We Need To Talk!

by cactusnell

Why does everybody need to talk to Sherlock? Especially Molly! Sherlolly

WE NEED TO TALK - MH

These were the texts which Sherlock Holmes absolutely hated to receive. Talking, he believed was highly overrated, unless he, of course, was the one doing the talking. If he had received this text from his brother, it would more than likely involve a lecture about his social life, his neglect of his parents, his casual disregard of societal norms, etc. Since Mycroft, himself, was guilty of virtually all of the previously listed violations as well as Sherlock himself, he tended to take these lectures with a grain of salt.

If the message had been sent by his mother, he probably would have immediately sat down, fixed himself a stiff drink, and phoned her immediately. He was the first to admit that he was a grown man with definite mommy issues. Second only to Mycroft, of course.

Had the message come from his father, he would have called Mummy to see what Daddy wanted.

If John Watson had been the one who texted, Sherlock would have gone to his flat at his earliest convenience, bounced his goddaughter on his knee, listened to John, perhaps somewhat politely, before discounting about 90 percent of what he had to say.

If John's wife, Mary, had texted, he may well have written a will, armed himself, and gone off to meet his fate.

But this was Molly, his Molly. The last time she had told him that they had to talk, she had lectured him about cleaning pipettes in the path lab after he had used them. How bad could it be?

Sherlock found out just how bad it could be when he joined Dr. Molly Hooper in the morgue later that afternoon. Despite the fact that she was elbow deep in the chest cavity of an overweight middle aged male whose tremendous height and weight, while alive, would have dwarfed her, he still expected a smile. Perhaps it was the stench emanating from the corpse which had caused her to adjust the temperature of the morgue downward, but the decided chill made him briefly entertain the thought that the petite pathologist was perhaps hollowing out the cadaver like a tauntaun, hoping to crawl inside for warmth, as in the Star Wars film. Molly would appreciate his macabre thinking with the science fiction bent, as it was she who introduced him to the genre. Perhaps it would make her smile.

"Hello, Sherlock. This is kind of a messy one. Why don't you get some coffee and meet me in my office?"

Instead of taking her advice, Sherlock approached the dissection table and picked up the chart of the deceased man. "Anything interesting?" he asked as he peered into the chest cavity, mouth and nose covered with a surgical mask he had picked up. " I mean besides the gaping hole in the former man's forehead?"

"You mean in addition to the fact that he was evidently killed by a slingshot yielded by a ginger midget named David? A ginger midget, evidently with biblical issues?"

"How do you know that?"

"Poor David was trapped under Mr. 'Goliath' here when he tried to move the body to dispose of it. He's in the drawer over there." Molly nodded toward the other room. "As for the other reference, I can't help it if you deleted the Bible from your mind palace. Perhaps you should consider re-reading it?" Molly took a step backward, snapped off her gloves and mask, and said, "This can wait. He's not going anywhere. Neither is little David. Let's get some coffee."

Sherlock was beginning to feel a pang of concern. Molly was leaving in mid-autopsy, and asking him to join her for coffee. She really was serious about this conversation. It was sure to involve something more than dirty pipettes. He grew even more concerned when the realization struck him that Molly had still not smiled. They got their coffees, and sat at a table in a quiet corner of the hospital canteen.

"I've received a terrific job offer from a major research facility in Wales," Molly said without preamble.

"Do they have research facilities in Wales?" Sherlock asked with a dismissive grunt. "Do the speak English there? I spent some time there once, and it was three whole days before I could decipher anything the natives were saying!"

"Sherlock, stop being such a snob. The world doesn't end beyond the London city limits."

"I never said it did. There are some quite civilized areas in Sussex, and the Lake District. Cornwall can be really lovely, and the moores are ruggedly beautiful. I'm sure Wales can be tolerable as a vacation spot, but who wants to live there? Besides the Welsh, I mean."

"Be serious. I'm really considering taking this job, Sherlock! If you don't want me to, you're going to have to give me a good reason." Molly looked at him with that expression that he hated. That expression which was half hopeful, half resigned, like there was something that she really wanted him to say, but already knew that he wouldn't.

"Please, Dr. Hooper, enumerate the benefits of your taking this particular position. You've been offered others, but you've never considered them. What makes this one different?"

"Okay, first. it's a major increase in salary."

"How much?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but significant. About fifty percent more. And the cost of living is less in Cardiff. And my family is closer. Just across the Bristol Channel. It will be nice to have family nearby."

"Anything else?"

"I'd be the head of a large department, with a free hand to conduct research as I deem appropriate. Regular hours, no inconvenient shifts…"

"Sounds ideal. What about your friends here in London?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, it's not the end of the world. It's only one hundred and fifty miles on the M4! A three hour drive. Faster by train."

"You don't have a car."

"I shall buy one with my exorbitant new salary, you git!"

"So, you have decided, then?"

"I have to let them know in two days, or they will make an offer to someone else."

"Well, given the advantages, I don't see how you can turn them down." Sherlock gave a heavy sigh, and rose from his seat. "I shall talk to you tomorrow," he said as he turned on his heel and left the canteen. Not exactly what Molly had hoped for, but certainly more or less what she had expected. The pathologist finished her coffee, and returned to the morgue to continue her excavation of the gargantuan man's rotting flesh. This day just keeps getting better and better, she thought.

Sherlock was already on his mobile, texting the appropriate parties. First, his brother Mycroft. Then his best friend, Dr. John Watson.

HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED OPENING A PRACTICE IN CARDIFF? - SH

CARDIFF? WALES? WHY? - JW

I MAY BE MOVING - SH

WE NEED TO TALK - JW

Bloody hell! he thought Here we go again. This is how this whole mess started with somebody needing to talk!

Sherlock found a cab almost immediately, and made his way to John's flat. Since he knew that John was not yet at home, but Mary was, he refrained from using the key which neither of them knew he had to gain access. He instead knocked, just as an ordinary mortal would. It would not due to startle an overly protective ex-assassin mother on her own turf. Mary answered the door, baby Claire in her arms. "Just so you know, Sherlock, I have no intention of moving to Wales!"

"Neither did I before this afternoon," he replied morosely.

"You look miserable. Come on, I'll put on the kettle. John should be here any minute."

John arrived before the kettle was boiling, and soon everyone was sitting around the Watson's kitchen table, discussing the consulting detective's latest problem.

"Okay, Sherlock, out with it. Why in the bloody hell would you want to move to Wales? Do you even know anything about Wales?"

"Don't they have a lot of tin? Or coal? Slate, maybe?"

"Oh yeah, I can see what you'd want to move there! Tin, coal! Wow!"

"They have some lovely mountains, don't they?"

"Sherlock, think about it. Even the bloody Prince of Wales doesn't actually LIVE there, you git! So, real reason?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and looked at John like a little boy who had lost his puppy. "Molly's moving to Cardiff," he said quietly.

"No!" both Watson's exclaimed at the same time.

"She's had a wonderful job offer…"

"She's had offers before, mate," John tried to cheer him up.

"Not like this one. Huge salary, close to her family, regular hours, choice of research projects, lots of underlings to send scurrying about …"

"Do you really think that matters when…" Mary tried to get a word in.

"...not to mention that Doctor Who films in Cardiff! Her favorite show! I can't lose her to a bloody two-hearted alien in an derelict phone box!"

Mary had finally had enough of his ranting, and lifted a hand in preparation of delivering a slap to his face.

"Don't even think about it, Mary. Only Molly gets away with that. Besides, you've already shot me. Don't you think you used up all your friendship points?"

Mary returned her hand to the table, but spoke anyway, "And she's definitely accepted this offer?"

"She has forty-eight hours to respond. But I can't see why she would turn it down."

John and Mary looked at each other as if they couldn't believe the world's only consulting detective could possibly be that stupid. Then they both looked at him, but it was John who spoke, "Have you asked her to turn it down, Sherlock?"

'Why in the name of God would she turn it down?"

"The same reason she turned down all the others, you prat. She really doesn't want to leave London any more than you do. What did she say when you told her you were going with her? I mean, if you're willing to make the commitment to move to Cardiff with her, maybe she would just be willing to stay here with you. She loves her job, her friends, the police work…" But seeing the abashed look on his friend's face, John took a shot in the dark, and asked, "You did tell her, didn't you, Sherlock?"

"Actually, uh...no. Of course, she knows. I mean, if I were to move, I just assume she would want to come with me…"

"Why would you assume that, you prat, if you didn't actually ask her!"

"Because she loves me!"

"Right, everybody knows that. We just weren't sure if you were aware of the fact. So, you believe Molly would follow you anywhere because she loves you, eh? And you would follow her to bleeding Cardiff, why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was beginning to get the point. He lowered his head as he barely mumbled, "Because I love her."

Mary was laughing now, practically dancing about the kitchen.

"Maybe you ought to tell her that, mate, before the next job offer comes in from Timbuktu!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I doubt whether there is a sophisticated enough facility in Timbuktu to interest a pathology researcher of Molly's…"

But John grabbed him by his arm and practically threw him out the front door. "Go talk to Molly, you arse. I don't want to have to make that long drive down the M4 so my kid can visit her godfather!" And so the detective found himself in a cab heading toward Molly's flat, hoping that she had finished her spelunking of the dead giant's cavernous carcass.

Shortly before John had convinced his friend to talk to her, Molly had received an unexplainable text from Mycroft Holmes.

PERHAPS YOU CAN EXPLAIN, DR HOOPER, WHY YOU ARE DRAGGING MY LITTLE BROTHER OFF TO WALES - M HOLMES

I'VE BEEN OFFERED A JOB. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SHERLOCK - MH

THEN WHY DOES HE HAVE THE CONSIDERABLE RESOURCES OF THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT LOOKING FOR A SUITABLE FLAT - M HOLMES

THANK YOU, BUT I DO NOT NEED ANY HELP - MH

PLEASE HAVE HIM CONTACT ME ABOUT HIS ADDITIONAL REQUEST - M HOLMES

? - MH

As Molly received no further texts from Sherlock's brother, she contacted the detective himself.

WE NEED TO TALK! - MH

I'LL BE WAITING AT YOUR FLAT - SH

Sherlock put the mobile back in his coat pocket, thinking to himself, this time I couldn't agree more! He was in the sitting room in Molly's flat, pacing about as he was too nervous to sit still. She should be home soon, he thought. Perhaps he should have picked up some takeaway. He couldn't exactly ask her to cook, in addition to giving up the opportunity of a lifetime. That may be pushing selfishness to new heights, even for him. He would try to make her happy if she stayed in London. She would be giving up a big raise, but they could save money by living together at Baker Street. He would assist her in any research she wished to do. She wouldn't have minions or lackeys to order about, but he would try to wash the dishes. Occasionally. Maybe. He would wear the tight black jeans more often, the ones she practically leered at. He would buy himself a dozen purple shirts, for god's sake, if only she would stay with him in London! And if all that failed, he would move his arse to bloody Wales!

Sherlock barely registered when Molly entered the room wearing a warm coat and a frown, but carrying two containers of Chinese food.

"Sherlock, we really need to…"

"I agree. Oh, is that Chinese? Good, I'm starving." He stomped off toward her small kitchen, grabbing two forks from the drawer, and motioning her to sit opposite him at her kitchen table.

"Sherlock, did you tell Mycroft about my job offer?"

"Not really. I merely asked him to look for a suitable flat. Has he found one?"

"For me?"

"No, for us, of course! Do keep up, Molly. John seems to believe that you are under the impression that I would allow you to move to Wales, or Timbuktu, without me. While I was attempting to be unselfish in this instance, he also raised the possibility that you may actually be amenable to remaining in London, if I asked nicely. So this is me, asking nicely." He smiled in what he hoped would be a seductive yet childishly plaintive manner, a very difficult thing to pull off. Naturally, he failed miserably.

Molly snickered as she put another forkful of chicken fried rice into her mouth, then asked, "What does Timbuktu have to do with anything?"

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Not important. Is that the only thing you got out of my statement?" He sighed. "To continue, I realize that you would be making a significant financial sacrifice, but I feel that that would be ameliorated by your moving to Baker Street."

"Would I be sleeping in John's old room?'

"Of course not!" Now he looked at her, completely puzzled. Perhaps John was, for once, correct. It had to happen at some point. "Molly, are you completely unaware of the fact that I am in love with you?"

Molly dropped her fork.

"Ahh! I must assume that this is my fault. I'm really not good at these things, and sometimes I just assume that certain things are obvious…"

"Sherlock, you want me to live with you…"

"See what I mean, that's just the kind of statement that can lead to misconceptions. The use of euphemisms can…"

"You want me to sleep with you…"

"Another euphemism, Molly. Let's be clear. I don't really sleep that much, anyway. I definitely want to share a bed, but not just for sleeping. I want us to have a sexual relationship. Exclusive. Permanent, I hope…"

"And when did you decide this?"

"A while age. This job offer has, unfortunately, interfered with my time table, moving it forward by a little over three months…"

"Three months?"

"Yes. Isn't that when your lease expires?" Sherlock finally took a good look at his pathologist, trying to read her expression. But he was no longer as confident as he once was. He always misses something, and if he could miss the fact that she was completely unaware of how much he cared for her, what else could have escaped him?

"We don't have to wait three months, do we? I mean, I'd hate to interfere with your timetable, after all…"

"Molly, love, at this moment, three minutes is pushing the envelope a bit!" He managed to get the words out just before his lips closed on hers. He then practically dragged her from her chair toward the bedroom.

A few hours later, Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his trouser pocket, and while Molly slept peacefully next to him, texted his brother.

FORGET FLAT IN CARDIFF BUT DO ARRANGE FOR GRANDMOTHER'S RING TO BE CLEANED AND SIZED RIGHT AWAY. IT SEEMS I AM A BIT AHEAD OF SCHEDULE - SH

ONLY YOU, LITTLE BROTHER, COULD CONSIDER YOURSELF AHEAD OF SCHEDULE AFTER ALL THESE YEARS! MY CONGRATULATIONS NONETHELESS - MYCROFT

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, Mycroft considered calling Mummy right away. It would serve Sherlock right to have his first night with Dr. Hooper interrupted by happily tearful congratulatory calls from his family. But instead, he turned out the light and went back to sleep, not wanting to give his little brother one more chip to carry on his shoulder. Besides, Mycroft knew from past experiences with Sherlock, that paybacks tended to be a bitch.