Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. This plot-bunny grabbed me and wouldn't go away, will post the other half over the weekend if I can.
~ BEST SERVED COLD ~
She comes to him two days into the new year, and four days after he has ended Moriarty for good.
It is also exactly five months since she last spoke to him- Not that Sherlock's counting.
She knocks shyly, enters with no more than a murmured, "hello." Looks up to check that John is present- as she requested- and reacts with visible relief when she sees that he is. The doctor comes forward, takes her coat and offers her some tea as Sherlock watches impassively; he's not sure what he expected but her hurried, shy greeting is rather less than he wanted and the thought brings an unwelcome lurch of… something to his chest.
Not, he thinks, that he'll be focussing on that now. It wouldn't be prudent.
Especially since Molly Hooper has asked him to take a case for her, and especially when he knows that any fondness she may have had for him is long gone, destroyed that day in Bart's when she slapped his face.
The thought of it still smarts slightly.
So he dismisses his feelings, watches through narrow eyes as she scurries over to the lit fire, setting herself uneasily onto 221B's "client's couch," while John prattles on from the kitchen. She holds her hands in front of the flames, warming them and nodding in acknowledgement of his words though she won't look at Sherlock at all.
Every so often she bites her lip, rubbing her hands absent-mindedly together even though it's clear that they should be warm now.
Her shoulders are hunched, body language stiff and Sherlock silently berates himself for noticing even that much.
After a moment Watson re-enters with a tray and sets it on the table, begins pouring tea for himself, Sherlock and Molly. As he does so he throws in every more inane little facts about the new baby, about Mary and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and it belatedly occurs to Sherlock that he's trying to set Molly at her ease. Sherlock can't see why he's bothering: Molly Hooper's hardly in unknown territory in this flat. And judging by her lack of makeup, her dowdy slacks-and-jumper outfit and her scraped-back, barely brushed hair she hasn't exactly made an effort to be here either. In fact, going merely by the bags under her eyes and the clammy, pale look of her skin she's still trying to work off the effects of the Christmas season's excesses, a notion supported by the grateful way she clasps her teacup and wraps her hands around it, letting it steady their shaking-
He's just about to ask her how long her hangover's lasted when he feels an elbow dig into his ribs, turns to shoot John an annoyed look.
Don't be a wanker, his best friend mouths at him. Say hello to her.
More to annoy John than anything else, he elects to ignore that advice.
Instead, he dives right in.
"So, Molly," he says crisply, and if there's an edge to his voice then he certainly won't admit to it. "What can we do for you? You said you had a case for us?"
And he leans back in his chair, looks at her appraisingly. Makes it clear that he's not convinced she has anything worthy of his immense talents and miniscule professional time.
As often happens she reddens under his scrutiny but this time- This time she doesn't look back at him. Doesn't blink or stammer or even smile.
No, her eyes skitter over to the fire, stay there, fixed on the blackened grate.
She opens her mouth to speak- once, twice- before turning her attention back to her wringing hands.
"I have a matter which requires some… delicacy," she says after a moment. Two high spots of red appear on her cheeks, surprisingly noticeable despite the fire's heat.
Again, her hands wring together.
"Oh?" Sherlock inquires archly. "And what might that be?"
Molly winces as he speaks and the detective viciously squashes some small, shrill bloom of sentiment within him. She's the one who hasn't been in contact, she's doesn't get to go and make him… feel things when she hasn't tried. But he can't help the thrill of sentiment her reaction elicits him, something which in another man would be characterised as regret twisting in his gut.
After a moment she reaches into her pocket, pulls out her mobile phone and pulls up a text message.
She hands the phone to John, not Sherlock, but nevertheless gestures for them both to read it. It's dated a couple of days ago, sent on New Year's Eve and the sender is listed as Tom (presumably the Tom Molly was engaged to).
Sherlock is forced to read the text over John's shoulder.
Caught the latest Metro article, Mols, it says. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame. But if you're that anxious to be famous, I can help: remember this?
And without prompting John scrolls down to an attached image; The picture quality shows it was taken with a cheap camera phone. It's Molly smiling and pouting at the camera, a sprig of mistletoe held playfully above her head. She's wearing a Santa hat and- And very little else.
To say Sherlock is discombobulated by this sight is something of an understatement.
John merely scrolls down enough to ascertain that she's topless, the doctor averting his eyes before hastily handing the phone back to Molly. The tips of his ears have turned pink and Sherlock's match them.
"So," John says.
"So," Molly replies.
The silence, awkward and horrid, stretches out a little more.
"I take it that it's not just photos?" John says eventually. She shakes her head. "And I take it he's not just sending them to you?"
Molly nods morosely. "Yeah. He's- Um, he's threatening to post them online. There's, um, there's a video…"
"Video?" Sherlock snaps back to himself. He can't have heard that right, Molly would never be so foolish. "You allowed yourself to be filmed?" he demands. "You allowed that tosser to, to-"
He's not even sure why he's so angry.
Now Molly's eyes come to rest on him though. Now she looks annoyed.
"I let the bloke I was going to marry video me, yeah," she says defensively. "I thought he loved me. Getting engaged will do that." At Sherlock's continued, sputtering objections she rolls her eyes. "It was his birthday and I never dreamed he would- I mean, I know he was angry about, about you coming back and me not setting a date and that whole, stupid Shag-A-Lot Holmes thing-"
"What Shag-A-Lot Holmes thing?" Sherlock demands, speaking over her.
She glares at him, fishes in her bag and produces a newspaper. Thrusts it at him. The front page shows Molly, standing outside Royal College Hospital, London and staring up at one of the third floor windows. The headline proclaims: Shag-a-lot Holmes' New Girl In Bedside Vigil. It's dated from the day of Moriarty's defeat, when Sherlock has indeed been hospitalised, however briefly, for a tediously minor amount of blood-loss.
He hadn't known that Molly had tried to visit him.
He feels rather uncharitable for his earlier behaviour, now that he's realised.
Another uncomfortable silence stretches out; Sherlock does not like how guilty he's feeling right now, so of course he handles it with aplomb. He attacks.
"This is the "Shag-A-Lot Holmes," thing?" he demands snippily, crossing his arms petulantly across his chest.
Molly gives one small, sharp nod to that. "That's one of them, yeah," she says.
"There are others?" He looks at John for clarification. "How can there be others? I would know if there were others-"
"Despite your persistent claims, you don't know everything," John says mildly but Molly's already scrolling through her phone, scowling at what she sees.
Again she hands the phone over- to Sherlock this time- and gestures for him to look at the screen.
It's a search engine results page, showing image after image of Molly in various outfits: Outside the Royal Hospital a few days ago, walking into Baker Street months before that. There's another photo of her published around the time Sherlock was shot by Mary, looking forlorn as she tries to push her way through a police escort and into the hospital. Someone who looks a lot like Donovan is refusing to let her in. There are several more of her alone on the street, obviously being pursued by cameramen as she tries to turn her head away; Tom is visible in the background of some of them, looking annoyed and harried. Sherlock doesn't blame him.
The photos go back months, to even before his last drugs test and that ghastly morning when she slapped him. Seeing them brings a rather unwelcome whooping sensation to Sherlock's stomach, one which feels almost like… horror, though he won't admit that to anyone, least of all himself.
Instead he blinks up at her. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "You haven't been around to tell," she points out quietly. "You were out shooting people and getting banished." He winces and wonders who precisely kept her in that loop. "Besides, even if you were around- Being seen with you wouldn't exactly have helped matters, now would it? Anymore than you or Mycroft making threats would have."
And she rakes her hand through her hair, expels a deep breath.
When she looks at him, her expression is gentler. More hopeless.
"I didn't want to bother you when you couldn't make it stop," she says, more quietly. "It was awkward enough, you knowing how I felt and not returning it. Being dumped and you deducing it. Calling you and ranting about press intrusion would have been humiliating, not to mention useless, so I kept it to myself."
"But, but-"
"Look, I thought it would all blow over," she says, and her voice is barely audible. "I thought it would be fine and yes, I didn't want to get into it with you.
But if Tom's going to put stuff up on the internet then I have a much bigger problem Sherlock. I'm going- Oh God, I'm going to be famous. I'm going to be infamous. I'm going to be up on one of those revenge porn sites and everyone will see, everyone will, will laugh…"
She shakes her head, her voice cracking. Her shoulders curl further in on themselves, her body sculpted with her distress.
"The internet's forever," she's murmuring, "God, my friends, my brother, the lads at work…I'm going to be a joke…"
And she goes back to staring at the fire, her momentary burst of emotion having apparently drained her.
Her eyes look a little wet, not that Sherlock wants to notice that.
Her breathing's gone tight, hard, as if she's trying not to cry, not that Sherlock wants to notice that either.
Without any prompting his finds his hand going to her shoulder, however. Squeezing it. She looks at him in surprise at the comforting gesture and he finds that reaction cuts him a good deal more than he would like.
Another beat- Which Sherlock breaks.
"So," he says. His voice sounds a little more… involved than he intended. "You want us to steal Tom's phone and get the photos as well as any other recordings."
Molly blinks. Nods, looking surprised. Rather an obvious deduction, really.
Sherlock takes a deep, bracing breath. Steeples his hands before his face. If he wants to get through this, he will have to remain calm. So- "Shouldn't be a problem," he says. "I'll attack the phone first- I'll need the make and colour, don't want Tom," his mouth twists on the name, "realising he's been robbed if I can help it-"
"Why not?" John snaps. He's glaring at the papers, looking livid. Apparently he hadn't realised Molly's recent difficulties either, and the thought makes Sherlock feel some modicum better. "The git deserves to have his phone stolen," he's saying. "The git deserves to get his arse kicked, trying a stunt like this. Besides, he can blame you all he wants but he won't be able to prove you stole anything-"
"That's not going to be enough though." Sherlock looks at Molly and she nods.
Clearly she's realised what he's getting at though John looks mystified.
"There may be other copies of these images, John," he explains patiently. "He may have backed them up, possibly onto an online server. I'd need to check his laptop to find out, something which will be easier if I have the machine itself. However, if he realises the phone has been stolen-"
"-Then he might go straight to the laptop and post the images from there," John nods. "I see what you mean. Meat Dagger's not that stupid." His expression turns thoughtful. "So I take it you're looking for a burglar?"
And he smiles slightly as it occurs to Sherlock what he means. Or rather who. "She'll be up for it, this soon after the birth?" he asks.
He should have realised that John would drag his wife into this.
Watson nods. "You bloody bet she will once I tell her what this wanker's been up to-"
And he too leans forward, squeezes Molly's shoulder.
"Don't you worry, love," he says. "We'll get this bastard, you see if we don't."
Molly nods, looks relieved. She even gives both men a wan little smile, so different from her usual, beaming grin that it makes Sherlock sad to see it. He looks away, poking absent-mindedly at the fire, rather than dwell on that. The rest of the meeting passes quietly, Molly filling him in on any pertinent information regarding Tom's habits, schedule and possible whereabouts-
It's an hour after John's left that Sherlock gets the text message.
Please don't look at the photos, Sherlock, Molly texts. Promise me you won't look at them. I know it sounds stupid, but promise you won't.
Sherlock tries to ignore the text- Idiotic sentiment, so typical of Ms. Hooper, is what he tells himself.
But he finds he can't sleep until he texts her a negative.