Rating: K+
Spoilers: Brief mention of events in Series 2 Finale "The Reichenbach Fall"
Summary: Sherlock's busy but Molly needs something from him.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author's Notes: Just something that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it
He sat over the microscope, slides stacked beside him.
"Tan Hua Yi Xian," he muttered to himself. Lifting his gaze from the eyepiece for a moment to allow his mind to process the information, he was aware of the swishing open of the main door.
How would a poor urban youth find himself with remnants of pollen from the so-called Vanishing Flower in the middle of London?
"Sherlock?"
"Where were you?" he continued, ignoring the timid voice.
"Sherlock, I-"
He held up a hand that silenced her immediately. "Busy," he told her absently, tapping his fingers in agitation against the tabletop.
He waited for her to move, to apologise with a cheery smile and be on her way. Instead, uncharacteristically, she stood, silently gathering her courage around her.
Interesting.
"Sherlock, I need you to do something for me."
Immediately, his back straightened and he swivelled around the small stool to finally look at the determined young woman. Molly Hooper never needed him to do anything.
How curious.
He continued to stare at her, and for a moment, her courage seemed to flee her. She flushed a becoming pink and her eyes darted away from him in uncertainty, while her hands twisted together anxiously.
He rolled his eyes letting out a bored sigh. As it turned out, Molly didn't have anything interesting to say after all. She had just wanted to waste some precious seconds of his time.
How dull.
"Well, if that is all, Molly," he dismissed her beginning to turn back towards the instrument when he felt her tug at his arm.
His voice had jolted her into action and, without thinking; she had reached out to grab him, to hold his attention before he ignored her for the rest of the night. He stared down at where she held him before raising a sardonic eyebrow at her. She immediately withdrew her hands guiltily.
She took a deep breath and finally told him what she had promised herself the previous evening to say.
"Sherlock," she began, "Ineedyoutotellmeyoudon'tloveme." It came out in a rush of vowels and consonants and he frowned at her.
She flushed a darker pink, and half smiled at him self-consciously. "I mean, I-I need you t-to tell me you don't love me."
His curiosity and boredom was replaced by complete and utter bafflement. She watched as his eyebrows drew down in confusion, his mouth opening then closing, only to twist in thought. She wondered if this is what it felt like to surprise Sherlock Holmes. And if it did, she felt quite good actually. In addition, his confused face was…adorable!
"I," he started hesitantly, "don't…love you?" he looked at her then for confirmation and she bit her lip.
"Yes, Sherlock, but, um, but could you say it like y-you mean it?"
He'd grown bored of this now. He didn't know what Molly was doing and that annoyed and irritated him. All he knew was that he had better things to do than amuse her or indulge her lovelorn reveries.
"Molly," he told her warningly, ready to scold her for such childish nonsense, but her voice, or rather the slight tremor in it, made him stop.
"Please, Sherlock," she hated that she sounded so pathetic, but she knew she had to do it. She couldn't keep living her life like this, in some fantasy world. She needed the truth. She needed it to finally end so she could get on with her life. It was time to get over Sherlock Holmes.
"I need you to do this for me."
For a second he looked at her, stunned, before his features rearranged themselves into that cool blankness he was so good at using, and his eyes turned into frozen chips of ice. She almost shivered at how quickly they could turn. He carefully stood up and took the few short steps towards her. Reaching out, he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward until he was nearly eyelevel with her.
She could feel her face heating, her eyes widening and her pulse racing furiously.
"Molly Hooper," he said evenly, "I do not love you."
He enunciated each word clearly and precisely. As soon as he had finished he let go of her and straightened to his full height. He watched as her head fell forward, obscuring her face from his view. Her hands tightened and after a second of gathering herself together, she looked back up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears and he knew her throat must have been burning her with the effort of holding them back.
Despite all that, even now, she managed to send him a timid smile and nodded her head. "Thank you, Sherlock."
He nodded stiffly at her and returned to the microscope, his ears unable to avoid the sounds of her leaving the room as quickly as she could, even if his eyes could avoid seeing it.
Within thirty seconds the doors of the lab swung open again, this time with a lot more force than the gentle Dr Hooper used.
"Hello, John," he said without looking up from the fascinating sample.
"You absolute git!" John shouted at him.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, bored, "you have expressed this opinion before."
"What have you done?"
"Well, I have just discovered that our prime suspect has an interest in horticulture and-"
"Jesus, Sherlock!" he interrupted, causing the detective to frown, "not the bloody case. Molly! What have you done to Molly?"
"I haven't done anything to Doctor Hooper."
"Doctor…" John ran a hand through his short hair in frustration, "right, well if you haven't done anything to her why did I just see her run out of here crying then, hmm?"
"Maybe you should have asked her," he replied coolly twisting the adjustment knob.
"In the state she was in?" He got no reply and could feel his anger rise. "Christ, Sherlock," in frustration John pushed the microscope aside and kicked the stool back. "After everything she's done for you." He pointed accusingly at his friend, whose lips tightened into a thin line. "Sherlock, she could have lost her job. She could have gone to jail. Does that mean nothing to you?"
"Of course it does!" he responded angrily, wheeling back towards the bench.
John watched him quietly, and sighed in resignation. "What did you say to her?" he asked quietly.
Sherlock regained his composure, brought the microscope back to its former position, and released the slide from the stage clips.
"I told her exactly what she wanted to hear."
"Really?" John scoffed, pacing up and down behind him.
"Yes, really," his friend replied between clenched teeth.
"Why would she be crying then?"
Sherlock stilled, one hand frozen on another glass slide and his back straightened.
"Because, John, she believed me."