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Molly huffed around the cold morgue at St. Bart's. It really hadn't been her day. Her cat had ran away, and was later found in the middle of the street, crushed no less. Then her pipes had ruptured, causing all of her things to end up being soaked, many beyond repair. She was late to work, and her body was determined to keep plowing her into corners and sharp ends of tables and chairs. She had finished with her last cadaver for the morning, and was already more than a little dejected. Molly pulled out one of the sliding trays from the wall of lockers, and proceeded to heave her small body onto it. She pulled herself into the cubby by the lip of the door. Then she groaned softly, before taking a deep sigh and closing her eyes. Her mind slowly relaxed a little. Of course, this peaceful state couldn't last forever. Molly was cut off from her serenity by the sound of the doors being opened swiftly, followed by the sound of two men arguing. One voice being very animated and emotionally driven, she recognized to be John Watson. The other was stoic, never-changing, and deep; Sherlock.
''What on earth would compel you to throw a bag of fetal pigs in the oven?" John sounded. They seemed to be staying far away from the lockers on the wall. Molly inwardly begged for it to remain that way.
''It was an experiment, John. You've never complained about them before. Why did you throw them out? I was this close to finding the results.'' Sherlock's voice echoed through the room, rattling the lockers, and causing Molly's head to throb even more so.
''Hm, why throw them out? Because you were THIS close from SETTING THE BLOODY FLAT ON FIRE!" His voice rang out louder, rattling the doors again. Molly couldn't stop the pained moan that escaped her lips. It was quiet, like an injured animal. But it was loud enough to be heard by the two men, who stopped their discussion midstream.
''Did you hear that?" John whispered to his friend. Sherlock's head nodded as he looked around the room suspiciously. They quietly walked around the many slabs that lined the center of the room, and walked to the other side. There, in the darkest corner, was a single opened door. They couldn't make out the contents, apart from two small feet sticking out of the end. They were dainty, clad in blue ballet flats. Sherlock and John both stepped to the locker, and Sherlock pulled out the slab using one of the exposed feet. As he pulled, the small noise came again, this time more akin to a whine from a small child.
''Just put me back in, Sherlock.'' Came the voice of the small pathologist. Upon pulling her out completely, she practically hissed at the light, before throwing an arm over her eyes. John looked to Sherlock, who looked rather confusedly down at the woman.
''Molly, is everything alright?" John asked gently. Her response was another deep sigh, and her head shaking back and forth. Sherlock spoke then.
''Obviously not, John. She's stuffed herself into a closet meant for the dead, now hasn't she?'' He said in frustration, before looking at Molly again.
''Your cat's been killed. Going by the smell of garbage, I'd say it was run over just this morning. Also, your pipes have bursted. There's condensation stains on the toes of your shoes. Judging by the faint purple marks all over, I'd say you've had a rather clumsy morning, yes?" He inwardly praised himself for getting it all right, until she glared up at him.
''Congrats there, Mr. 'I'm-too-smart-to-shut-up.' You've solved the great mystery of my sour mood." She snapped, sitting up and glowering at him.
''Perhaps you could solve the next one. The case of 'where in the bloody hell am I going to sleep tonight?' No? Fine, let me illuminate. It's right here, in this ruddy closet! So, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it, thank you!" She huffed finally, before laying back on the cold metal slab, and pulling her body back into the storage hole. Sherlock stood there, slightly flabbergasted by the sudden outburst of the usually mild mannered woman. John nearly laughed at seeing his face, but then reminded himself of Molly. This time he gently pulled on her foot, bringing her out again.
''You're going to come and stay with us at Baker Street. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has a few extra sheets stowed away for the sofa-bed, and Harry left some of her clothes from the last time she came for a stay.'' He said sweetly, smiling down at her. Molly slightly lifted her arm from over her eyes, squinting up at him. She sighed again, before returning the smile. She sat up, and combed through her hair with her fingers.
''Okay, if-if that's alright with both of you, I mean.'' She glanced over at Sherlock, who seemed to be pouting. He merely grumbled to himself, before nodding his head. The three left St. Bart's a few hours later, in route to 221B.
Upon arriving, Mrs. Hudson had already pulled out the sofa-bed, placed the clean sheets on it, along with Harry Watson's blue plaid pajama pants, and a dark gray tee. She had made soup and sandwiches for them, and had tea set out, ready to be poured. Molly hugged her sweetly upon seeing the preparation.
''Oh, it's alright dear. Sherlock texted me hours ago and let me now you'd be staying. Now, if you need anything, I'll be downstairs.'' Mrs. Hudson gave her hands a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.
''Don't you boys get any ideas now.'' She called behind her, to the two men standing in the kitchen. Molly smiled as John almost choked on his soup. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Molly decided to eat, before taking the clothes into the bathroom with her. She slipped on the pants, which fit perfectly. However, the shirt hung off of her loosely, exposing a shoulder. 'My word, Harry must be a broad-shouldered woman.' She thought to herself. She picked up her clothes from the floor, and opened the door, just in time to bump into Sherlock. She looked up at him, and blushed.
He wore a dark blue dressing robe, and plaid, black pajama bottoms. However, under the dressing robe, she saw pale, muscle-toned skin. Molly's words caught in her throat as she looked up to his face.
''Ah, I hope you sleep comfortably, Molly. I am sorry for any hardship I may have caused your feelings earlier.'' He said in a low tone. No doubt, a cookie cutter apology that John had forced him into saying. Molly smiled up at him, and nodded her head.
''It's okay. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It wasn't your fault, I-I shouldn't have snapped. Sorry.'' She said looking down. She had nudged past him in the narrow hall, but stopped.
''I hope you sleep well too, Sherlock.'' She smiled down to where he stood.
''Oh, I won't be sleeping. I rarely need to sleep, and besides, I can't sleep without a night shirt.'' He said, as if she should know this. She looked at him, confused, and slightly curious.
''Why not just put one on then?" Molly finally asked, staring at his exposed chest. Sherlock walked down the corridor once again, and stood just in front of her. His height towered over her, and she breathed in sharply as his hand picked the collar of her shirt up, moving it to a better position on her shoulder.
''I only wear one shirt when I require sleep. At present, it is being used by a different body.'' he whispered into her ear. He quirked a smile at her red face, before turning back down the hall to his room. Molly stood gaping in the hall.
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