Bad Case of the Mondays

by permanentdestination

Poor Molly Hooper has firmly come to believe that no good deed goes unpunished. Things look bleak for the normally effervescent and cheery pathologist until she finds a new mantra and along with it a new found confidence that even a man who claims to be "married to his work" would be hard pressed to ignore. Sherlock/Molly

1. Chapter 1

*** I do not own any of these characters. More sherlolly goodness to follow. I'm writing this from a much less "spelling-it-out" format and will probably continue to use gesture and body language to express character emotions and thoughts but specific thoughts will be added as necessary. Pardon my awful shifting of tenses. Hope you enjoy and I will definitely add the next chapter very soon. ***

I bolt up, my body covered in sweat. My eyes dart to the alarm clock, and my shoulders visibly relax as I slowly lower myself back on the bed. The frown etched on my face slowly releases as I let out the breath I wasn't aware of holding.

"It was only a bad dream," I murmur as I close my eyes and float back to sleep.

My body flinches as my alarm buzzes and I momentarily debate if I should just turn over and ignore the ringing. I sigh and open my eyes, only to scrunch them shut tightly as I take in the bright morning light, silently chastising myself for leaving the curtain open yet again. Keeping my eyes shut, I use my hand to feel for my alarm. Picking it up, I turn it off and chuck it across the room. I cover my head with the duvet and shift onto my side, facing away from the unnecessarily bright window. Mondays.

Sleep was slowly creeping back up on me when I was jolted back to reality by a loud noise of metal crashing coming from my kitchen. A low growl escaped my mouth as I throw the duvet from over my head. I swiftly get out of bed and toss a robe on before rushing out of my bedroom and towards the root of the loud noise.

My eyes grow wide the moment I step into the living room. Everything has been turned inside out. All my books are off the shelf and are scattered across the room, couch cushions are propped up in one corner, and even an equally wide-eyed cat crouches behind a tipped over fichus. I draw in a deep breath and raise myself up tall before entering the kitchen where more metal noises are being emmited.

My kitchen matches my living room, in the least appealing way. Pots and pan litter every surface and more then a couple plates appear to be broken. My voice is three octaves higher as I say his name. "Sherlock."

He looks up at me grinning, which quickly disappears. I gesture to the surrounding area and point towards the living room.

"For a case," he says before returning to inspect a piece of broken plate. My hands begin to shake but I drag myself to the shower.

The water does little to stop the shaking. I slowly get dressed while using several different breathing techniques I learned from my psychiatrist. The shaking ebbs.

Reemerging into the front room, I see that Sherlock has now moved to inspect the cushion-less couch. "No good deed goes unpunished," I say loudly enough for him to hear as I grab my purse and exit my apartment.

One cab ride and several more breathing exercises later, I enter the morgue. Mondays.