Disclaim! I own nothing.
Hi. So, I'm not exactly sure what this is... It's changed so many times. Basically I guess it's a Molly appriciation fic. I'm a huge Sherlolly fan, so I was aiming for unconventionally sweet, uh... let's hope it worked. Also, I hope it's not confusing. I'm not entirely happy with the structure. Well, that's enough out of me! Enjoy!
Molly Hooper was an awkward mess.
She was shy, rambled pointlessly, made horrid jokes and dressed like a child given free reign of her parent's wardrobe. She reeked of insecurities, had three friends (one of which was more of an acquaintance she was close with and wasn't sure whether she really liked), one living parent, another deceased and two siblings.
She was self-conscious (probably due to the inadequate size of both her mouth and breasts), easily hurt and overly-emotional. Her track record with men was atrocious and her confidence, or more accurately, the lack thereof, reflected that. She attracted the wrong sort and was interested in the worst – namely Sherlock.
Many of these facts Sherlock had noted upon first meeting Molly and very little had changed in the years of their acquaintance.
Except one thing: she had purchased a cat last year despite her rational fear that one day she would become a mad cat lady.
She wanted so desperately to be noticed by someone, he was certain that she didn't even care who (hence 'Jim from IT', who was clearly gay – even if he had only been pretending for Sherlock's benefit). At the Christmas party, she had come dressed to the nines. She had thought the dress she had chosen was daring (he could tell from the way she pulled at it every few seconds) and had spent the entire evening feeling uncomfortable. It was only logical he assumed she had finally gotten a serious boyfriend. Why exhert all that effort just to catch someone's eye?
Sherlock was very good at reading people and there was no one he could read so easily as Molly Hooper. Even John.
Molly held no air of mystery about her; her every emotion, possibly her every thought, was displayed blatantly on her metaphorical sleeve.
Sherlock often found her sentiment exhausting, especially when directed at him, as it tended to be. As such, he was given to tuning her out, or only half-listening, after making a quick mental note of any apparent changes in her person.
When, that day, 'Jim from IT' walked through the laboratory doors, Sherlock had found himself momentarily at a loss. His eyes darted between the intruder and Molly trying to work out the connection. She obviously knew the man (she had said his name when he entered) and from her tone there was some sort of affection there – something more than an acquaintance, not quite friends (a friend wouldn't have dropped by unannounced at someone's workplace), so what?
A potential love interest? Possibly.
He had frowned and turned his attention back to his work.
Or tried to.
A suspicion tugged relentlessly at the back of his mind and, instead of gathering data, he had stared sightlessly into his microscope and listened intently to the inane conversation taking place behind him. There was something off about Molly having a boyfriend – no – about Molly having this boyfriend. Something... rehearsed, fake, performative.
Was this a ploy by Molly to incite jealousy in him? – No.
He dismissed the idea as ludicrous as soon as he thought it. Putting aside the fact that she had sounded genuinely surprised to see 'Jim', Molly lacked a deceitful bone in her body.
This knowledge only served to further irritate him. Or perhaps it was the fact that 'Jim' was introducing himself in that annoying way people felt obligated to do. Glancing at the intruder once more, Sherlock had almost smiled.
"Gay."
There was a certain satisfaction to be had from the fact that he was right; there was something off about Molly's boyfriend... someone was playing a part.
Sherlock didn't dislike Molly so he decided to unravel the charade of a relationship before she grew too attached. (Really, how had she been taken in by such a bumbling idiot?) Besides, she had asked him to explain. Why ask a question you don't want the answer to?
He should have known.
Dear naive, over-sensitive Molly Hooper. He should have anticipated her reaction, but he honestly thought she'd be grateful. He hadn't expected her to go running out of the lab near tears.
Molly was an open book. More so, she was a children's book with large font and very little text on each page, yet somehow, occasionally, she managed to catch him off guard. And that was the thing that disturbed him most about Molly, even more than her sentimentality. Her ability to surprise him, despite her utter transparency. She had somehow managed to alter his perception of her on more than one occasion recently.
"You can see me."
He wasn't sure what to make of that, how to process it. Molly could see him, really see him, in a way that he wasn't entirely convinced others could. And for what felt like the first time, he could see her too. Which was absurd! He was constantly yelling at people for seeing but not observing and all this time he was too busy observing Molly Hooper like a bug under a microscope to really see her.
Sherlock was no friend to irony.
He trusted Molly with his life.
And had done so quite literally. Molly had been there, willing – with no hesitation or thought to the danger she was putting herself in – to help. Her devotion to him was unfailing; he couldn't comprehend it. He certainly hadn't done anything to deserve it. Had, in fact, done the opposite. He had manipulated her, disregarded her, taken her for granted and treated her with the utmost indifference. Yet, her affection for him remained unaltered. If anything, it continued to grow unhindered.
The Christmas present had been a shock. Another surprise.
Now, even the thickest of imbeciles (possibly even Anderson) would notice that Molly was infatuated with him and Sherlock was no imbecile, but the evening of the Christmas party he had certainly felt thick. Or... at least average, ordinary, like... one of them. And he should have, for not realizing what everyone else in the room was already aware of.
Molly Hooper was serious about him. Molly Hooper was falling, if she hadn't already fallen, in love with him.
How was that even humanly possible?
Even John barely tolerated him when he was being a "snide git." (John's words, not his). And he was rarely anything other than abrasive around Molly, so how could this have happened? It was completely illogical.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always... always."
It was a rare thing for Sherlock to feel shame and even rarer for him to admit to it.
Out loud? Unheard of.
But he did, and he meant it.
It wasn't just his pride that prevented him from apologizing to people. It was his belief that the intended recipient was undeserving of the apology, or of him having to humble himself to deliver it. This was not the case for Molly. No one was more deserving than she.
Truth be told, he had nothing against Molly. He quite liked her. She wasn't infuriatingly dim-witted; her jokes weren't... all horrid (there was one about a cadaver and a bar that was clever if you were only half-listening, which he often was); her rambling wasn't always completely pointless; admittedly, she was a terrible conversationalist – but really, who was he to cast stones in that regard? And though her figure lacked the aesthetically appealing proportions of The Woman, Molly knew how to work with what little she had when the occasion called for it. (As evidenced by Lestrade and John's reactions to her on Christmas, which had been simultaneously amusing and disturbing to witness.)
He would have to pay greater attention to her in future to ensure these surprises occurred less frequently. As it was, her present to him remained unopened in his sock drawer. He wasn't certain why he hesitated (he already knew what it contained), he just felt unsettled. Even as it sat there innocently wrapped in its monstrously red paper. He didn't need confirmation that Molly Hooper knew him better than he knew her.