"I need to know what bruises form in next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."
"Well then you can stay and watch for yourself, because I have other work to do, Sherlock." Molly snaps back at the consulting detective.
"Listening to Glee in the break-room and drinking coffee is not work," Sherlock responds snidely, placing the riding crop down on the metal slab next to the poor, dead sod he'd just battered it with. "But if you're making it, I have it black with two sugars."
Sherlock strolls off before she can retort, most likely headed to the lab, his expensive leather shoes squeaking as he goes. Probably planning some ridiculous, messy experiment designed to drive Molly crazy.
"Black with two sugars," Molly mocks, imitating his deep, baritone voice. She picks up the riding crop, thinking about how much she'd like to torture the infuriating detective with it, and definitely not in a good way. She shakes her head, muttering darkly to herself exactly what she thinks of Sherlock Holmes. "Arsehole."
Molly finds John Watson's presence in the lab a delightful contrast to Sherlock. His coat doesn't swing in the air as he dances about the morgue, with disregard from any types of protocol or politeness. John listens intently whenever she speaks, jotting down odd phrases on the notepad he carries when the pair are on cases. He has serious nature, with a military-like precision and efficiency that evokes Molly's admiration. But he always has a genuine smile on hand for anyone, a warmth about his presence that Sherlock definitely lacks. The former army doctor is the perfect balance to the consulting detective.
"Why don't you get on?" John blurts out to her one day in the lab. Sherlock's distractedly studying some scraping from the bottom of an old shoe that's relevant to their case. He eyes the consulting detective, before expanding on his enquiry. "You and Sherlock. Why don't you get on?"
"Because I spent years of my life at medical school with men like him," Molly explains, her mouth set in a thin line. "Arrogant. Dismissive. I could go on."
John gives a wry chuckle. "He's not all bad, you know. He is arrogant and dismissive…but he's all right sometimes."
Molly winces, before smiling sympathetically at the doctor. "I'll take your word for it, John. I don't know how you can stand to live with him."
"It's not for anyone with a weak stomach," John admits, a disturbed, far-away look in his eyes.
Sherlock has little care for decency in public, so Molly can only imagine what he gets up to in the privacy of 221B.
"I'm surprised that you don't get on. You have a similar interest in the, erm-" John pauses to think of the appropriate word and balks at Molly's questioning gaze. "Morbid?" John finishes, the word coming out as a question rather than a statement.
"Yes, but I don't celebrate every time there's a serial murderer in London," Molly throws a dark, disapproving look the consulting detective's way. He's far too enthralled with his current case to notice it, or be bothered to tune in to the pathologist and doctor's conversation.
"Yeah, that's pretty unique to Sherlock," John replies, a friendly affection in his voice. Molly hopes whatever happens, that affection will not end badly for the kind ex-solider.
"Exactly," Molly responds, her shrewd brown eyes narrowed at the curly haired detective.
John's eyes whip up to Molly with a new question in his eyes. He flashes her a cheeky half-smile while nudging her side. "So tell me about this new bloke you've been seeing?"
Molly feels her dark mood lift, and girly sense of coyness flood her as her mouth stretches into a wide grin. "You mean Jim? Oh John, he's lovely!"
Jim turns out to be... not so lovely. That's what she tells her friends anyway, when they ask why she's not going on a fourth date with the cute guy from IT.
Sherlock Holmes is one of the few individuals to know the truth of what a crazed, murderous liar Jim Moriarty truly is.
"Before you say anything, Sherlock," Molly greets, pausing mid-autopsy. It's the first time she's been face-to-face with the detective since the reveal of Moriarty's true identity. She holds up the equipment she's planning on using on the old man currently lying on the slab in front of her. Instead of concentrating on him, she fixes a threatening glare at Sherlock. "I've got a bone saw in my hands and I'm not afraid to use it."
Sherlock looks at her with amusement gleaming in his eyes. "I'm not here to comment on your truly horrendous taste in men, Molly," Sherlock assures, though the width of his grin does nothing to placate her. "Just here to pick up some toes."
Molly's stare flicks over her shoulder. "They're over there," She says, pointing to a container on the other side of the room.
Sherlock collects the box, cradling it under his armpit. "Thank you, Dr Hooper," Sherlock says softly, nodding his head at her as he heads towards the door.
Molly is not only thrown off by the politeness of the detective, but the distinct lack of teasing about being duped by Moriarty. Perhaps he cannot savour in her misfortune, because he too had failed to spot the well worn facade by Moriarty. But Sherlock has always been one to point out the mistakes of others, just as loudly as he enjoys proclaiming his own genius.
When Sherlock pokes his head back through the door, Molly is hands deep in the old man's chest cavity. "Molly?" He prompts, waiting from her to glance up. A huge, smug smile erupts across his face. "I didn't know sociopaths were your type," He teases, winking at her for added measure. The world's only consulting detective then proceeds to scamper off before she can get her blood soaked hands on him.
She sighs in defeat, looking down at the pale, bloody corpse. Picking up the bonesaw, she murmurs to the lifeless man on the slab, but the joke is mostly for her own benefit. "One day, I'm going to kill that man."