~ North Star ~
Things are not going according to plan.
Admittedly, it's taken him years to understand Molly Hooper's true worth, and it's come to him only by degrees and over torturous paths. She counts, and for a long time her... regard … has been a bright, fixed point in an often chaotic world. His North Star, as it were.
Or would be, if he were the poetic sort. Which he definitely is not.
Yet there have recently been signs that their relationship has reached some tipping point. Her schoolgirl crush is more or less a thing of the past, while his appreciation of her brilliant, slender self has increased to an almost disconcerting degree (though he fancies he's hidden it well enough from everyone, including her).
He studies her now, sitting across from him at the table for two they occupy in the hospital's busy coffee shop. She's the same Molly, with her cheery jumper and pristine lab coat; her hair (shampooed that morning, he can smell the faint scent of orange blossoms and vanilla) pulled back in the ponytail that makes her look so much younger than her thirty-four years. There is the usual telltale color high on her cheeks, too, and agitation in the movements of her fingers as she warms them around her mug of tea (milk, one sugar). Yet there's also a stubborn tilt to her chin, and though her big brown eyes still gaze adoringly (he did wear the aubergine shirt), there's no shyness in them today. On the contrary, there is a disconcerting amusement in their depths.
"Molly, I'm not joking," he says, a little sharply. "The situation is dangerous, even by Mary's standards, and it would be ridiculous for you to get involved when you've no experience or skill in that direction." The amusement is fading fast and he discerns he may have said something to annoy her. He lets a rueful smile touch his lips, and gently adds, "You are so important to me, and to so many. Molly, I just want you to be safe."
She frowns, and tries to read him for a long moment, then suddenly gives it up with an exasperated chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock, what a piece of work you are."
He chuckles, too, and runs his hand through his hair (she likes it when he does that). "I know I'm mucking this up."
"No. You're… you're right. There is some risk involved."
"A great deal of risk. I don't have all the details yet, but… you won't go?"
She sighs. "I'll call Mary when I get off. All right?"
"Good." This has been far easier than he'd feared it would be, and he gives her an approving smile. "Shall I walk you back to the morgue? I've an appointment in half an hour, but I can at least do that."
"Yes, that would be nice," she says, rising.
A few minutes later, she's disappearing into her natural habitat and Sherlock's congratulating himself on a successful intervention. It's not really much of a challenge dealing with someone that sweet and biddable, of course. He knew she'd listen to reason.
Molly Hooper, Girl Detective.
He gives a small snort of laughter at the absurdity of it, derisive, but… fond . Yes, actually. Quite fond.