Prompt: First Meetings

Title: The Beginning of a Beautiful Work Arrangement

Summary: Barts needs a new pathologist. Sherlock knows just the right person for the job.

"What's this?" Mike Stamford asked, picking up the file that Sherlock Holmes had wordlessly deposited onto his desk. He flipped the file open and scanned the contents, a confused furrow appearing between his brow. "Molly Hooper?"

"Yes. Dr. Hooper," Sherlock replied. "She's the perfect candidate for the new Pathologist position."

"Really? Doesn't seem like she has much experience. She's barely out of residency," Mike mused, reading over the information in the file. "Besides," he slapped the folder closed and looked up at Sherlock, "I've already made a decision; Dr. Colin Flemming. He has over a decade of experience and comes highly recommended by several trusted colleagues."

"And he has wrongfully ruled about a dozen deaths as suicide or accidental when they were in fact murders in just the last year alone. Imagine how many more errors he's made over the course of his decade of experience." Sherlock sneered.

"How do you-?" Mike cut off his own question. It was pretty much pointless asking Sherlock Holmes how he knew anything. Mike sighed and pursed his lips, opening the file again. "Molly Hooper, eh?"

"That's right. Dr-"

x

"Hooper. Yes, I know who you are."

"Oh. Okay then." A smile wavered at the corners of Molly's lips. She wasn't sure what to make of the fact that the stranger currently bent over a microscope in her lab apparently already knew who she was. "So, er…who might you be then?"

The man paused in the middle of adjusting the knob on the microscope and glanced up at Molly. "Surely Stamford must have told you about me. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He said it as though his name should be explanation enough and went back to scrutinizing whatever it was he had under the microscope.

As it happened the name did spark Molly's memory. She recalled Mike Stamford mentioning something about the man on her first day as he was showing her around the hospital.

"He works for the police – or with them in some capacity or other," he told her. "And he uses the facilities here from time to time. He's allowed access to the labs and such, but how much access is up to you," Stamford stated firmly. "This is your morgue, your labs. You're the boss down here. Make sure you don't let him forget you're the one in charge or he'll take over the place."

That had been almost three months ago now. In the first week or so Molly had kept an eye out for the infamous Mr. Holmes, but a heavy workload had soon pushed any thoughts of him out of her mind and she had almost forgotten all about him.

Until now.

"Oh, yes, Mike did mention you now that I think about it. I expected to see you around sooner though. Mike made it seem like you practically lived here," she remarked with a small laugh, trying to dispel the bit of awkwardness she felt.

"I was out of the country," he replied plainly. "I had a particularly interesting case that kept me busy for a while."

"That's right. You work for the police, don't you?" Molly asked.

Sherlock gave an affirmative 'hmm' in response, preoccupied as he jotted something down.

"What do you do you for them exactly?" Molly wondered. "Mike didn't really say."

"Their jobs, usually," Sherlock muttered dryly. "I solve the cases they're too inept to solve themselves – which is most of them."

"Oh, so you're like a private detective then?"

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected.

"Ah." Molly nodded, even though she had never heard such a thing.

Sherlock's head shot up all of a sudden, nose tilted up in the air, nostrils flaring. Molly shrank a bit self-consciously and resisted the urge to sniff at herself. Well, she did work in a morgue, after all, the scent of death was bound to linger a bit.

"Is that…fresh coffee I smell?"

Molly relaxed and let out a relieved laugh. "Oh, erm, it could be. I was just making some in my office. It's more convenient than having to go all the way upstairs every time I want a cup. I'm surprised you can smell it from here. That's quite a nose you have," she chuckled again, nervously

Sherlock smiled this and Molly's stomach fluttered. It was the first time she'd gotten a proper look at his face for more than a fleeting glance and she was struck by how uniquely handsome he was. His ivory skin and diamond cut cheekbones were remarkable. And his eyes were a hypnotizing mix of blue and green, glittering with intelligence.

Molly blinked, realizing that she was staring, and flitted her eyes away from his face. She cleared her throat before speaking again. "Did you, er… Would you like a cup? Of coffee?" She waved her hand over her shoulder in the general direction of her office.

Sherlock's lips spread in a pleasant smile. "That would be lovely, Dr. Hooper. Thank you."

Molly felt her cheeks ache at the wide smile stretching across her own lips. "Oh, it's no bother. I was about to get one for myself anyway. And, you can call me Molly."

"Molly," Sherlock repeated, and Molly felt a shiver go through her at the sound of her name said in his rich, velvety baritone. "I have to say you are much more welcoming than your predecessor ever was. And quite a bit more pleasing to the eyes as well."

Molly ducked her head, feeling heat rise up in her cheeks. "Oh, well, thank you."

"Oh, Molly, could you bring that coffee to the mortuary," Sherlock said suddenly, pulling Molly from her brief reverie. "It's just that I need to have a look at a cadaver – it's for a case. You don't mind, do you?"

"Er…no. I suppose not."

"Good. I'll meet you there then."

"Okay," Molly agreed. She frowned a bit, feeling a little like she was being dismissed.

"Oh, Molly?" Sherlock said as she turned to leave.

"Yes?" She spun back to him an eager smile jumping to her lips.

"Black, two sugars for the coffee, please."

Molly nodded, trying to hide any disappointment and continued off to her office.

x

The saccharine smile plastered on Sherlock's face dropped immediately after the doors swung closed behind Dr. Hooper, replaced by a smaller, more self-satisfied smirk.

Yes, he thought, picking up his coat and pocketing his notes. This arrangement should work out quite nicely.

He turned away from the worktop and strode off towards the morgue.