Okay, this is a short little bit that wouldn't leave me until I wrote it out. The little Molly in my head crossed her arms across her chest, pouted out her lower lip and refused to play well with others until I let her do something "fun". I'm still hoping to post "Fever Dream" part three by the end of the weekend and promise to deliver my thanks then. Enjoy!
John Watson knew the exact moment he loved Molly Hooper. It wasn't a romantic love, or even a brotherly love, as it may have appeared from the outside. Instead, it was the love of fellow sufferers, of a shared experience understood, unexplainable to any who had not endured it. It was nothing they would ever need to speak of. It would always shine in their eyes as they met in crowded rooms, dark alleys, or even at Christmas parties.
It started the day Molly came to Baker Street to deliver several binders of test results Sherlock had requested. He had started pawing through them even before she had a chance to put them down on a clean corner of the kitchen table. She wandered into the living room, saying hello to John, but not distracting him from his newspapers. She seemed aimlessly drifting, looking at this and that, answering Sherlock's questions.
Sherlock went into his room to cross check some results with his researches. Without hesitation, Molly immediately scooped up the small package of rosin from the side table, depositing it behind one of the back legs of Sherlock's chair. She smiled briefly at John, and then wandered to one of the bookcases, switching a blue volume on the top shelf with a similar size red volume from the bottom.
John could hear Sherlock coming back, but by then she started paging through a magazine she found near the couch. Sherlock never looked up from the binder. "You're sure about the ketone levels?"
"If I run the test again, there won't be any sample left." she paused, and then put the magazine down exactly where she had found it. "I'd better get back. Call if you have any more questions." A little wave. "'Bye, John." Her footfalls echoed away down the stairs.
John was too flummoxed for his usual rant about how Sherlock should at least say "thank you". He returned to his paper. Maybe Nick Clegg's antics would make more sense than what he was seeing in the flat. Stranger things had happened.
Shortly after, Sherlock dropped into his own chair, about to start digesting the new batch of information. As John tried not to watch, Sherlock's eyes kept darting over to the bookcase, his eyebrows drawing tighter and tighter.
"John?" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Have you suddenly developed an interest in the Pythagorean theorem?"
At that moment, John knew he was a co-conspirator. "I don't know if that's a rare jungle disease or a lost civilization." He carefully folded the paper and added it to the pile on the floor. "I'm going out for a bit."
"We'll need milk by tonight." Sherlock pulled the red book from the shelf, eyes looking over the room. How had his violin rosin gotten on the floor?
"I'm guessing he's not getting his own coffee?" Molly didn't look up as John came through her office door.
"And BT hasn't fixed the phones." John rested his palms on her desk. "How long have you been doing that?"
She admitted nothing. "The thing about pack rats is that they believe its okay because they know where everything is. A little doubt goes a long way. Did you want to play?"
He thought about it a moment. "He has my fingerprints."
Molly didn't make a sound, but her shoulders shook as she opened one of her desk drawers, tossing him a couple of latex gloves. "Never when cases are on. No more than two items at one time. No more often than every four days. Have a cover story ready before you pick an item up. Remember his eye level is higher than yours. Never touch the violin, the skull or the coat; he'll notice immediately. Try to not put anything where he couldn't have left it himself. Understood?"
"How about one item every five days?" John counter-offered. "That way we don't have to check with each other."
She thought it over. "Agreed." Molly shook John's hand, cementing the deal.
A month later, Molly was delivering a box of files. She set them on the floor near the kitchen table. "The McClure family autopsy files you wanted to review."
Sherlock hadn't moved from the open fridge door. "Why are my calipers in the refrigerator?" he demanded from no one in particular.
John turned down the television. "Hello, Molly. Nice to see you today." in a forced cheery voice, trying to teach the overgrown eight year old in the kitchen.
"Hello, John. How's the packratitis patient doing?" she sat on the arm of his chair.
"What?" Sherlock turned.
"Oh, the last time I saw John he was telling me about a pancreatitis patient he was treating. It was very interesting." she smiled innocently. "Sorry, but I really have to get back. John, would you walk me down?"
"Of course." John grabbed his coat off the hook.
"I'd stay away from the refrigerator if I were you." Molly cautioned as soon as the door to 221 closed. "I think you're in and out of it more than him. Bit incriminating."
"Its revenge for that liver you let him wander off with. We have to repaint the ceiling." John guided her back across Baker Street. "It's too bad his brother can't play along with us."
"Oh, John!" She leaned in, kissing his cheek. "Who do you think taught me? See you soon!"