Author's Note: Adapted from the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, with a bit of role reversal. I hope you enjoy!
Molly Hooper was a brilliant sculptor, creating statues that everyone, including the most discerning critics, could swear they were real, so lifelike and detailed they were. She had fame and fortune worldwide as an artist, but she was also a very lonely woman.
One afternoon, sitting alone in her studio on a dismal rainy day, staring at her blank sketchpad, she wondered what her perfect man would look like. She picked up a pencil and idly began sketching. Soon her hand flew across the pad as she let her imagination run wild, adding touches of color here and there with other nearby drawing implements.
The image that finally stared back at her was one of masculine perfection. Dark curls tumbled in a boyish fashion down the forehead of a slim, fine-featured face. Cool, ice-blue eyes imperiously regarded the world around him, taking in every minute detail. The cupid's-bow lips were slightly parted; Molly fancied him ready to speak, perhaps to make a keen observation or two.
He looked like a tragic, romantic hero from some classic English novel, so in her mind she gave him what sounded like an appropriate name from that era: Sherlock.
There he was, her perfect man. Now she only had to render him in three dimensions. Maybe then she could get him out of her mind so she could focus on the real world, her other projects and commissions.
She took her time carving him from the finest, purest marble she could afford, making sure every detail was perfect- the lines and angles of his face, the contours and smooth planes of his wiry muscles, the lush waves and curls of his hair, the delicious curve of his lips, the length and girth of his impressive manhood. It took her days to render every detail from her sketches perfectly, until finally Molly was able to step back from her creation with a sense of satisfaction.
"Oh Sherlock," she finally sighed, "if only you were real! I would love you forever..." Without thinking she climbed back up on her stool, pressing her warm lips against the cool ones of her perfect man.
Suddenly a burst of warmth and flood of color seemed to explode from his lips, spreading down the body of the statue. The skin flushed with warmth but soon settled to a pleasing pale complexion, the hair acquired a lustrous raven color, the eyes a cool ice blue that seemed to reach into her very soul. Startled beyond belief Molly practically fell off the stool, falling backwards onto the floor in her confusion, knocking her unconscious.
When she came to her creation was kneeling next to her, cradling her head with long, sensitive fingers. "Are you all right, Molly?" A smooth baritone voice asked her. "You took quite a nasty fall there."
"I...I'm fine. I think," she stuttered, staring up into his handsome face. She found herself flushing as his intense gaze took in every detail of her body; what must he think of her, all sweaty and covered in marble dust? And how on earth did he know her name?
"Of course I know your name, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said with exasperation. "You're the one who created me, are you not? Do try to keep up!" Then his voice unexpectedly softened. "I know everything about you, including the real reason why you brought me to life. You're lonely, without someone to love you for everything you are, not just your incredible talent as a sculptor. Someone who will always be by your side and know how much you truly count. Someone," his plush lips curving up in a smile, "like me."
"Like you..." she breathed. Tentatively she reached up to touch his face, marveling at how soft and warm -and real- his skin was.
"Yes, dear Molly, although I loathe having to repeat myself. Like me." One hand tenderly cradled her head as he bent and kissed her while the other started to deftly caress the rest of her body. From that moment on Sherlock -the marble statue brought to life by the sheer power of her love- proved just how perfect a man he could be.
-End-