A/N: Hello all! I started this back in January but it got pushed to the backburner due to school. Playoffs are really the only thing that inspired me to finish this, haha.
Just a word of warning: I blame this solely on the fact that I'm Canadian. Seriously. Also, I took some creative liberties. For example: This story will make much more sense if you just pretend the NHL has women players. And that England is really Canada. I used a lot of Canadianisms because, well, it's hockey.
Pretty much: Just don't have any expectations.
As always, I own nada.
Hope you enjoy!
-AAG1D
/
"Honestly, this is not a mum and tot skate session. John, crisper stops! And Sherlock! You're skating even slower than Anderson's IQ."
Sherlock gritted his teeth in both frustration and exhaustion, and elected to ignore the tyrant he had the privilege of calling an older brother, even as Philip Anderson let out a shout of protest in between his set.
Seriously.
At least Sherlock was skating. All Mycroft ever did was dictate practice from his usual spot on the bench. He had no right to comment on Sherlock's skating abilities, especially when the fat oaf couldn't stand in a pair of skates to save his life.
Sherlock really didn't care a rat's arse if Mycroft was deemed the best NHL head coach in the nation.
After all, Sherlock had been deemed top player for the last six consecutive seasons, with the highest prospects of anyone to ever be added to the Hall of Fame.
So as far as Sherlock was concerned, his older brother could just suck it.
/
"You have got to be kidding me."
Lestrade scoffed from where he was unlacing his skates. "Come on Sherlock, it won't be that bad. St. Barts is a respectable team, and if they keep their season up, they'll be front runners for playoffs for sure."
"Gregory is correct," Mycroft looked out of place as always in an immaculate three-piece suit, surrounded by his team in various states of undress. "If that Moriarty fellow is as good as he was in the pre-season, I'm afraid you'll have your work cut out for you, little brother."
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes as he unlaced his pants. "Are you all forgetting the fact that Mike Stamford – complete idiot, by the way – picked girls to be on his team?"
Sherlock scrunched his nose at the word 'girls,' apparently still associating them under the label 'cooties' in his mind.
It promptly earned him a whack on the back of his head from his best friend.
"I'll remind you, Sherlock, that one of those girls is my wife," John rolled his eyes at his friend's antics. "The same woman who tied you up and locked you in a closet for insulting her marinara sauce last weekend."
Sherlock visibly shuddered at the memory, though whether from his recollections of his time in the closet, or from his memory of the marinara sauce, John wasn't sure. Still, his friend managed to toss a nasty scowl his direction, as though it had been John's fault it had all happened in the first place.
To be fair, he certainly had done nothing to prevent it from happening, but the utter git had it coming anyways.
"Yes," Sherlock's upper lip curled in disdain. "Though for the record, she completely over reacted. I merely suggested that she could go a little easier on the spices next time round."
"Yeah, well, keep your suggestions to yourself next time, would you mate? I'd hate to remind you that she's perfectly capable of poisoning us if it suits her fancy," John grumbled, wiggling his foot from his skate.
"Back to the matter at hand," Mycroft broke apart their squabble, a tight smile on his face suggesting that he was seconds away from making his brother's life absolutely miserable. "We mustn't underestimate them, female players or not, which is why I have you all scheduled in for an extra practice session Thursday before our Saturday game. Non-optional if you wish to maintain your spots this season."
Cue the collective groan that reverberated through the change room.
/
Sherlock Holmes was in his element.
Despite the shouts of thousands of fans deafening the arena, and the flashes of cameras watching his every move, Sherlock's entire body thrummed with exhilaration. He was born to wear a pair of skates on his feet, and from his performance tonight, everyone knew it.
Including that Moriarty rookie who had been vying for the spot light all night, and failing miserably in the shadow of the great Sherlock Holmes.
"Nice shot," Mary Watson skated past him, stick hitting his butt in the process, a cheeky smirk plastered on her rosy cheeks. "Though you know I'm gonna have to hit you next time."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but knew better than to snark back, especially with Mycroft's eyes drilling holes in the back of his head.
"That's hardly fair," He opted to say anyways, consequences be damned. "We both know that if I lay a hand on you on ice, you will most spectacularly get your revenge off ice."
"Guess you are learning," Mary winked at him before skating to her position of right defenseman, as Sherlock took his spot at the left wing. He knew Mycroft would be ranting to Anthea about Sherlock not shifting after scoring, but Sherlock had hardly been on the ice for thirty seconds before he had stolen the puck from Moran and finished off his hat trick for the game. A few more seconds wouldn't hurt.
As the refs fetched the puck and NSY fans continued to go wild, a smaller figure skated up opposite of Sherlock, and he felt his lip curl in derision. Seriously, when did the NHL standard lower so? The girl who had taken the right wing for the St. Barts seemed nothing more than a laughable child.
As though they weren't on rival teams vying for a position on the eventual play off roster, the girl had the audacity to smile at him around her mouth guard. "Good shot," Her voice was nearly lost in the din.
Sherlock merely scowled at her. "Stay out of my way," He all but bellowed.
Then the ref dropped the puck.
And Sherlock skated away, forgetting the girl as quickly as she came.
/
Three weeks later Sherlock Holmes found himself in need of a new garden gnome to replace Mrs. Hudson's, which he had rather accidently broken the night before when he had tossed his hockey gear out back. In his personal opinion, the gnome had been hideous anyways, and the back step was much more charming without the ghastly, pastel-coloured monstrosity getting in the way. Alas, Mrs. Hudson was adamant about a replacement though, which was why Sherlock currently found himself strutting through the aisles of Crappy Tire.
Heads were turning and he could make out the inevitable whisper of people going, "Is that Sherlock Holmes-?"
He quickly picked up his pace. There was a reason he didn't frequent stores like these.
Unable to find a suitable replacement, and his patience wearing thin – Mycroft had kept the lot of them up running drills far past the scheduled training hours, and Sherlock was feeling worse for wear today – Sherlock quickly ducked into the nearest aisle, hoping to find a competent sales person to assist him.
Instead he ran into the mousy right winger of the St. Barts.
"Hey, watch where you're-"
Her annoyed tirade cut off as she recognized him, momentarily turning into shock, before the annoyance returned, amped up several notches.
"-Oh," She rolled her eyes. "It's you."
Sherlock's skin itched at her tone of voice. He was all too used to other players in the league giving him the cold shoulder, or throwing nasty insults and snide remarks his way (Anderson was on his team for crying out loud, and yet still managed to be captain of the I hate Sherlock fanclub). But there was something about this girl that made Sherlock's skin simmer.
He sniffed and drew himself up to his full height, eyes raking over her body and tearing her apart bit by bit.
"Molly Hooper," He finally allowed himself to voice. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but it's clearly not."
She scowled at him, her dark eyes burning. "Bothered to learn my name? I thought it would've been beneath you."
"It is," He quickly retorted. "Unfortunately, Mary seems to think the world of you, for reasons I cannot fathom."
Something like realization flickered in her eyes. "Of course. You're the idiot John's best friends with," She smiled sardonically, clutching the hockey stick she was looking at tighter. "Mary complains about you frequently."
Sherlock opened his mouth once more, no doubt to verbally abuse his fellow league member some more, but the growing crowd behind him halted his rant. With a scowl, he turned on his heel.
"See you on the ice, girl."
"Back at you, twat."
Mrs. Hudson could live without a replacement gnome, Sherlock Holmes decided as he stormed out. Even if his landlady berated him to Mars and back, it would still be better than being in the same vicinity as Molly Hooper for another minute more.
It wouldn't be until days later, when his head had finally cooled, and his skates were weaving back and forth on the ice, that Sherlock would pick up on the oddity of his encounter with Molly Hooper.
She was a NHL player.
So why was she looking at hockey gear in Crappy Tire?
/
November brought with it a chill, and the promise of shinny once the local ponds froze. The NSY had been having a good season, with only one lost to the Mets. Mycroft had been pushing the team more than ever since playoff season was just around the corner, and Sherlock was seriously starting to consider complaining to Mummy just to make his older brother back off a bit. It wasn't that he minded all the extra practices, but Mycroft was getting too comfortable in the commandeering role.
And Sherlock, in true little brother fashion, could absolutely not let that continue.
"Boards!" He heard John holler a split second before the puck went ricocheting around the arena, and nestled itself nicely into Sherlock stick. A quick glance at Mary's skates, and Sherlock was around her in moments, deking left and dropping the puck for Lestrade, who scored before the St. Barts even knew what hit them.
Sherlock felt a surge of pride at his team as he made his way back to left wing.
The smile dropped from his face as Molly Hooper skated opposite of him again, this time with a fierce scowl instead of a cheerful smile and compliment. Sherlock took it upon himself to be the mature one.
"Girl."
"Twat."
So much for that. But this time, he didn't let his childishness completely get the better of him, as his eyes picked Molly Hooper apart, seconds before the game was on again.
Second hand knee pads. Ill-fitting chest protector. Standard St. Barts jersey and socks, with her stick and gloves obviously purchased at Crappy Tire. Well-worn skates, blades replaced two – no, three – times.
And then the puck was on the ice again, and Sherlock's body was moving of its own accord, leaving his deductions behind once more.
/
"I'm not coming."
"Yes, Sherlock, you are. End of story."
"No. I absolutely refuse."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you will come to the party or so help me, I won't let you see John for a month."
"Keep him for all I care, he's rather dull anyways."
"Hey-!"
"I won't let you see Rosie either."
A beat of silence.
"That's cold-hearted and cruel."
More silence.
"Fine. But only because I don't trust that you won't turn Rosie into a dullard too if I'm not there to protect her intellectual capacities."
/
There were copious amounts of things that Sherlock Holmes hated. Compiled into one volume, there probably wouldn't be enough trees on the planet to make a book big enough. That said, the list of things he liked was comparatively shorter. Namely being, Mummy, Rosie, Hockey, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, normally in that order. (Except for when Mary was being nosy and John a rubbish best friend. In those cases, their names joined Mycroft on the list of people he absolutely loathed.)
Parties, unfortunately, did not make the cut.
Which was why Sherlock Holmes was currently pouting like a petulant child, while simultaneously wishing the bookshelf he was hiding behind would miraculously swallow him.
He saw his best friend lumber over, two red solo cups in his hands. "Are you hiding?" He voiced his disbelief. Sherlock immediately raised his nose, stepping out of his corner.
"No."
Both men stared at each other, Sherlock daring John to say something.
"Right," The defenseman stated, before shoving one of the cups into Sherlock's hands. "Here, drink this. It'll make Mary's attempt at appys much more bearable."
"I thought we weren't allowed to criticize her cooking," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking the cup and downing the contents in one gulp. John quickly followed suite.
"We're not," He clarified. "Hence why the drinks were necessary."
"Ah," Finally seeing the logic of his friend's plan, Sherlock nodded in approval. "Good idea."
"Well, I do have them once in a while," John bantered back. "You know, you could try talking to people. You know practically everyone here."
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "That's precisely why I'm not talking to people."
John didn't even bother to hide his eyeroll. "Look, Sherlock, I know you like being an arrogant prat on a good day, but even you have to at least pretend you have some semblance of manners. And if you don't then I'll post the video of you playing peek-a-boo with Rosie online for the whole world to see."
Sherlock looked aghast. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," John didn't even blink, all too used to his best friend's shenanigans. "You need to talk to one person other than me, Mary, and Greg tonight or else the world will learn what a softie you really are, you hear me?"
"Greg?" Sherlock desperately tried to sound confused, trying to distract John who wasn't having any of it.
"I'll be watching," John merely shouted over his shoulder, as he made his way to the drink station again.
"Wanker," Sherlock muttered under his breath, retreating back to his corner of solitude. "Back-stabbing, traitorous, no-good excuse of a-"
"Well, aren't you charming."
The light words froze him in his tracks, his jaw locking ever so slightly as he turned around sharply, shooting his opponent a tight smile. "I certainly endeavour to be."
Molly Hooper looked unimpressed.
Sherlock fought back the ridiculous urge to stick his tongue out at her. After all, despite what John claimed, he actually could be quite mature.
Sometimes.
"And that's why you're hiding in the corner I take it?"
Sherlock glowered. It really looked more like a pout on the grown Hockey player's face though.
"I am not hiding," He scoffed. "Besides, I don't see you jumping into the fray of things."
Molly raised her eyebrows, tossing her drink back. "I never claimed I wasn't," She defended. "I'm merely here because Mary asked me to be."
"And I'm here because John asked me to be," The Left Winger stuck his nose up in the air, though he really wasn't sure why he felt the need to share such a fact with her.
"Good," The infuriating woman mimicked him, her own nose skyrocketing as she crossed her arms.
"Fine," Sherlock responded, crossing his as well, only vaguely aware that their conversation really was not making any sense.
"Now if you'll excuse me," Molly said, "I think I shall go and find the company of someone all the more pleasing to speak with."
A spike of indignation flared through Sherlock. "Likewise."
"Good."
"Fine."
Sherlock did his best not to stomp away in child-like petulance.
Judging by Mary's snickers across the room, he didn't succeed quite as much as he thought he did.
/
The wind was biting on his cheeks as he made his way down the street, a double double warming his hands and the atrociously blue toque his mother had just finished for him resting upon his unruly mass of black curls. With his skates hanging off the end of the hockey stick balanced over his shoulder, Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the crisp winter day.
It was New Years, meaning that he had had the whole week off from practices, and only had to deal with his incorrigible big brother at Family Dinner that week. He, John, Mary, and Lestrade had just finished a game of two-on-two Shinny on the frozen river bed, though their shenanigans quickly escalated until the four grown, NHL Hockey players were really doing nothing more than acting like seven-year-olds.
Followed by a quick stop at Timmy's, and Sherlock's last day of Winter Break was going marvellously.
Which was the only excuse he could come up with, when he ran into Molly Hooper. And, you know, didn't verbally incinerate her on the first breath.
He had decided to take the long way back to his flat, and cut through a lesser traversed section of woods that ran parallel to the river. His boots crunched heartily in the snow, and the sun shone through the bare branches of the trees at just the right angle, dancing across his cheekbones and making his breath visible in the cold air.
It was peaceful, with no one but him and the birds enjoying the winter afternoon.
Which was why he was startled to hear the unmistakable echo of a slapshot disrupt the quiet.
Interest piqued, Sherlock followed the familiar grate of skates against ice until he stumbled upon a wide section of river. The snow had been half-hazardly cleared on part of it, the yellow handle of the snow shovel sticking out of a mound of snow near the river's edge. On the other side of the bank another mound of snow had been built, and a lone figure with a familiar braid hanging from her ridiculously pink toque was shooting several pucks into it.
For a moment, Sherlock just watched her, content not to make his presence known as he leaned against a birch tree from his vantage point, sipping his coffee and observing. The last time he had seen Ms. Hooper had been at the Watsons' function, and he had mostly just deleted that entire event from his memory.
She, on the other hand, had proven to be much more difficult to just delete. Since their conversation at the party she had been popping into his thoughts at all sorts of inopportune moments. Small things, that he was beginning to realize didn't add up. Little facts that he had thought he had deleted – like the fact that most of her gear was second-hand, or that she bought her hockey stick at Crappy Tire of all places. He had done a quick Wikipedia search on her and hadn't learned much – been signed for the last three seasons, played two for the Scots which was why he hadn't heard of her before she was traded to the St. Barts. Other than that, her Wiki page was dismally small.
Watching her now, Sherlock saw something he wasn't privileged to on the ice. She was relaxed – much like he was – and just enjoying the sunny afternoon. The longer he watched her slapshots though, the easier it was for him to see the little nuances in her skills. A slightly in-turned skate here, a too-tight grip there. She was still incredibly talented – she couldn't be a NHL level player if she wasn't – but a seasoned player like Sherlock was able to see the little things that could make her better.
"You're not supposed to strangle your stick, you know."
His sudden baritone breaking the calm startled her rightly so, and Sherlock had to fight to keep the smirk off his face as she lost her footing and nearly fell on her butt. She whirled around, cheeks flushed in her flustered state as she gave Sherlock a glare for all she was worth.
Perhaps a slight corner of Sherlock's mouth turned upwards.
"Holmes," She scowled, "What are you doing here?"
Sherlock couldn't deign to return her scowl, still too much at ease from his good day. Instead he trudged down to her clearing, dropping his skates, stick, and double double beside her snow shovel, and waltzing up behind her.
"You have excellent aim, but no power to your slap shots," He ignored her dubious look as he went to fetch a puck from the hardened snow mound. "It would be an easy fix if you just loosened your grip."
"Oh really," Molly mused as he walked back to her and dropped the puck on the ice. "And pray tell, why should I listen to a word you say?"
Sherlock hesitated from where he was scuffing the ice with his toe, trying to smooth out a particularly large divot. His body froze as his mind finally caught up with him. What was he doing? More importantly though, why did he feel a sudden streak of hurt dash through him at Molly's words? She most definitely had a point.
Intent on saving some semblance of his dignity (though his mind was currently a scrambled mess, and he was positive that his cheeks were a flaming red) Sherlock quickly turned on his heel, coughing out a sharp sorry. He barely made it a step though before a small hand on his arm stopped him.
"No, wait, sorry," Molly's voice echoed in the clearing. "That was uncalled for."
Sherlock offered her a tight smile. The tip of her nose was cherry red, and much more distracting than he ever thought a nose could be. "It's fine," He lied. He was adept at lying.
To his surprise, Molly shook her head. "No it's not," She worried her bottom lip, and for some odd reason Sherlock found his gaze drawn away from her nose. "I just was a little off-guard, not that it's any excuse." They stood in awkward silence for a moment longer, neither really sure what to do. Sherlock hadn't realized just how much taller he was than her, even when she was on skates.
"Should I… go?" Sherlock hated how unsure he sounded. To his surprise though, Molly shook her head.
"Of course not – your help would actually be pretty useful," The tips of her ears were turning the same colour as the end of her nose, and Sherlock had a feeling that it wasn't from the cold. "Though it would probably be easier if you put your skates on, yeah?"
"Of course," Sherlock muttered, shuffling over to where he had dropped his things, while Molly fidgeted awkwardly in the middle of the ice. He had no idea what he was doing, and yet, he felt something warm settle in the pit of his stomach as he toed off his boots and slipped into his skates. Something, that while he had no intention of investigating further, he also had to admit he had no intention of driving away either.
"So," He skated back to her, his stick dragging expertly along the ice as he came up behind her, ignoring her sudden intake of breath. "When you take a slap shot, try holding your stick more like this…"
/
They began meeting once a week, after they both realized that they had Thursday mornings off. To be honest, Sherlock wasn't really sure how they came to that arrangement. One moment they were bickering about defensive strategies, and the next thing he knew they were in the middle of a snow war, giggling like children.
Every time that he thought about it, his ears would turn a burning shade of scarlet.
John inquired about it a few days later, to which Sherlock gave him a mortified glare before promptly ignoring his best friend in favor of said best friend's two-year old daughter.
Mary had a knowing smirk on her face the whole time, and it took everything in Sherlock's power not to wipe it off.
As he had learned in the past, that never worked well with Mary.
All things considered, he still found himself looking rather forward to Thursday mornings, although he wasn't entirely sure why. He tentatively labelled Molly under the word Friend in his mind, though he still dilly-dallied with the label, especially when she irked him beyond belief.
As the weeks passed however, even her 'irking' proved to be to Sherlock's liking. He realized exactly the predicament that he was falling into, when he caught himself flirting with her. In the middle of a hockey game.
Sherlock had been mortified when he realized what he was doing, and immediately divested his attention of her for the rest of the game. The only one who seemed to see it was Anthea, who grinned knowingly at him from her spot on the bench beside his brother.
He fought the childish urge to flip off his secondary coach/sister-in-law, and instead returned his attention rightly to the puck and the game.
Needless to say, Molly Hooper was inexplicably beginning to take up more real estate in the famed Hockey player's head, and Sherlock honestly didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
One thing he did know though, was that it absolutely terrified him.
But then Molly would almost always offer him that innocent smile that she had first bestowed upon him several months ago, save when he had done something a bit not good. And the tight feeling of terror in his chest would slowly loosen, and inexplicably Sherlock would find himself smiling back.
Thinking that perhaps girl hockey players weren't so bad after all.
/
"Sherlock Holmes, I swear if you don't give my daughter back right now, intelligence levels will be the last of your concern!"
Readjusting Rosie on his hip – she was laughing with joy, Sherlock really didn't know why John had his knickers in a twist – he shouted, "Really John, you're overreacting. It was just one tiny experiment. Besides, she clearly loved it!"
Sherlock darted through the throngs of people, doing his best to lose his best friend in the meantime. Other patrons were staring at them in alarm. He could hear the word 'kidnapped?' rolling among the masses in the mall, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly. People could be such idiots at times.
"Don't worry though Rosie," He addressed his goddaughter, slightly out of breath. "I'll make sure that you never become a dullard."
He quickly turned a corner, before ducking into the first store on his left, not paying any mind to which store it was, so focused was he on evading his best friend.
He really, really, should've looked where he was going.
"Sherlock?"
His eyes snapped up at the familiar voice, landing on the lovely (and very confused) face of Molly Hooper.
He blatantly ignored the rush of excitement that went through him, grateful that in his flustered state, she wouldn't be able to see a blush on his cheeks.
Not that he was blushing in the first place, mind you.
Without even offering a hello, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her behind a display.
"Wha- Sherlock!" She shrieked, having to grab onto his free shoulder to keep herself balanced, as he tugged them down into a squatting position behind a frankly colourful display. "What in the blazes-?"
Sherlock shushed her, eyes stoutly glued to the window, watching to make sure John would pass them unawares. "Yes, yes," He muttered, "Hello to you too Molly. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to hide from John."
"Hide from John? Why are you hiding from-?"
Rosie chose that moment to laugh. Loudly.
"Oh," Molly said in realization.
"Yes," Sherlock tutted tersely. "Oh. Now if both of you wouldn't mind being quiet, I'm trying to save Rosie from the insipid fate of becoming an idiot like her father."
"Really," Molly quirked an eyebrow, though lowered her voice all the same. "And your hiding has nothing to do with you doing something stupid in the first place?"
A slight twitch from the man in question. Sherlock felt his ears flood a horrifying shade of crimson while he kept his gaze resolutely on the window – and just in time to see John whiz past, much to his satisfaction.
It didn't last long though, as Molly took the opportunity to jab his side, causing him to yelp in alarm. He was vaguely aware of Rosie grabbing something off the shelf and sticking it in her mouth, but he had much more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.
"What was that for?!"
"Sherlock," Molly scolded – she was really getting quite good at that – "You can't do something not good, and then kidnap your best friend's child and hide in a bra shop!"
His eyes widened in horror as he turned his gaze to Molly. "A what shop?"
But he had already answered his own question, as his eyes finally took the time to analyze the contents of the display he was content to hide behind. He almost fell on his butt as he reeled backwards, realizing exactly what the bright pink monstrosities were. Almost giving himself whiplash, he turned to a fairly amused looking Molly who had a cream and navy blue thing of her own hanging over her arm.
He blubbered like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought. "It's a- it's a- Why- Uh, that is to say-" He gulped and forced himself to focus. Rosie was oblivious to his distress, smiling happily at her godfather. "Why are we in a bra shop?" He finally managed to articulate.
Molly's amused expression didn't falter. "Well, despite popular opinion, I don't actually wear a sports bra all the time. As for you, well, I really can't tell you, Sherlock."
He sprouted up like a bean pole, intent to get out of the confining store and oblivious to the strange stares he was garnering from the ladies in the store. It wasn't until he heard the inevitable Is that Sherlock Holmes? that he began to realize the gravity of the situation.
So naturally he did the only thing he could think of.
He made a beeline for the store's doors.
Unfortunately failing to realize that Rosie was still chewing happily on a yellow bra.
The alarms went off, drawing attention from those inside and outside. Busybodies who apparently had nothing better to do then watch the drama unfold around the famous Sherlock Holmes.
He closed his eyes, wishing the ground would just swallow him up whole.
"Sir? Will you please step back into the store?"
He heard the shutter of a camera go off. He turned sharply on his heel towards the uniformed officer standing with his hands on his hips, an eyebrow cocked. Molly stood behind him, trying and failing to hide her laughter.
The officer's gaze travelled from Sherlock's very, very, red ears, to the giggling baby in the famed NHL player's arms, the cheery yellow bra still very much in her grasp.
"I hope you realize that you're going to have to pay for that now," He drawled, gesturing to the yellow monstrosity. "The store can't take back used products."
Sherlock grimaced, reaching into his coat pocket and doing his best to ignore the camera flashes that were getting more prominent by the second. "How much?"
"That one is a special extra-boost push-up, with easy clasp action," Molly chimed in helpfully. "It's going to cost you a pretty sixty-four."
Sherlock nearly reeled back aghast. Again.
"For a bra?" He said the word as if it could bring the plague upon his very soul. Molly just offered him a wide smile.
"Yup!"
Grumbling, Sherlock continued to fish in his pocket until he pulled out several one-hundred dollar bills. He opened his mouth to bark at the other person to fetch him some change, when he heard-
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, when I get my hands on you you're going to WISH Mary's Bolognese was the most horrid thing to ever happen to you!"
Despite what most people thought, Sherlock didn't actually have a death wish. Which was why he did the most logical thing he could think of.
"On second thought," He all but shoved Rosie into Molly's arms, tossing the bills at the officer as he turned on his heel. "Keep the change!"
/
"Please tell me there's a good reason you're on the six o'clock news with the words kidnapping, theft, and public disturbance attached to your name."
"Shove off, Mikey."
A tense sigh from the other end of the line. "Am I going to have to inform our parents about your shenanigans, Sherly?"
A moment of silence. Then: "You always were an A-class snitch."
"Better than being an A-class idiot. Tell me, how long has Mary grounded you and John for this time?"
"…"
A snort of laughter. "Typical. Well, don't be late for practice tomorrow, you've been slacking and it's time you make up for it."
"Slacking? I'm not the one who-"
"And Sherlock," A harsh interruption, "I'm not blind about your involvement with Ms. Hooper."
"Involvement? What involvement? We don't have an involve-"
"See you tomorrow, brother mine."
/
A few days later during a game, John went to hit a member of the Mets.
He missed by several feet and accidently rammed Sherlock instead.
Mycroft turned a blind eye.
Funnily enough, the refs seemed to do the same.
/
For weeks after the bra incident, Sherlock's face is plastered over every magazine in the country. It really isn't anything new. The only difference this time is the subject.
Turns out Mycroft wasn't the only one to notice an involvement.
The first week everything is a spectacle, with the press making a big joke out of Sherlock and John's shenanigans. Several question Sherlock's right to be Rosie's godfather, and others wonder if this will be the end of the dynamic duo – Holmes and Watson, the seemingly unstoppable hockey pair. But shortly after John's infamous hit to Sherlock they're partners in crime once more, and a family outing (Plus Sherlock, though he's practically family anyways) to the park, with Rosie balanced on her godfather's shoulders and Mary keeping her husband and her husband's best friend in line, quickly dispel any notions of Sherlock being an unsuitable godfather.
It's what is printed the second week, that really causes the drama to unfurl.
All it took was one article. A nobody who pointed out the strange fact that, Hey, isn't that Molly Hooper from the St. Barts that Sherlock gave his goddaughter to? and subsequently caused the rumors to explode.
Suddenly the part of the story that everyone was focusing on was Sherlock's interactions with Molly, and speculation flew. A Forbidden Tryst? Conspiracy off the Ice? The headlines became more and more ridiculous as the days pass, and more than ever were people trying to worm their way into his private life-
"No mother, Molly is not my girlfriend."
-And he was really getting sick of having to deal with it. Both publicly and in his private life. John and Mary were getting a kick out of it, Mycroft was being a right pillock, and Sherlock was fairly certain Lestrade was the idiot purposefully leaving the latest issue of whatever gossip magazine had his face plastered all over it in the dressing room to irk Sherlock.
And Molly, well, Molly was doing her best to take it all in stride.
"Are we still on for Thursday?"
"What kind of question is that?"
To be honest, Sherlock had been terrified that she'd want nothing to do with him, after seeing the horrible backlash those in his immediate vicinity received from the press. Miraculously however, she just gave her innocent smile while doing her best to ignore the trash comments about her in the gossip columns.
Thursday passed as it usually did, with Shinny on the river and coffee at Tim's afterwards. This of course only fueled the rumours when pictures of the two of them walking arm and arm down the street with double doubles, and their respective blue and pink toques on their heads came into the papers the following day.
Sherlock resolutely ignored the teasing John supplied Friday morning.
Though a small voice deep in the recesses of his mind admitted that he and Molly really did make quite a cute couple.
/
With the Spring came slushy roads, demonic looking half-melted snowmen, and playoff season. While the rumours thinned concerning him and Molly they never quite dissipated, causing a lot of speculation to transfer over to the ice. Eyes were everywhere, and Sherlock found they weren't all as friendly as they used to be.
When both the NSY and the St. Barts made playoffs, Mycroft pulled his little brother aside for a serious chat.
"Sherlock, I hope you know that you can't have any… dalliances that are going to distract you or affect your playing, especially at this time of year."
"Really Mycroft? You think my friendship with Molly will affect my playing? Don't appall me, brother mine."
"Trust me, it's not the friendship aspect that worries me, brother mine."
Needless to say, Sherlock had taken extra care in the past month to ensure that nothing could be misconstrued about his friendship with Molly. He treated her no different than he did Mary on the ice, and off the ice, well…
He did his best to keep their interactions, well, platonic. He honestly wasn't sure why it was so difficult, though it was probably Molly's fault. Everything was fine really, till that fateful Thursday not even a week into playoffs.
Both of them had had the evening off as well as the morning due to a scheduling conflict, and had decided to make the most of it – Sherlock needing to hide from his best friend after feeding Rosie his own personal mix of baby food after John had explicitly told him not to do that (John was being ridiculous – Sherlock's mixture ensured that Rosie would receive all the nutrients necessary. The projectile vomit was really just an unfortunate side effect of the experiment.), and Molly just needed a break in general from the stress of playoffs.
Over the last three weeks they had to abandon their spot on the river due to the rapidly warming temperatures, and had taken to just spending the time together leisurely – whether picking up groceries, or just catching a late brunch. Slowly, Sherlock began to put together more of the pieces of who Molly Hooper was.
She had learned hockey when she was young, her father teaching her in their driveway. They were poor, and it was only because her high school recognized her potential and waived the fee for the POE program that she found a career in the sport, and was drafted to the WHL shortly after graduation, where she played for two seasons before being drafted into the NHL.
She'd been wearing the same pair of skates since she was twelve. Her father had scraped and saved every penny for three months to buy them for her, and she kept them, even after she was drafted for her first professional season.
He asked her about the second-hand pads once. Her Crappy Tire stick. Apparently her father had died shortly after her second season in the WHL, leaving her estranged mother in need of care. As a result, all of Molly's funds went into either that or savings, leaving her with little to spend on herself.
The following day a package had suspiciously appeared on her doorstep. There was no note, but upon opening it and finding a new, top-of-the-line set of pads (which just so happened to fit her perfectly) she knew who they came from. She had tried to return them, saying that it was too generous a gift. Sherlock wouldn't hear of it though – claiming that it was dangerous for her to enter playoffs with the pads she had. He resolutely seemed to ignore the fact that she had been fine the previous two seasons.
In return, Sherlock found himself telling Molly more about who he was. About the little boy who could skate before he could walk, and how he had always dreamed about putting his name up there with Gretzky. How, when he finally reached his dream, it turned into more of a nightmare, with people using him for his fame and success. How he almost didn't make it after his second season, but how he had met John who didn't treat Sherlock like a celebrity, but as a friend. And slowly, how his small group of reality grew to include Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mary, and even to some extent, his brother and Anthea.
And now Molly.
He felt the tips of his ears go red when he told her that, though he wasn't sure why.
Which brought them to that fateful Thursday not even a week into playoffs. They had met up shortly before eleven, before walking downtown to do some much needed shopping. They had caught a bite to eat and a matinee performance of some show, before heading back to Sherlock's to make it a night in.
At first, things had started quite innocently. Molly had been to his flat before, and it wasn't like Sherlock had bad intentions – Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs for goodness sake.
Molly immediately went to chopping vegetables, and Sherlock helped out where he could (Meaning he watched the timer on the pasta, as Molly had learned long ago not to allow him near the cooking process).
They ate, moaned about playoffs, speculated the draft for the following season, and somehow ended up bickering about something of no consequence.
Which was where, Sherlock speculates, his problem began.
At some point their good-natured bickering turned into a tickle/pillow fight, with the two of them running around 221B like children, laughing, and threatening, and teasing one another mercilessly. Sherlock had managed to trap Molly on the couch, and was tickling her without relent.
Which was precisely when the sleeve of her top slid down her shoulder.
It was nothing inappropriate, mind you. In fact, she didn't even notice, so caught up in the game. But Sherlock certainly noticed. Specifically, he noticed the thin strap that was normally hidden underneath her shirt.
A bright yellow bra strap.
But not just any bra strap – the one that undoubtedly belonged to the ghastly yellow monstrosity that caused all the rumours between them to begin over four months earlier.
She had kept it.
Moreover, it appeared to fit her well, judging from, well… Sherlock ordered his mind not to go there, even as his eyes traitorously flickered downwards for half a second. Special Extra-Boost Push-up indeed.
He felt something flush through him, and his ears turned an all too familiar shade of red. Molly didn't notice, and in the same second that Sherlock had his epiphany, she scrambled out from under his hold, giggling as she made a beeline towards the kitchen, her shirt slipping inconspicuously back into place, as though the yellow strap was never flashed in the first place.
To keep up appearances Sherlock had darted after her, doing his best to seem nonchalant in the matter. The evening had ended as it always did, with the two of them finishing the dishes in the kitchen, before Molly yawned and decided to head in for the night. Sherlock had called her a cab and walked her to the curb, despite her insistence that she was fine.
After that night, Sherlock could barely see Molly without blushing. It made playoffs all the more distracting, and Sherlock found himself looking more forward to Thursdays than to Hockey nights.
So yes. With the Spring came slushy roads, demonic looking half-melted snowmen, and playoff season. But more importantly, it also brought distractions, revelations, and a certain yellow bra.
/
The NSY made finals.
Of course, because the fates loved to make Sherlock's life difficult, the St. Barts made finals too.
Mycroft stared long and hard at his little brother, when he had made the announcement the evening previous. Sherlock resolutely continued to unlace his skates, refusing to meet his brother's steely gaze.
To be honest, he was really hoping the Mets would be the other finalists this season, as horrible as that sounded. Because despite his best efforts to keep things as they always were, it couldn't be denied.
He played different, around Molly now. When she was on the ice, winning no longer became his priority.
And for Sherlock Holmes that was incredibly dangerous.
The clatter of cutlery on dishes roused him from his musings.
"Oh Rosie, sweetheart no!" Mary tsked as she reached for her daughter who was attempting to use her dinner plate as a drum despite the food still sitting there. John hid a smile behind a mouthful of broccoli, before turning to his best friend.
"So mate, what has you stuck in your head this evening?" He raised an eyebrow. "You haven't made a single rude comment all evening, and you ate all of Mary's meatloaf."
"And what's wrong with my meatloaf?" John's eyes widened as he realized what he said, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on John's plate, where the meatloaf had mostly just been broken apart and spread around his plate. The broccoli bowl was suspiciously empty.
"Absolutely nothing dear," John gave his wife a winning smile. "Just, that… uh, you know. Sherlock usually is more peckish at dinner time. Surprised he cleared his plate."
Mary didn't look convinced, and John kept smiling innocently at his wife. That said though, Mary did shift her attention to Sherlock.
Damn.
"As horrible of a liar as my husband is, Sherlock, he is right. You never clean your plate off, especially before finals, and when you're quiet it usually means your planning something that you know I won't approve of. So what is it?"
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh, intent not to let anyone know about his predicament.
"So it's about Molly then."
Sometimes Sherlock really hated the fact that Mary seemed to know him with a single glance.
"Molly?" John perked up. "What about her?"
Mary sent her husband a withering glance. John quickly returned his attention to his broccoli.
"Sherlock," Mary coddled, "You know I'm going to find the answer out eventually, so don't you think it would be much easier just to tell me?" She fluttered her eyelashes innocently, but a wicked gleam was settling behind them.
John was trying and failing not to look interested in the events unfolding at his dinner table. Sherlock figured that he was probably already planning on telling Lestrade.
Rosie let out a giggle, sending food flying with a chunk of meatloaf landing in Sherlock's curls. He picked it out and plopped it into his mouth absentmindedly.
"There's nothing wrong," He finally broke his silence, intensely interested in the pattern of the tablecloth.
He shifted awkwardly under Mary's dubious look.
A moment of tense silence. And then:
"I think I like Molly, ok?"
John nearly choked on his drink, causing Sherlock to send him a death glare while Mary smiled in satisfaction.
"See?" She gave him a patronizing pat on the back of his hand. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
His glare shifted towards her. Unfortunately, Mary had never really been susceptible to Sherlock's wrath, much to his disappointment.
"Wait," John finally caught his breath. "Like, like like?"
Sherlock scowled at his best friend. "What are we, twelve? Yes, I am romantically interested in Molly Hooper, happy?"
"Infinitely so," Mary had the audacity to clap her hands together in excitement. "They grow up so fast, don't they?" She directed to her husband with a fake expression of melancholia.
"Apparently," John still looked like he was trying to wrap his head around the idea that Sherlock could 'like like' someone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"So what's the problem?" John asked. "Do you not know how to ask her to spend time with you?"
Mary laughed. "John please! They've had a standing date on Thursdays for the past five months."
Sherlock swivelled his head to Mary, ready to interrogate how she came upon such information-
When the answer came to him.
"Molly?"
"Molly."
"So let me get this straight," John pushed his plate away from him, pining Sherlock with his 'serious' face. "You've been meeting with someone weekly for the last five months who's not us, and not your family, on your own? Like, without prompting? And to make it even better, she's a woman who you're now interested in pursuing romantically?"
Sherlock fought a petulant scowl. "Those would appear to be the facts," He grudgingly admitted.
John leaned back in his chair. "Wow. And why is this a problem then?"
Mary answered him. "She distracts you when she's on the ice, doesn't she?" He could see the realization dawn on her face. "And Game One is tomorrow."
"Hey, hey, hey," John's brows drew together as he directed his attention to his best friend. "You can't be distracted tomorrow. Mycroft's expecting a win, and we need to start strong."
"Yeah Sherlock," Mary added. "You need to keep your head and your heart separated on the ice. When we win the Cup this season I don't want it to be because the NSY's best player had his head in the clouds."
John made a sound of protestation, but both Mary and Sherlock ignored him.
"What do you suggest?"
Mary pursed her lips. "Honestly? Treat her like you treat everyone during finals. I'm going to stay with her tomorrow per usual for the week. I'll explain to her what's going on, and send John over to 221B. Then in a week once we're in the off-season you can profess your undying love for her, alright?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest the fact that it wasn't exactly undying love-
"I said, alright?"
Sherlock shut his mouth.
"Fine. Alright."
/
He resolutely ignored Molly all through Game One.
The NSY won, much to Mycroft's pleasure.
Perhaps Mary's advice wasn't so bad after all.
/
Game Two started with so much potential.
As he skated towards his position, he caught Molly's eye, forcing any thoughts about her away.
"Girl," He acknowledged. Though it lacked the bite of disdain that it used to.
"Twat," She nodded back.
Then her lips twitched in a tiny smile, and her eyes sparkled in a way that made his stomach clench.
Clearly Mary's advice was crap.
Because the St. Barts won Game Two.
/
And Game Three.
/
His team had given him a good talking to. John threatened to withhold Rosie for a month if they lost.
The NSY scrapped by with a win in Game Four.
Barely.
/
Game Five was won thanks to a surprising slapshot by Anderson.
Sherlock was grudgingly thankful – he hadn't scored a single shot the whole game.
/
"Come on guys, don't let this go to a Game Seven," Lestrade rallied.
In the end his cheering didn't matter though, as the rookie Moriarty took a win for the St. Barts in overtime.
Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that he wasn't nearly as bothered by that as he should be.
/
"And isn't this exciting, Third Period of Game Seven of this year's Playoffs! With the Stanley Cup on the line, who shall prove to be the superior team this season?"
Sherlock did his best to block out the sound of the crowds and the commentary as his skates carved up the ice. Both teams had a shut-out, and the pressure was up. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time a game had so much at stake.
And here I am, not even able to appreciate it.
Sherlock scowled, shifting after tossing the puck to his center. He hopped the boards with ease, gratefully grabbing the water bottle Anthea proffered to him.
His eyes stayed glued to the ice, watching the game progress. The St. Bart's rookie was proving to be more troublesome that Sherlock initially believed. He was a limelight seeker – that much was obvious in his hesitation to pass the puck. What was more, he clearly thought himself better than certain members of his team – certain female members to be precise.
Sherlock scowled, hopping back on the ice as the other left winger flagged him. Almost immediately he found himself back within the fray, and he couldn't help but smile as his body crushed into Moran's, sending the other man off balance as Sherlock stole the puck.
Of course it didn't last long, as Mary quickly snatched the puck back.
He watched as Mary gave a clear shot to Molly…
Only for Jim Moriarty to ram into her smaller body, catching the pass instead. Molly went flying, her back cracking sickeningly across the boards. Gasps of shock and murmurs of disapproval went flying around the arena, even as the Refs blew their whistles.
But none of that mattered.
Because all Sherlock could see was red.
One moment he was watching the scene unfold, and the next his helmet and gloves were shucked, and he was feeling the satisfied crunch of his knuckles against the rookie's nose.
As soon as the first punch was thrown chaos broke out, as it tended to do. NSY and St. Barts meshed into a see of tossed helmets and flying fists. Whistles were blowing and the crowd was shouting, but none of that mattered to Sherlock as he dodged one of Moriarty's own punches.
It wasn't until two rough hands yanked him back, and a black and white stripped Ref stepped between him and his target that he became aware of his actions and the shouting. Someone – the other Ref – was yanking him towards the penalty box, but he shook out of their grip, and dodged through the throng of fighting hockey players. Though this time towards a very different target.
Molly had managed to get herself into a sitting position, and Mary was hovering near her, helping her remove her helmet. Without thinking, Sherlock pushed Mary aside and dropped to his knees beside Molly, who still looked a little dazed.
"Are you okay?" His eyes were wild as he scanned her for injury.
She nodded her head slowly. "I think so, just a bit winded."
"Thank goodness," He murmured.
And then before he knew what he was doing, his hand was cupping her cheek and his mouth was on hers.
It was like the world stopped for a moment, and Sherlock couldn't breath. He had kissed girls before, but clearly he had never kissed a girl before. Because it was the most wonderful and terrifying feeling he had ever experienced as he placed his lips on Molly's.
She let out a gasp of shock at first, before he felt her relax and return the kiss. They both smelt horrible, the noise of the crowd going wild was deafening, and their mouth guards made the kiss slightly awkward and uncomfortable.
In other words, it was perfect.
When they had to pull away for breath, Sherlock rested his forehead against hers. Molly still looked dazed, though now for a completely different reason.
"Don't we have a hockey game to play?" Molly questioned breathlessly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, even as a smile crept over his features. "I suppose so. Though don't think for a moment that I don't intend to finish this properly as soon as that blasted Cup is out of the way."
Molly threw her head back in a laugh, and Sherlock found it incredibly hard to let her go and rise to his feet. Once he did though he offered her his hand, which she accepted gratefully. Once on her feet she leaned heavily into him, and he caught her wince as she tried to stretch out.
He turned towards the ice.
Only to find that nearly everyone was looking at them with various looks on their faces. A few had the audacity to wolf whistle, and a certain group – John, Mary, Lestrade – all had satisfied grins on their faces. Stamford was smiling happily, and Mycroft just raised an eyebrow at his little brother, while Anthea offered a small smirk.
He could hear from the overhead commentary, "-And I guess that puts an end to those rumors-" Though it was nearly lost in the din of the crowd's cheers. The Refs stood awkwardly a few feet away from them, clearly torn between tossing Sherlock in the penalty box and not wanting to interrupt.
Sherlock ignored all of them, and guided Molly towards the benches, refusing to let her go although he was pretty sure she could've managed by herself. She didn't seem to mind though, and snaked her arm around his waist in turn. Once he saw that she was safely off the ice, Sherlock hopped inside the penalty box and sat down.
When nobody moved he rolled his eyes and loudly shouted, "Well? Are we going to get on with it? I do have plans for this evening, and I'd rather not waste time."
That threw everyone back into action. The game quickly resumed, though Molly sat the rest of the period out for safety reasons, and Sherlock and Moriarty were in their respective penalty boxes.
The NSY did end up winning, though only thanks to a sneaky wrist shot on the part of Lestrade.
The rest passed in a blur of confetti, Gatorade, and cheers. Sherlock found himself surprisingly fine with the fact that he didn't even get to play out the final minutes of possibly one of the biggest games of his career. He was happy that Lestrade was the one able to make that shot.
He skated over to Molly in the mess of bodies on the ice, and she smiled at him beautifully from behind the falling confetti.
"Girl," He shouted over the din, even as he wrapped his arms around her.
She laughed. "Twat," She replied, as her own arms came up to rest around his neck.
And then his lips found hers again, and the world fell into place.
So yes, perhaps the game hadn't gone exactly according to plan. But in the end, Sherlock really didn't care.
After all, he had won something much more valuable than the Stanley Cup.
/
*Edited May 21, 2017*