Molly is leaning against one of the stainless steel work tables in the morgue, watching while Sherlock carefully looks over the latest body in a strange string of murders. He slowly and carefully lifts each hand and seems to be pressing his fingers to the underside of each digit. She has watched similar procedures for so long know that it's just another part of her day. Except for that time when he was gone for a while...but, really, who wants to think about that?
She's tired today and more than happy to lean here against the shiny table and take the load off for just a few moments. Her boyfriend has just proposed to her, so she's feeling slightly high about that, if it would not have been for Mother Nature's appearance right about the time she said "yes" she probably wouldn't have even bothered to come in today. But alas, as always, The Sherlock needs to see the body yesterday that wasn't even a body before yesterday, well a dead one anyway, so here she stands.
He has finally learned to read some of her signals after another time in the morgue where she flat-out .off about badgering her when she wasn't feeling too great, but that was two boyfriends ago. So, no hard feelings there. She leans back just a little farther into the worktable and crosses her arms. Damn lab coat is scratchy today. She sighs, knowing he's just going to take his time, but really, it's worth it in the end. Like everyone else in the gravity of the planet that is Sherlock Holmes, she realizes that the work he does actually provides a public service. And, like everyone else, there are times she's actually thought about at least punching him in the face.
But, apparently John is the only one who can get away with that.
Molly lifts her head a little as the good-natured man enters the morgue with three cups in hand. Coffee for her and Sherlock, and some tea for himself. Molly smiles and thanks him while he steps away and settles into one of the stools. He's got his notebook out now, just waiting for Sherlock to start going through his process. Molly is sometimes more fascinated watching the two of them together-like a well-oiled machine-than listening to Sherlock's way of weaving fine strands of the puzzle together in that deep baritone voice.
John would make an alright woman, she fancies. He's kind and generous and apparently has the patience to outlast most of the Saints. She inwardly giggles a little, picturing a bunch of ghostly people sitting in the pub, ranting about Sherlock. John would be the only human there, but he would hold steadfast to the end. Molly shakes her head slightly. Loyalty like that is almost fantastical. But it is real. But, like many of the women Molly knows, John is aware of how much power his body contains should and when he needs to use it. Somehow, somewhere, he learned the skills necessary to stay alive and keep others that way. She has always been impressed by him, he never has the need to overly brag about what he knows, but he applies it well. He keeps up with the mundane details of...well, pretty much everything and everyone around them...from remembering her birthday to making sure Sherlock actually eats things that pass as real food.
Another inward chuckle. It's not an insult, not at all. It's about feelings and relationships, and well, John just does them better. She knows that in every relationship one person is the care taker, and one person needs to be cared for. That's just the way these things work out. But they aren't called stereotypes for nothing. John has no fear of explaining things to people: difficult medico-language, his opinions on cars, Sherlock...
Sherlock, now, nope. He's all man. Everything about him: the pouts when he doesn't get his way, the arrogant facade, everything about his lean, lanky physique...and the fact that he has to be taken care of. Of course, he would absolutely NEVER in a million years admit that out loud, but she's pretty sure he's aware of it anyway. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture Sherlock as female...and failed. Miserably. That brain in a woman's body would actually be a dangerous thing. She's pretty sure it would be a state secret weapon. Because she is aware that all of Sherlock's gracelessness and sulky moods are there to protect that brain and perhaps keep it from eating itself alive. It's always better to use your powers for good, rather than evil, anyway. A woman wouldn't need all of that. She would either be completely aware of just who and what she was, or be completely unaware of it all. Therefore, dangerous. Simple, really.
Sherlock looks up from the body he is carefully combing over with, well, Molly doesn't even want to know anymore. He is staring directly at her, but she lost the ability to wince from the x-ray gaze a couple of years ago. She stares back.
"Molly, what are you considering so deeply in that mind of yours?" At least he didn't say "little" this time.
"I was just considering what you would be like if you were female." Deadpan. Like a smack across that face.
John snorts over in the corner and then jumps when his hot tea overturns into his lap. There's a hissing sound and then a deep, belly laugh.
Sherlock is simply frozen, speechless.