Molly Hooper was a sensible girl. Well, maybe "girl" wasn't the correct word for her anymore, but "sensible", she filled that definition to the last letter. She knew her mum would always love her dad (even after the mess with Ms. Hibbs next door) but her dad would never apologize for the things he did. She knew when she started school that if she was to ever have female friends of any sort, it was best to not talk about the special dissection kit she wanted for her birthday (more than a tutu, whatever the hell that was). She knew the earth rotated around the sun, that only the organism most able to adapt would survive natural selection, clothes that were practical were better than clothes that were "pretty", she knew that the fertility specialist who asked her out last Wednesday only did so because he was bored with his wife, and she knew that Sherlock Holmes would only ever find Irene Addler the one human in the world interesting enough to sleep with (and maybe John Watson, but that was still up in the air). She also knew that she was not the type to wear the thigh high black leather boots that gazed up at her from the remains of wrapping paper and cellotape.
"Mum..." she started slowly, "I appreciate the thought, but I don't really- these boots just aren't my usual style and-"
"Nonsense!" Her mother interrupted "I saw these in the window on my way out of the station and I immediatley remembered those pictures you sent me during your uni days, remember, dear? And that one picture where you and Carol are dressed up as people from that wonderfully racey play, what was it called? The Ricky Horror film show? The Rodney Horror picture show...?"
"Rocky Horror Picture show, mum"
"Yes! That! Oh you looked absolutely fabulous in that outfit, dear! I'm surprised that little adventure didn't give me a son in law! But anyway I saw these on my way over and thought 'well wouldn't Molly look absolutely spectacular in these?!' Darling, your legs were made for these boots! Just look at how exquisitely crafted they are!"
Molly looked down at the shoe box again... the Rocky Horror debacle had been years ago, but she remembered it well. Carol, Molly and a group of the graduating medical students had decided to collaborate with the theater majors and pull one last hurrah before going their separate ways. It was still a topic of idle gossip at reunion parties, how mousy Molly Hooper ever agreed to be a part of the show, and how much she appeared to have enjoyed it...
Her mother was right, the boots were quite wonderful. The black leather shone in the warm light of her flat, a dark grey metallic band circling around the ankles and accentuating the snug tightness of the leather, jesus, they looked like they could be leggings... These were not Molly Hooper boots, these boots smirked in the face of Molly Hooper boots, and then offered out an unforgettable one night stand... These were Irene Addler boots.
Maybe she could just try them on...
Molly flipped her pillow over to the cold side again. She couldn't sleep. She turned to her side for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, facing the door that led to her bathroom.
"Oh, Molly!" Her mother breathed out. "Molly just look at you! You look spectacular!"
Molly smiled sheepishly before turning around to look at herself in the mirror that hung on the bathroom door.
Well.
The woman that stared back at Molly... wasn't Molly. The black corset she'd worn years ago in university hugged at the waist she'd never really acknowledged. A dark grey dress billowed underneath, leaving her shoulders and cleavage (!?) exposed. The black boots ended well past her knees, a few centimeters short of where the dress hung, leaving a pale strip of skin to shine through. This was most definitely not Sensible Molly. This, well this was "kiss and kill have a one letter difference and I could do either of those right about now" Molly.
"Oh..." she softly murmured under her breath. Was this okay? This wasnt her... but it could be. This is something she could let herself become. Some of course (sensible Molly included) would argue that living a life built on the type of clothes one wears was hardly a good or reasonable idea. Physical appearance had little to do with the quality of one's intellect or character, especially to a certain sensible pathologist... but... seeing herself now, Molly felt something she'd never really felt before- confident. Confident in the fact that she looked amazing, damn amazing. And more importantly, she felt amazing.
Her eyes flicked upward to look at her mother in the mirror's reflection, waiting for a reaction. Slowly, her mouth curled into a smile.
Molly turned to look at the digital clock on her nightstand- 10:23.
It was still early...
The swanky evening lounge she had always been too afraid to enter was most definitely still open...
It wouldn't hurt to go out and see her new boots in effect... maybe just for a little while...
The lounge was crowded. The theaters had just let out and young snobby adults swarmed within like viruses on an unsuspecting cell, ready to lyse it at any moment. Molly sat at the bar, making sure to cross her legs and accentuate the boots she wore. That's what women did to show off right? God help her, she knew how to pick up men, but not how to get their attention. She usually left that to a much more outgoing friend. The last time she had actually initiated the conversation herself, she had ended up giving a small lecture on the speed of tissue decomposition being dependent on the climate it was stored in... Needless to say, she did not receive a phone number in exchange. Molly laughed to herself as she imagined Sherlock in place of the poor unsuspecting fellow she'd bored to death, he'd probably begin the argue that with the introduction of another decomposing agent, the tissue with slower decomposition rate would be able to be mistaken for tissue held within a different climate. She laughed again, maybe she was wrong, Sherlock Holmes would probably deduce her life story before engaging in any kind of actual conversation. He'd probably deduce that she was a forensic pathologist working an approximation of 9 hours a day who rarely took holidays. He'd see through her bitten nails that she had some type of nervous disorder, one that most likely developed after the death of her father. Which of course he could note by the bracelet she wore on her right wrist, one containing just enough tarnish to show the years gone by since she had received it as a gift. Obviously it was from an older relative, considering the fact that it was made in the past century, probably circa 1940's or 50's? And most likely from her father, sentiment over beauty, seeing as it did not match the rest of her outfit and was much too understated for the makeup she was wearing, which was obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts...
Molly gripped her drink a little harder... Sherlock Holmes was a git. A git who ran about London acting as if he owned the world, used her shamelessly day in and day out without out as much as a sincere thank you, and never cleaned up the messes he made. Sherlock Holmes was a git and it was time to let go of that useless school girl crush she had held on her sleeve for so long.
A young man sat down next to her.
"Hi!" He said, smiling and barring a full set of white teeth. "Come here often?"
Molly felt her eyebrows raise automatically. She laughed and took a sip of her drink. "Is that really the best you could do?" She smiled back.
The man's smile faltered for a split second before settling into a sheepish grin, "you're right, I just figured using the 'fallen angel' line would be too cheesy, even if it seems true..." he winked at her.
Molly set her drink down and extended her arm "I'm Molly"
"I'm Chris" the man responded, letting his hand linger just a little bit before letting go. He ordered them both another round before turning to her again.
"So Molly, whats a girl like you doing in a place like this?" He asked, gesturing to the full, rapidly crescendoing room around them.
Molly took another sip and shrugged as she set down her drink. "I'd imagine I'm here for the same reason you are, Chris," She smiled in an almost conspiratorial fashion, "that, and I'm settling in some new shoes, I guess you could say..."
Chris now made a full checkout of her person, eyes widening as he made eye contact once more... he grinned.
"My my Molly, better be careful on the walk back home, who knows what could happen to a girl like you, out there in those scary streets."
She felt her smile fall a little, "sorry?"
Chris drank from his glass as he let his eyes rake over her again, much more intensely this time.
"Well, all I'm saying is, dressed like that? What man could control himself?" He leaned in "You're just begging for it, aren't you?" He whispered, lightly placing his hand on her thigh.
Fuck,
She felt herself sigh and pull back. She set a five pound note on the counter and stood up. Molly turned to a confused looking Chris.
"I could have walked in here in nothing but whipped cream lingerie and these boots, and still I would not be 'begging for it' she frowned "no woman is ever 'begging for it' and especially to men like you, now if you'll excuse me." Molly turned on her heel and walked out of the lounge, poised, steady, and mildly pissed off.
The chill of the London air sped on Molly's thoughts as she walked back to her flat. She had handled the situation back at the lounge quite well... She looked down at her feet, boots clicking past fire hydrants and newspaper stands. Would she have handled it the same way if she were still the mousy Molly everyone was so used to? She'd like to think that she would have. After all, a misogynistic creep was a misogynistic creep. Mousy Molly might have been much more timid, but she was still sensible, and any sensible woman would have gotten out of there one way or another. Then again, mousy Molly probably would have never gone out in the first place. Mousy Molly would have been-
"Oomf!"
Her purse fell to the floor, spilling its contents.
"Oh shit. I am so sorry! Are you okay!?"
Molly looked up from the mess on the pavement to the girl she had bumped into. Her hand covered her face as the other held Molly's shoulder, having kept her from stumbling down to the floor along with her purse. She had wild curly hair and light brown skin that seemed to glow with the street light above. Her eyes were the most intense green Molly had ever regarded.
"Here, let me help you pick up your things!" Immediately she knelt down and began to collect her chapstick, address book and more pens than Molly remembered putting in. She crouched down to help her.
"Ohmygosh I am just so sorry! I honestly have no idea what I was thinking! I mean, usually I can walk without bumping in to another person!" She smiled bashfully.
Molly laughed and smiled back, "It's fine, I honestly dont know what I was thinking myself. Are you alright?"
The girl handed back her things and grinned "Oh yeah! I'd like to think a can take a little more than barreling down an attractive girl" she winked at Molly.
...oh.
Now, Molly wasn't one to play for both teams... and of course she wasn't one to shame others for doing so, or choosing not to... Like anyone else, she had found herself mildly curious at some point... and this girl, well she was quite attractive, and her eyes... but she was strictly heterosexual, right? Not into cute hair, or soft skin, or... were those freckles?
Then again, sexuality really was oh so changeable...
Molly grinned "And I suppose as long as the person doing the barreling is just as cute..."
The cute girl chuckled, "My name's Tamara." she smiled, extending her arm.
"Molly..." Tamara had a wonderfully firm handshake.
"It's lovely to meet you, Molly." Tamara slowly let go of her hand
Molly's smile grew, "likewise Tamara."
Tamara shoved her hands in her pockets.
"So... Hey, how about a drink? It's the least I could do after scuffing up that lovely bag of yours! I know this really cool place a couple blocks down, it might be a bit casual for what you have on which really shouldn't matter anyway because you look... well, you look... great" she finished shyly.
Molly felt her heart warm. She zipped her bag shut and hoisted it back onto her shoulder. She stepped closer to Tamara.
"Lead the way," she beamed.
A phone buzzed, interrupting the early morning silence of the bedroom. Molly groaned as she heard the familiar ringtone of her mobile go off.
"Auntie Molllly!" Carol's 4 year old daughter admonished "hurry hurry! You've got a message!"
Molly pulled the covers around her tighter, and curled back into the warmth of the person next to her.
"Cute ringtone..." the person beside her murmured in a sleepy voice "I'll bet you a fiver it sounds better when it's not 4:30 in the morning..."
Molly smiled and peeked one eye open... a tired set of intense green eyes peeked right back.
"Good morning" she whispered, leaning in to kiss Tamara's soft pink lips.
"Mmmm..." her companion answered back, she stretched her arms above her head and sighed "sure is...". She then curled back in towards Molly, kissing down the slope of her neck.
Molly's nerve endings began to buzz with interest.
"I should really check that message..."
Tamara stopped, pulled back, and kissed the tip of her nose. She then rolled over and picked up Molly's phone from where it had fallen the night before.
"Here you go, love" she smiled.
Molly took her phone and unlocked it
2 New Messages-
Saturday, 22nd July, 4:27 a.m.
2 fresh bodies found in the Thames, could be linked to the Brighton homicides. Come down to take a look? Urgent.
-Greg
Saturday, 22nd July, 3:53 a.m.
Your assistance is required. Come at once, bring coffee.
-SH
... The utter tosser. Molly let out a loud exhale and rolled out of bed. Where was her bloody bra?
"What's up?" Tamara quipped, sitting up, pulling the covers around her.
Molly tugged on her dress, smiling apologetically. "I've been called in to work" she explained. "They found two new bodies in the Thames and they need me to perform the autopsy..." she grimaced
Tamara's eyes widened "that's so cool!" She exclaimed.
Molly shrugged as she finished lacing her corset "I guess..." she smiled softly "I kind of just wanted to have a lie-in today..."
Tamara frowned, "Can't somebody else do it?"
Molly snorted as she pulled on her boots "No, no one else is willing to work with the consulting detective that usually accompanies the Yard..." she grabbed her purse and stood up from the bed.
Her lover sighed and placed her head on her hand
"I swear I've never seen anything finer than your legs in those boots, Molls..."
Molly smiled and walked over to the bed. She leaned down and kissed Tamara deeply, drawing out the moments she had left before she had to leave.
She hesitantly pulled back and grinned at Tamara, holding her hand and pressing a small business card into it.
"Call me," she whispered.
By the time Molly reached Bart's, the sun had begun to streak through the inky blue sky, birds could be heard and the inhabitants of the city were beginning to stir. Molly pushed through the front doors and scanned her I.d. at the reception desk. Halfway down the stairs to the basement she remembered Sherlock's demand for caffeine. She stopped.
I suppose he'll have to make do, won't he?
She kept going.
Lestrade was reading through the case files when Molly entered. John and Sherlock stood side by side looking at something through a microscope. The rest of the Yard was nowhere in sight.
"Hello," she greeted in what was supposed to be a cheerful voice.
"Ahh, hey there, Molly! Thanks again for dropping by on such notice! And especially this earl-" Lestrade's voice died in his throat. He examined Molly from head to toe as she finished pulling on her lab coat. Molly cleared her throat.
"Something wrong, Greg?" She questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Lestrade blinked twice before shaking his head quickly, "No! Um... no! Those, those are just some interesting boots you've got there. They uh, they really... um. Well the victims' files are on the table there! I'll just... go... do something out there now." He vaguely gestured to the door before exiting quickly. Molly couldn't help but chuckle as she pulled her hair into a ponytail.
She walked over to the table John and Sherlock were at, picking up the first manilla folder.
"Good morning John. " she greeted politely, beginning to scan through the first victim's medical charts.
"Morning, Molly. " John responded tiredly. He glanced up from the petri dish he was examining to smile at her. Suddenly, he stopped, blinked, and looked up once again.
Clenched hands, dry mouth, eyes a bit wider than usual aye? (And not where they normally rest might I add...) Molly raised an eyebrow and tried to stop herself from grinning.
Really,
She did
The very fact that Molly had taken both Greg and John's reactions not with girlish pleasure and pride, but with mild amusement kicked open a box in her head that Tamara had unlocked, and Molly's boots had uncovered. A box that Molly thought only resided in the heads of Irene Addlers and Angela Davises. Apparently, she had been wrong.
"Everything alright, John?"
Watson shut his mouth and swallowed, he set the petri dish down and nodded, flummoxed.
"John, pass me the container of nitric acid..."
...
"...John. Acid."
Sherlock sighed as he pulled himself from the eyepiece of the microscope. He reached past John to grab the small glass container of nitric acid at the edge of the table. He began to uncap the bottle. He stopped. Something was amiss... He looked up to John and followed his gaze to Molly. He capped the bottle of acid.
"You're late."
"I am."
"You don't have coffee."
"I don't."
Sherlock stared into her eyes intensely. She stared right back.
He took a breath. "So what was his name this time? Congratulations, he obviously wasn't gay, as we can tell from the state of your dress hem."
"I'm sorry, we!?" John exclaimed, rightfully reluctant to be pulled in to whatever it was his flatmate was trying to do.
Sherlock continued, undaunted. "You've had a higher intake of alcohol than can be tolerated for someone of your rather small height and insufficient weight. Your makeup is smeared in a pattern that obviously indicates sleep in a foreign environment, and telling by the rhythm of your stride as you walked in, you achieved orgasm at least twice in the last four hours. So what. Was. His. Name?"
"Sherlock!" John admonished, turning a light pink.
So that was it. Sherlock's great deduction. Molly had to admit, he was good. But the man she had held in almost worshipful affection for the past few years really didn't function very well after what appeared to be forty nine hours without sleep. She smiled. She set down the victim's file and reached over Sherlock's lap, exposing her neck, covered with a feminine perfume that wasn't hers.
"I orgasmed four times." She said, standing up and uncapping the tiny bottle of nitric acid.
"The makeup is obviously an attempt to compensate for the size of my mouth, and breasts." She noted, pulling the liquid inside the bottle in to an eyedropper.
"Two glasses of brandy, a gin and tonic, and nine marvelous shots of tequila, in case you were wondering" she beamed, taking the petri dish Sherlock was examining from under the objective lens and dropping in exactly half a milliliter of acid into it.
Molly reached down again, placing the dish back onto the stage. She turned to face Sherlock.
"Her name's Tamara." She breathed, pulling a wayward strand of thread off of Sherlock's shoulder.
She slowly stood up straight once more. Molly felt like the cat that ate the canary.
"I guess I'll be seeing you around, boys!" She grinned, picking up both of the victim's files. With a final wink, she turned and strode out of the lab.
She didn't look back as she walked out into the hallway, she didn't have to.
Because, after all.
Molly Hooper was a sensible girl.