He kisses her three times before he gets it right.
First in the lab, second at her flat and third for a case. And the right one? On a date that really wasn't a date.
A Diamond and a Tether by Deathcab for Cutie
from a boy who won't jump,
when he falls in love,
he just stands with his toes on the edge
St Bart's lab:
"Jesus Christ, what happened!" is her greeting when he stomps in fisting his suit jacket; a prominent bruise just below his eye; a butterfly bandage on his nose and a bloodied bandage wrapped around his upper arm. All the while an utterly furious Detective Inspector follows him in.
He rolls his eyes in his usual Sherlock way. Greg is more helpful.
"Almost got himself half killed is what! You should have seen him, Molly. I told him we'd meet him at the Yard while we go bag the guy. The anarchist leader we've been hunting for months. But no, the bloody git had to take matters in his own hands!" here Lestrade has his fists on his hips, looking disapprovingly at Sherlock who was scoffing.
"What did he do?" Molly asked, eyes still trained worriedly on the other man's profile. Sherlock was seated in front of the microscope farthest away from the pair. He was almost growling but for all intents and purposes was deliberately avoiding taking part in the conversation.
"He beats us to the scene and hid in the alley beside the building, said he knew the man was bound to go down the fire escape when he heard our sirens. He was right, of course. But Sherlock didn't take into account that the man might have had back up-"
"Do shut up, Lestrade," same crass tone as always. But Greg continues.
"We were a block away when the shooting began. That prat-" he points to the man with a jerk of his head "-got in a knife fight with the man. Almost got his arm hacked off too for his troubles-" You're exaggerating, Lestrade "-then the getaway car comes speeding into the alley and almost runs him over, the men inside shooting at him," he stops to give Sherlock a hard stare, "Well, I presume that's what happened because that nancy boy won't tell me a bloody thing!" he says angrily, bits of spittle flying everywhere.
Save for an eye roll, Sherlock doesn't reply.
"Anyway, our first response arrives at the scene just as the car comes zooming out. Sherlock runs out, grabs one of MY officers' gun and shoots at its tires - the car lost control and made a head on collision with one of the second response cars, just as they were making out of the bend. The same ones that were deliberately stationed on the other side to cut off escape routes FOR INSTANCES LIKE THOSE!" his voice booming.
"Did you catch your man or not?" Sherlock answers back just as angrily.
"Yes but you owe me a goddamn car!"
"Mycroft's already on it. What's your problem?" is his irritated reply.
"What's my problem!" Greg cries out incredulously. He marches to where Sherlock is and slams his palms on the table - making the steel table and Molly jump.
"You almost got yourself and MY officers killed! My problem, Sherlock, is why can't you bloody well follow orders!"
"I've always been like this. You've always known that. Why are you making so much grief about it?"
"Jesus Christ," Greg says between his teeth. The man runs a hand up and down his face and almost gives up. Almost.
"Three months ago," he points a finger to Sherlock, "you were dead."
Sherlock was priming up for a reply but Lestrade beats him to it.
"I apologize if I don't want that to come true so soon," mockingly bowing while he backs out of the room. The door's slam was deafening.
Molly stares at Sherlock for half a beat before she runs after the Detective Inspector.
She catches up to him before he got on the lift. He was rubbing his temples with one hand tiredly.
"Hey," she says softly. He turns around and he looks almost defeated
"Oh," he breathes out through his nose. "Listen, Molly, sorry about that. It's just," he makes a fist. "Sherlock, you know?"
"Yea, I do," she says half to herself. She rocks on her feet for a bit before she asks, "so you did that then? To his face, I mean," she gestures awkwardly to her own.
"What?"
"He looks beat up but you said he got into a knife fight not a fist fight," she clears up.
"Oh, that. No, we were up in A&E getting him a tetanus shot, just in case. John comes in and he must've heard what happened because he looked right pissed," he says empathically his eyebrows rising to his hairline.
"Next thing I know he's brawling with the man. Sherlock didn't stand a chance."
"Dear god, noo," she says in disbelief, bringing a hand up to her mouth.
"I reckon he's still smarting from the whole not dead fiasco," he says quietly.
"Aren't we all?" she answers just as quietly.
"Yea," he says after awhile, "I reckon we all are," he gives her a weary smile.
"It's Sherlock what can you do, right?" she gives half a shrug. "He probably understands what he did was reckless and stupid but doesn't quite know how to react, you know?"
Lestrade chuckles, "That would be his Asperger's," making Molly give out a laugh of her own.
They share a moment of fond abuse for the manchild.
"Why don't you go talk some sense into the man; he's soft on you, he'll listen," Lestrade teases.
Molly doesn't even bother to correct him but all the same her cheeks heat up and she awkwardly leaves. Was she really THAT obvious?
God wasn't she pathetic.
She finds Sherlock still seething at the table. She walks cautiously to his side.
"Shut up," he says unkindly even before she opens her mouth.
"Are you okay?" she asks softly, ignoring his rudeness.
His eyes flick to her for a moment but he doesn't face her, still looking straight ahead trying to control his angry breath.
She gives him his time but doesn't move away. His jaw is taut and his fists are on the table. You could almost see the tension crawling under his skin.
But still she waits. And Molly Hooper's patience is rewarded.
"I was this close to being run over," he says and his fists clench some more on the table.
"Lestrade's right," he's shaking his head a bit, "I could have died, Molly-" here he looks at her properly, "I was acting almost on pure instinct after."
His voice is even but there was a touch of wildness about his eyes.
And Molly could see, clear as day, that he was afraid. That right now he felt uncomfortable in his own skin, like it didn't belong to him. And for a moment, it almost didn't.
Her worry must have showed because not a moment later he faces forward again. Eyes clenched shut and he was trying to even out his breathing.
Brilliant as Sherlock is, he wasn't immune to the anxiety that comes after near death experiences. This surely wasn't his first but Molly imagines the feeling was doubly intensified because he just came back to the land of the living and sure enough didn't want to have to leave so soon after.
But this was Sherlock. Most stubborn ass if there ever was. It was clear he was trying his best to pretend he was above it all. Trying to compartmentalize everything in that enormous head of his... but not quite succeeding.
He didn't get it. This was where John Watson comes in and tries to humanize the machine... He wasn't here, was he? Molly holds the burden for the time being.
She reaches out to touch his forearm...
And that probably wasn't the best of ideas... because something in Sherlock snapped right then and there when her hand touched him softly.
Before she could even protest, his lips are on hers and there's something frantic and wild about it. Like he couldn't quite believe he was alive enough to do something like this.
His stool clatters to the floor when he stands up to properly kiss her. His hands are almost painful on her face. She tries to pull away but Sherlock is unrelenting. It's when she beats on his chest that he hurriedly breaks it, almost at the speed of thought. He's backtracking and blinking like he couldn't quite get a grip on reality. He shakes his head and almost slips but catches himself with the table.
He looks at her for a split second but she could see he wasn't really there yet. He clears his throat and his words tumble out, "Forgive me... my mind has left me." it's choppy and it didn't sound very Sherlock at all.
He shakes his head and clenched his eyes shut. He looks like a man who just jumped off a building but midway through changed his mind.
"It's the adrenaline. Just adrenaline… Molly," he opens his eyes and he looks so utterly lost.
The horrors of his banishment still fresh.
And Molly wants nothing more than to placate him. She reaches out her hand because she understands. She's hurt but she understands. But Sherlock's backing away like she had the plague. She lets her hand drop.
"I have to leave," he says before he quickly exits.
one
She doesn't see him for awhile after that.
They all don't, actually.
John visits her at St. Bart's one afternoon looking ever world weary. Much like how he looked a few months after Sherlock jumped from the roof... when everything had to finally set in.
He looks worn. Like life has dealt him too many blows but still he takes it.
She's naturally worried, of course. But waits for him to settle in his stool before she asks.
"All right, John?"
He seemed preoccupied but answers with, "Hmm? Yea, all right, Molly."
He stays quiet and Molly doesn't really like the waiting...
"He went off to Bangladesh," and it's clear he wasn't all too happy about that.
"But he just got home!"
You can't blame them for wanting to keep the man close.
"Yea, no. He said he had to close a case for Mycroft, whatever that meant," he shrugs his shoulders and heavily leans on the table with his forearms.
They stay quiet for a bit - Molly trying to take everything in and John... he looks tired. He just lost his best mate again.
"Is it dangerous?" she half-whispers.
"Not at all, Mycroft said. But you never really know with Sherlock," he furrowed his brows. "Actually, that's why I'm here. I asked him what the hell he was thinking sending his brother off on another mission when he JUST got home... He said to ask the pathologist in the morgue."
"Dramatic fellow that one, is he?" she giggles, trying her best at down play.
John wouldn't let it go. Not yet.
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Molly?"
"No, John," she sighs.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," she lies because she finds she quite good at that now. I wonder how that happened.
"If you're sure," John shrugs and heaves a heavy sigh, resting heavily on his stool.
"It's Sherlock. He'll be home soon, you'll see," she gives him a smile.
"Yea, I suppose," he says almost gloomily.
Because John doesn't look entirely convinced, she tries to change the subject.
"How's Mary?"
And the good doctor instantly perks up.
"Finally asked her to marry me, actually. She said yes," he puffs out his chest.
"That's brilliant! When's the wedding?" she says excitedly.
"Mary wants a June wedding, give or take another year."
They spend the afternoon debating whether Sherlock would even show up to it. He'd be the best man, naturally.
it's like love is a lesson,
I can't learn,
I make the same mistakes at each familiar turn
Her flat:
He comes home after a month.
And it's longer than they would have liked but all the same they're happy to have him back.
She's the last to see him, though she's one of the first to know he was back.
He comes down to the morgue. She gives him her best wobbliest smile. He then asks to see the body of the late Merv Griffin.
She complies and when he's busy looking at the victim she takes a proper look at him in what feels like ages.
He looks good. A slight tan and there's this new pink gash of a scar on his neck that looks tender. But she doesn't comment on it.
And as simple as that, they're back to their old routine.
from a boy who won't swim,
but will dip his toe in,
just to keep you here with him
She doesn't know how they got here but she's screaming up a storm.
They're in her flat and she's shooting him with her finger and he's there taking the abuse with an eye roll.
"You poisoned my cat!" she screams.
"It was for a case!"
"You put something in his milk and he collapsed!"
(Slight a Study in Scarlet reference: Sherlock tests pills on a Scottish terrier)
"Yea, but he's all right now. Honestly, Molly, you're taking this the wrong way."
Of course, he of all people would have the gall to tell her that.
"Sherlock, you didn't know if he would wake up!"
He doesn't answer but rolls his eyes and hardens his stance, his arms crossed at his chest. She doesn't understand why. He was the bastard who almost killed her cat! He had no right to be defensive. Jesus Christ, if only she was tall enough she'd be wringing is neck right now.
"You killed my cat!" she's more than incredulous.
"Almost," he mutters.
It's him admitting that he really did almost just killed Toby that sets her in a new fit.
"You would kill Tob-"
And he does it again. He kisses her. It's a quick peck but it's enough to shut her up.
And it would have been beautiful had he not said the next few lines...
"There, all better?" he says childishly and unkindly.
Sherlock Bloody Holmes, you could almost hear Molly Hooper curse out loud.
She clenches her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. She goes to her kitchen in the guise of making tea.
But honestly, she's there wiping a few traitorous tears. She hears her front door open then shut.
He left.
two
This time he doesn't run off for a month. Which is great but she would have maybe liked to avoid him for at least a week.
But instead she sees him the next day at work.
He brings her coffee in a mug she has never seen before.
She's tired... but it's okay. At least he's trying.
He places the cuppa on the table where she's sat.
She sighs but accepts it.
"He's all I have," she says quietly, thumbing the 2-D kitten designs on the bulky ceramic mug.
"Wrong," this makes her look up.
"You have me," and she's too busy hearing an echo of something she once told him three years ago that she almost misses the last part of his sentence;
"And John, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade," he counts for her.
from a boy who won't fly,
but will take to the skies,
if he thinks you're about to say goodbye
For a case:
"Aren't you ready yet?" his head pops out from the door.
Molly furrowed her brows and was about to voice out her confusion when he interrupts;
"I texted you," he says simply.
She gives him an uneasy expression, "I keep my phone in my locker, you know that right?"
He looks utterly puzzled, "Do you really? Why would you do that?"
She was about to reply but he cuts her off again;
"Doesn't matter. Hurry up, we've got a case," he says almost giddy.
It's late and Molly Hooper's slow on the uptake.
He rolls his eyes.
"John's still on his honeymoon, I don't think he'd appreciate it much if I were to disturb."
Right, that makes sense. She hurries up. John would kill her if he did that. She doesn't waste time pointing out she still had an hour before her shift ended.
She doesn't know how it happened but Sherlock Holmes has become easy company.
They're in the forgotten run down part of London, trailing an alleged mastermind of a small crime syndicate.
Which is weird because she hasn't heard anything about it on the telly.
But nevermind because it's dark and she's out on a stroll with the world's only consulting detective.
He's telling her all about Japanese mythology, apparently he needed to know it for this case.
He tells her about Tsukumogami, objects existing for a 100 years can spontaneously come to life. And the most common ones are Kasa-obake's... paper umbrellas, he says.
She snorts.
She was about to turn to face him and tell him he was making that ridiculous story up when he does it again.
He's pushing her to the side of the building and his lips find hers.
This time it's something long and experimental. A bit awkward.
But all the same it takes her breath away.
He breaks it first but doesn't pull back entirely.
"Don't look now, but our man just passed us by," and she's happy to note that he's just as out of breath.
She strains to catch footsteps but doesn't hear any. She sees no man in her peripherals.
She furrows her brow and was about to call him out when she's struck by how unfair it all was.
He was allowed to kiss her but she wasn't?
So she takes this chance.
She kisses him and it's more of a hesitant peck but it's all the courage she could muster.
"Shut up," she points a warning finger at him when she pulls away.
She sidesteps away from him and she thinks she heard him chuckle behind her.
Bastard.
three
I don't blame you,
you've had enough,
of these empty promises and countless bluffs
A date that really wasn't a date:
"I need a date."
And it's brazen and so utterly Sherlock.
They're in the lab when he makes the request... or command rather. He doesn't even address it to her specifically but rather to his microscope.
And she thought maybe he was talking to John. So she turns to him but he looks equally confused.
She was about to eloquently ask him what he meant (wh-what?) but as usual he beats her to it.
"It's for a case."
And everything made sense again. She nods her head, eager to show him that she was on the same page the entire time. She didn't have girlish fantasies.
Realizing he probably can't see her head bobbing up and down, she makes a noise of acquiescent from the back of her throat. Not very attractive that.
"Good," he stands up and shifts his attention to his mobile, "I'll text you the details."
And with that he sweeps out. Not even sparing her a backward glance.
She turns to his blogger, whom he's left behind yet again.
"That was weird, right?"
And for reasons only known to him, he laughs almost evilly.
"We don't have a case," John says. The cheeky devil.
"Shut up, John," he all but growls.
"You love her," he goads.
"Don't be ridiculous," he sounds offended.
"You do!"
"Do not!" he scoffs.
"You're Sherlock, she's Molly. It's as simple as that, Sherlock." John chuckles, shaking his head.
Sherlock doesn't reply. Electing to ignore the doctor in the taxi he was sharing.
John likes to think he said something profound that has made the detective speechless.
"Simple as that," the good doctor chuckles half to himself.
Tomorrow, 8pm. I'll pick you up.
-SH
She rolls her eyes. She's had more romantic interludes with her fridge.
She doesn't bother replying.
"What are you wearing?" he says.
She looks down to her khaki colored trousers and oxfords she thought were rather cute.
She scratches her neck nervously, "Well, you never actually told me where we were going so I thought maybe this would do," she gives a nervous laugh.
He rolls his eyes and parks himself on her sofa.
"Come in," she mutters under her breath sarcastically.
"I'll wait here while you go change."
She sighs and goes.
She frowns at her options. Most men didn't date women who did post postmortems. And somehow that translated to her having a closet filled with comfortable mismatched clothes. If she were the type, she'd cry out in despair...
She flicks hanger after hanger, not really finding anything she thinks Sherlock would approve. That priss. She sighs and pulls out a lovely deep navy blue party dress she was hoping to use on a proper date.
She puts in on and admires how the skirt flowed from mid-waist. Casual enough for ballet flats but stylish enough for a dinner party. It really was lovely.
Shame, really...
She shrugs her shoulders, no time like the present...
Hair and make up were pretty straightforward after that but she stays in her room an extra ten minutes. Because it was his fault anyway, he can wait.
Pretty passive aggressive of her but did you really expect anything else from the pathologist?
She walks in on him having a staring match with Toby. Both look indifferent. But a muted sort of evil.
She clears her throat.
"How do I look?" she gives a tiny twirl - feeling foolish right after when he says;
"You look fine," Molly staggers mid-twirl. Right.
"Honestly, Sherlock, you're such a boy," she mutters heading for her front door.
"You look lovely, Molly. Always have." she turns to find him staring at her like a boy would at a girl.
Molly grimaces.
Sherlock's a bloody good actor.
"I've always been fond of your cherry cardigans," he looks uncomfortable but sincere.
Molly doesn't quite know how to react.
Awkward silence, maybe? Then turn and out the door?
"Why don't you wear the dress coat Mary gave you for Christmas?... It would, uh, bring out your hair," if she bothered to turn around again she'd find Sherlock's pained expression. Smoot one, Mr. Holmes.
Molly blushes. Well because that one looked almost like an exact replica of his Belstaff and Mary bought it because she sent her a box full of plastic handlebar mustaches as a gag wedding gift.
"Um, yea. Sure."
They stumble out of her flat.
"This is all your fault!" she screams at Sherlock.
They're running for their lives and Greg Lestrade better be on his way because a stitch is beginning to form.
Beside her Sherlock doesn't look so composed. He's not out of breath or anything but he looks troubled.
"Say something, you tit!" and if she had the hand-eye-coordination she'd whack him silly.
"How was I suppose to know there'd be Swedish mafia inside!"
"Because it's your bloody case!"
"They must have thought I was trailing them..." he mutters thoughfully half to himself.
"What are you on about!" Molly Hooper is panicking.
Shots fire.
He doesn't say anything but grabs her hand and makes a sharp right turn.
"This is all your fault," she says again.
They're sitting on the back of an ambulance. Her sprained ankle wrapped nicely in a boot. The night ended in an odd stand off at an old abandoned warehouse that Sherlock led them to.
A furious John appearing saves him from replying.
Sherlock holds up a hand rudely to the doctor, "Save it for tomorrow." He turns to Molly, "Right now, I have to escort Molly Hooper home."
They wobble to the street in search of a taxi. She pinches his arm every now and then. Childish? Yes but he deserves it.
"That wasn't by design, it was an accident," he mutters miserably when they're finally inside a taxi.
She waits for him to elaborate.
"Wait, I'm confused," she says when he doesn't continue.
He puffs up his cheeks. And sighs a bit sullen.
"This was suppose to be a date."
"Yea, for a case," Molly nods her head.
Sherlock looks out of the taxi window before awkwardly meeting her gaze.
"No, a real date and a pretend case."
Molly, as always when it comes to Sherlock, is nonplussed.
"Oh," she exclaims and it does sound a bit cheery.
She coughs as a cover up.
She wants to laugh but his pride has took enough of a beating for the night, she thinks.
She smiles cheekily to her window.
"Took you long enough," she goads.
"Thanks," they're in her building's lobby, "for the date that wasn't really a date but actually really was," she sums up.
He nods a bit dejected.
"I'll, uh, go up now," she points to the lift behind her with a thumb. But doesn't move, waiting for him to do something. Anything.
They stand in silence for a bit. Molly's turn to sigh dejectedly.
"Right. Good night, Sherlock," she turns unsteadily.
Then he does it again.
He caught her by the arm, turned her around and kissed her.
It's long, sweet, slow and just so utterly Sherlock and Molly.
She has her ballet flat in one hand and they just came from a crime scene... how ridiculous is that?
They've never really had the best timing. But nonetheless...
It's the right one this time around.
There's no excuse after, though her cheeks heat up still and there's a flush creeping up his neck. They both stare then laugh in relief.
He finally got it right.
Can you imagine Molly holding one of her ballet flats when they kiss? It's so them.
Laugh.
It has always been in my headcannon Sherlock would kiss her for all the wrong reasons. It would take a lifetime for him to get it right.
Scroll up for the song credits.
xx