Hey y'all!
I'm back with another quick little Sherlolly drabble . . . yes, they are my newest fixation :P
I adore this couple and all of the tension between them! They're just lovely! I wouldn't mind if nothing overly romantic ever became canon because it wouldn't exactly seem right. But I also wouldn't mind another steamy kiss either ;)
Anywho! Hope you like! Let me know in the comments if I should write more Sherlolly, how I'm doing with their characters, or whatever you want to say, dearies.
XOXO,
OceansAria
His eyes, a vivacious mixture of sea foam and gold, were turned quizzically upward at the outer edges, as if he were always in a state of either smugness or exhilaration. The severely sharp Cupid's bow of his upper lip was a stark contrast to the flat outline of his equally full lower lip. Both rosy, both pursed in—yes, she could see it now—smugness. Polished, dark mahogany curls dappled over his forehead and the top of his coat's high collar at the nape of his neck. His cheekbones were high and haughty; his unblemished porcelain skin held naught a sign of acne in adolescence.
Had she not shook his outstretched hand and felt the warmth of his flesh through his leather glove, Molly would have thought him a life-sized doll.
"I'm Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you." She had to lick her lips just to get it out, for her mouth had gone dry from gaping so long. A blush bloomed over her cheeks; surely, he thought her a fool already.
The faintest polite smile passed over his lips. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Mike said you wanted to take a look-see at some bodies?" Stuffing her hands in her lab coat pockets, she tried to stop the urge to tap her foot or play with her hair. His scrutinizing gaze did nothing to calm her rattled nerves.
"Yes."
"Then I'm your girl." She giggled, though it sounded more like a gurgle. "I-I mean, not your girl, that sounds silly! Just the right pathologist—"
Sherlock's gaze narrowed further. "If you could lead the way to the morgue, please, Dr. Hooper." (Though he knew the way by memory, he simply wanted to end her babbling before it began.) "That would be marvelous."
Was it even possible for her blush to burn hotter?
"Oh! Yes, yes, of course. Sorry."
Turning on the heel of her loafer, Molly took off determinedly in the opposite direction towards their destination. The hairs on the back of her neck and along her spine rose hearing his clipped, yet soft footfalls not far behind. Catlike, she thought. Once they arrived, she busied herself with pulling out the corpses for the detective and then showing him the paperwork for each, though he seemed to have no need for it or her help.
Sherlock was swift in his examinations, muttering to himself and not bothering to take a single note. He sniffed and poked and swiped. The longer Molly watched, the more questions she had, but she only posed one.
"So. How'd you land such a peculiar job, Mr. Holmes?"
"Sherlock," he mumbled, peering at the crease of one dead man's elbow.
"Pardon?"
"I prefer Sherlock. And the story behind that question isn't all that engrossing, Dr. Hooper."
Molly jotted down something on her clipboard. "You can call me Molly, then. If you want to be on a first name basis. Since Mike's moved back upstairs with his work, I guess we'll be seeing each other some."
"Molly," Sherlock emphasized with a click of his tongue. He had finished with the second cadaver and moved now to the third. He never once glanced up. "Tell me, Molly, was it cancer?"
She froze, just barely managing to squeak out: "What?"
"Your father's demise. Fairly recent due to the state of that hideous jumper you're wearing—possibly one of his you wear out of sentiment, as well as the oversized, tarnished watch on your left wrist. There's circles under your eyes and by the state of your jeans, you've lost weight, not to mention the way your shoulders slump in a from your exhaustion. He's only been gone a year or less if you're still trying to indulge yourself in sentimental items as a comfort. So, was it cancer? Or another nasty disease? Certainly it wasn't as sudden as an accident or you wouldn't be as put-together as you are so soon after."
All throughout his tone had been clipped, devoid of emotion, to the point. Like an arrow or a bullet. Lethal.
Molly sputtered, stopped herself, and turned her back to hide the tears threatening to run down her overheated cheeks. "I-I've heard about you being good at deducing people but—" she spun back to face him, her clenched fists quivering.
He had straightened from bending over the final body, posture impeccable and his eyes —those spectacularly curious eyes—once again slitted, causing for her to flinch away. She rubbed at the watch on her wrist for courage.
"That was kind of blunt don't you think?"
"Would you rather I sugarcoated it?" He retorted, quick as a whip.
Molly shook her head hastily. "No, no, I guess not." She set aside her clipboard. The trembling had spread from her hands to her elbows and knees. "Do you . . . do you always deduce people to their faces? Even if you hardly know them?"
Sherlock smirked, stepping closer. He bent slightly forwards—as if this entire interaction was made to intimidate her, to make her feel belittled.
"How would I get to know people otherwise, Molly?"
The detective was gone with a flap of his coat and a click of his heels on the tile before she could find the correct reply. Possibly because she didn't have one—or possibly because the detective's goal was to leave her utterly speechless. Thoughts of the mysterious man would bother Molly until his next visit, and she knew it would be a long time before she had a good enough comeback to mute Sherlock Holmes.