A/N: Totally like I don't have an exam tomorrow that I feel SO unprepared for but have procrastinated to the maximum! Anyway, I got bored and sparked this gem. This Molly will probably a bit OOC but roll with it. Please.

Update soon. After my exam.


Chapter 1

Molly swilled the wine in her mug. She was feeling somewhat glum; it was a Friday night, maybe now Saturday morning, her date had stood her up and she couldn't be arsed with anything, anymore. She'd turned off her phone, unplugged her mainline, switched off the pager for work and sat on her battered sofa with the only man she needed. Toby. Her little cat was fast asleep, curled in a ball while she used the last clean cup in her kitchen to finish off her cheap bottle of plonk.

She'd been on enough disastrous dates to know that the wine was needed by the time she reached her front door. It was during a tipsy moment that she'd had a revelation – she was a pretty strong, resilient woman. She went on date after date with the same breed of loser-time waster-cheating bastards-creeps. They were all the same but she always held out that one would be different.

'Or you're just stupid and not that clever.' The voice in her head bit out.

"Fuck off." Molly said aloud; she knew that voice. Sodding Sherlock Holmes had set himself up in her subconscious as the paranoia part of her mind. That derisive know-it-all that took pleasure in pointing out flaws and reminding her that the majority of her life sucked. Setting her mug down firmly, ignoring the last droplets of wine at the bottom, Molly hauled herself upright, scooping a now disgruntled feline into her arms, she walked through to her bedroom and depositing the ball of fluff on the bed where he stalked up to the pillow and made himself comfy.

Molly sighed, is this really all life had to offer? She stood in front of her mirror and frowned at the reflection. The other Molly looked tired, not well hidden under an exterior of well applied and repeatedly smudged make-up. There were bags under her eyes that came with working all shifts at the morgue, she felt older than her 33 years of age. Life had aged her horribly and in this drunken moment she felt close to tears. But Molly Hooper didn't cry; she was an intelligent woman with a PHD. Tears meant nothing, just a way of releasing chemicals and toxins. But they did so much more.

Molly was suddenly aware that Other Molly had water leaking from her eyes, the traces of mascara trickling black down her cheeks and she was suddenly angry with herself. Life was what you made it. You went out and did things, making it more exciting. She refused to be the mad cat woman crying in front of a mirror with traces of a failed Friday night lingering.

"That's it Molly Hooper. Time to make life exciting." Molly angrily told herself. Toby mewed once and it seemed to seal everything. Grabbing her make-up wipes, she scrubbed her face clean of the nonsense, of her past life, of a Molly that didn't say boo to a goose. She shimmied of her little girly summer dress and shucked her white underwear.

"New wardrobe first." She decided, slipping beneath the covers, neglecting her ducky pyjamas and falling into an alcohol laced slumber.