Title: "Do NOT Mess with Dr. Hooper"
Author: FelineFemme
Genre: Humor
Summary: Written because of this quote from finalproblem, "It's like this still is from an alternate universe where Sherlock is the sweet one and Molly is the pain in the ass" from tumblr ( post/42166084657/finalproblem-its-like-this-still-is-from-an). And honestly, the photo does make Molly look more like an uptight beeyotch while Sherlock seems relatively... normal. Amazing. So I'm gonna do a remix on this, and hope it all makes sense. Kinda. Sorta.
Also, much thanks to Ariane DeVere ( ?skip=10&tag=transcript) for her transcripts. They are as invaluable as Molly's ( . /) and John's ( . /) blogs. It's fun turning such a sweet, soft lady who has kittens (KITTENS!) on her blog into someone who's, well, more like me in temperament XP
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters (Arthur Conan Doyle does), nor the BBC series (cuz it's BBC's, as well as created by Steven Moffatt & Mark Gatiss). All I'm doing is playing with them & putting them back nicely. Mostly ;-D
Chapter 1: A Study in Pink remix
29 January.
It's been a long day at the morgue for Molly Hooper, especially with Franklin Mortimer literally dying on the job at 67, so here she is, staying an extra shift to cover for her late coworker. And of course, wouldn't you know it, "no good deed goes unpunished", as the saying goes. Her punishment happens to be the tall man in the dramatic clothes with the dramatic airs practically sailing into the room as she was wheeling Mortimer's body out to a uni lab class.
"Mr. Holmes, why are you here?" she sighed. "Aren't there other morgues you could haunt?"
Sherlock Holmes smiles, trying to be charming. Honestly. What he needs is a decent comb for that messy head, she thought, or maybe some product. "I need that body," he says, using a riding crop to point to the body bag. Wait, a riding crop? "A man's alibi depends on what bruises form on his body within twenty minutes."
Molly looked at the riding crop, then at the madman holding it. "No," she said, nonplussed.
"What?" Sherlock Holmes looked aghast, like nobody had ever refused him before. Well, nobody other than Molly Hooper, that is, and it seemed he forgot that bit every time he came down. "Why not?"
She raised her eyebrows slightly. Idiot. "Because he's needed elsewhere. And because you can't just hit bodies randomly and expect them to have bruising at the same time simply because it's caused by the same weapon. There are variables, you know, like age, health, gender, location of the bruising, blood circulation, even the force at which the victim was hit is a factor… or you would know if you'd done your homework properly." She noticed the jab hit home when his lips thinned. "Some people bruise immediately, others take hours, and I'm guessing this body isn't even close to the victim in terms of age or health." And now only one eyebrow went up.
"You haven't let me see it yet, and you've no idea who victim was," Holmes tried again. "I'm sure it'll be of use."
She smiled, but it was a flat, meaningless smile. "I'm sure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be elsewhere." Molly pushed the gurney hard at his legs, forcing him to either move or be seriously injured.
He chose, instead, to put his hands on the opposite end of the gurney and plant his feet on the floor. Dammit, "Wait," Holmes said. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." He smiled winningly, as if somehow this time, she'd fall for it.
She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. He could be so obvious. A supposed genius like him, stooping to such tactics? Really. "Yes," she smiled back, and his smile and posture eased off a fraction into something like relief. "I'll have it with two creams, two sugars. Thanks!" And, using a move similar to the one she employs while shopping at the market, she twisted the conveyance sharply, jolting it out of Holmes' skinny hands and nearly tipping the body off, then barreled down the hallway without looking back. She could hear him start to chase after her, but this was St. Bart's and she knew it like the back of her hand, especially where the closest loading elevator was.
With some relief, she hit the "close" button, and started going up to the sixth floor. She sighed, and leaned against the wall. Then she looked down at the body bag. "You still manage to be a troublemaker, Franklin, dead or alive," she shook her head. He was one of her few coworkers she could stand to be around, and now there was one less. Bother.
She decided to use the restroom and freshen up a bit, since she'd barely had a break in her double-shift. Maybe I'll get some coffee, she thought hopefully as she reapplied her lipstick, hm, perhaps I should go to the Criterion and get a bite to eat as well. With that happy thought, she smoothed her hair out, smiled briskly at her reflection, and went back down to the morgue to sign off for a break.
There was a body in the morgue with suspicious red welts on its back when she returned. That idiot went and stole one of the bodies out for himself! No papers, no authorization, nothing! She searched for the paperwork for this particular body, and when she found it, she sighed with relief. Thankfully, Holmes had picked a John Doe, but that still didn't excuse his cavalier attitude towards her position, the morgue, and the property of St. Bart's. Then she spotted the riding crop in the sink, and smiled. So, that stupid, narcissistic fake detective is going to ruin my job to prove his point? she thought. Molly picked up the crop, sniffed it and found it was sanitized, which mollified her, just a little. Oh, and less worry about flying epithelials as she cracked it on his head. Excellent.
She knew where that idiot would be, because, aside from the morgue, his other usual hangout at St. Bart's involved appropriating the computer and medical equipment. "Sherlock Holmes!" she banged into the lab, riding crop in hand.
Who she found in there, however, wasn't just Holmes, who dropped the mobile phone in his hands, but some blonde man with a walking cane next to him, who fortunately caught said phone. Mike Stamford, one of the professors, was sitting there as well. He was a friendly sort who, unfortunately, was even friendly to Holmes, and. Too many witnesses if she were to properly beat the man, Molly thought despairingly, too bad for her, lucky for him. So she settled for glaring at him.
"Ah, Miss Hooper," he smiled, "you're wearing lipstick."
She didn't bother wasting her time rolling her eyes at him. "Obviously," she said in a too-patient voice, "women do that. And it's Doctor Hooper, remember?" Just because he was doing something without a proper label didn't mean others didn't have one. Hm, might have to add "misogynist" to the list of negatives, she thought.
"Ah, yes, of course," he colored, then sped to the other side of the lab table and gave her a cup of coffee, but the return trip had him on Molly's side, not on the stranger's. From the smell, it was probably from the cafeteria. Ugh. "Your coffee, Molly." The way he said it, it was like he was handing her the Holy Grail.
She wasn't going to refuse the caffeine, because God knew she needed it. Yes, it was definitely the cafeteria coffee sludge, in spite of the added cream and sugar, and yes, she was definitely going to the Criterion for some decent coffee and a meal after this. "You owe me more than that," she said evenly, "you owe me an apology and perhaps a few broken bones." When he paled at that, she smiled, "I'll take the apology, for now. And a word of warning, I'm reinstating the locks on the morgue. I know it'll only take you perhaps ten minutes longer to crack, but that's ten minutes more that New Scotland Yard will have to arrest you for breaking in. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," he sighed. "I'm sorry, Molly," he said, although it was clear to everyone in the room he was more sorry he was caught and reprimanded than for his initial crime. "I promise to bring proper authorities next time."
She raised an eyebrow. "Next time? Aren't there other morgues you could plague?"
Rather than answer her, he sidestepped the question by introducing the sandy-haired man. "John here is also a doctor," Holmes said, putting John between them, seemingly achieving the feat of making it look polite rather than him hiding behind a man with a walking cane. "Dr. Watson, meet Dr. Hooper."
"Nice to meet you," she said, pasting on a smile as she held out her hand.
"Likewise," Dr. Watson said, his grip firm as his expression. "How do you know each other?"
"We don't," she said bluntly, "and I hope we never do."
He blinked in surprise, his expression shifting into something of a bland acceptance. "Ah, all right, then," he said.
She shook her head, then headed out the door. "When I come back from break, you should all be out of here," she said, "including you, Mike." Stamford waved at her with a weak smile, then she swept out the door.
It's too bad she doesn't indulge in vices, because she could use a smoke or a drink right about now. Instead, she heads over to the bus station, because she needs to get some decent coffee, some food in her stomach, and plenty of distance between herself and that idiot.