Molly Hooper always took the train to a stop that's twenty minutes walking time to St. Bart's Hospital. She always enjoyed her walks from the train stop to work. Lately, there's been this strange man, clad in a Belstaff coat, that is ALWAYS three steps ahead of her. The man constantly beats her to the street corner, as the light always stops her from going ahead. It's been like this for the past two months and Molly had no idea where he came from. He seemed to have been going towards the hospital all the time but he's out of her sight long before she reaches work.
The more this went on, the more she noticed about the strange man. His head was covered in a mop of wild, onyx curls and he wore a blue scarf with his everyday ensemble of a suit, dress shoes and Belstaff. She never got to see his face clearly, but that just made the mystery of him more alluring. Sometimes, at night, she'd dream of him and what she imagined he might look like but nothing ever looked quite right. It didn't take long before Molly Hooper realized she fancied this random stranger who's possibly a psychotic stalker. Shaking the thoughts from her head, she listened to what her gut was telling her, firmly believing that whoever the man was, he had a good heart.
One morning, she decided that she would talk to him on her way to work; get to know him. As she stepped off the train, Molly scanned the crowd to locate him but he was nowhere to be found. Just my luck, she thought. She was nearly tripping over her feet, spilling some of her coffee when the mystery man ran past her, Belstaff coat billowing behind him. He slowed to a stop and turned to face her. Molly noticed how beautiful his eyes were, shades of icy blue and sea green depending on how the light hit them. He had pronounced cheekbones and full lips that she couldn't help but imagine kissing. She snapped out of her daydream when she heard his rich baritone voice speak to her.
"I've been winning for two months, can't stop now! Have a good day, see you tomorrow!" He exclaimed. It was at that moment, Molly knew that she would have to start wearing running shoes to work if he wanted to play that game.
The next day, Molly was prepared to have a proper conversation with him. She saw him ahead of her like always, but this time she ran ahead of him causing the light to stop him from getting to the street corner. She waited there until he could walk across, a playful smile gracing his lips.
"Now that I've won, you owe me a conversation, Mister –" Molly faltered.
"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes," he replied with a smirk. "I'm a consulting detective. I'll humor you for a bit. Your name?"
"Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's," she answered with a bounce in her step.
"Molly. Hooper," Sherlock said, drawing out her name slowly as if trying to see how it felt on his tongue. He liked it. "Well, Molly Hooper, how about I make it up to you and buy you a coffee tomorrow?"
"That would be lovely, thank you," Molly smiled. Sherlock began to round the corner away from her but not before a parting word.
"I will see you again tomorrow, Miss Hooper," Sherlock told her. "Just know that I will win tomorrow; the race and, hopefully, your heart." He turned away, satisfied with how things went. Molly stood there dumbfounded. He fancied her. Well today IS a good day, she thought before heading towards St. Bart's.