'We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them'
Albert Einstein
Molly Hooper wasn't a detective and she certainly wasn't a consultant detective. She was a pathologist. The only problems she could solve involved dead bodies which is why no matter how hard she tried Molly couldn't solve her problem. It wasn't that she hadn't tried, no, she'd tried on many occasions but her problem still insisted on turning up in her lab at the most inconvenient times.
Sherlock Holmes was Molly's biggest problem. He would turn up in the lab most days and commandeer equipment or 'borrow' a body part or two and she would give them to him on a silver plate. Molly was unable to deny him anything. She'd fancied the pants off him since the first time he showed up in the lab. It became clear after she'd finally plucked up enough courage to ask him out for a coffee that he wasn't remotely interested in her but still she would allow him to wrap her around his finger with those charming compliments that were always followed by a scathing comment all because of her silly little crush. Molly was stuck. She'd tried dating on a handful occasions in the hope of curing her problem but that hadn't worked out too well. Dating 'Jim from IT' had been her last disastrous attempt until now. Molly had a lunch date and she was all ready to leave when Sherlock appeared brandishing a bag of crisps and a scathing comment about her dating luck. Molly gave up on her lunch date something she later regretted when the consultant detective couldn't even remember her name when she tested to see if what she had in her petri dish was acid or alkali. The bastard.
-x-
It was the end of Molly's shift, she checked the lab once more before turning the light's out for the night. Molly sighed and headed for the door having spent yet another long day leaning over the microscope and avoiding the gaze of the deceased but in the grand scheme of things her day could have been worse considering her biggest problem had spent an afternoon in the lab with her.
"You're wrong you know," Molly was startled by a familiar deep voice. She turned with a gasp. It was Sherlock. She relaxed. He wasn't looking at her as he focussed elsewhere, "you do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you but you were right." Molly listened as all intelligible thoughts traitorously abandoned her. It didn't even strike her as odd that he'd obviously been waiting for her. Molly's mind decided immediately that he was after something; it was the only reason for him being so nice.
As was always the case Molly wanted to believe that the consultant detective was sincere but knew better than to hope for such a thing outside of her daydreams. In her dreams he would always sweep into her lab looking every bit the part in his coat and with his leather gloved hands he would cup her cheeks and give her the most amazing kiss of her life sending her week at the knees but Molly wasn't daft, she knew that her daydreams couldn't be a reality.
You've always counted, no; Molly couldn't get ahead of herself. Sherlock said things like that all the time to get something. She hadn't always counted; she only counted when Sherlock needed something. Another compliment would be heading her way any second now further establishing that what Sherlock needed would delay her going home to a hot bath and a large glass of wine.
Sherlock turned to look at her, "I'm not okay." Molly's mind had to play his confession twice over before it registered that there was no compliment this time.
Sensible, rational Molly regained control again. This time there was something different. It was in his eyes those piercing eyes that could see right through her soul except this time it was the other way round; this time she could see his. For the first time since Molly met Sherlock he wasn't manipulating her. It was something else entirely.
Molly didn't hesitate in her reply. For Sherlock to open up like that it had to be important. "Tell me what's wrong," her voice was calm and collected as she appealed to the consultant detective. .
Sherlock stepped towards her, "Molly, I think I'm going to die."
"What do you need?" she offered without so much as a second thought.
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am would you still want to help me?" Molly kept her head high as she looked up at Sherlock's imposing form.
"What do you need?" she repeated.
"You."
-x-
Sherlock's body was bought to Molly in the morgue where she provided him with everything he need to clean away the strangers blood they'd used from the blood pack to make everything so much more believable. As the consultant detective stripped off his stained shirt Sherlock Molly's heart rate quickened. She fumbled with setting up the new phone for Sherlock to use to keep her eyes away from his very distracting torso. It just wasn't fair the way his chest was sculpted to perfection.
For two days Sherlock would be using her pokey little flat on the second floor of a four story Georgian townhouse as a base. "Tea?" Molly asked as she stood awkwardly in the doorway to her kitchen. Her bag and coat were unceremoniously dumped on the settee. Sherlock stood in the centre of her living room scrutinising every detail. "Sherlock? Did you hear me?" He looked at Molly. "I-I'm putting the kettle on do you want a cuppa?" It seemed such an ordinary thing to do after the last twelve hours.
"Tea-" Sherlock's answer was cut off.
"It's okay, I know how you like it?" she disappeared in a fluster to the kitchen. Sherlock listened to the sound of mugs clattering in the kitchen and the kettle boiling as his mind fell comfortably into deducing the pathologist's living room. There was a book shelf filled with a variety of books from medical textbooks to romance novels. A box set for a television series rested against the DVD player beneath the television. Molly's choice in television was clearly on par with her choice of jumpers one of which was lying on the back of the settee with a rather hideous floral design. The whole place just screamed of Molly.
"Oh and there's a cat, of course there's a cat," Sherlock noted to himself as he eyed the feline with distain he really didn't want cat hair on his clothes.
Molly emptied a couple of biscuits onto a plate there wasn't much else she could offer after rummaging in her barren cupboards. Her fridge wasn't much better with a stale block of cheese, the dregs of a four pint of milk and a half drunk bottle of wine. "I bought through a few biscuits thought you might be hungry it's okay if you're not."
"Molly," Sherlock warned.
"Right, yes, sorry," Molly picked up a biscuit for herself to silence her ramblings. The chocolate hobnob had lost its crunch sitting in the opened packet in the bread bin. "I'll go out and get dinner in a bit," Molly disappeared back into the kitchen to fetch the tea and hide her embarrassment.
-x-
Molly resolved not to be such a dithering mess when she returned from the Tesco down the road. She'd been to fetch some essentials, toothbrush included, for Sherlock. On her way back she'd grabbed a Chinese takeaway and struggled home all the while cursing the consultant detective and repeating the mantra 'I will not let Sherlock get the better of me' over and over again. Finally Molly Hooper was going to solve her problem.
It took two attempts for Molly to get her door unlocked as her hands shook with the weight of the bags. "Sherlock?" Molly called expecting him to relieve her of the bags so she could shut the door. Sherlock took the bag of Chinese food leaving Molly to struggle with the rest. She held out another bag for Sherlock but he'd already walked away leaving her bag-laden arm outstretched, "Thanks for the help," Molly grumbled as she kicked the door shut with a slam and dumped the rest of the bags in the kitchen. So far it wasn't a good start to her new confident persona Sherlock was already walking all over her. She prepared to try again; some things in life took practice anyway, "Sherlock? There are plates-"
"In the bottom cupboard to the left of the sink," he cut in.
"Err yes," Molly was surprised, "Can you get two for me?" Sherlock looked at her for a moment noting the greasy plastic containers of Chinese food in her hands. "Please," she added. Sherlock retrieved the plates giving Molly her second surprise in as many minutes. The star of her daydreams was doing something so very domestic. He placed them on the worktop. Molly's thanks were curt as she ruined her daydream with reality, "You went snooping in my cupboards!"
Sherlock was unfazed by her outburst, "You were out."
"And that makes it okay? I'm," Molly was getting flustered, "I'm letting you stay after everything I've done and my job! I could lose my job if the truth gets out. You-"
"Thank you," the stoic consultant detective took his Chinese through to the living room. Molly lost her energy to argue further. Was that a thank you for all her help or thank you for the Chinese?
Molly switched on the television unsure of whether Sherlock approved. She decided she didn't care; it was her flat and her rules. As she tried to watch her mind kept wondering to the consultant detective sat in her favourite armchair. 'What do you need?' Molly relived his appearance in her lab. 'You,' he needed her. A small part of Molly, the part she had shoved away under lock and key, was ecstatic. The man she pined after for years was finally taking notice of her even if it was to help him fake his own suicide.
"Shut up." Sherlock voiced.
Molly looked up in surprise, "I didn't say anything," or at least she hoped not. Oh god, what if she had? Nervously Molly looked at the enigmatic man.
"You were thinking," he clarified and added, "loudly," as an afterthought. Molly ignored him and focussed on the TV instead of the consultant detective sitting with his hands pressed firmly together resting on his chin with one leg folded over the other.
They continued like this for a while. A satirical news show was now on TV; its raucous laughter was the only noise filling the small living room. To Molly it seemed odd that a few hours ago Sherlock was lying on a slab in the morgue and now he was sat in her flat.
When the programme ended Molly went to bed unable to fight of the day's exhaustion. "I got you some things; if you need anything else let me know. Good night," with a slight blush Molly handed Sherlock, who was still sat in the armchair, a carrier bag of items she'd bought at Tesco's earlier. They were mostly toiletries. As Sherlock peered inside she made a swift exit for her bedroom not wanting to listen to his criticisms.
-x-
Molly took a day off the next day. It was no secret to some of colleagues that she'd spent a lot of time with the fraudulent detective before his suicide. Sherlock was gone when she woke up. The blanket and pillow she put out for him the night before were neatly folded on the settee exactly where she'd left them. Molly felt a pang of sadness that he was gone without so much as a good bye.
By dinner Sherlock hadn't returned. Molly wondered if he would ever return or if she would ever see him again. He had nowhere else to go until he got himself sorted. Baker Street was out of the question poor John was there grieving alone and as for Sherlock's brother Mycroft Molly didn't want to open that particular can of worms.
Molly spat her toothpaste into the sink when she raised her head Sherlock was stood in the doorway watching her. She dropped her toothbrush into the sink with the shock. Her cheeks flamed red. She forgot to close the door now that she had a guest. "Err, its okay. I'm done," Molly dried her hands on the towel and turned to leave the bathroom. Sherlock was blocking her way. She hadn't heard the consultant detective enter her flat. "I thought you left," Molly tried to keep the hurt from her voice. She was okay that he would have left without a good bye. Really, she was.
Sherlock stepped back from the door into hallway allowing Molly to leave her bathroom. "I had to take care of something," Molly didn't ask what. They'd already discussed that regardless of her role in assisting Sherlock with his suicide it was better if she knew as little as possible.
"Do you…want anything?" Molly asked tentatively as she stepped from her bathroom into the dark hall.
Sherlock looked down at her. His coat collar pulled up and hands deep in his pockets. Molly found herself unable to look away from his icy blue eyes as his deep baritone broke the silence in her flat, "You."
"Oh," Molly squeaked. The consultant detective moved far too quickly for Molly to comprehend. His hands, cool from the outdoors, closed upon her own pulling her closer. "Sherlock what are you doing?" Molly had enough of her senses left to question his motives.
Sherlock took note her racing pulse and dilated pupils. "Isn't this what you want? Isn't this what you've always wanted?"
"Yes," Molly breathed in response. If Molly was really honest with herself she knew Sherlock didn't share her feelings and that this was just him manipulating her again but after everything this man had put her through surely she deserved to take something for herself? Wordlessly Molly plucked up the courage to pull Sherlock along to her room.
Molly could do nothing to stop what was about to happen as she took what Sherlock was giving her and ran with it. What she felt towards Sherlock was her unsolvable problem. She went along with it like everything else concerning Sherlock. In the back of her mind a voice was chanting 'it doesn't matter he'll be gone in the morning,' but it did matter. It mattered more than anything to Molly.
He wasn't manipulating her for once, instead as his eyes bore into hers Molly was allowed to see for the first time that there was truth behind his actions. He didn't love her, that much was certain but what Molly could see was desperation. This man had ended his own life so that his friends could continue there's and now she, Molly, was his only lifeline to them. They were just two friends seeking solace.
Molly closed her eyes. This was all a dream. It was always a dream. His perfect cupids bow lips on hers, the feel of his hands as they rested on her hips. It all felt so real and that was the problem. Every delicate touch, every whispered name and every gentle moan, all of it real. They both knew what they were getting into as Sherlock walked her back towards the bed.
-x-
Sherlock and Molly lay side by side in the rumpled sheets neither one touching the other. Molly closed her eyes and gave her tired body to the memory of Sherlock and the way he murmured her name as he lost control allowing sleep to take control.
The consultant detective looked back at the sleeping form of Molly, her hair fanned out around her naked body. He clenched his jaw and continued towards the door. Sherlock couldn't stay, not now. He paused and turned back feeling guilty for leaving her. The least he could do was give her the comfort of the covers. When she woke in the morning he would be gone in pursuit of Moriarty's spider web.
-x-
Molly went to the funeral, she cried but not because of the death of the man she loved as those who knew her were thinking. She didn't correct them instead she chose to let them think what they liked. Little mousy Molly suffering from a broken heart none of them knew the truth and Molly was fine with that even if it had been her biggest problem. No matter how hard she tried Molly Hooper couldn't say no to Sherlock.