Summary: Pre „A Study in Pink". How did St. Barts Hospital become Sherlock's home away from home? - Sherlock and Molly meet for the first time. Mycroft does not approve. Unrequited Sherlock/Molly (100 % canon)
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to so many people (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffatt, Mark Gatiss and all the BBC) that there is nothing left of him that could possibly belong to me.
Rating: PG for subtle references to drug abuse.
Author's note: Written as a script for another of all those scenes that I would have liked to see. I'm not a scientist or doctor. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to LizCarroll2612 for advice on how to use a mass spectrometer. I would also like to thank dioscureantwins for the fashion advice.
Feedback is much appreciated!
The pathology lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Molly Hooper, in her lab coat, is seated on a stool at a bench with her back to the door. She is looking into a microscope, studying a sample. She leans back for a moment, blinks a couple of times to relax her eyes, jots down some notes on a notepad, then looks into the microscope again, carefully readjusting the focus. Behind her, the door opens. A man walks in. He's in a slate grey three-piece suit, very carefully groomed, and carries an umbrella. The door closes behind him. He stands just inside the door, very upright, with a commanding air, waiting to be served.
MOLLY (without turning round or looking up from the microscope): Hi, Mike. With you in a second.
Taken aback, the man literally baulks in indignation. After a short moment of silence, he opens his mouth to speak. Molly chooses this moment to turn round to face him with a smile. But at the sight of her visitor, her smile disappears instantly. Instead, she blushes.
MOLLY: Oh. Sorry. I took you for someone else.
MYCROFT (with monumental dignity): I very much hope so!
A short pause. Molly looks a little puzzled.
MOLLY: Can I help you?
MYCROFT (recovering, in a more business-like tone): Yes. My name is Holmes.
A pause while Mycroft waits for Molly to react. She doesn't.
MYCROFT: Oh well. I'm looking for Doctor Hooper.
MOLLY (getting up from her stool, smiling again): Yes?
MYCROFT: Is he in?
MOLLY: That's me. (Emphasizing her words with a little nod.) I'm Doctor Hooper.
MYCROFT: Oh. (He looks her up and down, but doesn't appear very impressed.) Yes, I might have known.
He takes a couple of steps into the laboratory, looking around at the scientific instruments and computers and bottles and jars with detached interest. Then his eyes return to Molly.
MYCROFT: You had a visitor last week.
Molly doesn't reply immediately.
MYCROFT: An unexpected visitor.
MOLLY (slightly annoyed): Yes, that seems to be getting a habit.
MYCROFT: You know who I'm talking about. An unexpected visitor to whom you
extended a surprising amount of generosity and trust, considering how little you know about him.
Molly blushes again.
MOLLY (defensively): Have there been complaints?
MYCROFT (smoothly): Do you feel that there is any reason for complaint?
MOLLY (too quickly): No, of course not.
Mycroft turns away from her and starts walking around the lab, looking at all the instruments and compartments and cupboards in more detail. He even runs his fingers thoughtfully along the top of a heating cabinet.
MYCROFT (pensively, to himself): I can see why he likes it here. (Turning round to face Molly again.) Yes, I can definitely see why.
Molly opens her mouth, then closes it again.
MYCROFT (abruptly): What did he want?
FLASHBACK to the pathology lab, some days earlier. Molly, in her lab coat again, is at a computer, entering data from a spreadsheet. There is a knock on the door. Enter Mike Stamford, also in a lab coat over his shirt and too-short tie, and behind him, Sherlock Holmes, wearing his customary dark suit.
MIKE (jovially): Hullo, Doctor Hooper. Got a minute?
MOLLY (looking up from the computer): Yeah, sure.
MIKE (half-turning, beckoning to Sherlock to come closer, which he does): Molly, this is Sherlock. (Grinning mischievously) He has a question for you.
MOLLY (her gaze shifting from Mike to Sherlock, as yet no more than politely interested): Yes?
MIKE (to Sherlock): Go on.
Sherlock locks eyes with Molly for a long moment. She blinks, slightly disconcerted. When he speaks, his voice is low, velvety, almost purring.
SHERLOCK: Mike here told me that you have something really special.
A pause.
MOLLY (still not quite sure what to make of this, but obviously flattered): Oh.
Mike looks extremely amused.
SHERLOCK (as before): Something really special that is exactly what I'm looking for.
MOLLY (with a tentative smile): Yes?
SHERLOCK: Yes. (He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and raises his chin.) A key to the room with the mass spectrometer.
THE PRESENT. Mycroft is still waiting for Molly's reply. She is starting to look flustered.
MOLLY: He just wanted to use the MS. And a couple of other things.
MYCROFT: And you let him, of course.
MOLLY (defensively): Well, no harm done. He knew what he was doing.
FLASHBACK. We're in a different lab now. Sherlock is walking past Molly towards a partitioned-off area of the room where a mass spectrometer is installed. Molly and Mike remain standing in the main lab, watching Sherlock through the glass wall. Sherlock sits down on the stool in front of the apparatus, scans it and the attached computer with his eyes, and then in a quick series of extremely controlled and competent movements, turns on several switches, starts an application on the computer, rapidly types some data into it, and then produces half a dozen small transparent plastic bottles from the pockets of his jacket.
MIKE (quietly, to Molly): Don't worry. He's used one before.
MOLLY (impressed): Yes, obviously.
A pause as Sherlock continues to prepare the apparatus for an analysis, completely absorbed in his work.
MOLLY (to Mike): He a student of yours?
MIKE: No. I wish. Though maybe not.
MOLLY: Why not?
Mike chuckles, but doesn't reply.
THE PRESENT.
MYCROFT: And did he tell you what he wanted to use it for?
MOLLY: He said he wanted to prove someone wrong.
MYCROFT (rolling his eyes): Yes, that's the greatest joy he knows in life.
MOLLY: Well – I suppose – I just assumed he needed it for a PhD or something.
Mycroft throws back his head with a short and rather artificial burst of laughter.
FLASHBACK to Sherlock still sitting at the MS. Molly walks up behind him, trying to look as if she'd just wandered over by chance. Mike has left.
MOLLY: So what are you running in there?
SHERLOCK (without looking up): Dust.
MOLLY (nodding at the plastic bottles that are now aligned in the auto-sampler): Where did you prepare those?
SHERLOCK: In my kitchen.
MOLLY (appalled): What?
Sherlock, his eyes on the computer screen, doesn't react. Molly frowns at Sherlock's fingers that are rapidly dancing across the keyboard. The ones on his right hand show an impressive collection of yellow acid stains on the tips and around the nails.
MOLLY: You work with nitric acid in your kitchen?
SHERLOCK: Well, the bedroom's out. I find concentrated nitrous fumes in my lungs slightly distracting when I'm trying to sleep. Don't you?
MOLLY (not reassured in the least): Yeah, sure…
She directs a worried glance at her guest, then another - equally worried - at the expensive apparatus he is using. But then she seems to brace herself, and falls back into small-talk mode.
MOLLY: You doing a PhD then?
SHERLOCK (still without looking up): No.
Results start popping up on the computer screen.
MOLLY (suddenly smiling): Then you probably should.
Without turning his head, Sherlock frowns at her out of the corner of his eye.
THE PRESENT.
MOLLY: What's so funny?
MYCROFT: Oh, his PhD.
MOLLY (slightly hurt): So he's got one.
MYCROFT: Yes.
MOLLY: Then why didn't he tell me?
MYCROFT (drily): Probably because he doesn't know it.
MOLLY (puzzled): How can you have a PhD and not know it?
MYCROFT: Long story. Suffice it to say that by the time the National Commission on Ethics in Science had finally approved the publication of a heavily censored version of his thesis to a strictly limited readership, he'd lost interest and moved on. His parents have the certificate framed on their living room wall, but they take it down every time he comes to visit.
He glances at Molly and smiles a very brief, mirthless smile.
MOLLY (truly interested): What was the thesis about?
MYCROFT (innocently, looking straight over Molly's head): Poisons.
MOLLY: Detecting them?
Mycroft's eyes return to Molly's face, and fix themselves on her with a disconcerting stare.
MYCROFT: No. Making them.
Molly looks shocked. There is a pause as she runs her hand across her forehead, looking harassed and suddenly very tired.
MOLLY (resigned): You're the police, aren't you.
MYCROFT: Only sometimes.
MOLLY: Then how come you know so much about him?
MYCROFT: How come you know so little about him? He's practically set up camp in your laboratory.
Molly opens her mouth, then closes it again.
MYCROFT: Yes, I know. He's hard to resist. All that cleverness, all that brilliance, like a warm glow in this cold, hard world.
He gestures around the room. Molly frowns at him, truly hurt now.
FLASHBACK to Molly and Sherlock, in Molly's lab, on a different day going by their clothes. Sherlock is sitting on a stool, the bench in front of him littered with test tubes and jars and petri dishes. He's typing a text message on his phone. Molly walks past behind him to the washbasin in the corner. She takes off her lab coat, hangs it on the hook next to the basin, and starts washing her hands.
MOLLY (innocently, over her shoulder): So, who are you really?
SHERLOCK (without looking up from his phone): Interesting question. How would you answer it?
Molly turns back towards him, drying her hands on a paper towel, and shrugs. Sherlock hits the "send" button on his phone and looks up.
SHERLOCK: Identity is a construct. I know all sorts of things about you. I know that you like cats but you don't currently own one. I know that you had two Weetabix with semi-skimmed milk for breakfast this morning. I know you're feeling guilty because you haven't called your widowed mother for days, pretending to yourself and her that you're too busy. I know you've run out of contact lense fluid and forgot – no, you didn't forget, your preferred brand wasn't in stock when you popped into Boots at lunchtime. I know you've been single for at least the past four years and are getting a little desperate by now. But does all that tell me who you really are?
Molly stands dumbstruck, her mouth literally open, the wet crumpled paper towel forgotten in her hands.
THE PRESENT.
MYCROFT: And of course he was right in every particular?
MOLLY (defiantly): No. He wasn't right about the desperate bit.
Mycroft gives her a very condescending look. Then he squares his shoulders and clears his throat.
MYCROFT: Well, time's getting on. He's only - (taking out his pocket watch and glancing at it) - about an hour behind me, so let's get down to business.
He produces a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and hands it to Molly.
MYCROFT: This is a list of a number of substances that I would be very unhappy if I heard that the man you know as Sherlock had got his hands on them somehow in this laboratory.
Molly takes the paper, unfolds it, and runs her eyes down a long typed list. She frowns as she realises what it is about. When she looks back up at Mycroft, there is a deeply offended expression on her face.
MOLLY (sternly): I can assure you, sir, that none of these are, have ever been, or will ever be found in this laboratory in a form that is suitable for consumption.
MYCROFT (urbanely): Thank you, Miss Hooper. That is all I needed to know. It's been a pleasure to talk to you. Good day.
He picks up his umbrella and exits the lab, leaving Molly to stare after him. The door closes behind him. Molly looks again at the list Mycroft gave her, then sinks down on her stool, puts the paper down on the bench, takes her phone out of the pocket of her coat, and dials a number. There is a short pause as she waits for the reply, during which she stares out of the window with a pained look on her face. Tears are beginning to form in her eyes.
MOLLY (fighting to keep her voice under control): Mike? I need to talk to you right now. Please.
The hospital canteen, a little later. Molly and Mike Stamford are sitting facing each other across a table. They both have paper cups of coffee in front of them. On Molly's side of the table, there is also the folded sheet of paper that Mycroft gave her. The canteen is very busy. There is a hum of voices in the air and a constant clatter of cutlery. People keep passing behind both Molly's and Mike's backs, carrying trays, looking for free tables.
MOLLY (passing a hand over her eyes): He can't come again.
MIKE (lightly): Who, Sherlock? Why not? I thought you didn't mind.
MOLLY: I didn't, but -
MIKE: Oh, you know. He's a bit of a dick sometimes. Don't let it get to you. I think he doesn't really mean it. Probably doesn't even know he's doing it.
Mike takes a sip of his coffee.
MOLLY: It's not that, Mike. I think he'll get us in trouble.
Mike coughs, holding his paper napkin in front of his lips.
MIKE: Trouble? Every one of my students breaks more glass and instruments in a single lesson than Sherlock ever will in ten years. I know your lab is your baby, Molly, but -
Molly holds up the folded paper.
MOLLY: This is what's got me worried.
MIKE: What is it?
MOLLY: I think I've just had a visit from the police.
MIKE: So what. You do all the time.
MOLLY: Not usually about living men.
She hands the paper to Mike, who unfolds it.
MOLLY: He gave me this and basically told me that this is what Sherlock is really after.
MIKE: Who, Inspector Lestrade?
MOLLY: No. Someone I haven't met before.
Mike reads, then whistles softly.
MIKE: That's quite a list.
MOLLY: Yes, it is.
A pause.
MIKE: He doesn't really look like the type though, does he?
MOLLY: It happens all the time, with all sorts of people.
She has folded her hands on the table in front of her. Now her fingers convulse, white knuckles standing out. She looks down. Mike gives her a sympathetic smile and pats her arm paternally with his big hand.
MIKE: Now, now.
MOLLY: What do I do now?
Mike gives a helpless shrug. At that moment, Molly's phone starts buzzing. She sniffs, picks it up and takes the call.
MOLLY: Yes? Oh yes, of course. I'll be down in a minute.
She ends the call.
MOLLY: Well, that was Lestrade, for a change. He's down in the morgue. There's something he wants me to review. Sorry. But thanks anyway.
She starts getting up. Mike simply nods in reply.
The Morgue. Molly approaches the door leading to the long corridor outside the dissecting rooms. Through the large glass window in the door, she sees Greg Lestrade standing in the middle of the corridor under a bright lamp, deep in an animated discussion with Sherlock Holmes in his long dark coat and scarf. Molly stops dead outside the door, watching the two men intently. Lestrade has a folder open in his hand and points at something in it. Sherlock leans in to see, then shakes his head. Lestrade seems to insist. Sherlock raises one of his hands, ticking off items of an imaginary list on his fingers - one, two, three. Now it's Lestrade's turn to shake his head. Sherlock shrugs, palms upwards in an "I told you" gesture. Their conduct is completely calm and professional, and they appear very comfortable with each other, very much on a par.
There is a rumble and clatter behind Molly as two morgue technicians in blue hospital uniforms approach her, wheeling a stretcher. There is obviously a body on it, decently covered with a sheet. Molly steps aside and opens the door for them. They pass through with a nod of thanks to her, and she walks into the corridor after them. The rattling noise reaches an echoing pitch as the stretcher is wheeled into one of the dissecting rooms. Molly approaches Lestrade, trying not to look at Sherlock at all. Lestrade smiles warmly as he sees her coming.
LESTRADE: Molly. I'm here again about the Woodford case. I've been persuaded by Mr Holmes here (gesturing towards Sherlock) to ask you for a more detailed analysis of the dust under her fingernails.
At the mention of the name, Molly's gaze has shifted from Lestrade to Sherlock. She looks completely taken aback. Sherlock is standing very still, with his hands behind his back, completely straight-faced.
MOLLY (incredulously): Mr Holmes?
LESTRADE (looking from one to the other, a little impatiently): Yes. Sherlock Holmes.(Sarcastically) I'm afraid he's being of invaluable help to us. Again.
MOLLY: Again?
A ghost of a grin begins to form at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.
MOLLY (to Lestrade, almost accusingly): He's helping you.
LESTRADE: Yeah. Nicely put. Sometimes it feels more like he's running the whole show.
Molly takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to digest all this. She shakes her head in disbelief.
MOLLY (to Sherlock): I - I was on the verge of locking the door on you for good.
SHERLOCK (looking hurt): Oh, please not. I really need that MS once in a while. There simply isn't room for one in my kitchen.
LESTRADE (to Molly, amused): Why did you want to lock the door on him?
MOLLY (pointedly): Because Mr Holmes advised it.
She watches Sherlock's face intently for his reaction. Sherlock frowns.
LESTRADE (suspiciously): What are you talking about?
Molly, without taking her eyes off Sherlock's, pulls Mycroft's folded list out of her pocket and hands it to Sherlock.
MOLLY: Now tell me he's wrong.
Sherlock takes the paper, slowly unfolds it and glances over the list. His lips distort in
a sneer. Then he straightens up, raises his chin, folds the paper again and holds it out to Molly in a grand imperious gesture of dismissal.
SHERLOCK (dramatically, popping out the first letter): Burn it.
Silence. Then -
MOLLY: You burn it. (She smiles.) And then you can come back.
THE END