This is for my dear friend Lizzy, who is a huge Sherlolly fan! I tried to make it as fluffy as possible, I just, I dunno about Sherlock's emotional capacity, lmao. LOVE YOU LIZZY. ENJOY.
Monday mornings typically weren't any different for Molly Hooper than any other day of the week, unlike most people. Then again, she wasn't most people. She wore goofy sweaters, experimented with lipstick, and made bad jokes, all while working over dead bodies. And she was chipper, even if awkwardly so, whether it was Friday morning, Wednesday evening, or Sunday afternoon.
But today was an "ugly" Monday, as she liked to call them.
She was already deprived of sleep, up as she'd been nearly all weekend, chaperoning Sherlock in the morgue. He demanded access to bodies at all times of day and night, and she was the only one willing to acquiesce and attend to his…needs, as his cases required.
And then there was her flat, trying to kill her before the sun had even risen.
Molly had undergone a recent foray into the world of organic products. Cleaning products, edible products, toiletries. In her eagerness, she had bought a massive liter-sized bottle of lavender shampoo. The nearly-full bottle had toppled over in the shower this morning, likely in an attempt to sabotage her work week and send her to the organic first-aid aisle. It had landed fully on her toe.
Her subsequent cry of pain accompanied a lunge to nurse the injured appendage, resulting in her slipping and falling in the shower.
When her abused body had regained enough motor skill to make it out of the Shower of Death, Molly dressed with no particular care, grabbing a baggy charcoal-colored cardigan to drape over a coral tank top. It would be replaced with a lab coat anyways, the sweater. Pulling on some black slacks after a cautious sniff – she was really so busy always – she headed for the kitchen, retrieving the screaming kettle she'd put on earlier to steep.
As she grabbed a mug, hefting the kettle to aim its boiling stream into the porcelain cup, the cellphone she'd set on the counter burst into the tones of "Kokomo", startling her into nourishing the entire counter around her with tea instead. Hastily replacing the teapot on the stove, she reached for a kitchen towel, drying her hands before grabbing the phone that was so oblivious to her plight, still ringing and vibrating towards the edge of the counter.
Knowing by the ringtone who the caller was, Molly couldn't repress the grin that crossed her face in spite of the events of the past thirty minutes, swinging the device to her ear and chirping a "good morning!" into the speaker. She was replied with a basic "morning", and the caller started to rattle off how he needed the lab this morning, as soon as she could get there to open it for him, because he had a case and it involved a bet with John as to how fast he could solve it…
Sherlock Holmes' ego knew no bounds, and yet it was a strange ego, one Molly was all-too familiar with. He didn't…preen the way normal people do, but then again, his skills were not something normal people had, and there you had it. So she nodded understandingly, though the other end of the line had no idea she did so, assuring him she would be at the lab within the hour and he would have his usual access. He hung up before she'd even finished her sentence. Unfortunately typical.
Molly slowly lowered the phone, biting her lip in dismay and concentration simultaneously as she tackled the waterfall of tea now flowing off the side of the counter.
When she went to leave her flat, she tripped straight over the threshold, nearly falling flat on her face. It was like the place had expelled her! Straightening her coat and furtively looking around to see if anyone had noticed, she noted with a very small satisfaction that no one was on the landing, at least.
Heading for the tube, she was stopped at the ticket booth, as her rider card had expired. Suppressing a yell of frustration, she obediently went to the clerk and paid for a new one, dashing to reach the next train on time. Entering it, she looked around for a seat desperately; the only two available were one on either side of an older man seated by himself. It looked odd, but she moved forward anyways, perching on the edge of one seat and adjusting her scarf and bag to get comfortable.
After a moment, she realized why the man had been given a wide berth. He was the creepiest bloke she'd seen all week. First his hand starting inching towards her leg, and she was glad she wasn't wearing a skirt, or she'd be fearing for a hemline's life right now. She scooted to the far edge of her seat, as far as she could go without falling off into the aisleway, and looked back to notice he was…petting her scarf, the end that was trailed back across the seat. She wrenched it away, giving him a hopefully-scolding look, but he just grinned widely back, before lowering his gaze to analyze her neckline. Molly let out an exasperated growl, buttoning her coat and abandoning the seat in favor of gripping one of the passenger poles.
When at last she reached St. Bart's hospital, the gray, bleak outer walls were a relief. Visibly relaxing as she made it inside without incident, she headed downstairs towards the morgue and laboratory she spent her days in. As she rounded the corner of a wing that led towards the emergency room, she was broadsided by a stretcher being raced down the hallway, containing a patient shrieking in agony, surrounded by several doctors and nurses.
One of their elbows slammed right into her, propelling her into the wall with an indignant squawk, which turned into a squeal of alarm as she watched her phone sail into the air, be caught by gravity's unrelenting grip, and tumble straight onto the unforgiving linoleum.
It broke apart immediately, and not in the way where the battery merely popped out; the entire backing came off, releasing the battery to skitter across the floor, her chip card flew in the opposite direction, and what looked like an essential part, some sort of mini switchboard, emerged, broken in half.
Molly could only stare for a moment, wondering what she had done to displease the Monday gods so gravely. It was only when an intern rounded the corner, almost running in his haste, and nearly tripped over her, eliciting a harsh reprimand even though she was his superior, that she snapped out of it, nodding acknowledgement and swallowing thickly as she started to gather the broken pieces of her mobile.
When Sherlock Holmes breezed into the morgue, a Petri dish already in his grasp containing a piece of evidence, Molly Hooper was seated at a desk just inside the doors, her head in her hands, uncharacteristically silent. What looked like the shattered remains of a mobile sat in front of her, piled haphazardly. The SIM card was laying to the side, and he glanced at it, then her, blinking as if to catalog the moment, murmuring a greeting, then moved towards his favorite microscope, sliding the evidence under it.
Molly didn't move much, hardly acknowledged the greeting other than to flap a hand limply. That was odd. He glanced at her again, taking in the still-drying pant leg soaked with something, her still-damp hair, and the newly-minted train card sticking out her jacket, flung across the desk as well.
Her lab coat wasn't even on yet, still awaiting her on the hook just inside the door. Her arms were nicely toned, her skin a warm beige; he never saw her in anything as revealing as the tank top she wore, and abruptly averted his eyes, clearing his throat quietly as he focused the microscope's vision.
After several minutes of silence, even Sherlock felt a little awkward, and raised his gaze from the microscope, brow furrowed. "Oh come now, Molly, no use crying over the spilled tea on you…And the expired train card…"
The girl in question finally seemed to rouse, slowly raising her face from the pillowing of her arms. "Maybe I ought to have worn sandals, so you could see the massive bruising on my foot from my shampoo this morning, and too bad there's no burn on my chest from where some creepy older gent this morning was burning his stare into it?"
Sherlock just blinked.
"Can your deducing and your observing fix my mobile, too, Sherlock?" Molly continued, gesturing weakly at the pile of phone innards in front of her. His gaze moved between the phone pieces and her, and for once, Sherlock was confused. What was wrong with Molly Hooper? Had he inadvertently offended her? He hadn't even mentioned her lack of lip-
"Thank god I didn't try the lipstick," Molly groaned suddenly, splaying her hands across her face. When he was still quiet, she parted her fingers, eyeing him. "Never mind me, go back to your case and your solving things with your intellect…" With that, she flung herself to her feet, shrugging on her lab coat with a sigh and moving into the next room to see if any bodies were present or on their way.
It looked like there was nothing on the roster for today, and Molly suppressed a sigh. Much like Sherlock craved his cases, she craved…Well, bodies. Stuff to do. Now she had the horrible morning to mull over and no work to occupy herself with, and the man she fancied was in the next room feeling up her microscope without a care in the world beyond the scrap of fabric he was zooming into under the glass…
Before she knew it she was crying, sniveling miserably and trying to stem her immediately-running nose with the sleeve of her lab coat. Luckily, the doors between the lab rooms were soundproof, and he was absorbed in his cells and molecules anyways. She managed to get the crying under control after a few moments, moving to the sink to wash her hands and face, attempting to straighten her face.
She jumped when the rattling of a door sounded behind her, and Sherlock whizzed through the room, calling that he was finished and would she please leave out body number three that she would be receiving that day. And then he was out the connecting door, leaving it swinging closed in his wake.
That was all? Well, she could be cold and put-together and professional, too. She harrumphed to herself, moving back into the lab and grimacing at her broken phone before sweeping all the pieces into a bin. She'd deal with it later.
An hour and a few pages of paperwork later, there was a buzzing over the intercom. "Molly Hooper? Delivery for you up on the first floor." A crackling signaled the end of the transmission.
Dragging herself to her feet, Molly locked the morgue, cautiously ascending the stairs and reaching the main lobby. A uniformed delivery boy bee-lined for her, proffering a small package and a clipboard. "If you could just sign here…"
"I'm sorry, what's this all about?" Molly raised an eyebrow, staring down at the form she was supposed to sign.
"New mobile. We received a call, were given desired make, model, and your SIM card number, all your info. New card's already installed, too, you just turn on the phone and make a call!"
Dumbfounded, Molly scrawled her signature, and the boy took the clipboard back, tipping his hat to her as she turned to leave. "Oh, and Miss?" She turned back, blinking. "It's courtesy of a Mister Sherlock 'Olmes, Miss."
Molly nodded and smiled her thanks, clutching the package tightly to her chest as she made her way back to the morgue. Figuring she had time, she pulled out the new phone, rebooting it and grinning as she saw it had battery power. And a text message, already, from a message she recognized as Sherlock's.
Saw your SIM number QUITE by accident, was at the mobile store for another reason anyways. Good afternoon, Molly Hooper. – SH
The gruff tone of the text notwithstanding, Molly Hooper's smile could have lit the entire left wing of the hospital for the rest of the day.
Thanks for reading! ~Bon