Author's Note: Hello, dolls and fellas! This is the first story I've published in years. Granted it is just starting, but nonetheless, I am doing this! Yay! This is my first foray in the Sherlolly fandom, so please feel free to add any comments or words of wisdom!
Features of this story: I am going off the deep end a bit, I love the canon but I am am treading into AU for this. I know Molly's personality doesn't manifest as such, however, with her strong sense of loyalty and determination to do what she sees as right, I don't think my character expansion is a whole lot to ask. Let's just say my Molly was produced from a more...independent childhood?
This has not been Brit-picked by a native by any means and certainly not beta'd. Sorry!
Also, expect a handful of new characters, not to mention another "behind the scenes" organization. I am flying off the seat of my pants for the majority of this, so plot bunnies are appreciated as the chapters are rolled out.
Disclaimer: Yeah, pretty sure I am not ACD risen from the dead. Also, Moffet has so many fingers in so many pots, I'd be shocked if he managed to find my little story and proceed to flay me alive over it. But then again, why chance it? I don't own, I only admire. And dream. And desire. And I need to lay off on the caffeine. NOT.
Enjoy!
lady_myth
Masquerade
Chapter 1
Appearances are Deceiving
Molly Hooper drummed her thumbs impatiently against the Formica countertop. She stared hard at the slow drip of the coffee maker, willing it to brew faster. She absently noted that the counter was chipped more than the day before, a sign that the cleaning lady had smashed her cart into it once again. The counter was also dipping strangely in the center and all at once Molly removed her hand, shaking it. It looked like the slab was being used as a tryst area again. Her thoughts turned to Dr. McDonald, the pediatrician, and the ICU nurse as they seemed like the most likely candidates. She stepped over to the staff room sink and scrubbed her fingers clean.
Wouldn't Sherlock think I was being clever?
She rolled her eyes at the thought. She dried her hands on a paper towel. She then rubbed at her face, pleased that she was able to do so without any fear of messing up any makeup. She glanced at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink and wrinkled her nose.
God, I miss eyeliner.
She ran the pad of a finger underneath the line of low lashes and grumbled under her breath.
Plain old Molly, be the mouse not the lioness.
She released a long breath. Thankful that the ancient coffee brewer was finally done, she poured herself a generous cup. She dumped an obscene amount of sugar into it and a dash of cream. After working a double shift the day before, and then staying up into the early morning hours to work on her laptop, she was currently running on fumes.
She didn't bother to blow on the scalding liquid, gulping down nearly a third of it.
"Heaven," she moaned, making her way out of the staff room and down to the bowels of St. Bart's. She paid little attention to the nurses, doctors, and patients that wandered the floors. She ducked in a dimly lit stairwell and hurried down.
I've got all of that paperwork to do today in addition to the three autopsies that were assigned to me. If I skip lunch I'll be able to get everything done I'm sure. For once, I hope the three poor souls died of something innocuous, like a car accident or strangulation. Nothing that involves lab tests and additional scans. That way Sherlock won't be tempted to descend on the morgue, thus destroying any productivity I might accomplish!
Molly huffed, knowing the odds were slim of her wishes being granted, especially when it came to the tall consulting detective that flittered in and out of her lab like he owned it. Granted, it was her own fault that he walked all over it and her, but she had a valid excuse! She really did! And it pissed her off that she had accepted the position and worked herself into the corner she now lived in.
Three years! Three freaking years of this!
She slammed the mortuary doors open, causing the medical students inside to shriek at the sound of the metal doors colliding into the tiled walls. Molly didn't send them any sort of an apology, stomping her way to her office. Once inside, she slammed the door shut behind, causing more shrieks. After a moment, she overheard them making nasty comments about her, all centered on her inability to get laid or her menstrual cycle. She felt her left eye twitch and immediately covered her face with a hand.
Not good, not good! I better make sure I get plenty of rest tonight…after I beat the shite out of something.
It wouldn't do her any good to blow everything up now. She sat at the cramped desk, groaning at the piles of autopsy reports, lab results, and medical record requests. She wiggled her mouse, summoning her computer screen to life, before pulling down the topmost file. She absently turned on her mp3 and selected a playlist that she indulged in when she was alone. She had a shite ton of work to accomplish in a short amount of time. She settled, stretched out her interlaced fingers and cracked them. Time to get down.
-M-
She managed to complete about 95 percent of her paperwork in three hours, which was pretty damn impressive concerning all the interruptions she had to deal with since she sat down. She had essentially banned the medical students for two weeks due to their inappropriate handling of chemicals and the general mayhem they always caused.
A maniacal grin that had no business being on her face stretched her lips wide. See if you pass your courses now!
She wasn't going to lie and say she didn't enjoy making the students suffer a bit. Honestly, they were her only source of decent entertainment. The hours of a pathologist, and an assistant to a consulting sociopath, were not conducive to witnessing social entertainment anywhere else.
When is it going to end?
Molly was so tired of it all. Tired of not being able to alter a single thing about her life, not so long as she was under the eagle eyes of one Sherlock Holmes. He noticed everything. Well, that wasn't fair. He actually missed a lot when it came to her, but then again, it was supposed to be that way. She grumbled, tugging at the ugly jumper she had donned that morning. While the thing was hideous, at least it kept her warm in the near frigid environment of the morgue. God, for one day though, she'd like to show up in a scarlet corset and black miniskirt and studded stilettos, just to see what he'd say.
She could feel his eerie blue green stare on her now. 'Good God Molly, so desperate for relations you've resorted to prostitution?'
She actually giggled at the thought then slammed her hand against her forehead.
Christ I need help. Let's get back to focusing on Mr. Morgan here.
She threaded her large hooked needle, intent on wrapping up her first autopsy of the day. She knew she could staple the heavy man back together, but she liked the personal touch and dignity of hand sewn sutures. Besides, she needed to keep up on her trauma skills. One never knew when someone might stumble into her flat, frantically needing her services. God, she wished she was joking!
She had just started stitching up Mr. Morgan's midsection when the main doors slammed open and in strutted the bane—center of her existence. Sherlock's suit coat was unbuttoned, flapping behind him in not quite as an impressive manner as his Belstaff coat would have been, giving her a clear view of the violet dress shirt that looked nearly painted on his lithe form. The missing coat was due to the warm summer weather they were just beginning to experience and the violet shirt…
Automatically, her cheeks began to heat up as her eyes took in his imposing, stalking form. She gulped, pulling her hands away from the corpse, turning all of her attention to the detective. Sherlock's ethereal eyes were gleaming with smugness and Molly had to bite her tongue not to roll her eyes.
He wants something if he's wearing that. Heavens he's predictable!
She let her hands start to shake as he stopped before her. Channeling her inner thirteen-year-old, she looked up at him moonily.
"Molly, dear, you have done something different with your hair."
Oh, God! What did I do? Did I put it in pigtails? Shite!
He cocked his head at her, "I like it."
Touching her side-parted ponytail, she almost breathed a sigh of relief, until her anger flared up.
You liar! Nothing's changed, you just want—
"T..tt..thank you." She stuttered, feeling her cheeks burn hotter with her fury. She hated how false he was!
If only he knew the truth.
Sherlock suddenly frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. Molly blinked up at him, uncomprehending. Just then Dr. Watson hurried in through the doors.
"Afternoon, Mols, I was wondering…blimey! Is that Rob Zombie I hear?" John looked stunned, before grinning, "You got quite the sense of humor girl!"
Molly's mask slipped long enough to show her utter confusion before she listened to the strumming electric guitar and heavy pounding of a piano. She exhaled her breath in a fiery hiss. It was the song House of 1000 Corpses.
"Thanks, John." She quickly unpeeled her gloves, tossed them, and hurried off to shut off her mp3 player. Once in the privacy of her own office, she slammed her hand against her forehead again.
Stupid, stupid! He's never heard you play anything else but classical before! You fool!
While most people would mark her music choices as just an eclectic appreciation of different genres, Sherlock would see it as something out of character for her and therefore suspicious. He was under the impression that he knew her well after all, especially after living with her for a brief time after his 'death'.
She could hear his voice in her head: youngest pathologist to work at St. Bart's. Higher than average level of intellect. Age 31. Single. Cat person. In love with love, romance, anything fluffy and cute. Listened to gentle soothing music and reality telly. Shy, introverted, and insecure. Totally infatuated with him.
She gnawed on her lower lip. She had a job to do and she had not worked three years to blow it all away in this moment. She scuttled out of her office and back to Sherlock, finding him seated at his favorite microscope, fiddling with the settings.
"Ah, yes. Now that we have peace and quiet, fetch me coffee. Black with two sugars." Sherlock effortlessly commanded. Molly just managed to not reach forward and slam his head against the protruding eyepiece of the scope.
"Uh, Molly, you don't need to—" John protested waving at her.
Molly plastered a deliriously happy grin onto her face, "Oh no! It's no problem! Be back in a bit!"
She flew out of the morgue and up the stairs to the cafeteria, counting the number of ways she could murder Sherlock and hide his body. No one would ever know where she had put him, not even Mycroft with 'Her Royal Majesty's great Government' behind him. Even with her helping to 'kill' Sherlock last year, which John had nicknamed 'the Fall' on his blog, no one would think that she had enough brains to pull off his murder solo.
She knew that the rest of her shift was ruined. She would have to stay after she clocked out and work unpaid so she wouldn't have a crappy day tomorrow, otherwise her work would snowball out of control until it ended up being a completely crap week. Sherlock had the look of wasting hours of her time, most of it with her probably expending energy completing menial tasks he viewed as beneath him. Like fetching coffee.
God damn it, why did I agree this? Easy my arse!
She entered the cafeteria and retrieved two cups of coffee, mixing them to Sherlock's and John's preferences. She started back downstairs, grumbling under her breath at the inaccuracy of the notes in the file she had been given. She tried chanting a soothing mantra in her head, but found it impossible to banish her irritation.
I really need to get some sleep.
She reentered the morgue, finding Sherlock peering intently into the ears of Mr. Morgan with a huge magnifying glass. She resisted rolling her eyes up the ceiling in exasperation.
"Molly have you the toxicology report handy?" Sherlock asked before she had even set the cups of coffee down.
Molly handed John his cup, smiling at his quietly muttered thanks, before turning to face the detective.
"Of course. Just a moment." Molly set his cup down and went back to her office. She yanked the file out viciously, imaging it was a head of tousled curly hair instead.
Ohh, if only things were different, Sherlock. Oh, the shock!
She made it back into the morgue and offered him the folder.
"Read it to me."
Her eye twitched fractionally, but she opened the file and started rattling off the columns of data. Sherlock continued to peer into Mr. Morgan's orifices, his gaze slightly glazed. Halfway through the information Molly realized he wasn't paying attention to her. Her jaw snapped shut and she glared without thinking at him.
"Hey, uh…Molly? Mary was wondering if you'd like to have a girls' night out soon?" John asked, catching the death glare on her face before she could control it.
Molly schooled her face into something a little less harsh as she turned to look at John. She liked John. He was a good solid man and Sherlock didn't deserve his unfailing support. She couldn't drag up an ounce of dislike for the former army doctor. If the truth ever came about she was worried the most of the effect it would have on John, especially after Sherlock's disappearing stunt last year. She could deal with Sherlock's loss of trust, because he'd figure her out again, but John's perceptions of the truth had been shattered enough.
She had vowed to be as honest as with him as she possibly could, "That sounds lovely. I'll have to text her."
"Female bonding." Sherlock chuffed, "Please refrain from 'hooking up' with any of the ghastly males Mary points out to you while you both consume enough alcohol for a water buffalo to get tossed. I am tired of constantly reminding you of your poor taste."
The eye twitch was back. John actually paled at the look on Molly's face.
"Sherlock! Do you even listen to yourself?" he croaked.
Molly swung around, slamming her hands on the metal slab that cradled the body of Mr. Morgan. Sherlock leaned back, his eyebrow arched in amusement.
"Enough!" she hissed, glaring up at him, "Get out."
He smirked, "Oh, come now, Molly. I just have your best interests at—"
"If you say 'heart' Sherlock, when you're constantly reminding everyone that you don't have one, I swear to God I will knee you in the bollocks. Now. Get. OUT."
Sherlock blinked down at her, shock flickering over his face. He had pushed her buttons before, but she had never responded so violently before. At least, not out loud.
"Come on Sherlock!" John hurried to gather up Sherlock's things, stuffing them in his satchel.
"Molly?" Sherlock stepped toward her, only to be halted by her hand raising up between them.
"No. I'm done. I have too much work today and not enough energy to put up with your insults. Go harass someone else. You're not welcome here." She stomped over to the other side of the slab and snapped on a clean pair of rubber gloves.
Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, reluctantly letting John pull him out of the morgue by his suit sleeve. He kept his eyes trained on her until the heavy main doors swung closed behind them.
Once she was sure that they were gone, Molly ripped her gloves off again and trudged to her office for some privacy. She plopped her body down into her chair, letting her head fall into her hands.
Way to go genius.
Molly groaned. Her boss was totally going to kill her if she ever found out about the slip up. She wished she was kidding.
It was simply…Molly wasn't in a good place right now. She missed doing things, seeing people. She missed being in the heat of things. She was happy at times with her current set up, but after three years it was just becoming too much to handle. She needed it to change.
She reluctantly stood up, unsure as to how she was going to handle the fallout from her outburst. Maybe she could convince Sherlock that she was pre-menstrual? It might work. She groaned again, reentering her autopsy room to finish up Mr. Morgan. As she put on new gloves, and set to making sure Mr. Morgan looked like he hadn't had his chest split in two, she found herself labeling herself honestly.
Molly Hooper: youngest person to double major in pathology and forensic science from Oxford and work at St. Bart's. Actual age 28. Genius level intelligence. Married to her job. Animal person. In love with the idea of romance, but has a realistic approach to life. Abhors the color pink and now jumpers. Grudgingly in love with one Sherlock Holmes. Damn it.
She jabbed the sewing needle a little bit too harshly between the rubbery flaps of Mr. Morgan's skin. How could she forget to leave out the most important detail?
Molly Hooper: undercover agent for United Front, the world's only private international secret service.