A/N Written for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017, Day 1: First Meeting. Enjoy!
It's not in the morgue, the way everyone would expect. It's not in the Path Lab either; in fact, it's not at Bart's at all.
They meet for the first time at NSY. He's consulting on a case for DI Lestrade, whom Molly has only known for a week, whereas Sherlock's known him for almost two years. Molly's briefing Greg on some evidence she'll be giving at an upcoming murder trial, when an unfamiliar - but absolutely dazzling - stranger pokes his head into the detective inspector's office. "Lestrade," he says in a peremptory tone, "when you're done with your anatomy and physiology lesson, I've solved that petty little case you asked me to help you with." He flashes Molly an insincere smile. "Do yourself a favor and don't let him flirt with you, miss; he and his wife are sure to reconcile within a month, if their past is anything to go by. Congratulations on your recent promotion, Lestrade probably already said that and if he didn't, well…" He gives a brief shrug, starts to duck out, then pops back in again. "Oh, and you might consider changing your cat's diet; clearly the canned stuff you're feeding him now is making his hairballs worse, not better."
Molly just stares at him, the barrage of rapid-fire words washing over her while she tries to gather her scattered thoughts. By the time she's opened her mouth to say something, he's already gone, the door closed firmly behind him. She blinks, opens and closes her mouth a few times, then turns back to stare at Greg in utter bemusement.
"Yeah, he's always like that," he says with a wry grin. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting git, the one and only." The grin fades into a hint of a scowl as he adds, "As for me and the wife…" He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. "He's probably right. Which is the only reason I'm not asking you out for coffee when we're done."
"Right, that's fine, it's okay," Molly replies distractedly. She's far too busy wondering how Sherlock Holmes had known about her problems with Toby's diet and her promotion. Maybe Greg told him?
But when she starts to ask, Greg just raises a hand and shakes his head. "No, I didn't tell him a bloody thing about you, Molly. He did all that on his own. Next time you see him - and I'm positive you'll see him again - you can ask him about it."
"Wh-what makes you think I'll see him again?" Molly asks, feeling a blush rising and cursing herself for it.
Greg gives her a friendly - but pitying - smile. "Because he didn't deduce anything negative about you, cat puke notwithstanding. And he didn't just ignore you, pretend you weren't even here. Which means he's either interested in you as a person - not likely, sorry, he's not actually interested in anyone as a person - or he's interested in you because of your skills. By now he'll have looked up your uni records and work history and God knows what else and decided if he's going to grace you with his presence at some unknown time in the future."
That 'unknown time' turns out to be exactly three days later, when Sherlock barges into the St. Bart's morgue for the first time, dark coat flaring dramatically behind him, scarf fluttering at his throat, black leather gloves covering his hands. "Doctor Hooper," he announces with a wide grin, "I understand you recently completed the autopsy on one Myrtle Bainbridge. Might I have a look at the results?" His grin widens. "It's for a case, Lestrade will confirm it if you call him."
She calls it love at first sight when she blogs about it later that night, but it's so much more than that - it's a hopeless, lifelong adoration of him based as much on his dazzling intellect as his gorgeous face, fit body and to-die-for head of dark curls.
It may take seven long years and the manipulations of a madwoman before they declare their love for one another, but Molly always contends that it was well worth the wait.
And Sherlock, holding her close their first night together, gives his complete agreement.