"He's just so awesome-"
"Have you seen his movie-"
"Hey, he does theatre, if I'm not wrong?"
"It's- it's Frankenstein, right?"
Molly and Mary giggled like two teenage girls, pointing at various pictures of their male obsession. After a particularly drool-worthy picture consisting of said male in nothing but a newspaper covering his whole body, Mary leaned back and gave her friend a lopsided smile. "He certainly reminds me of someone I know."
Molly froze in between her gushing and, trying to sound indifferent, replied, "Oh, he does…?"
"Yeah," her companion answered, then gave a disarming grin, "he looks a little like my distant cousin! Only, he's not ginger, and his hair's straight."
Molly internally sighed in relief and resumed making remarks on other photos in the magazine with her friend, occasionally pointing out which were her favourites.
"Ugh…" Mary groaned when a loud bang resounded in the laboratory both women were in. Then it was followed by two male voices, one complaining about something to do with the state of his jumpers while the other suavely deflected blame by giving cool responses.
"The destructive duo's here," the nurse whispered into the petite pathologist's ear, who rolled her eyes.
"I'm sure you don't mean John as well," she whispered back as Sherlock grabbed a few items in the lab that he needed while John continued to try to make his flatmate feel guilty, only to have his words certainly falling on deaf's ears.
"John? No, never him," Mary gave her a huge grin and left the room, stopping to cheerfully greet both men and only receiving a reply from the blond.
"Molly, where's all the slides?" Sherlock demanded, bending over a table and sweeping his hand around to look for a microscope slide.
"Extras' in the supplies room; I think there's no more down here. I'll go and get some for you?" Molly offered hesitantly, to which she received a nod from him in agreement.
"Also - coffee, bl-"
"Black, two sugars; yes," she finished for him, pushing the lab door open to exit the room.
Sherlock slightly narrowed his eyes in irritation at being cut off, but shrugged it off and reached out his hand to get a hold of one of the chemicals he required, when at the corner of his right eye he noticed an opened magazine. Out of curiosity, he grabbed that instead, still pointedly ignoring John, who had started dictating rules for their flat.
"John, who is he?" Sherlock slapped the now rolled-up magazine on the shorter man's chest after a quick glance at the exposed page, making the blond start in complete surprise.
"What 'who is he'?" John rubbed his chest (it hurt), scowling at the curly head man.
Sherlock exaggerated his eye roll, silently informing the doctor he was being more of an idiot than usual, and smacked the tube of a magazine against his chest again. "This 'he'!"
After another scowl, John snatched the magazine from his hand and unrolled it, glaring at the various pictures of a man Sherlock had been referring to. His expression then relaxed and he resisted the urge to laugh.
"I know you're internally laughing at me, John, but I don't care. Who in the world is he?!" Sherlock hissed, eyes raking over the pictures, a look of disdain framing his face.
"This," John pointed at one of the pictures, the one where the ginger man had his hair blond straight and was wearing a pair of thick black rimmed glasses, "is…a look-alike of you."
Sherlock glared daggers at him. Was it possible to suffocate someone with a test tube? "I. Have. Eyes! Of course I can see the resemblence of him to me! What I'm asking for is a name! Has your IQ dropped considerably due to the lack of socks?!"
"Those are my socks, Sherlock! Didn't I tell you hands off my socks drawer?!"
"You've never mentioned 'feet off', though."
"WHAT THE-?!" Was it a crime to stuff someone's mouth with cotton balls from the first aid kit?
"John - NAME!"
"You damn- fine!" John slapped the magazine on the table to his left, turning to a page and jabbing a finger at the man who now wore a suit. "'He' is Benedict Cumberbatch, an actor."
Sherlock snorted loudly. "What kind of a name is 'Benedict Cumberbatch'?"
His friend snorted just as loudly in retaliation. "What kind of a name is 'Sherlock Holmes'?"
The older man resisted looking at the seriously offended and now furious man in front of him; he knew he would not help but howl in laughter if he did. Instead, John stared at the magazine and went on to provide information on him. "He's really one exceptional actor, having done theatre performances and movies over the years. He's rising up the ranks as an actor, and is now very recognisable (though it did not surprise me one bit that you've never heard of him before). If I'm not wrong, he was crowned The Sun's Sexiest Man once as well."
"Is that why Molly was looking at pictures of him?!"
John whipped his head to his right so fast he thought he might have torn a muscle in his neck. In that low growl, it was the tone in which the detective had used that had caught his attention; it sounded almost akin to…jealousy.
He decided to ruffle his metaphorical feathers a little. This could be fun. "Yeah, maybe? I mean, this guy's rather popular among the masses. He has a following as well; I think his supporters call themselves 'Benaddicts'. Oh!" He snapped his fingers dramatically as if he had remembered something of utter importance. "His female fans are known as 'Cumberbabes'. Quite a cool name, in my opinion."
Sherlock grimaced. He, obviously, did not find the name 'cool' at all. "So Molly's a Cumber…babe?" he asked, face physically cringing at the word 'babe'.
John gave a smirk and shrugged. "Judging by the number of Mr Cumberbatch's pictures in this magazine alone, which is also coincidentally an exclusive report on him, I'm going to hazard a guess and say 'yes'?"
It did not go unnoticed by him that Sherlock had his right hand clenched tightly into a fist for the duration of their conversation.
"Molly, yes - slides," Sherlock mumbled from his spot in front of the microscope.
She approached him and set down his mug of coffee next to him on the table, all the while looking around the lab, not spotting a certain blond. "Where's John?"
"Back in Baker St. I neglected to mention that my current experiment involved coloured dyes, and that the use of his white socks was much a necessity," he explained and turned around in his chair to face the woman.
After another round around the familiar confines of the room, she let her eyes rest on the man's face and she let out an involuntary squeak of surprise at what she saw. There, sitting comfortably on the bridge of his nose and intensely framing his cool grey eyes, was a pair of thick black rimmed glasses.
"Wha- what's that, Sherlock…?" Molly trailed off, a hand to her mouth in an otherwise failed attempt at covering her earlier gasp, as she watched him remove the glasses.
"A pair of spectacles, obviously," he informed her, wiping the lenses with the hem of his white button-down shirt.
"But- but why're you…wearing it…?" she gazed at him slightly dreamily, face slowly turning a wonderful shade of pinkish-red.
Sherlock put on the glasses and looked over to her, thoroughly satisfied with the response he had garnered from her. "Just felt like it," he childishly shrugged, smirking cheekily at her.
Molly felt as if her legs were threatening to give way underneath her and she immediately grabbed for the edge of the table, setting down the slides in her left hand with a loud 'clunk' in the process.
"Ah, the, uh, slides that you…needed…" she muttered, embarrassed. She was forcing herself not to look at him by ducking her head down. He looks so much like my favourite actor, she thought, simultaneously freaking out and flailing in excitement inside.
"Molly?" Sherlock leaned forward on the table to get a better look at her. He was assuming an innocent expression as he looked questioningly at her.
She jerked backwards, stumbling on her feet and rushing to get out of the space. "No, no, nothing!" she spluttered out, looking down to her feet and blushing furiously.
"I think I'll- I'll go to the loo!" she declared a little too loudly a second later and more or less ran out of the room.
Sherlock chuckled, amused by her reaction. He turned to the magazine spread out on the table to his left, the page showing the picture of the Benedict Cumberbatch guy wearing glasses. He was glad he had stumbled upon Molly's fetish for glasses, shown by the slightly worn out look of that particular page compared to the others.
Molly smacked her forehead on her working desk after Sherlock left. Dang it; for the entire time, he had that damn pair of glasses on, and she had a terrible time trying to compose herself and not do something ridiculous - like, say, jump on him and snog the daylights out of him? She gave herself a pat on the back for resisting the urge; God knows she had enough on her plate now. A Sherlock-induced awkwardness would just make her go insane. She wondered why he had even worn glasses. Just to spite her? But they were not that close to the point that he would know of her, uh, tastes…
She sighed and shook her head, attempting to forget it. As she cleaned the lab, she instead thought on what she wanted to do when she got home. A bubble bath was certainly in order; feed Toby with that new brand of cat food recommended by some salesgirl; watch a couple of DVDs.
She bit back a grin - Atonement, Hawking (she briefly flushed red at remembering Benedict with glasses), or War Horse? How about watching Third Star on the internet? Oh, or maybe Fortysomething - he was absolutely cute and adorable in that one.
"Oh wait! There's a re-run of Parade's End tonight on the telly!" she reminded herself, and squealed (fan)girlishly.
Molly hummed as she continued putting things back to where they belonged. Benedict certainly is a great actor, she mused, though it had slightly unnerved her that he looked so much like Sherlock the first time she was introduced to him by Mary. But from what she had heard, he seems a nice guy. She, like any other self-proclaimed Cumberbabe, hoped to get to meet him one day.
Once she was finally done, exhausted and tired out of her wits from a long day (and even longer time on forcing herself not to do a certain something…), she grabbed her large bag and proceeded to look for the magazine she had been reading with Mary earlier on. After 15 minutes of fruitless searching, she was at the verge of pulling her hair off their roots in aggravation.
Where was it?!
Unbeknownst to her, it was serving its purpose as burning fuel for a fire in a fireplace at 221B Baker Street.
I really am not sure if it is considered acceptable to bring real life people into fanfiction, even if it's a mention of it, so if it's wrong, please please PLEASE tell me; I'll take this down with immediate effect.
Anyway; Cumberbabes come in all ages after all ;) This is my 20th fanfic, so I thought of doing something slightly over-the-top. Yes: this is another jealous!Sherlock fic, but 'possessive'? I dunno; he did dislike (with a vengence on) the hold Mr Cumberbatch had on his pathologist. Though, it's safe to say she ain't the only one who's fallen for his charms ;) I hope you like this, and penny for your thoughts? :DDD
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