A/N: Inspired by this photograph – http : / jillianstripe . tumblr . com / post / 18599770848
Coffee at Speedy's
Sherlock refused to do much of anything after his client died. By the time Christmas had come and gone, Marie had become so sick of him sulking that she was almost perversely glad when he dragged John away on some sort of wild-goose-chase around New Year's. After a day and a half alone in the flat, however, she grew restless. Sherlock had told her quite emphatically to talk to no-one she didn't know, and leave Baker Street under no circumstances, while he was away. He kept mumbling something about her security and welfare. He could be so bloody dramatic about everything.
So partially to spite him - but partially out of common curiosity - she dialed a phone number she found in Sherlock's pocket, scrawled on a bit of wrapping paper leftover from Christmas.
"Molly Hooper," said a familiar voice on the other end.
"Oh, darling, hello - This is Marie Hudson. We met at Christmas? I hope I'm not bothering you awfully."
"Marie, hello… No, of course not. It's my day off. Me and the cat, bad telly, cheap sweets, general slouching about." She sounded a little nervous, as if she wasn't sure what to say but was grateful for the chance. "Happy new year, by the way."
"And you. Hope you don't mind - found your phone number in Sherlock's washing. Wouldn't want to throw it out. How are you, poppet?"
"Getting on," said Molly. She sounded tired. Marie thought of Sherlock's awful behaviour at their Christmas party and winced.
"I hope you're not cross with me after Sherlock's stunt at Christmas. The boy can be so tactless - but he means well, honestly. He's fond of you, I think, in his own way. Listen to me, I'm babbling on."
And then a lovely thought struck her.
"Dear, not to impose, but would you like to meet me for coffee at Speedy's while the boys are away? I'd love to have a proper chat, just us girls."
There was a rustle on the other end, a murmured remark, an odd laugh that didn't sound like Molly at all.
"Darling, have you got company? That is - am I calling at a bad time?"
"No, don't be silly, I'd love to come. Sherlock isn't… That is, John and Sherlock aren't at home, are they? I don't think they… I mean, I'd rather not, er…"
Marie smiled. Poor girl held such a torch for Sherlock; the boy ought to really open his eyes, or at least admit he's serious about John and save her the grief. "No, poppet, the boys are off on one of their mission-things. Won't be at the flat for a good few days, yet. I'm bored out of my mind, if I'm honest. Those boys do keep me on my toes… Will you come?"
Another rustle, another laugh (almost mischievous) - and then; "I'd love to. …Might I bring a friend?"
Speedy's was mostly empty on that grey, cold afternoon, so there was no trouble in chatting and being friendly. Molly's new flatmate was a pleasant surprise to say the least. "Call me Irene," she said, by way of introduction, and gave Marie a small, keen smile that suggested she was very good at being charming at first impression. Marie could see why Molly would take a shine to her.
"We haven't known each other very long," Molly admitted. "But she's in a bit of a fix, and needs to lie low for a minute."
Irene smiled quietly at her. Marie ordered two coffees and a tea.
"A lovely girl like you in a sticky spot? You really ought talk to my Sherlock, he might be able to help you out. He's a…"
Irene quirked an eyebrow. "Consulting Detective of the highest caliber? Yes, I'd noticed. Also the most enigmatically awful man I've ever had the displeasure of…"
Molly gave her a sharp look and she stopped in mid-sentence.
"Oh, you've met him?" Marie ventured, intrigued. Sherlock hadn't mentioned her.
"…In a manner of speaking," Irene conceded, slowly. "You're his land-lady?"
Marie sighed. "Unfortunately."
Molly almost laughed. "Does he boss you about, as well?"
"Eternally. Not his housekeeper!" Marie threw up one hand, as if swearing on the Bible. "He slouches round the flat in his dressing gown, letting tea go cold, shooting up the walls with his bloody handgun, shouting about nothing. Left a severed head in my fridge, few months ago. Fingers in the bread box. Science equipment all over the kitchen table, stains of god-knows-what in the lino."
"You really ought to evict him," Molly said, half appalled - but Irene's face broke into a feline smile that seemed almost fond.
"Molly," said Marie, a little reproachful, "I'd moulder away to nothing and die without those boys, honestly. And if one goes, so does the other. I swear, if John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were ever separated, I'd die of shock."
"So would they, I think," said Molly, a little sullenly.
"Joined at the hip," Irene agreed; her face was a mix of amusement and jealousy. "It's almost too elegant. And such a pity."
"You don't see a man like Sherlock every day," said Molly wistfully.
"No," Irene sighed, "You certainly do not."
"I thought you two were… er, involved?" said Marie, hesitant.
"Oh! we… ha! oh, no! …I mean," Molly stuttered, turning the colour of her shirt.
Irene's small smile said enough, but she added, "Seems the two of us share an unfortunate preoccupation with Sherlock Holmes. He's…"
"Completely infuriating?" Molly suggested.
"And yet magnetic for the same reason. Sometimes he opens his mouth and says something so calculated - and yet so stupid - well, I could… just…eviscerate him."
Marie's eyes rounded, but Molly laughed. "Don't I know the feeling? …Really, how can he be so horrible and so lovely at the same time?"
"Well, for one; being so clever, he's utterly oblivious," Irene reasoned.
Molly saluted her with a spoon in agreement, poured a little sugar into her coffee. "He could turn you inside out and leave you feeling about an inch tall, then sweep off with a little smile, or a confused pout or something, and you'd just want him to do it again."
"I owe him a talking to about all of that business at Chirstmas," Marie said, clasping Molly's hand. "He's not a hopelessly cold sort of boy - he just pretends at it, I think. Goodness, but he can cut one down to size."
"I'd like to see him try that nonsense on me," muttered Irene.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. At any rate, I wish John would out and admit he's in love with the man, they'd both be so much better off for it."
Marie frowned. "What would be the point in that? They already know."
"No, they don't," Molly sighs. "Sherlock's smitten to death, but I don't think he notices. He's too…"
"Busy," Irene finished. "And John, poor man - sick in love. They really ought to get on with it."
"I'm happy for them," Molly said. "I am."
"You're a bad liar - you shouldn't make a habit of it," Irene teased, gently.
"My boys," Marie sighed. "Most peculiar pair in London."
"To your boys," siad Irene, tapping her cup against Marie's. "And long may they remain, to infuriate the rest of us."
"I'll drink to that," Molly said.
When the boys came back into town, Marie decided not to mention her afternoon with the girls to Sherlock. He wouldn't be interested, anyway.