Written for Day 1 of Sherlolly Appreciation 2018, Early Friendship. And, yes, the title is a nod to BC's short film of a similar name.
"Do you believe in love at first sight? There's this man and I love him. At least, I think I do. I can't stop thinking about him. He's so intelligent it's like he's burning. And he's so cool but not really. And he's fit. Oh, he is really fit. And I can't stop thinking about him." ––Molly Hooper, 28 January 2009.
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Molly exhaled deeply as she glumly ate the packet of crisps she bought from the upstairs vending machine. She wasn't hungry in the least, and was mostly attempting to eat her feelings away, but even that wasn't having its usual effect. She had to settle for said crisps, as her favourite brand had run out.
It was certainly one of those days that started out badly, and had the real potential to decay in half-life to the realm of downright shitty.
The small victory she enjoyed at waking up half an hour before her alarm was short-lived. It was replaced by irritation at being unable to will herself back to sleep for just a few more precious minutes. It didn't help that she still felt drained from the extra shift she picked up from a colleague who had called in sick the day before. After dragging herself out of bed, the first look at her reflection in the bathroom mirror confirmed that it was not going to be a good hair day.
And of all the days, Toby decided it would also be the day he would be obstinate about having ointment––forty quid at the vet's––applied to the mysterious rash on his belly. Her beloved creature put up a fight with her, that resulted in a howling match and several scratches on Molly's arms. The jury was still out on who won the skirmish.
As she rode out a horrible stench in the crowded Tube car, embarrassingly tardy for her fifth shift in as many days, she thought about how aptly it applied as a metaphor for her morning.
And, of course, since the universe was never content to simply dole out crappiness in small portions, Sherlock Holmes would choose today to requisition the path lab for a case.
Normally, the detective's presence at Bart's was a welcome reprieve from her routine. He never failed to make her heart absolutely want to lurch out of her chest whenever he was around. She had to remind herself that she was a grown, sophisticated woman––who may or may not have written something about said detective on her blog the other night.
Come to think of it, she really should delete that entry. She searched her memory again, Those entries, she amended.
"Ah, yes, Dr. Hooper…" he greeted. Or at least this was his version of a greeting.
Molly quickly shoved the bag of remaining crisps into one of her pockets, and wiped her fingers as discreetly as she could on her coat, orangey stains against white be damned. She prayed she didn't smell too strongly of synthetic cheese.
"Mr. Holmes! Hi! Is there anything I can help with?" She winced inwardly, wishing she knew how to school her voice so that it sounded like it belonged to a grown, sophisticated woman.
"Yes, I need a little favour. I need to conduct a test on some DNA samples," came his cool reply. He walked to stand closer to her. Oh, that he knew how her pulse quickened every time he did that. Well, she wasn't completely oblivious. She usually caught the sidelong smirk of triumph that upturned his lips whenever he'd win a favour out of her. But she figured she could forgive herself for behaving ridiculously, once a week.
Already he was starting to have an effect on her. This time, though, his gaze seemed to linger on her face––particularly on the side of her mouth. She began to feel most uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Okay," she said slowly.
"You've got some, er…" unable to find the words, he gestured to her cheek with his finger instead.
"Right, sorry!" Molly brought the back of her hand up to her face, swiping at her mouth. "Thanks."
"Hm," he nodded. "I'll be needing the gel electrophoresis apparatus. Preferably the one I saw you using last week."
Molly consulted the wall chart that kept track of lab equipment, and reported obligingly, "That one's currently occupied, but it should be ready in… thirty minutes?"
"Good," he approved. "I've also had a look at your stores, and it seems you're out of agarose."
"Oh, I keep some spare in my office," suggested Molly. She meandered around him, and led the way down the hall.
"Wonderful," he said, as he followed a few steps behind. "I thought it might have been a problem."
"Well, you know me," she began, though she knew he didn't really know her that well. Half-turning her body, she shrugged and added under her breath, "I always have a solution."
His footsteps halted abruptly, and he let out an odd sort of snorting noise.
Molly paused, too, and turned to face him. "Sorry, what's wrong?" she asked, her heart sinking at the thought that she might have done something to offend him already. But when her eyes alighted on his face, she saw his eyes crinkled at the corners and the lines on the sides of his mouth creased. Did she just make Sherlock Holmes laugh?
"Nothing… just… you said 'solution.' Like the agarose solution?" Molly thought she saw his eyes water, as if he struggled to hold in his laughter. "I just… thought it was rather humorous… that's all."
"Oh, right. Thank you," she murmured, though she did not really think her unintended joke was that funny. She was pleased, nonetheless. "… Mr. Holmes."
"It's Sherlock, please."
Her heart leapt.
He cleared his throat, and he seemed to gain control of himself again. "Could you text me once the equipment is available? I'm needed elsewhere at the moment." He already had his phone in his hands, and was texting away.
She was about to agree to another favour before she voiced a small concern, "I don't have your number."
He stretched his hand, very close to her face, with his palm open. A slip of paper peaked out from between his index and middle fingers. As she reached out to pluck it from his hand, she wondered when he even had time to write down his phone number.
"Well. I'm off," his voice interrupting her thought. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper."
"Molly," she corrected. "Erm, everyone just calls me Molly."
"Molly," he repeated, a side of his mouth curved upward just subtly enough not to escape Molly's notice. And how her insides melted just a little at how lovely her name sounded on his tongue. "Good morning."
On her way back to the morgue, she took out her leftover crisps, discarding it in the nearest rubbish bin, and slid Sherlock Holmes's phone number into her pocket.
Thanks muchly for reading. All your kudos and comments are greatly and deeply appreciated. Cheers! xo