Answer Me

A/N: Dear Readers, as it turned out, the plot bunny fairy was not absent for very long. Hope you'll enjoy. ;-)


Chapter 1

Swiftly and neatly, Molly zipped up the body bag. The woman had been younger than herself, yet older looking, chubby, with stretchmarks that spoke of childbirth and lines on her face that bore witness to hard work or heartache or both. Molly couldn't help thinking of her own trim little body under the layers of clothes. If she died tomorrow, would it tell the story of a life only half lived?

It was her birthday, and she didn't really want to think about her age. Closer to forty than to thirty, yet no closer than ten years ago to anything that could be called fulfilment. She had few friends, because she worked unsociable hours in a job that didn't exactly fill people with warm and happy thoughts. The job itself was, pun intended, a dead end, unless she was willing to go into research which simply … didn't suit her. She'd lost both her parents; her sister lived in Australia and had made her the aunt of two little boys whom she had only seen a handful of times. She'd been engaged and then un-engaged and she couldn't even regret that anymore.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock.

Her engagement had fallen through exactly at the time when she realised that she would never be able to excise Sherlock from her heart. She had resigned herself to perpetual futile pining and being content with a vague and unreliable friendship, though for a while it had looked as if this friendship was warming and shaping up into something almost like more-than-friendship. There had been hugs. There had been snuggling on the sofa in front of the telly. There had been sleepovers and spooning. Most importantly, there had been a sense that they understood each other. A sense that there was a We which was more than a grammatical phenomenon.

And then that had happened.

John had explained it to her afterwards. Greg had explained it, even though he hadn't been there. Even Mycroft had considered it necessary to elaborate. Only Sherlock had shrugged it all off as if it was nothing at all. He'd asked her the most bizarre question.

"Do we need to make changes?"

What kind of question was that to ask? After what had happened, how could there not be changes?

"Yes, we can't go on like before," she had replied, rather tersely.

He had looked at her, lips narrow. He'd said, "Very well," and turned round and left.

That was six weeks ago. Since then they'd been … polite. The sleepovers, the hugs, it all stopped. They barely met outside the morgue. Sherlock made a point of saying please and thank you and observing all social niceties, and it made the chasm between them feel as vast and cold as outer space. A few times Molly had considered bringing up the topic and asking if they could at least have some kind of friendship again. But in the end she decided that she simply couldn't cope with any more rejection. And so here she was, on her birthday, working the early shift and having nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day. It was just like Christmas.

Five minutes before the end of her shift, her text alert sounded.

I have a question to ask you. SH

Trust his timing!

Will it take long? I'm about to go home. MH

I know. SH

Okay, let's hear it. MH

The answer can only be yes or no. SH

A game again? She wasn't in the mood. Then again, what else did she have to do with her time?

All right then. MH

I like your morbid jokes. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH

What the heck? Where did that come from? Don't make jokes, Molly. He'd certainly made it very clear that he didn't find her the least bit funny. Mind you, that was all a while ago. More recently he had laughed a few times at her awkward quips. Even thrown in the occasional pun of his own. So…?

Yes or no? SH

Yes, I guess. MH

No guessing. Straight yes or no. SH

What are you on about? MH

Just say yes or no. You won't regret it. Provided you give the right answer. SH

Oh, whatever.

Yes. MH

Excellent. Now go and look under the bench in the locker room. SH

Why? MH

Just look. SH

Molly shrugged and went to the locker room. Tucked behind a leg, flat up against the wall was a white plastic bag. She looked inside and found a box of artisan chocolates. They weren't wrapped, but a gift tag was attached to the lid:

That was the correct answer. I think your morbid humour is sweet like the contents of this box. Enjoy your birthday. Sherlock

The plastic bag rustled as Molly sat down on the bench. She did a brief reality check, but it seemed she was awake. Just fancy that. Sherlock had remembered her birthday and tried to do something, well, something sweet. It was quite a shock. She had to let it settle for a bit. What was she supposed to do now? Oh, yes, text.

Thanks for the chocolates. It's appreciated. MH

We're not finished yet. I have another question. SH

And that is? MH

Same rules as before. SH

Okay. MH

I like your hair whichever way you part it. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH

The way she parted her hair? It was a very long time ago that that had been a topic of conversation between them. Was Sherlock having a bout of sudden-onset nostalgia? Never mind, she could easily believe that Sherlock didn't give a toss about which way she parted her hair, so she replied:

Yes. MH

Well done. There is a parcel for you at the hospital reception. SH

"Oh yes," said the receptionist, a kindly old gent, when Molly asked. "Your young man left this here earlier."

Before she could protest against "your young man," Molly found herself holding a small bundle of silvery tissue paper. The gift tag read:

You are right. I think your hair is always delightful. However, the hairbands you use to hold it together are less delightful. Here's a suggestion for how to amend this situation: Open the present. Do it now. Sherlock

For a moment she wondered whether the parcel contained a pair of scissors as a not too subtle hint that she should get a practical haircut. She considered dumping it in her bag and at least seek the privacy of her home before opening it. But the gift tag said to do it now, and Molly had an ingrained habit of following instructions. So she did it there and then.

It was a large oval hair clasp in green, gold and turquoise enamel, depicting irises and dragonflies. The style was reminiscent of William Morris designs she had seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Nothing Molly owned could match this hair clasp for beauty. She had to sit down again.

"Are you all right, Dr Hooper?" asked the receptionist.

"Yes, fine, thank you." She gave a nervous laugh. "It's my birthday."

"Oh, many happy returns."

"Thanks." She stared at the hair clasp in awe. It was far too lovely, far too sophisticated to be hers. And Sherlock – Sherlock! – had given it to her. And he was probably waiting for her response.

Thank you so much. This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given to me. You really shouldn't have! MH

That makes no sense. SH

What do you mean? MH

If nobody has ever given you anything so beautiful, surely it means that I SHOULD have? SH

I suppose. She hesitated, then added: Do you want to come over for coffee? MH

No, thanks. SH

Well, it was worth a try. Two gifts from Sherlock was already two more than she had expected, so it would have been unreasonable to wish for more.

Thank you again. MH

My pleasure. SH

She left the hospital and turned to the right. When she had almost reached her bus stop, a new text alert sounded.

You're going the wrong way. SH

How so? And how do you know which way I'm going? Are you watching me? MH

No. Simple logic. You can't be going the right way, because I haven't told you yet what the right way is. SH

You speak in riddles. MH

Indeed I do. Are you ready for question 3? SH

I didn't expect a question 3! MH

Are you ready for it? SH

Okay. MH

I prefer you without lipstick, because I like you just the way you are. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH

Right. She felt fairly certain that Sherlock had never seen Bridget Jones's Diary, therefore he wasn't doing a Mark Darcy impersonation. So when he said he liked her just the way she was, it could only be because he … meant it? And what did he mean by it? That he didn't think of her as glamorous, feminine or desirable, but as his down-to-earth, practical, no-nonsense pal? (But the hair clasp…?) Oh, what the hell, she was going to play along.

Yes. MH

Good girl. Swing by at Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan should be on shift. SH

Sally Donovan? Wasn't she the grouchy officer who had it in for Sherlock? Oh, well, it was clearly an evening of surprises. Molly made her way to the Mansion House underground station and got on the District Line.

It began to drizzle when she reached the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. When she asked to see Detective Sergeant Donovan, she was required to state her business.

"Um, personal?"

"Just a moment." The desk officer picked up the phone. "Sally? I have a Dr Hooper here, wants to see you? – All right." He nodded at Molly. "She's coming down in a minute."

True enough, after barely a minute, Sally strode into the room.

"Hi, doctor. Happy birthday. Freak wants you to have this." She held out a box, properly gift-wrapped in marbled turquoise paper with a gold ribbon. Molly thanked her, took it and read the tag:

Right again! See for yourself how delightful you are. Sherlock

Molly opened the flap of her handbag.

"Hey! Aren't you going to open it?" cried Sally.

"Um, right here?" Molly had little desire to let Sally see the gift, whatever it might be. But the policewoman stood there arms akimbo, practically blocking the door.

"Yes, go ahead. Freak said so."

"His name is Sherlock," mumbled Molly as she removed the wrapping paper. The box, covered in turquoise linen, opened like a book. Inside lay a hand mirror in an Art Nouveau silver frame. The handle was the elongated body of a woman, holding up the glass that was entwined in tendrils of her rose-studded hair. If the hair clasp had been beautiful, the mirror was breath-taking. It appeared to be a real antique.

"Freak seems to think the world of you," said Sally, not unkindly.

Molly saw herself blushing in the mirror. "Oh, no, it's just…we're good friends."

"Yeah, sure."

The text alert sounded.

"I need to go," said Molly. "Thanks."

Out in the street, she read the text.

Don't get involved in any chit-chat with Sally. You have more questions to answer. SH

Sherlock, I think it's really quite enough! That mirror must have cost a fortune! MH

Poppycock. Next question. I think everything about you is just the right size. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH

Have you thought this game through, Sherlock? I'm hardly going to say no if I already know I'm getting a present for saying yes. MH

I am working on the assumption that you are a thoroughly honest person. So, do you believe me, yes or no? SH

Yes. MH

Good. Go to John's house. There is a small parcel taped to the underside of the windowsill. SH

On my way! Mx

She was halfway down the escalator to the tube when she realised that she'd signed off her text with the old friendlier greeting. The other thing she noticed was that she was smiling. If Sherlock was sending her on a trail hunt around London, she was up for it. Even without the prospect of presents, it was preferable to sitting at home staring at the few birthday cards she'd received. She was having fun. Better still, she was having fun with Sherlock, albeit long-distance. It was a great improvement on the last few weeks. Best not to ask at this point whether there was anything more serious behind this than a whimsical birthday surprise.

She found the present, a tiny black lacquered carton smaller than the gift tag attached to it.

Full marks, Molly! I think small is beautiful and everything about you is just the right size. Except for one thing that's way too large. What is that? Open the present to find out. Sherlock

Molly raised her eyebrows. Was this where he would revert to snide remarks? What was it about her that was too large? Objectively, all parts of her anatomy were on the dainty side. What then? Her expectations? Her delusions? She turned the parcel over in her hands. It was really very small, barely more than an inch squared. She could easily claim she hadn't found it or it hadn't been there; she could go home and drop it on her way somewhere and just enjoy her three unexpected presents without the sting that seemed bound to follow.

It has occurred to me that the wording on the tag might be somewhat unfortunate. Please don't let that put you off. SH

Molly glanced around. Was he watching her? Where there cameras? Or was it just deduction?

It's nothing about you personally that is too large, just something you once wore. SH

Without further agonising, she lifted the lid – and laughed.