Yours, Sherlock Chapter 1, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: Hey darling reader!

Before I start this, I just wanted to let you know that I found this half written yesterday. It's inspired by the song "I'm Going to Sit Right Down and Right Myself a Letter" sung by Frank Sinatra. I'm pretty sure you can figure it out what it's going to be about. I've tried to salvage it, but I dunno. Tell me what you think of the story :)

Enjoy

My darling Molly Hooper,

I hope you're feeling better after your migraine yesterday. I was going to stop by with flowers and some chocolate but they are menial and ill-thought-out. I thought about what you'd much rather receive and decided to write you a letter, one that'll knock you off your feet.

Firstly, we must address the main issue in this. I am not the type to knock people off their feet. I more push them over and I do not wish to push you over.

The second issue is that, as immaculate as my vocabulary is, there is a deficiency to place the words so precisely that they could bewitch the page and lift the delicately placed letters to form patterns of immaculate grace to which you'd see what I see.

As well as the above points, I don't know what to say to someone that brightens my day every time I see them. What am I supposed to say to someone I love? I love you? How irksome and bland.

Molly, overall, this letter was to inform you that I'm thinking of you and I hope you feel better. I didn't want to bother you with this so I thought it best that I write it to you.

For now, I leave you here. I'll stop by the morgue tomorrow and ask in person if you're feeling better.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes.

~oOo~

Molly Hooper led Sherlock Holmes into her house and over to the lounge room.

"I don't think you understand. I need a statement, not tea," Sherlock grumbled out.

"R-right," Molly told him ringing her fingers. "W-well, it all started about a month ago. Remember when I got that migraine?"

"Not in the least." Sherlock leaned back in his seat and glared at Molly. She was wasting time he didn't have. She nodded and looked at the ground.

Molly stumbled over her prepared words. "Yes, well, it was about a month ago. I was sitting in the lab, trying to keep my head from bursting when a voice came from the door way. I decided to go to the loo because I didn't want to listen to the voice."

"What did that voice say?" he asked with impatience.

"Voice?"

"You said there was a voice in the doorway."

"No, it was Jim. He was there. H-he- I'm sorry, I'm going to get some tea," she told Sherlock, tears welling in her eyes. He waved her off before rolling his eyes.

Sherlock groaned and looked around Molly's flat. Piece of paper was sticking out from under the couch and he leaned down to pick it up.

My darling Molly Hooper,

Who would write this to her? Sherlock felt his face scrunch in disgust. Young female, based on the paper, writing and the pen used. He sat down and continued to read.

I hope you're feeling better after your migraine yesterday. I was going to stop by with flowers and some chocolate but they are tedious and ill-thought-out. I thought about what you'd much rather receive and decided to write you a letter, one that'll knock you off your feet.

So it seemed that someone cared about her migraine. They cared enough to write a letter and almost bought her flowers. However, Sherlock agreed with the author. Flowers were tedious. Nonetheless, Molly loved flowers. As for a letter that will knock one off one's feet, that's a rather large assumption to make.

Firstly, we must address the main issue in this. I am not the type to knock people off their feet. I more push them over and I do not wish to push you over.

This person was not thinking about what Molly wanted to hear. One does not mention abuse in a "sweet" letter.

The question becomes "what are you trying to achieve by this paragraph of a sentence?" there were too many irrelevant words. The author is unable to write their feelings down. There. Simple. A better sentence would be 'I regret to inform you, your cat died.' It was simple, effective, and got the point across with ease.

As well as the above points, I don't know what to say to someone that brightens my day every time I see them. What am I supposed to say to someone I love? I love you? How irksome and bland.

No. No, no, no, no, no. Not to Molly Hooper. That is the wrong thing to say to her. You don't express your feelings towards her as irksome and bland. That is inconsiderate and overall, plain rude. Even Sherlock had more sense than that. Molly would be thrilled to be told that the author loves her. Isn't that just the type of thing she fantasises about? She doesn't want to be with someone who thinks love is irksome.

Molly, overall, this letter was to inform you that I'm thinking of you and I hope you feel better. I didn't want to bother you with this so I thought it best that I write it to you.

That sounded very Molly. She wouldn't want to bother someone by intruding on their day when it is irrelevant. Furthermore, she'd say something sweet such as "thinking of you" and "didn't want to bother you". Whoever this person was, they were very similar to Molly.

For now, I leave you here. I'll stop by the morgue tomorrow and ask in person if you're feeling better.

Sherlock had never seen anyone else come into the morgue before. Molly always looked surprised whenever the door opened. Why would someone say they'd go to the morgue to check up on her? The better solution was to wait for her. Sherlock was rather sure that Molly had written this herself. It made nothing but sense.

Yours,

He had decided it was a young woman who cared about Molly very much. This was a semi-romantic letter, to be frank. Sherlock could write so much better than this cheap knock-off. As he was about to call out to Molly that she should drop whoever had written the letter, he reached the final words.

Sherlock Holmes.

The man looked down at the paper and read the final, burning words. What on earth? His head raced as he thought about what had been written.

Molly wrote this, no doubt about it. Speak of the devil…

The young woman walked in from the kitchen holding two mugs. She sniffled and placed one in front of Sherlock, the other still in her hand.

"J-Jim said: 'Did you miss me? Because I sure missed you, Molly Hooper'. I couldn't handle it. I assumed it was part of my imagination and walked to the bathroom. I called Mike on the walk and told him I was feeling terrible, to the point of hallucinations. He offered to walk me out to a cab and I agreed straight away. I didn't wait to see if Jim was a hallucination or not," she recalled, feeling sick to her stomach. "But then, I arrived home to find the door slightly ajar so I texted Lestrade and told him I thought something was off. I walked into the flat and-"

Sherlock nodded along. "I don't need to know anymore. Donovan offered to listen. She has a way with women, or something. I don't really care what she does. Right," Sherlock said while standing up, ignoring the mug in front of him. "I best be off. See you in the morgue."

He padded out of the flat as Molly started to break down in tears again.

~oOo~

It had been three months since Jim first approached Molly, and two months since Sherlock walked out on the crying woman. She had experienced another migraine again, something Sherlock was quick to make note on.

The morning after her migraine, she found a letter slipped under her door.

Doctor Molly Hooper,

It came to my attention you experienced a migraine yesterday.

Now, I'm well aware that you're "into" letters that will knock you off your feet. Let's be reasonable when we consider who has written this, alright?

I wanted to wish you a full recovery. I would have, of course, come and seen you in the morgue to check you were feeling better, but I know you'd feel intimidated.

As well as your love of having letters that will knock you off your feet, I am also well aware that you enjoy "love letters", something I find both disturbing and ridiculous. My apologies.

Nonetheless, I am aware it is customary to end with specific words, and I know they are words you associate with me. I'll come by the morgue tomorrow to see how you're feeling.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes.

Molly's jaw dropped as she read the letter, he cheeks heating up. What the hell did this mean? She paled as she thought about connections it had to a certain letter she had written to herself.

She spun around and began to look for the letter, tearing things apart as she went. All her efforts were to no avail. The letter was sitting on Sherlock's bedside table.