Title: Molly Hooper has friends
Author: porpoise-song
Characters: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Catherine Hooper (Molly's mother).
Rating: Pretty much a G.
Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella marks on my body (Mark Gattis), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: Molly's mother is a horrid, verbally abusive individual. She hates her daughter and has no qualms letting her know it. Sherlock finds the woman abusing Molly...and proceeds to scare/demean the ever-loving shit out of her. Mycroft learns of this and kidnaps the woman to threaten her even more. Sherlock smiles at/compliments Molly in his own way. Mycroft buys her a very fine umbrella.
Warnings: Nothing really.
A/N: Written for anonymous for sherlockbbc_fic prompt. Clearly, I couldn't come up with a more creative title. Yeah.
Sherlock enters the morgue to find a tall, imposing woman lowly whispering to Molly. To the untrained eye, it would seem that they are having a pleasant, but private conversation about—well, god knows what idiots talk about these days, he thinks. However, as Sherlock notices, the way that Molly is holding herself is vastly different than her normal, shrinking flower posture. Her stance, here, is a shaking, but stiff one; her mouth is set in a straight, firm, but barely quavering line and her eyes are glossed over with tears.
The grip on the clipboard she is holding tightens when she becomes aware of Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Look at me when I'm talking to you", the woman fiercely says to Molly. Molly's eyes widen when the woman quickly turns around to see who has entered. Her face swiftly transforms from a hateful, vile look to a pleasant and welcoming mask.
Clearly, her mother, Sherlock thinks; wide-set brown eyes, a delicate and thin nose, high and wide cheekbones that sweeps down to a small chin, small close-pressed ears, and a well-shaped, but abnormally small mouth. "Hello, dear", she says to Sherlock; her voice is huskily soft, but there must be some steel cord in her throat, for her voice could probably cut through a file when she wished, as Sherlock had just witnessed. "I'm Catherine Hooper", she says cheerfully and holds out her hand. She hesitates ever so slightly before saying, "I'm Molly's mother"; she spits out the last part like bile in her mouth.
Sherlock frowns, flickering his eyes over the woman before pulling out his phone. "No, you're not", he says knowingly, coldly, and swiftly. "A mother is supposed to be caring and loving—you are none of those things. I can see why your husband left you for another woman, but that still doesn't give you the right to verbally abuse your daughter—even if he did adore her more than he did you."
Sherlock flickers his eyes from his phone to the woman's face before turning his attentions back to his phone. Her face hardens and Sherlock can practically hear her trying to beat down the angry and hate. She leaves immediately without another word or glance in either Sherlock or Molly's direction.
"Molly", Sherlock says when the door swings shut, still not looking up from his phone, but taking a few steps towards Molly, "I need a male corpse—preferably one above one hundred and seventy-three centimeters, below eighty-two kilograms, and between forty and fifty-five years of age."
Molly silently nods. "I'll have to check", she says quietly. "And...Sherlock?" He looks up from his phone at her. "Thank you", she smiles gratefully at him.
Sherlock returns the smile before he turns and walks out the door, saying simply, "Text me when you find one."
To the untrained eye, Catherine Hooper can be mistaken for a loving and warm mother, but Sherlock knows otherwise.
When she wakes up, she's sitting in a hard, metal chair and there's a dull pain emitting through her head. She looks side to side and finds herself in an empty, damp, cold warehouse. It takes her a few moments before she can muster up the strength to look up; when she does, she immediately sees a well-dressed man in a three-piece Oxford suit, leaning on an umbrella, staring intently at her. She gets the feeling like she's a lab rat and he's the scientist.
"Ah", he says, giving her a false, surprised look, "You're awake." He pulls a brown leather bound notepad from his jacket pocket. "Mrs. Catherine Hooper is it?" It's not a question, but a statement, as if his men messed up and kidnapped the wrong old woman. He looks like he can afford the best services—whether they be the legal or illegal kind.
"Who are you?" she hastily and fearfully asks him.
He gives her a cold, practiced smile, "No one of immediate consequence, but one of immense power and talent."
Her theory is right. "You're like that man", she says slowly, "That tall man with the ivory skin and black curls in the morgue."
He ignores her and continues reading from his notepad, "Mrs. Catherine Hooper—formally Catherine Ames; born October 28, 1953 in the small mining town of Eastwood; married Adam Hooper on May 2, 1978."
Since he knows who she is, she doesn't have to pretend anymore. Besides, he kidnapped her so she has the right to be mean and hateful to him, her true self. Thus, she demands of him, harshly, "What do you want?"
He glances at her, his cold, calculated eyes boring into her mind. "Just to warn you that, your daughter, Molly Hooper has friends. Friends that, in their own way, care about her and intend to show it. And, in addition, to show you how important she is to the safety and well-being of London and how vital it is that she remains in peek condition."
A cold fear brews in the pit of her stomach as she carefully breathes in and out. She doesn't say anything, but the look on her face says it all. He could have her killed, she thinks. Her daughter could have her killed and no one would be able to prove it by the looks of the man in fount of her. He looks like the British government. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hooper", she hears him affably say before the darkness overcomes her again. She has some very powerful friends indeed.
The next time Sherlock sees Molly, she's shivering under a hanger at St. Barts, waiting for a cab while the rain poured around her. "Hello, Molly", he greets her cordially, walking up to her.
"Hello, Sherlock", she responds back, her teeth chattering, and trying to smile at him. "I want to thank you, again, for what you said to my mother."
Sherlock lazily shrugs in response. "I think that mothers are supposed to be kind and affectionate—besides, you don't deserve abuse like that. You haven't done anything."
"Your mother's caring, isn't she?" Molly asks him abruptly as if she just learned some juicy gossip.
Sherlock nods. "Yes, yes, she is. Instead of disproving and discouraging my talents and abilities, she encouraged them—still does actually, although she worries about me and would prefer if I was more careful about my work."
"Hm. She sounds very nice. It must be very nice. Which reminds me—could you give my thanks to your brother?"
Sherlock's face takes the look of surprise. "I suppose I could, but how did you know that he was involved?"
"'Cause of this", she says, pulling out a black, umbrella from underneath her rather large coat. Sherlock recognizes it as one of Mycroft's. "It has the initials MH at the handle, you see?" she lifts up the handle for him to see. "I only know of one person with the initials MH and this same person always has this umbrella with him. Moreover, it came with a note saying that he was sorry about my mother. It wasn't a difficult leap or anything."
"I'm glad I'm rubbing off on you Molly—it'll make both of our jobs easier."
She lightly giggles and shakes her head. "You Holmes brothers have a very strange way of showing affection"—Sherlock disdainfully frowns—"but I'm not complaining...nor will I tell. Goodbye, Sherlock." She waves at him and hails a cab.