SEQUEL TO 'Little Miss Hooper' and 'Amateur Chemist, Mary Watson' and part of my 'Matchmaking Mary' series. The number of requests to continue the previously mentioned oneshots I have had is not even funny. I love all of you, just so you know.
EDIT - Umm, I sort of - kind of - meant the Raccoon thing as a joke... I probably should have made it a little more obvious, though. Molly jokes, because she doesn't think it's a raccoon. Molly shouldn't joke. But um. I'm making it more obvious.
Previously mentioned Amateur Chemist Mary Watson was winning a self proclaimed game between herself and Sherlock, at three to zero. She had decided, however, if this game was to be won with the finality of having Sherlock Holmes blush, Miss Hooper was going to have to be used as a pawn in the proceedings. And lonely, seven months pregnant women like Mart Watson were fantastically good at romantic chess.
Molly came home from her date (set up by Mary Watson, the original) and surprised Mary with how she liked the man in question. Mary, intelligently, organized this particular interview with Molly in 221B itself. With Sherlock in a hearing capacity. Musn't leave anything to chance, after all – this was chess, not dice.
"It was really nice," said Molly with a sheepish smile.
"Yeah?" asked Mary. She handed her the flour. Molly liked baking when she was feeling uncertain, threatened, scared, or hungry. But mostly hungry.
"Yeah," said Molly, indulgently licking some chocolate. "He's funny – and he didn't seem scared of my profession – that's always a plus point. A rare one, too."
Mary glanced at the Consulting Detective who was reading a newspaper. She had a feeling he was twitching.
"And he's really good looking!" said Molly, with a tone of surprise. "And smart. It seems too good to be true, to be completely honest. Are you sure he isn't a psychopath? Or even a sociopath? It's been known to happen."
Mary glanced again at Sherlock. The knuckles gripping the newspaper were white. She cracked a bright grin at Molly. "I think your quota for falling in love with the mentally unstable is quite complete, Molly."
The newspaper twitched.
"You think?" said Molly, dreamily licking a chocolate spoon.
"For God's sake, Mary!" The beast finally woke.
"Speaking of sociopaths," said Mary, under her breath. Molly stifled a giggle.
"Why are you both laughing?" asked Sherlock angrily. "I haven't even said anything yet!"
Molly laughed again, "Sorry," she said somberly. "I'm high on endorphins." She waved a chocolate spoon in Sherlock's face.
Sherlock glared at Molly until she cowered. "I don't care about your chocolate cake!" he spat at her. "Mycroft will be coming over for that soon, give it to him, why don't you? Because you're friends with everyone." Sherlock's movements were becoming frustrated – he raised his arms at 'everyone' enunciating it as loudly and clearly as possible.
"I'm sorry?" said Molly, confused.
"I don't believe this," said Mary, thrilled. Which is a paradoxical sentence, however, Mary Watson was bursting – Sherlock Holmes had never come this close to speaking openly, perhaps scoring a point or two by kissing Molly until her obliviousness vanished into the horizon.
"Um – I don't understand? Mycroft's coming over? I'm friends with everyone?"
Sherlock emitted a sound that seemed a cross between a dog's growl and a frustrated human groan. To Mary, it just sounded desperate with a touch of jealousy.
"Molly, come on," said Sherlock, curling up sideways on his chair – "We both know he has cameras installed all over the flat to know exactly when you're baking. It's not even a secret. Even Mary knows."
"Among other things that Mary knows," said Mary slyly.
"What?" said Molly, turning to Mary.
"How can you be such a genius at the autopsy table and then a doofus outside the morgue?" asked Mary demandingly.
Molly went customarily very red. "I don't know?" Sherlock was curled up in his sofa, pretending not to exist.
"Anyhow, want to cook a pregnant lady dinner?" asked Mary suddenly. "I love my husband, but if I had to eat one more burnt casserole, I'm going to shoot someone standing a few feet in front of me – but not kill him. Mother instincts really are kicking in."
Molly laughed nervously. "Alright," she said. "I'll get you something to eat."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mary, for perhaps the tenth time this week. Mary smiled at him innocently – she had definitely scored yet another point.
Whatever was wrong with Sherlock, John did not understand. When he arrived that evening, ready to infiltrate into the warehouse where there was a drug dealing cartel that also peddled in political murders, he was forced, in fact, to infiltrate his own house.
Sherlock had made John do a lot of odd things over the years – ask a woman out on a date, kill a man, go in the middle of the night to buy marshmallows for an experiment, burn a piece of cloth in the middle of the night to make the resident murderer think that there were witches in the vicinity – but this certainly had been the oddest.
When John found him (Yes, Sherlock was found – he was hiding in the bathroom, motioning John to keep quiet.) Molly was cooking something for Mary.
"Oh, hello John," said Molly, smiling over what looked like a pot of chilly.
"Hello," said John slowly, watching Sherlock who had promptly left the bathroom door ajar. Was he eavesdropping?
"Sherlock's in his room, I think. I told him he ought to sleep," said Molly airily, adding some basil.
"He is?" asked John. "I mean, yes, of course, he is. He listened to you?"
"I think he did," said Molly. "But it's kind of hard to tell, you know – him being him. How's the baby? I'm kind of bad with children – I only see dead ones – Oh, shit – I'm so sorry."
John chuckled briefly. "It's alright. I'm used to it. Sherlock for a best friend, remember – even when he is being cryptic and hiding from me."
Molly laughed. "Yeah, I suppose so. I have a feeling he's taken one of my tees. I think it's an experiment – I don't have the energy to stop him."
"That Sherlock – always doing things like that," said John, squinting to see Sherlock. "I say, Molly – shouldn't you be off?"
Molly bit her lip. "I'm just leaving," she said. "You must need the apartment."
"No – that's not what I –"
"Oh, it's alright," said Molly, pouring the chilly into a tin. "Don't worry about this – all healthy, pregnancy good food. Everything very good for Mary." She put on her coat. "Bye, John," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
When the door downstairs was safely shut and Molly could be seen walking down to the tube, John stared at the detective. "What on earth are you doing?" asked John. "I swear to God if you have tried to poison my wife and child again, I will kill you."
Sherlock scowled at him. "I was undercover! I needed to know why she was going to have dinner with Mary when she doesn't have dinner with me in a social setting."
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock again. "You don't even come home by twelve on a normal basis. And you hate social settings. Hang on a tick – why do you want to know?"
"And they are going to discuss polo shirt who didn't know Molly prefers ice-skating! Information about my flatmates romantic notions is essential, John!"
John shook his head and stared at Sherlock, as if trying to see him in a clearer light. "I can't tell if it's you or someone else in a very good disguise, or maybe if I am drunk. I didn't have anything to drink, did I? No, I didn't. Is this you then?" he patted Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock slapped him away, glaring.
"We're going to see what the two women are up to, John. And yes, it is of importance."
"Drama Queen," muttered John, following Sherlock.
"So, how's work going?" asked Mary.
"Its fine, I suppose. I had a disturbing case – a few children murdered, you know."
"Oh yeah, John told me about that one," said Mary.
"Cases like that make me sad," said Molly drearily. "And Sherlock doesn't like elevating his mood with romantic comedies, so I'm at sea. I usually drown my sorrows in pudding and romantic comedy books. Don't give me that look. Interestingly enough, I'm fairly certain Sherlock has been thumbing my books."
Mary practically spat her wine. Molly grinned.
"Yeah," she said enthusiastically. "I'm at page 121 and magically the page the book is open at is 210. Odd, don't you think? There's a ghost in 221B!" she said dramatically.
"A ghost in a Belstaff and an attitude."
"He can be nice sometimes, though," said Molly thoughtfully. "On the day of the murdered children case, he told me 'everybody dies, Molly. Granted, these were younger and less annoying people to be dead, but you shouldn't get upset over it.' And then he handed me a rented movie and ran out of the apartment. Sure, the movie was Jaws, but I appreciate the sentiment." She sipped her wine.
Mary stared at Molly. Goodness. Score one for Molly Hooper, four for Mary Watson, zero for Sherlock Holmes.
There was a noise outside. Molly and Mary looked out of the window. "Raccoons?" asked Molly jokingly.
"Probably," smiled Mary.
"Oh, goodness – look at the time," said Molly. "I need to get home as soon as possible. Early morning shift tomorrow."
Molly got up, ready to clear the table, but Mary waved her away. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Go home."
"Bye, Mary," said Molly cheerfully, offering her a kiss on the cheek.
Mary dropped Molly to the front door. Molly walked backwards, stumbled into something, blushed, apologized to the thing she stumbled upon and walked off.
Sherlock Holmes was heatedly pacing in the Watsons' house. Nothing was quite certain about the reasons for his pacing, but he was pacing.
"What is wrong with you?" he finally asked Mary.
"What is wrong with you?" countered Mary. "You were snooping about the backyard, with my husband!"
"You were having dinner with Molly!"
"I fail to see what's wrong with that!"
"Can we please calm down? Neighbours," said John, pleadingly. "And can someone explain what is happening?"
"Mr. Holmes feels like nobody should be allowed to be friends with Molly apart from him," said Mary sarcastically. Good one, Mary – don't address the issue directly, ease him into it, instead of making him panic and run.
"Molly has never had friends she is fully comfortable with, apart from Meena, and it's good that way! It keeps her focused on her work, and keeps up the quality of her autopsies. Besides, it's not even about that."
"It's not?" said John, confused.
"Oh, don't mind him, John," said Mary bitingly. "He's all upset because Molly doesn't spend time with him like she does with me. If you wanted her to have dinner with you that badly, why don't you just ask her?"
And when Sherlock blushed fully red, Mary knew it was a game, and set. Mary had won.
Of course I can get her to have dinner with me. There's nothing wrong with dinner.
The man with the stormy thoughts which were pondering something as simple as dinner was stomping across the streets, paying no attention to the cabs.
I just choose not to, because we're friends like that… there's nothing else to it. It's good to keep Molly at a distance, you never know when dinner would turn into something sentimental.
He kicked a can in frustration; groaned; cursed, and continued walking.
But Mary has dinner with her all the time. And so does 'polo-shirt' with the annoying tick in his accent. And she doesn't seem to mistake Mary's intentions. Then again, Mary is a married woman – what are you doing? Do you want to have dinner with her? Is that what it is?
Sherlock Holmes let out a frustrated roar which was captured by every street camera a mile away, a few dogs (who promptly jumped out of their sleep and wagged their tails), a couple of pedestrians who glanced at him in a worry, and Proxima Centauri.
Fine. I'll show Mary. Molly Hooper does in fact want to have dinner with me. Molly is being hoarded by all these idiots…
Hailing a cab was a bit difficult; as most of the cab drivers of the street were convinced he was a lunatic.
"Molly!" was the shout that came from downstairs, as the man in question glided up the stairs.
Molly jumped out of her skin, dropped a book, spilled some coffee and stared at Sherlock Holmes. She had never seen him this agitated.
"I just got back," said Molly by way of explanation. "Mary, you know – she just keeps chit-chatting. Something about pregnant women."
"Yes, yes, alright," said Sherlock, pacing the room. "Mary does blabber incessantly."
"Um – yes. I suppose. Is something wrong?" asked Molly, eyes wide at Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped pacing, took a deep breath, and took a few steps forward. "So, Molly," he said.
"That's my name," said Molly slowly.
"Would you like to –" He paused.
Molly waited. Her mind, normally oblivious to social cues like this made the most logical connection she could find – after all, there was only one other time when Sherlock had looked so uncertain around her.
"Have dinner?" asked Sherlock. "Solve crimes?" she prompted.
What?
Sherlock looked momentarily in shock. As if his brain had just cut off the supply of oxygen to his other organs.
"You want to have dinner?" asked Molly.
His eye twitched.
"That's not a problem, Sherlock," said Molly, gently. He really should learn to phrase his needs without feeling like he couldn't ask her for stuff.
"It's not?" asked Sherlock.
"No, not at all. If you were hungry, you need only ask me to cook. I don't mind. There's some leftover chilly that I made. I'll whip up something in half a mo', don't worry. Sit down. I'll just cook something and go to bed."
Sherlock's eyes twitched again. "Damn you, Mary!" he declared, and stormed off into his room.
Molly was startled at this outburst, and tilted her head to see the door slam shut behind him. Well, he did have odd ways. Molly heated up some chilly anyway, and put some bread down along with. She took out some chicken legs from the fridge, rubbed them with salt and pepper, pushing them on a pan. Such an odd man, honestly.
Reviews are my favourite, do you know that? :)