Sherlock Holmes Has a Crush
(I do not own any part of BBC's Sherlock. Also, this is my first fic!)
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is feeling very strange indeed. Convinced he's dying, he consults his best friend and doctor, John Watson, who gives him some startling news.
He couldn't remember when it all started. It must have been between the Vanishing Zoo and the Ice Cream Truck Murderer. Or maybe it was the Case of the Evil Twin?
All Sherlock knew was that he was miserable. Even with no case in sight, he had no appetite. When he tried to sleep, all he could do was toss and turn. Worst of all, his impenetrable mind appeared to be losing function, and at a disturbing pace.
Try as he might, Sherlock just couldn't shake this horrible feeling that something was wrong with him. Sitting in the empty morgue at St. Bart's hospital, he stared dejectedly into a human cornea specimen, unable to focus on his experiment. Suddenly, the morgue door was pushed open and a slight body entered, carrying a bowl undoubtedly filled with organs of some sort.
"Oh, hello, Sherlock," breathed a small voice. Molly Hooper. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat in his chest. She passed behind him, brushing against his back as she moved to sit across from him at the table. Donning a pair of goggles, she set to work dissecting a heart.
"Hello, Molly," he replied, mouth dry. He glanced up at her over his microscope, noting the small smile on her face, and the way her green jumper made her skin look so pale and creamy…he shook himself. He needed help. He snatched his mobile phone out of his pocket.
Dr. John Watson was just settling into his chair with a nice cuppa when he saw the screen on his mobile phone flash. A text. Need your professional opinion, it read in Sherlock's usual, clipped rolled his eyes. Sherlock Holmes needed his professional opinion like he needed a stick in the eye. Another flash. Meet me at Bart's. Bring your bag. What on earth? Why would Sherlock need his medical bag? Please come. It was the please that got him. Sherlock never said please. Oh, why not, he thought, Mary's gone visiting her friend, no reason to sit around here all day. With a heavy sigh, John set down his mug, grabbed his coat and medical bag, and headed out the door.
It was a ten-minute walk to Bart's from his and Mary's flat, and all the while he wondered what Sherlock could possibly need his "professional opinion" for. He wasn't on any case that John knew about (at least, he hadn't been lured into any lately), and Sherlock rarely consulted him about experiments. He mused all the way up the steps, down the halls, and through the large double doors of the morgue.
Silence greeted him. Glancing about he spied Molly, hunched over a body on a nearby examination table, scalpel in hand. Sherlock, at the microscope across the room, occasionally raised his eyes to watch her. They both looked up when he entered. Molly smiled sweetly, waving a blood-stained gloved hand before turning back to her body. Sherlock jumped to his feet, his expression unreadable, and strode toward John. He grasped his arm and without a single word pulled him back out of the room.
"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!" John demanded, wrenching his arm from Sherlock's grip. The detective stilled and sighed deeply.
"John, I think there's something wrong with me," Sherlock said slowly. "I've been feeling terrible for weeks now, and I'm…well, I'm worried that it may be serious"
John took a moment to observe his best friend's appearance. He hadn't seen the detective in about a month, and what he saw startled him. The lanky man was looking thinner than usual – his cheekbones looked sharper than ever, and his normally perfectly-tailored clothes looked a size too big. His already fair skin was nearly ghost-white, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. Dark circles adorned his eyes. He looked like hell, John decided. He pulled Sherlock into the nearest empty room and set down his bag. He was Dr. Watson now, and his friend wanted (and apparently needed) his help.
John instructed his friend to sit and, notepad in hand, asked Sherlock to describe his symptoms. Insomnia. Lack of appetite. Inability to concentrate. Heart palpitations. More-than-usual-Sherlock moodiness. Perplexed, John got out his medical instruments and proceeded to examine the world's only consulting detective.
After nearly twenty minutes of thorough inspection (who knows the last time Sherlock had a physical), John was stumped. Sherlock seemed perfectly healthy, considering how little he ate and slept on a regular basis. He was just about to inquire about Sherlock's illicit drug use when there came a knock on the door. Molly Hooper popped her head in moments later, peering curiously at Sherlock, on the examination table, and John, sitting before him.
"Oh!" she breathed, "sorry to interrupt!"
"It's fine, Molly," John assured her. He turned back to see Sherlock looking very strange indeed. The man's previously pale complexion was now tinged pink, flushed, and his chest appeared to be rising and falling rapidly.
"Sherlock," Molly continued, "I'm heading home now. If you need anything else, Dr. Daniels can help you."
"Oh…yes," Sherlock's voice was hoarse. "Thank you, Molly." He was unable to look up at her, choosing instead to pick at his cuticles.
Molly smiled once more, thinking nothing of his unusual behavior, and wished them both a good evening. She hoisted her bag higher over her shoulder and shut the door behind her. John continued to watch Sherlock. When the detective met his gaze, the doctor noted dilated pupils.
Can it be? John thought, could this be what I think it is? He turned his focus back on his patient, who sat on the table looking quite somber.
"So, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, "Do you know what's wrong with me?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I believe I do," he answered.
"Well?"
"Sherlock, I think you have a crush" Sherlock's eyebrow twitched inquisitively.
"A crush? Is that some sort of infection?" John chuckled.
"No, Sherlock," he began, "I think you have a crush. On Molly Hooper."
"John…" Sherlock said slowly, "If you're mocking me, I don't appreciate-"
John shook his head and sighed. For a genius, Sherlock Holmes could be incredibly thick.
"Sherlock, trust me. There is nothing physically wrong with you. I noticed it when Molly walked in" At the mention of her name, Sherlock blushed. "Ah ha! See, you're blushing. The moment she walked in your breathing changed and your eyes dilated"
Sherlock sat, a strange sensation taking over. Him? A crush? On Molly Hooper, no less. Even just thinking about his pathologist sent an uncomfortable flutter into his stomach. Could it be true that he, a high-functioning sociopath, could have…feelings…for another human being?
He had been having queer thoughts about Molly for a while now. He had begun noticing when she smiled (frequently), what she smelled like (vanilla), what colors she looked best in (it was a tie between emerald green and a burgundy red). He found himself taking the time to answer her, even just to say hello or thank her for her help. He never stopped to think that it could mean anything; he just assumed he was getting better at the whole human-interaction thing. He looked to John, his mind racing with implications.
"Does your heart skip a beat when she walks in the room?" John asked sagely. "Does her smile give you butterflies in your stomach?"
"Yes" Sherlock whispered. He was trembling. His hands were shaking. He was on the verge of something, he could feel it.
"What else?" John encouraged, watching as his best friend, his best man, felt his heart for the first time. Sherlock swallowed hard.
"She creeps into my thoughts," he admitted, "I…like… it when she brushes up against me when she's working"
"And…?" John breathed.
"I want to feel her little hand in mine," Sherlock nearly sobbed, his heart so full of unknown emotion. "I want to kiss her!"
Sherlock buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of desire and frustration. His heart ached, his stomach twisted. Everything he ever believed he was, everything he ever thought he knew, was crumbling. He was left a man undone. Never in his life had he felt like this. He had never been attracted to anyone. He had never felt that if he couldn't feel someone's touch he would simply die. He had never felt so helpless, weakened by his own heart.
John watched. To anyone else, having a crush was simply that – it happened, and you either did something with it or you didn't. But to Sherlock, who had never felt this way for anyone in his 33 years on planet earth, who had never experienced love or lust or heartache, this was massive. John stood and moved to Sherlock's side, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock didn't flinch or push him away. Instead, he sagged into John, a man weary and desperate for help.
"What do I do, John?" Sherlock whispered, "What am I supposed to do?" John smiled down at his friend.
"Do you want her?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes.
"In ways I don't even understand" he blushed.
"Then you, my friend, are going to ask Molly Hooper out on a date"
The next day, Sherlock strode into Bart's hospital with one thing on his mind – to ask Dr. Molly Hooper out on a date. According to John, this was the first step. He should know, Sherlock figured. John had undoubtedly more experience in this area than him. Leaving his flat, Sherlock had felt confident – he and John had stayed up late planning what he would say, how he would say it, even what he would wear. Now that he was quickly approaching his target, he was beginning to doubt. What if she said no? What if she didn't believe him, after all the years he spent ignoring and mocking her? What if she didn't feel that way about him anymore?
Sherlock slowed to a stop at the large double doors of the morgue. He could hear the clanging of instruments and what sounded like soft humming. Molly. His heart leaped, and suddenly he felt jittery. This was it. With a deep breath, he pushed his way into the morgue.
She sat at the table, transcribing notes from her most recent autopsy. When she saw Sherlock, she paused her tape-recorder and smiled up at him.
"Morning Sherlock, you're here early" she said. She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for his newest request for some body part.
"Yes…um…I needed to…" Sherlock stammered, "I wanted to talk to you" he flushed.
"Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?" she asked, concerned about his unusual behavior.
"I'm quite alright, Molly," he said, her name a thrill on his lips. "I, um, Iwaswonderingifyouwantedtohavedinner" he rushed out before losing his nerve. Her smile faltered.
"Sorry, what was that?" Sherlock sighed.
"Molly, would you like to have dinner? With me? Tomorrow night?" he waited with bated breath.
"Like a date?" she asked carefully. She had plenty of reason to believe he didn't mean it like that. On three separate occasions she had thought he was asking her out. On two separate occasions she had asked him out, and he didn't even notice.
"Yes, like a date" he answered.
"What changed your mind?" she inquired softly.
She looked back down at her work. She didn't want to get too excited just yet, but the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering like mad. When Sherlock hesitated, she glanced up at him. He was biting his lip, his eyes fixed on his wringing hands. He looked like a scared little boy, she thought.
"Sherlock?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just walked into the morgue one day and saw you. Really saw you. You were wearing that green jumper and you had your hair in plaits. And my heart skipped a beat"
Molly was silent, just watching him. She had never seen him look so earnest. She had never heard his voice so gentle. Pinch me, she thought, I'm dreaming.
"I realize that I've been horrid to you for so long, Molly," his voice faltered, his brows furrowed. "Even after everything you've done for me. I cannot express how sorry I am. I never knew, Molly, I never saw. But I see now, and I've never felt this way about anyone, ever." Sherlock blushed.
He didn't like being vulnerable, and he certainly didn't like admitting that he was uncomprehending in some areas. But he didn't sense pity in Molly's sweet smile. All he could see was tenderness and, more importantly, hope.
"What do you say, Molly?" he asked, "Will you let me make it all up to you with dinner?"
"I don't know," she said slowly, causing his heart to stop momentarily. "It may take more than one date to make up for it all. I did help fake your death and all". She grinned up at him and he laughed, releasing the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.
"So, Angelo's at 7?" he asked shyly. She smiled a bright, jubilant smile.
"I'll meet you there"