Mind Over Matter
She isn't stupid. She knows what people think when they see Tom. They see Sherlock-light, a less abrasive version of the infamous consulting detective whose brilliance almost outweighs his lack of understanding of social niceties. They see a harmless puppy dressed in a less posh version of Sherlock's clothes, with a kind smile to match. They see it and they talk – because people can't help but talk.
It is not easy to stay quiet and let them talk, but she stays mum because she likes Tom and Tom likes her. She can talk to Tom and he never cuts her off, because his mother raised him to be kind and he listened to his gentle mother – she is sure Sherlock's Mum is lovely, but her sons turned out rather odd.
Tom never hides his feelings, or hides from them. He tells her he loves her without urging, and his features are never schooled into a carefully constructed mask. He is open and generous and everything she could ask for in a man – because spinster Molly Hooper can't afford to reject perfectly decent men. And why should she not let herself love Tom? Tom is a good person and he loves her.
Why is that not enough? Why can't she let that be enough?
Because she still craves the intellectual challenge of being Sherlock's partner in crime-solving, the rush of getting to the answer in tandem with his rapid-fire brain, and the happiness of being appreciated for her odd interest in human remains and what has happened to them – Tom condones her job, but she can't talk to him about how the male mid-fifties did not fall to his death by accident. Tom doesn't speak her language like Sherlock does – even though she knows Sherlock would never let her learn the language he speaks in his mind palace. She doesn't think anyone has been close enough to speak that language fluently – sure, she can manage a few halting phrases, while John has managed to grasp a few basic sentences that give him enough to get by, but no one in the world is fluent in Sherlock.
But Sherlock is almost fluent in Molly Hooper.
He notices when she isn't happy, and even though she can tell him that she is ecstatic and so very happy and having lots of sex – it is rather nice to be having a lot of sex again – he can also tell that none of this is actually satisfying her. She may put on a smile, but she flinches when Tom says something stupid.
Meat dagger, Tom? Really?
When her boyfriend – her fiancé now – and the man she really does love, tries to speak more of his silly words through Sherlock's monologue, she just stabs him in the hand with a dessert fork. What is wrong with her?
Sure, Tom will forgive her for it, he always does, but she just keeps doing these things because it's Sherlock, and because she is the only one who understands what a bad idea it is to have him giving the best man speech without any aid – he managed to pull it off quite well, actually, and solved a murder while he was at it.
She spends too much time being Sherlock's Molly, and too little time being Tom's.
The resolve to do something about that is rather difficult to gather, especially when she sees Sherlock leaving early – he is leaving early from his best friend's wedding and that is most definitely not a good sign. She may want to keep her distance from him, but she could never bear seeing him so unhappy and so lonely when all of his closest friends and confidantes are there. She can't leave him behind just because she has Tom now.
Mrs Hudson appears to be her guardian angel at this point, because she holds out her wrinkled hand to Tom, and he, the darling that he is, takes it and prepares to dance with darling Martha Hudson. He turns to her first, though.
"You don't mind, do you Molls?" he ask, slightly tipsy off that disgusting wine.
"I wanted to hit the loo anyway," she grins at the perfect opportunity.
From the corner of her eyes, she can still see Sherlock moving away, and she knows that she will have to rush if she wants to catch him. Her heels make too much noise on the floor, and she knows that she is startling some of the guests, but their feelings don't matter as much to her as Sherlock does.
"Sherlock?" she calls out to him.
"Yes, Molly?" he turns around, blue eyes boring into hers.
With that, she is speechless, because what is she supposed to say to convince him to stay here a little while longer? She never thought past stopping his departure with just the calling of his name, and now that she is left facing him with nothing left to say that will not make this even more awkward. She has Tom, and he is Sherlock and he will never care for her the way that she would like him to – and she was supposed to be moving on!
But now he's looking at her with those sad blue eyes and she knows that she would do just about anything to make him feel better. She mentally goes through the bodies currently at Bart's, and wonders if she has anything there that might peek his interest – or some parts that she could let him experiment on. Nothing comes up.
"Are you really leaving already?" she stammers. "The party is still going on, and I'm sure that there are people you haven't deduced yet. That could be interesting."
There is nothing that she can think of that could make him stay here; nothing at this party that a man like Sherlock Holmes would consider worth it. She considers bribing him with experiments, with anything he wants, but she knows that there is nothing that he could possibly want from her. He's gotten all he could ever need from her.
"I have found nothing else of interest here," Sherlock is ready to leave yet again. "I'm sure John would prefer me leaving to me further paining his guests with my deductions."
"But," she tries to argue. "You could stay."
How can she convince the great Sherlock Holmes? She is not wily or sexy or seductive, she is just plain old Molly Hooper who has no more eyeballs to give him. There is nothing she can do, and Tom must be waiting for her return – she tries to sneak a few peeks at the dance floor, knowing Sherlock will know what she is doing immediately and that he will comment on it just as quickly.
"Would you like to dance?" Sherlock stuns her.
It is a shocking request coming from him, so she is silent for a while as she tries to process. Sherlock Holmes actually asked her to dance with him – there is no way that she can say no to this. This opportunity only comes along once.
"I would like that," she responds.
She does not stutter this time, and she hopes that she does not look guilty as she follows him back to the dance floor. He is ever graceful and she tries to look the part as well, keeping a respectful silence because she knows the hum of the crowd is already taxing enough on Sherlock's senses, giving him that feeling of white noise in his head that he so hates, when thoughts and deductions mix together too rapidly and he needs peace from everything around him. So, without needing prodding, she smiles at him and gently places her hand on his shoulder. He jolts, and she almost pulls back.
Then, he places a warm hand on the small of her back and starts the waltz, leading her confidently into a dance that she has rarely done with a partner – especially not one as skilled as Sherlock seems to be. He leads her around the floor with grace as his gentle hand both makes her and keeps her from turning into jelly. This is a lovely dance, and the cello sounds in the background reverberate through her body and make it thrum as if it were an instrument. She closes her eyes, trying not to look into Sherlock's almost vacant eyes as he undoubtedly deduces everything about her.
He knows that she isn't over him. She wonders if she is just that transparent – sure, Sherlock is skilled, but he is rarely the most astute when it involves emotions that relate to him somehow. She wonders if there is a way that she can hide the feelings away, or at least force them down so she won't feel tempted every time he comes by. The thrill of his cases is strong, and his speech told her stories he'd never told her before – did he really need her as his pathologist anymore? Sure, she could be a pathologist, but his?
Even with her eyes closed, she knows that Sherlock is steering them away from where she last left Tom. She has no idea if he does so consciously – she has no idea if Tom is still there – but she would prefer to stay in the little bubble that has formed around the two of them as the cello plays on. There is nothing else.
Occasionally, his fingers twitch reflexively against her back, and when they do there is a line of goose bumps on her skin that never quite manages to go away completely before they repeat this little cycle, still moving in threes along to the music.
She feels so very aware of his presence, his tall stature hovering over her as she slowly opens her eyes again to see him watching her yet again. It is different this time though, she can see it in his eyes – there is no sadness there, and that was all that she could ever want from her silly idea of stopping him. Sure, she has had a lovely moment in his arms, waltzing around the crowded room, but now it is time to step back.
The music is almost over, and as she hears the last note resonate throughout the room, she tries to breathe in Sherlock's typical scent for the final time before she lets him remove his hand from her back. She sees that her own hand is trembling as she pulls it back from his shoulder, so she snatches it back more forcefully.
"Thank you for the dance," she smiles at him, tentative, but still trying to be kind.
"Thank you, Molly Hooper," his voice rumbles. "Good night."
As his towering presence slowly starts to move away, and she catches the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, she wonders if Sherlock enjoyed that dance as much as she did. He seemed to appreciate her as a dance partner – he would have remarked on her inadequacies if he had not thought so.
"Will you drop by the morgue again tomorrow?" she just blurts it out.
"I've been looking for a few nice hands," he ponders.
"I think I have just the pair," she excitedly replies. "A gentleman came in before I left, and his hands were in almost pristine condition. He was rather young, so I'm sure the material is very workable. I'll prepare them if you want."
She may be rambling, but she feels more comfortable talking about science right now, when she is desperately trying to hold on to her pleasant thoughts of their dance while not displaying her feelings for him again. It is a balancing act on a tightrope, and she fears that she will fall to one side or the other.
"I trust you'll do so to my satisfaction," Sherlock nods sagely.
The warm feeling spreading in her gut is pleasantly addling her thoughts. Sherlock trusts her, she remembers that, but every time he does so when it comes to her work and her skills as a pathologist and a research assistant, she is even happier. He values intelligence above all else, after all.
It makes her hope that maybe, just maybe, she won't have to settle for moving on.