Love is a battlefield, by chibiness87
Rating: T (little language)
Spoilers: None. Set pre-series.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

A/N: This is what happens when I think about writing my Masters assignment… It's not beta'd. And I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this into a series or not yet.

Like all good love stories, this particular love story starts with a fight. (Not that either of them know it is a love story yet. That will come later.)

She has been in post for all of twenty three minutes before she is introduced to Sherlock Holmes (if such a meeting could be called an introduction). The doors to the morgue hit the wall with a bang, such is the force he's used to open them.

On first glance he is, well, gorgeous. And tall. And striking. And those cheekbones, oh man those cheekbones. And gorgeous. With a mop of unruly curls on his head, and a cupid bow lip, and dear god, what has she done to make this specimen of a human being perfection waltz into her work space?

(Did she mention he was gorgeous?)

Before she can get further than, "Uh…" (because, seriously, how do you talk to a fucking god without stuttering like an incompetent fool?!), he opens his mouth. The rich baritone timbre does something to her insides that makes her want to do anything he wants, if only he keeps his attention on her.

And then the words register in her mind, and the illusion of perfection is shattered.

"I need to see Mr Watkins."

"Huh?"

"Mr Watkins. You are the new pathologist here, right?"

"Yes?" (It comes out as a question, and she hates that. She hates him for making her do that. Two minutes in his company and she's back to stuttering like her six year old self. Weak. Pathetic.)

"Of course you are. Your lab coat's obviously new. Attention to the dress code that no one else adheres to. And I've never seen you here before. Good, glad we settled that. Now, Mr Watkins. He was the drowning victim that came in this morning."

Gorgeous or not, she has not spent the past god-knows how many years of schooling and working and training to be a pathologist (the youngest ever on staff at Bart's to boot,) to be spoken to like that.

"H-Hang on. Who are you? You can't just waltz in here demanding to see…"

"Sherlock Holmes. Surely you've heard of me? And actually, I think you'll find I can. Now. Mr Watkins. There's a good girl." He waves his hand at her in a 'chop chop' motion, and her hackles rise.

"No."

The man (no longer a god) in front of her continues as if she's never spoken. "And then you can… Wait, what? No? What do you mean, 'No'?!"

Molly stares back, arms folded across her chest, defiance in her eyes. "I mean, 'no'." (She has worked too bloody hard to get this job to get sacked on the first day, and she's not about to let some bloke she's never met access to her morgue and victims based on his say so. No matter how good he looks.)

He looks confused. "But Mike Stamford, that would be your boss, in case you haven't had the chance to learn people's names yet, and I have an arrangement…"

"I'm not Mike Stamford." (She's met him, of course. But in their five minute chat before she came on shift he never mentioned to her some asshole might be calling in, and she's taking no chances.)

He stops again, looking her up and down for a second, before scoffing. "Obviously."

"So, until you can provide me something, in writing, with Mike Stamford's name on it, and his signature, that says you have access to the morgue, you'll have to leave."

His eyes widen slightly, shock clearly evident. (Honestly, has no one ever said no to him before?) "But that… A case… I need…" he pauses, before raising his eyebrows slightly. "Just, please?"

Good lord, he looks like an eager puppy. A gorgeous eager puppy at that. But she has more spine than to let that sway her. (This time, at least.) "No."

He huffs. "Fine."

With a dramatic flair, he sweeps out of her morgue, long coat billowing behind him like a cape. She can hear him mutter something under his breath, but another man, this one at least slightly familiar from the brief introduction she's had earlier, enters before she works out what it is.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you come in… DI Lestrade, isn't it?" Molly uncrosses her arms, letting a smile hint at the corner of her mouth. "Did you need something?"

"Greg. Please." He waves a hand at the still swinging door behind him. "I see you've met Sherlock?"

"I… yes." She gave a small grin. "What's his deal, anyway?"

"He calls himself a consulting detective. Smart as a whip, but not the best with people. Don't take what he says to heart."

"Oh. So is he always so…"

"Arrogant? Annyoing? A berk?"

Molly lets out a quiet laugh, and shakes her head. "Not the words I was going to use, but…"

Greg grins. "Oh don't worry. He's not normally like that."

"No?"

"No. He's in quite a good mood today, actually."

Molly gasps. "Goo… That was a good mood?"

"Oh yes. You should have seen the way he treated your predecessor. I think one time he actually made the man cry!" Greg gives her another small grin, but this one she can't return.

"Oh no… Maybe I should go apolo…"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" The smile is gone now, a hard look in its place. "It's about time Mr. High-and-Mighty got taken down a peg or two."

Molly shakes her head. "But, I don't…"

Greg gives her a small sympathetic smile. "Don't sweat it. He'll pout and sulk like a baby for a while, but he'll come round in a bit."

Molly still hesitates. "Are you sure? I mean…"

Before she can say anything else, the door slams open against the wall again. Sherlock strides in, piece of paper held aloft. He stops in front of her, all but shoving the paper in her face. "Here."

Hesitantly, she takes it. "What's this?"

"A… Mike called it a permission slip." He all but sneers the words at her. (Didn't she think he was gorgeous fifteen minutes ago? More like a git.) "Something about this being an educational establishment something something something… I left. But, it has his signature. And name. And states I have access to anything I want or need in this morgue and the pathology lab. As requested. So. Now can we get on with Mr Watkins?"

Molly ignores the way his voice sends her heart fluttering; instead simply raises an eyebrow at the rudeness.

Sherlock sighs. "Please?"

Molly gives a small quick grin of triumph. "Sure."

"Thank you." Hearing a snicker from the up-to-now silent DI, he turns his eyes (a sharp, piercing blue-green hue,) in his direction. "Not a word, Gavin!"

Sherlock doesn't wait for them, instead stalks over to the drawers, pulling them open at random looking for the body in question.

Greg gives a frustrated huff. "He never remembers my bloody name…"

Together, Molly and Greg move over to the wall, Molly pushing Sherlock out of her way to get to the correct drawer. When he steps aside without protest, she chances a look at him. Gone is the look of annoyance he had before, instead there is a more gentle, curious look on his face.

Greg notices it too. With a sigh, he asks, "What, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock only has eyes for her. "It's Molly, right? Molly Hooper?"

Molly nods, unsure where this is going now. "Yes?"

Sherlock gives her a small grin, and instantly he is back to being gorgeous (damn him). "I like you. I think we'll get on quiet well."

"I…"

Sherlock takes one look at the body now pulled before him, and gives a quick nod. "As I suspected."

Without another word, he turns and walks away, the poor abused wall a victim once again to the force he uses to open the door in his passing.

Greg gives her a small smile. "Like I said. He's in a good mood. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper. I feel we'll be seeing a fair bit of each other now Sherlock has claimed you."

Molly's eyes widen in shock. "Wha…? Claimed me?"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, he does that. Claims people. Collects them, really."

"I don't…"

"Take it as a compliment. He's quite… particular." Greg gives a nod, as if unsure how to best describe the man who has swept into her life like a tornado. "But you're the first person in here who has stood up to him and won. I think you impressed him." He gives her a small grin.

"Oh." She's secretly pleased.

"Now, what do you think he's spotted with Mr Watkins?"

Molly turns back to the body lying between them, looking him over while her heartrate returns to normal. It feels like she has been on a rollercoaster for the past hour. One thing's for sure, if Sherlock Holmes has indeed collected her, she needs to get her responses to him under control.

(After all, it won't do her any good for him to realise she has fallen spectacularly in lust (love) with him.)

TBC?

Thoughts?