Molly was the first woman, Sherlock believed, to illicit such a response from him, his body. Which normally he had so much control, so much power over.
Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Mycroft's voice echoed around Sherlock's brain, and panic arouse. Love. Was he in love with Molly Hooper? No, Sherlock thought, mentally shaking himself. Definitely not. But there was his stomach, more upset than it had been with the flu; but feeling a million times better than it had ever seemed. Panic bubbled up inside of him, and panic at the feeling of panic.
What is happening to me? Sherlock thought, almost shaking from the emotions he normally pushed down, kept locked away. These feelings were from Molly Hooper, the drunk mortician spread out on his bed, snoring softly. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, scrunching his eyes as he thought about what John would say.
"Huh! An insufferable detective and an ever-patient mortician. Bit ironic, you think? Still, I suppose it was only a matter of time, yeah?"
"Oh, that's so good, love! I've been waiting for you and Molly to get together for a while. So cute! Such a perfect match. Don't mess it up, Sherlock, you hear? I'll be very mad at you if you do. Tea?"
"Humph. Well, don't think that you'll be getting any slack at the Yard for this, Holmes. Just because you're going at it with my best mortician doesn't score you any points. Oh, and congratulations, by the way. Good on ya."
"Ah, brother mine. Who has the goldfish now? Yes yes yes. Go on acting as if you are unattached, departed from your emotions. But we both know you could never completely disassociate yourself.. Well, don't let it get in the way. It will, of course, but that's none of my business. We both know it's happened before..."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Domestic bliss..." He muttered aloud, lost in his thoughts. The idea of living quietly with Molly Hooper disgusted him; owning a cottage in the suburbs, holding hands at the table, having... Kids. It made Sherlock want to throw up. But the idea of racing around the world, tracking down criminals and playing the game with Molly, that didn't totally disgust him.
Molly stirred, lifting her head up and barely registering where she was. "UuUhH..." She groaned, her head feeling like an anvil.
"Yes, tequila and vodka tends to do that to you. Of course, I wouldn't know; a bit too smart for that." said Sherlock's irritatingly perfect voice. Molly ground her teeth, hoisting herself onto her elbow. "Listen here, Sherlock. I am very hungover. I don't have time for your games. Go get me some-hmph-aspirin. Quick!" Molly growled, her voice husky and low from misuse.
Sherlock walked out of the room, face schooled. She doesn't remember, he thought. Or she's just pretending she doesn't. Much more likely. Sherlock filed through the unorganized cabinets before finding a half-empty bottle of aspirin. Pulling a clean-albeit slightly dusty-glass from another shelf, Sherlock spotted something. Oh, this will be rich. Sherlock thought, grabbing the object of his prank.
Once Sherlock was out of the room, Molly slumped back onto the bed, head throbbing. Uuugghh... She thought, the only thing that could register in her head at the moment.
Oh, no. Oh no no no no no. Fuzzy details were beginning to come back to Molly from last night. The tall, blonde, and sober stranger. Sherlock limping toward her in his dressing gown. Molly crying about wanting-needing!-to be desired.
And the kiss. Molly actually shuddered. Sherlock would never let her live that down. He would never mention it, of course, but it would always be used. Soon, he'd begin stand too close, breath on her, brush past her, taking note of her pupils and heart rate. She'd become a malleable pawn to him again, a tool for him to employ. And he would, of course. Even now that Molly had finally gotten over Sherlock Holmes, he would bend her will over his own, using that kiss as unspoken leverage. He would take it to his grave-that is, unless it benefited him not to.
Sherlock strolled authoritatively back into his bedroom to find Molly lying face-down on his bed. Heart beating fast, Sherlock tried to get control of his emotions and wake her up. The result was a rude kick to Molly's side.
"Rude..." Molly groaned as she turned over, staring bleary-eyed at Sherlock. Through the haze of sleep and hangover, Sherlock still recognized the trepidation in her eyes. She remembered... He thought, and wordlessly shoved the cup and aspirin to her.
Molly tossed the aspirin into her mouth and took a sip. Spluttering, she spit out the pills and the vodka Sherlock had put in the glass as a replacement for water. "Not. Funny!" Molly growled, weakly throwing a pillow at Sherlock. He stood stock still, staring into her deep brown eyes as the pillow hit him, not softly, in the stomach.
"I'll go get you some water." Sherlock said abruptly, turning on his heel and marching out. "Unpredictable, insane man..." Molly muttered to herself. Sherlock caught her statement, and couldn't help but smile at the affection in the mortician's voice.
Sherlock returned with a glass of real water this time, but Molly took a small sip before downing the whole glass. "Thanks... You insufferable prat." Molly said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Sherlock looked at the beautiful, hungover woman lying in his bed. "Err, well, that is, um..." He said, then abruptly turned on his heel and walked out. Molly watched Sherlock's retreating form, smiling to herself. What an oddity... She mused.
Molly climbed slowly out of the bed and sat in the restroom, waiting for the bath tub to fill up. She almost never bathed, feeling guilty about the excess amount of water she used. But this morning, she made an exception.
Groaning softly, Molly sank into the hot water. Immersed in her bath, Molly closed her eyes and leaned her head back, relaxing into the soothing warmth. She sat there for a while, soaking in the steaming heat and letting her hangover melt into the background from the aspirin. Finally, she washed her hair and body, climbing out of the bath and pulling the drain.
Molly wrapped a towel around herself, pulling her hair up in another one. She left the restroom, passing through the kitchen where a thoroughly red, flabbergasted Sherlock watched her walk into the guest room. Molly didn't even notice.
Sherlock stood holding a french press in his hand and a cup in his other. Molly Hooper had just walked across his kitchen half-no, more than half-naked. And she hadn't even noticed him!
The adrenaline that surged through Sherlock's body fell into a dark, heavy pit in his stomach. She hadn't even noticed... He thought. Maybe her crush really was in the past: he had always thought that she still harbored feelings for him, no matter what she and John said.
Molly came back out a moment later to see Sherlock carefully crushing coffee beans in a french press. He was smiling softly, enjoying crushing the fragments of beans. One of his favorite parts of the morning. Sadistic, maybe, but still fun.
Sherlock looked up to see Molly Hooper standing in the kitchen wearing just a regular pair of jeans and a t-shirt that said STAR WARS. He tried to school his emotions, keep from blushing and stuttering this time. To every other person on the planet, Molly Hooper would look like just another woman, but to Sherlock, she looked like a goddess.
"C-coffee." Sherlock said, holding out an empty plate to Molly. She looked at it blankly, trying not to giggle. "I think that gun shot's made you a little fuzzy in the head, Sherlock." She said, satire eminent in her voice. Reaching past him, Molly grabbed a coffee mug and poured herself a cup.
"Huh." Sherlock said, looking at the plate, inwardly screaming at the incompetent idiot Molly had turned him into. He stared blankly at the plate as Molly leaned on the counter, sipping her coffee and watching him innocently.
"What's Star Wars?" Sherlock asked, putting the plate in the spice cabinet. "You've never seen Star Wars?" Molly asked incredulously. "It's a multibillion dollar franchise!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to seem nonchalant, even though his heart was thumping. "I don't have time for imbecilic franchises. I'm busy."
"Cataloguing the forty five different types of ash, I suppose." Molly said innocently, but a twinkle in his eyes told Sherlock something else. Sherlock glared, but didn't bother to correct her, instead bumping her knees with his cane.
"You're still healing. Which means that you should be on bedrest!" Molly said, grinning. "Quite deductive of you, really." Sherlock replied irritably. "You should go ahead and replace me!" Molly smiled, having known Sherlock long enough to know his embarrassment manifested as irritability.
"Come on!" She said, dragging Sherlock by his arm to his armchair. She dragged the TV to look in his direction, and sat on a blanket next to him. "Star Wars!" She said, relishing the look of disgust on Sherlock's face. She popped John's A New Hope into the DVD player and grabbed the remote from Sherlock, earning a look of incredulity from him.
"This is ridiculous." Sherlock said, crossing his arms and pulling his legs to his chest. Molly only shushed him, turning out the lights and closing the blinds before sitting down again.
After six and a half hours, the flat was in chaos. DVDs were spread over the couches, popcorn and twizzlers were tossed helter skelter around the room. Blankets were spread over tables and chairs, pots and pans were full of failed experiments. Sherlock was laughing, lazily holding a glass of whiskey. "How did I not know about Darth Vader being his father! It's in the name, Molly. Darth Vader! Vader is german for father!" He cried, words slurring slightly. "Because you're drunk!" Molly giggled, a glass of wine in her hand. "So are you!" Sherlock countered, repeatedly pressing play and pause on the remote, watching Leia jump over and over again. "I think I may have an alcohol problem..." Molly giggled, sipping the wine. "Don't we all!" Sherlock said, gesticulating wildly and spilling his whiskey onto the chair.
"You know, I think... Yes." Sherlock murmured, head nodding. "Whaa?" Molly asked, vision sliding in and out. A few minutes later, the two had fallen asleep, snoring peacefully on two armchairs, chaos strewn around them.
"Oh, my god!" Molly murmured, awaking to a huge mess and a throbbing headache. Sherlock was still snoring, his glass dropped on the floor, but miraculously intact. Slowly standing up, Molly hobbled into the kitchen to see the even larger mess awaiting her. "Shit." She said complacently, looking around in resignation at the incredible disaster surrounding her.
Slowly but surely, Molly began to clean up the kitchen, putting away dishes and towels, wiping up sticky messes, and scrubbing dishes. The place was in even more of a mess than normal, mysterious substances thrown over cabinets, dishes overflowing in the sink, and food spread out everywhere.
Finally, around eleven, the apartment was back to normal-if anything of Sherlock's could be considered normal. However, the man in question was still passed out in his armchair, even though every square inch of the apartment was cleaned around him. Molly left the now-shining rooms to take a shower, disgusted by her second hangover in two days. She really shouldn't stay with Sherlock alone for so long.
Sherlock popped one eye open. Molly had gone to take a shower. He had been awake since she first stirred, but decided to rewatch the Star Wars movies in his mind palace, then clean it out. He had gotten rid of several useless childhood memories, reassigning them to The Box, which was his deep sleep memory drive.
Getting up, he limped into his room, put on some jeans-they made Molly smile-and tried to sneak out the door. However, Molly grabbed his upturned collar and turned him around, revealing a very red and furious face too close to Sherlock's. He stood there as she berated him, staring at her soft round lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them again.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you even listening to me!?" She cried, snapping her fingers in front of Sherlock's eyes. Breaking out of his daydream, Sherlock brought his eyes sharply up to hers and replied, quite evenly, "I am going out. You can come, and you can stay here. "
Very proud of himself, Sherlock turned around and limped out the door. After a moment of brief, killer silence, he heard the door slam shut and Molly follow him, grumbling, into the cool September air. "Where are we going?" Molly asked after a minute of following Sherlock around aimlessly.
"Breakfast." Sherlock stated simply, turning sharply down a picturesque street. Molly's brows furrowed. Sherlock Holmes didn't do breakfast. Sherlock Holmes was too important for breakfast.
Sherlock's heart pounded in his ears as he navigated the familiar streets of his hometown. "Breakfast!" He thought to himself in disdain. Who ever heard of Sherlock Holmes eating breakfast! No one! Especially not Molly Hooper!
Molly Hooper. Sherlock thought, the name bringing a small smile to his face. Molly Hooper, beautiful, smart, underestimated and morbid. Molly Hooper, the perfect blend between domestic and detective. Molly Hooper, the one person he could never deceive. Sherlock wondered how long it would take before Molly Hooper found his secret out.
His secret.
His secret.
Sherlock had too many secrets to keep track of. Well, technically, they were all catalogued neatly in his mind palace by enormity and relevance. But that wasn't, well, relevant.
His newfound secret about Molly. The one he didn't even know he had, until two nights ago. When a drunk, desperate Molly kissed him; and he kissed back.
That was enormous. Sherlock Holmes didn't kiss. That was for goldfish, for regular people. But Molly wasn't exactly normal, either. She was smarter, much smarter than she appeared. The Molly Hooper that helped him disappear was a much, much different Molly Hooper than the one he had known before. Quick, intelligent, with resources in hidden, unsuspecting places. Almost like...
The Woman. An image of Irene Adler sitting naked with her legs and arms folded primly flashed across Sherlock's mind as he turned another corner. Molly bore a stunning resemblance to The Woman, now that Sherlock realized it. Except Molly was a more deadly version of Adler. While Adler operated in the open, gambling it all for fame, Molly seemed to play a much safer game of power, keeping up a normal feature while gathering power and influence in high-and low-places.
Or perhaps he was just over analyzing things. Sherlock flew the thought process to a prominent part of his mind palace to be gone over later.
"Here we are!" Sherlock said briskly, turning abruptly to a tiny diner off a main London street. Although far from the tourist crowd, The Leaking Mug, was jam packed with locals. Sherlock pulled the door open, ushering Molly in impatiently.
Molly Hooper almost fainted at the great Sherlock Holmes opening the door for her. Well, his entire success did hinge around her, Molly supposed. They walked up to the counter, and Sherlock smiled amiably at the man across the bar.
"Ronnie! How's the wife?" Sherlock said, shaking the lean man's hand. "Wonderful, yeah!" Ronnie said in a thick irish accent, his flaming red hair bobbing up and down with his nods. "We gotcha empty table over there, yeah? Good man, you are, Holmes!" Ronnie said, then leaned over to Molly and whispered, "Good for him to have a girl like you, yeah? Balances him out. Got me off a arson charge, the chap did. Off ya go!" He gently pushed Molly to the table where Sherlock was seated before she had a chance to contest him.
Sherlock sat, back rod straight, waiting for Molly to seat herself. His heart was pounding fast, but he managed to keep a blush off his cheek, instead focusing on balancing his cane exactly at a point it could tilt one way or another.
When Molly sat, Sherlock's cane crashed to the floor, causing everyone in the vicinity to jump and stare daggers at the two. Molly leaned forward, hands on her chin. "How do you manage to be such an insufferably arrogant prat, and still have polite, complex connections all over London?" She asked, eyes not breaking contact. Sherlock started, having been busy staring at Molly's... Chest...
He decided to push that thought away-for now. "Simply put, people romanticize my elitism as misunderstood genius, which I use to my benefit. Really, it's quite simple. I'd expect you to know it already." He said, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. A see through, obvious attempt to peer into Molly's mysterious past. Sherlock saw her brain working, only a flicker of her eyes before she knew what he was up to and knew how to respond.
I'll be damned... Sherlock thought in disbelief. The seemingly obvious, innocent Molly Hooper had, simply put, a past. And he was determined to figure it out.
Molly smiled, an action that put any conspiracy theories out of Sherlock's head. "I think I'll have the pancake brunch.." Molly mused, perusing the menu. Sherlock's heart warmed. That's exactly what he alway got. "I'll get the raspberry crepe, then." He said in a brisk voice. Molly looked up and smiled peacefully, her hair falling over her shoulder in a picturesque way. Sherlock hardly saw her like this; normally made of nerves, pulled back hair, and lab coats. Today, she was soft, all calm patience. She was like steel with a layer of soft, warm velvet spread over it. Sherlock was mesmerized by her common beauty.
Ronnie appeared at their table, notebook in hand. Sherlock rattled off his order, and Molly politely asked for hers. Ronnie grinned, a smile that said more than words could. "So... How are the... Dead people?" Sherlock asked, tapping his hands on the table. "Well, you know, dead." Molly said, head tilted. "I cut a man open yesterday, and he was full of maggots!" She said in disgust.
"Well, that's what you get when you cut open dead people." Sherlock said matter of factly. "Well, yes, but they tend to be freshly dead, if you can see. I don't care for cutting open dead people that have been deceased for weeks. This guy was."
Sherlock looked up sharply. "Weeks?" He asked simply. "Oh, yeah! Greg didn't ask you on that case, did he! Yeah, this man's wife stabbed him-in the toes! Tied him up and flat out cut his toes off! Needless to say, he bled to death, poor bloke." Molly said, then dug into the three pancakes piled on her plate.
Sherlock stood up. "Come on!" He said, pulling Molly up by her arm. "Agh! What are you doing!" Molly yelled as she was wrenched away from her seat. Sherlock pulled her into the brisk autumn air and turned around to look at her. Molly Hooper. She was angry; her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips were pursed. She had her arms crossed, leaning on one leg. Her slightly turned up nose was a little red, one of Sherlock's favorite features. "Molly." He said, grasping her arms. She stared up at him, anger fading as she recognized her helpless, lonely Sherlock.
"Molly. Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, looking deep into Molly's eyes. She stared back, a smidgen of fear marring her face as she worried about Sherlock. "Sherlock," she said softly, looking up at him. "Sherlock, what's the matter?"
Sherlock looked at the beautiful, perfect mortician standing in front of him, This was how she felt, he realized. When Sherlock had quietly played with her emotions once he figured out how she felt about him. He used to think that emotions were useless, just hormones that got in the way. He still believed that, in a way. But he couldn't bring himself to think that way about her.
Sherlock leaned suddenly down to Molly, kissing her on the lips. Shock flooded through Molly before she responded, reaching up to tangle her hand in Sherlock's mass of curls. Her other hand touched his delicately, tracing a circle on his palm.
Sherlock's hands were holding Molly's face, He felt like he was flying; soaring above the world in happiness. It was better than kissing a drunk, crying Molly. This Molly was fresh, happy. New to him. He had never kissed Molly before; he wondered why he hadn't done it earlier. Kissing Molly was so much better than drugs. This was instant, causing his endorphins to sky rocket.
Sherlock let his heart envelope him, bringing one hand down to wrap around Molly's waist as she kept her hands tangled in his hair. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, exploring it as Sherlock navigated through hers. A shock of adrenaline pulsed through him, and he sucked Molly's bottom lip into his mouth.
A vision of Mycroft soared through his mind. "Don't get attached. Love is a defect. Remember, Sherlock. Remember, and conquer." He heard Redbeard's bark in his mind, and the kiss soured, Sherlock pulling away abruptly.
Sherlock turned around and sprinted away, leaving a bewildered Molly standing in the street. He didn't know where he would go, he just knew he had to get away. He wouldn't let himself hurt Molly. There were too many liabilities that came with relationships. Sherlock Holmes was a time bomb. And he would not let Molly Hooper get injured from it.
Molly stood in the street, clutching her bag. "What kind of sick joke was that?!" She yelled after a retreating Sherlock, her voice cracking. She stood, abandoned, in the street, tears in her eyes. Unreasonable with anger, Molly turned around and stormed off, unsure of where she was going. God! Why did her apartment have to be fumigated!
Exhausted, Molly unlocked the door to Sherlock's apartment. Hopefully, he was asleep. At the very least, Molly hoped she could sneak in and sleep. Her apartment was only being fumigated a few more days... Which was extraordinarily long for the company doing it. She crept up the stairs, remembering Sherlock's sudden and abrupt kiss. Not a bad kiss, really, but unexpected, all the same. But Molly, for the life of her, could not understand why he had kissed her. There was almost no influential reason to-he couldn't use it to manipulate her-Sherlock had instigated the kiss. What was his game?
Molly sighed as she successfully entered the flat. It was almost midnight, and all the lights were off. However, as soon as she entered the dark apartment, her eyes found Sherlock. He was sitting in his familiar arm chair, dozing lightly. At the soft click of the door closing, he looked up, then smiled.
"Oh, good. You're back."