A/N: This is my first foray into writing fanfiction! Prompt fill from MizJoely: "Sherlock and Molly's first meeting". I hope it's alright! I've written about ten different times, wanting it to be perfect, but you can only rewrite something so many times. Anyway, enough of me babbling! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
All Molly Hooper had wanted to do to was drink copious amounts of wine, order room service, watch crap telly, and stay in bed. For the past ten days, she'd spend most of her time hunched over an autopsy table, examining victims of an unusual serial killer. She was on loan from Cambridge University to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and was stuck in rainy London. Not that the weather in Cambridge was any better, but it seemed less industrial than here in London.
Not only was Molly helping the New Scotland Yard solve a messy crime, she also volunteered to help a friend out. Gina Carlyle, Molly's roommate from her university days, had gone on a trip to Italy with her boyfriend, David. Gina and David had a seven-month old lab puppy, which was supposed to be with Gina's sister Leslie, when she bailed to go to some sort of concert getaway with her wanker of a boyfriend Chad. Molly, without thinking of what she was actually getting herself into, volunteered to walk the pup twice a day.
For the past ten days, Molly was sure that her arm would be ripped from its socket and she'd have to quit her job and go on disability. Pip, the very excited puppy, was still learning how to walk nicely on a leash, and without fail, had dragged the tired pathologist all around London. She'd even tripped onto a man in the park after Pip had spotted a nearby squirrel. Even though Molly had apologized profusely to the man, he gave a cold sneer and grumbled something rude that she couldn't quite understand. But finally, thankfully, Gina and David had returned, and Molly's career as a pathologist was still secure.
Pathology. She groaned thinking back to the events of the past few days. Stretching her sore arm across her shoulder, Molly tilted her head from side to side to stretch the tender muscles. This case would prove harder than she thought. Originally, she was just coming in to consult. More or less to oversee than to actually get elbows deep into someone's chest cavity. But the head pathologist at St. Bart's came down with appendicitis, so Dr. Molly Hooper had stepped in.
This was probably one of the most peculiar and skin crawling of any of the cases she had worked on. There were now five victims, and each of them had been dismembered and cut up into exactly 287 pieces. Molly had spent most of her time reassembling the victims. When Molly had first arrived, the Met had only discovered three bodies. Two more were found in the time that she had been there, and it was unsettling. She could tell the Met and the detectives at NSY were feeling out of their depth. She felt out of her depth. The case was exhausting, and they were getting nowhere.
Molly hunched over to stretch out her back muscles. Maybe a nice, hot bath would soothe her tired, aching body. Gathering up her most comfy pajamas, Molly grabbed her ragged copy of Persuasion and headed to the bathroom. As the warm water began to fill the tub, she shucked off her knee-highs, tan slacks, and lavender blouse. She was flinging her bra off and was stepping into the tub when her buzzer beeped.
"No, no, no!" Molly whined as she plodded from the bathroom to the main area where her pager lie flashing red on the purple hotel bedspread. She glanced at it before calling her contact at the hospital, Mike Stamford.
He picked up on the second ring, "Hullo, Dr. Hooper-"
"Molly," she interrupted tiredly.
"Yes, Molly. I know you just got back, but the Met's found a new one. Can you pop back in for a bit?" Molly hung her head, determined not to cry or scream. "Molly? Are you there?"
Swallowing a groan and grimacing slightly, Molly answered, "Yeah, of course. Be there as soon as I can." There was a sigh of relief on the other end, "Thanks, Molly. You're a real lifesaver."
Molly ended the call, walked back into the bathroom and looked at her work clothes in a jumbled heap. She thought about putting them back on for a moment. Bugger that. Molly thought, if I have to work late again, I'm going to do it in something comfortable. Opening up her suitcase, she pulled out a pair of brown corduroys, thick white socks, a plain white tee shirt and her favorite cherry themed cardigan. She tugged on her clothes, slipped into her comfortable, no heel shoes and walked down to the lobby to hail a cab.
She had just been able to hail one when a tall stranger brushed past her and right into the waiting cab. Dumbfounded, Molly just stared as he drove off her in cab. She swallowed her irritation, squared her shoulders, and hailed another. This time when one pulled up, she was able to hop right in.
Molly's irritation grew on the fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. Between the dog, the rude park stranger, the murders, and the man who had just stolen her car, she was not having the best of days. By the time she arrived at the hospital, she had to count from one hundred backwards on her way down to the morgue so as keep her attitude professional.
When she entered her domain, there was already a group of people surrounding an autopsy table. She recognized the grey hair of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and let out a sigh of relief. She liked him. His sergeant, Sally Donovan stood at his side, and with a sigh of relief, Molly noticed that Anderson from Forensics was absent. The smug man had a tendency to give her a headache.
There was another man in the room, one she had not met before. He was tall, she could tell that from behind, and had dark curly hair. She couldn't see the front of him, but as she walked closer, she could hear him grumble in a deep voice.
"Where is this remarkable pathologist, Lestrade? This Dr. Hooper," he sneered her name.
Molly coughed behind them, "Hullo everyone. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get a cab."
The trio swung around, and Molly gave a little smile and small wave. The tall man's face showed a quick flash of surprise as DI Lestrade smiled at her. "Molly," he said, reaching forward to shake her hand, "Good of you to come in. This is Sherlock Holmes. He'll be assisting us on the case."
Molly finally got a look at the tall man. A proper look. He had blue green eyes, high cheekbones, a nose that looked like it been broken at one point, and cupid bow lips. Her heart began to beat just a little faster and instantly she regretted wearing her down-day clothes. He was sharply dressed and looked like he had walked out of the cover of a magazine. Molly looked like she had preteens assembling her wardrobe. His eyes swept over her, and she blushed. It was like he could see everything about her, and there was a part of her that rather liked it. Looking closer at his face, she made a sudden realization.
"You're the man from the park! The one I tripped over."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Are you going to gawk at me all day or are you actually going to do something?"
"Be nice," chided Lestrade but Sherlock waved his warning away. He walked around closer to the table and looked at the mangled stack that once was someone living and breathing.
"Why didn't you call me sooner?" he demanded, and Molly found it hard to believe that someone could talk that way to an officer of the law.
Lestrade grumbled, "Just do your thing." Sherlock again began circling the evidence like a hawk. He pulled a pair of blue latex gloves on and picked up what could have been a femur.
"We think it has to be someone with medical training," Sally Donovan began to say when she was interrupted.
"Wrong."
"Not quite."
All three of the others in the room stopped at stared at Molly. She swallowed under their gaze, and defended her theory. "Well, it's true. You can see just here on this piece of the kneecap. If it were done with medical training or with medical tools, it would be a clean straight cut. See here? It skips near the end, meaning the killer-"
"Had to push down with her weight to finish the cut." Finished Sherlock.
"She?" Lestrade looked baffled.
"Of course, Lestrade. A man would be strong enough to cut through. A woman would not have the capacity to do so. You're looking for someone about 55 kilos, about five-foot-four, and-" here Sherlock looked over the bone fragment he was holding, " she's blonde."
"Blonde? How can you possibly tell that?" Donovan crossed her arms against her chest and looked at the consulting detective with a raised eyebrow. Molly too wanted to know how he could have possibly figured that out, but Sherlock Holmes was walking out the door already.
"Are you coming, Lestrade?" he called back over his shoulder. Greg Lestrade groaned and turned to follow, but not before he apologized to Molly. Sally Donovan followed both men out leaving Molly alone in the morgue.
"Well, that certainly was something," she said to no one in particular. She looked down at the body again, "Let's get you pieced back together shall we?" And she set off to work.
When she had finished almost seven hours later, she was on the brink of exhaustion. She fought to keep her eyes open during the ride back to her hotel. Her thoughts were only on snuggling down into the soft bed sheets and taking a fantastically long nap. All she wanted to do was take a nap.
Blearily, she slid her hotel key into the slot, pushed the door open, and trudged inside. Dropping off her messenger bag by the door, and kicking off her shoes, which went flying in different directions, she slowly made her way to the bed. She was pulling off her cardigan when there was a knock at her door.
That had better be some sort of complimentary room service, groused Molly. When she opened the door, however, it was not the hotel staff she expected. Instead, it was a well-dressed, lanky man who had a stern face. He wore an expensive black suit and was leaning on an equally black umbrella.
"Hello, Dr. Hooper," he said with a slight drawl, "I'd like to offer you a job."