It was mid-afternoon when Sherlock Holmes finally made his way to Molly Hooper's office at St. Bart's. He had told her earlier that morning that he would probably join her for lunch, but had been held up at Scotland Yard arguing the finer points of a forensics report with Anderson. A waste of time, really, but Sherlock did so like to prove his point. Over and over again. As he approached Molly's office, he fished around in his coat for the packet of crisps he had bought as an afterthought, just in case his pathologist had skipped lunch, waiting for him to arrive. It would be so like her, he thought, to just sit around and wait for him. It seemed that she had been doing it for years now, and the detective was beginning to think he should do something about that. He just hadn't decided what.
As he drew close to the office, he was surprised to hear Molly's giggle, and it made him smile. She had always giggled quite a bit during the early years of their acquaintance, most of the time rather nervously, when he invaded her personal space, or inadvertently touched her hand when reaching across the lab table. He hadn't heard it so much lately, and, to his surprise, he now found himself becoming nostalgic for it. He had almost reached her door when a man exited, practically colliding with him. The stranger looked up at him a bit nervously, muttered, " 'Scuse me, mate," and quickly made his exit. Sherlock watched curiously as he departed. The man was much shorter than he, about five foot seven, he would guess, but considerably bulkier. A rather tight tee shirt was stretched over his well-defined chest, short sleeves strained to cover his bulging biceps. He had blond hair, nicely styled, and deep blue eyes. Curious.
"Molly, I've brought you some crips, in case you skipped lunch…"
"Thank you, Sherlock, but I shared lunch with Charlie Miller, as you didn't show up!"
"Who's Charlie Miller?"
"You just saw him. He works here, and he's asked me to lunch before, and today…"
Sherlock felt a bit uneasy, but couldn't exactly say why. "Well, as long as you had suitable companionship, Molly. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. What shall I bring tonight?"
"About tonight, Sherlock… I'm afraid you're going to have to fend for yourself. I've made plans, so…"
"But it's Wednesday. I always come over on Wednesday!" The detective was trying not to whine, but only partially succeeding.
"You always come over three or four nights a week, Sherlock. We sit around. We share takeaway, and you make fun of my video choices. Or we discuss cadavers, or bees, or cigarette ash, or…"
"And your point is, Dr. Hooper?"
"Tonight, I want to do something different…"
"We could do something else, Molly. I'm open to suggestions…"
'Sherlock, I've already made plans! Maybe I'll see you tomorrow night…"
"On a Thursday, Molly? You know that's my night organize my computer files and sort through my emails…"
"Which you never answer!"
"But some of them are good for a laugh, Molly. Did you know that somewhere in Devon there is a woman who is convinced that nefarious forces, possibly extraterrestrial in nature, have kidnapped her husband, and placed his consciousness into the body of her pet goat. She knows this because their beards are identical, although the goat seems to be more fastidious about maintaining his…"
"Yeah, strange. Other plans, Sherlock! Don't come over tonight, okay?" Molly Hooper spoke with a sense of finality in her voice, and the tall man with the curls couldn't help but listen, and agree.
Instead of returning to Baker Street, Sherlock decided to pay a visit to John and Mary Watson. Just because Molly had no desire for his company this evening, did not mean that his best friends wouldn't roll out the welcome mat for him. He needed something to occupy his evening, and his goddaughter was just the thing. Claire was an adorable toddler, blonde like her mother, although Sherlock didn't for one moment believe that Mary was truly blonde. The child had, most likely, inherited her coloring from her father. Sherlock could only hope that she had also inherited his temperament, as the possibility of a mini-assassin prowling the street of London was something he did not want to contemplate.
Mary was just preparing dinner as he arrived and, after one critique too many, the detective was banned from the kitchen to join John and young Claire in the sitting room. He quickly snatched the child from her father, and proceeded to sing to her the elements of the periodic table, to the tune of "London Bridge Is Falling Down".
"Sherlock, just what are you doing here? Isn't this your night at Molly's?" John asked, then he added, with a bit of a smirk, "One of your many nights at Molly's?"
"Evidently, Dr. Hooper has made other plans."
"Ah, I see."
"What's that supposed to mean, John?"
"Well, I did see her having lunch with Charlie in the cafe this afternoon. Old Charlie's been making the rounds, if you know what I mean…"
"Making the rounds? He's a doctor, then?"
John laughed a bit. "Nah, he's a custodial engineer, Sherlock…"
"A janitor!?"
"Custodial engineer is what they prefer to be called nowadays, mate. They don't just clean things. He's a repairman, a maintenance man, a jack of all trades…"
"Does it matter? A rose by any other name still reeks, John!" Sherlock looked at John with some small amount of trepidation. "So, what do you mean about his 'making the rounds', then?"
"He seems to be hooking up with every available woman at St. Bart's, Sherlock. A real Casanova. And I haven't heard a single complaint from any of the women involved! No pressure. He gets what he wants, they get what they want…"
"What would my pathologist possibly want from a janitor…"
"Custodial engineer, Sherlock." John said with a grin. "And I'm sure you can think of something if you put your mind to it!"
Sherlock blanched. "John, I don't know what you're implying, but Molly surely would not…"
"And just why not, Sherlock? How long has it been since she's, uh, been on a date? Or had a boyfriend?"
"Molly doesn't do that anymore, John. I advised her long ago that her choice in men was not the best, and she has seemed to agree with me of late…"
"Sherlock, you must realize that men do not approach Molly because they think that you and she are, em, involved."
"Where would they get an idea like that, John?"
"Maybe it's because you're always together. At the lab. At Baker Street. At her flat. You're about the same age. And heterosexual?" John looked at his friend with a bit of a question.
"Yes, John, once and for all, I am, indeed, heterosexual!"
Mary entered the room just in time to hear the last statement. "I am certainly relieved to hear that, Sherlock. You were my husband's flatmate, after all. And you're much too pretty to compete with!" The detective grunted in response as Mary continued, "So, what are we talking about?"
"Molly. And, evidently, Charlie Miller," her husband answered her with a wink and a nod.
"Ooooh, love 'em and leave 'em Charlie, eh?" Mary spoke with an appreciative hum in her voice.
"What is so special about this Charlie person?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.
"You have seen him, right? Blond hair, piercing blue eyes…"
"I have piercing eyes!"
"Of course you do, Sherlock," Mary reached over and patted his hand in an exaggerated gesture of appeasement. "But yours are more blue/green. Charlie's are blue like the sky. Like a lovely little bluebird. Like the blue of an arctic glacier when the sun hits it just…"
"All right, Mary. We get the point! They're blue." John now sounded a bit annoyed, but his wife continued. "And his chest! And, oh, that six pack! And have you seen his arms?"
"He's short!" Sherlock spit, out with a surprising amount of venom.
"He's not that short," John protested. "Besides, haven't you heard that good things come in small packages…"
"Not in Charlie's case," Mary had a faraway look in her eyes, but recovered quickly, "Or so I've heard, at least. About Charlie's package." She looked at her husband, and her friend, who were studying her carefully. "Oh, god, I forgot about dinner! Excuse me!", she yelped as she leapt out of her chair and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen.
"I still think he's too short!" Sherlock said vehemently.
"Well, just how tall does he had to be, mate. Molly's only, what, five foot three?"
Sherlock rose from his seat, handing the drooling child back to her father. "Sorry, John, I don't believe I can stay for dinner…"
"Funny, I don't recall asking you…" but before the sarcasm could have any effect, Sherlock Holmes was long gone.
Molly Hooper was studying herself in the full length mirror in her bedroom. The dress fit nicely, accentuating what curves she had, which were, surprisingly, quite a few. She was nervous, and tense. Nervous, because what she was about to do was something she hadn't done in quite a while. And tense, oddly enough, for the same reason. She closed her eyes, and the image of herself was replaced with an image of Charlie MIller. His hair, his muscles, his eyes. But, almost as soon as she had him in focus, the image started to morph. The hair was darkening, and curling. The eyes gained a hint of green, and the whole figure seemed to grow at least five or six inches. His tight shirt now fitted across an elegantly slender, yet well muscled, body, and his seductive smile was replaced by a knowing smirk. Damn you, Sherlock Holmes!
Molly shook her head and stomped her foot to break the spell, and was relieved to hear her doorbell ring. But her relief was short lived when she opened it to find Sherlock Holmes in her hallway.
"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"
"You look lovely, Molly. A bit overdressed for takeaway in front of the telly, though, don't you think?"
"We are not having takeaway in front of the telly, Sherlock…"
"I suppose we could eat in the kitchen for a change, if you prefer…"
Just then, the doorbell rang once again. Molly had a look of panic on her face, but Sherlock opened the door wide. "Ah, Mr. Miller. Would you care to join us?"
"Um, ah, Mr. 'Olmes. Maybe I got the wrong night, eh, Molly?" The man was beginning to sweat, but Molly invited him in and sat him down on her couch, assuring him that he was, indeed, expected. Charlie Miller had heard a lot about this Sherlock Holmes guy. Things seemed to happen to people who crossed him. And there had been the rumors about him and Dr. Hooper. He certainly wouldn't have taken a shot at the pretty pathologist if she hadn't assured him that Holmes and she were not, in fact, an item.
"Oh, Mr. Miller, I can assure you that any night you show up here would be the wrong night", the detective muttered under his breath.
"So, me and Molly was about to, uh, put on the old feedbag. Mebbe hit the pub for a bit o' fun with my mates. Ya got plans?"
"Not at the moment. May I ask where you intend to take my pathologist?" The shorter Adonis in tight jeans blanched a bit at the detective's use of the possessive adjective.
"We was gonna go to this place wot's called Angelo's, I figger. Molly seems to like da joint. You ever heard o' it?"
"Perhaps, in passing." Sherlock was now glaring at the man.
"Mr. 'Olmes, I don't want no trouble 'ere . If I'da knowed you and she were, well, you know, like, well, ya know…"
"Yes, I can see your predicament, Mr. Miller. But I see no sense in continuing this conversation. May I suggest that you take yourself off to greener pastures. It has come to my attention that Connie, from reception, has just recently broken up her boyfriend, and may be in need of comfort. And, given Connie's proclivities, comfort has always, in the past, amounted to nothing more than a rather thorough shag. You need not concern yourself, as I shall attend to Dr. Hooper's needs." Having said his piece, Sherlock continued to stare at the man with thinly disguised repugnance as he gathered himself up and headed toward the door.
"I'll be seein' ya then, Molly. No hard feelings?"
Molly Hooper heaved a great sigh as she watched the man leave, barely having time to answer him before the door closed on his exit. "Bye, Charlie. No hard feelings."
She was about to turn on Sherlock when he headed her off with the words, "Bit on the short side, don't you think?"
Resigned to yet another thoroughly frustrating evening with the man of her dreams, and the author of her nightmares, Molly made her way to the kitchen, gathering utensils and plates from her cabinet and setting them on the table in preparation for yet another takeaway meal and a night of videos. Not exactly what she had in mind when she had donned the low cut dress and and the sexy underwear. She took her place across the kitchen table from the detective, not yet ready to speak, and not really knowing what to say. The only thing that occurred to her, "He wasn't that short, Sherlock."
But it seems that she wasn't going to get off that easily, with just an off the cuff remark. "Molly, why would you prefer spending the night with the likes of Charlie Miller instead of me?"
"It's not that I preferred Charlie to you, Sherlock. It's just that I needed, well, something. Something that I haven't had for a long time, in fact. I wanted to feel close to someone. I needed physical contact, release…"
"Stop dancing around the subject, Molly. You needed sex. I'm not some naive teenager, after all. I know what you're talking about. But my question remains. Why Mr. Miller, and not me?" If she didn't know better, Molly would have sworn there was a touch of hurt on his voice.
"You're kidding, right?"
"Why would you assume that I am jesting, Dr. Hooper? Has the thought of us having sex never occurred to you?"
Only in every dream she had ever had, waking and sleeping! Molly thought. "Look, Sherlock, I don't know what…"
"Do you prefer blonds? With muscles? I may not have a spectacular build, but I consider myself rather fit. A bit on the slender side, perhaps,..."
"Don't you mean skinny?"
"You never seemed to mind my physique before, , when you would steal glances at my arse when I bent over. And all that bending over to pick up those deliberately dropped objects certainly did wonders for my abs. Perhaps I could show you?" The detective reached for his shirt buttons, but the pathologist waved her hand in front of her to indicate that the gesture, although greatly appreciated, was not necessary.
"Or perhaps I'm too tall for your tastes? John did point out your rather truncated height. I can see where you might be concerned about neck or back injury occurring during our vertical snogging sessions, but once we advanced to horizontal positions, that should become a moot point, don't you agree?" Then he winked. "And I do know an excellent chiropractor."
Molly was now envisioning herself and Sherlock Holmes "advancing to horizontal positions", and could feel the heat rising in her neck. Which did not go unnoticed by the man sitting across from her. "Ah, Molly, I've missed that blush! It's good to know that I can still induce it!" He smiled across the table. "Do eat up, Molly. It's been an even longer drought for me, and I can only assume that we're going to need quite a bit of stamina to get through the night." Seemingly in a daze, Molly continued to put forkful after forkful of kung pao chicken into her mouth, only dimly aware of how much better this night was shaping up to be. If Sherlock Holmes was not simply teasing her, it was beginning to look like her low cut dress and sexy underwear was not going to go to waste after all.
When they had finally finished the meal, Sherlock rose from his seat and rounded the table to reach for Molly's hand. Pulling her to her feet, he turned her to face him, her head barely reaching his chin. "Yes, I can see where the height difference could be a problem. I'll try not to make this too uncomfortable, Molly." And, with that, he pulled her closer as he bent his mouth to hers. And it was not uncomfortable at all. At least for the rather diminutive doctor. But when they finally separated, Sherlock moved to slowly rub the back of his neck.
Molly Hooper giggled. The giggle Sherlock Holmes loved so much, and had missed so badly. "Maybe we should advance to those horizontal positions you were talking about, Sherlock!"
"Excellent idea, Dr. Hooper." And then, ever the romantic, the tall man slung the small woman over his right shoulder, and carried her, giggling, down the hallway to her bed. And by morning Sherlock Holmes had resolved to keep his pathologist happy, sated, and tension free for the rest of her life.