She never tires of being his help. Never. That was not in her dictionary. When they first met, it was a downpour and she was stranded in the laboratory, working late. Much to her dismay, the Scotland Yard Inspector asked her personally to overlook the case tonight. She just had a cup of coffee and was about to step inside the morgue when she heard a rather weird sound on the other side of the door.
Was that a riding crop? She panicked for a while but decided to confront the somebody inside.
It was a man, wearing a dark suit accented with a light blue polo shirt inside. The sound was made by a riding crop, all right. And she watched him beat the lying corpse several times before she found her voice.
"Um, excuse me, but what do you think you're doing?" He stopped midway through another loud blow and slowly looked up at her. Molly has met dozens of loons but he was different.
"A pathologist, I see. I thought no one was around." He silently said to her. She was wearing a white shirt topped with a sweater then another flowery cardigan hideously matched with a pair of loose khaki pants. It was not really flattering to look at, but it was 2 in the morning and she wanted to be comfortable. The dead does not comment, anyway-much to her belief. No labgowns and gloves, but who stays in the morgue this late, really?
He was mysteriously attractive, with dark curls falling just above his blue-green eyes that reflected the pale fluorescent light in the room. And tall. Gorgeously tall, she thought.
It was her time to stutter. "Y-you didn't answer my question." She whispered in a small voice, all the while internally kicking herself because she wanted to come off as intimidating even with her petite frame.
"I'm Lestrade's… consultant. I'm on this case." He absentmindedly answered a few seconds before he started beating the body again. She thought his words sounded slurred. He didn't talk anymore and she felt increasingly uncomfortable in the room with him that slowly, she turned to leave.
"Wait." He called after her. She stopped in her tracks and faced him. That was the time when she unconsciously decided that she'd always say yes to him. Anything. Anything.
"Coffee, please. Black, two sugars." Yes, definitely slurred. But at least he made perfect sense.
She got it in a jiffy and she was back in no time, handing him the steaming cup. She wrinkled her nose. He smelled of alcohol.
"Are you drunk?" She asked before she even decided to speak up.
He didn't answer, but he leaned in and kissed her fully in the mouth. She dropped the cup and instantly froze. The alcohol came stronger this time.
She attempted to feebly push him away. He was a stranger she found in a morgue beating a corpse with a riding crop. But it was a half-hearted action.
This was different and wild. He was slowly deepening the kiss, her eyes still wide open. He made a grunting sound in her mouth probably because she was not responding to him.
I've always been in control. To hell with it, she thought.
The next thing she knew, she was allowing him to deepen the kiss even more. Her hands snaked their way up to his hair and pulled him close. And he was doing the same thing. His arms were wrapped around her small waist and as if there was still space to cover, he kept on pulling her close until it hurt. But she didn't mind.
She stepped forward and pushed him against the wall and after a few seconds he pulled her down with him on the floor.
Molly was surprised and broke off the kiss. She looked squarely in this man's eyes, not saying anything. He was looking back at her too, but his irises were losing their focus and as quick as their lips touched, he closed his eyes and slumped his head sideways, spent.
She looked at him blankly.
"Molly, I said I need data analysis." Sherlock's voice brought her to the present. And she dashed off to the computer to help him. He doesn't remember that night, she was 95% sure. The remaining was left to the possibility that maybe he was just too embarrased to mention it to her, thus his actions that he can't recall that night. She does not have the courage to talk to him about it because the second time they met, he acted that it was the first.
Anyhow, she'll always help. And she'll always remember.
But as Molly stepped out of the room, he exhaled slowly. He can still recall that night when it was a torrential downpour outside. It was a dizzy memory, but he can still remember her shaking lips when they first kissed, and how the steaming coffee splattered on his pants and shoes when she dropped the cup. He didn't mind, though. Her lips were bewitching and his defenses were down.
He will never tell, of course. Alone is what he'll always believe in and she will just be a distraction, not a necessity. That is what he stood up with, until he met John and he needed Molly's help.
But he still won't tell. He still can't forget.