Dedicated to my dear friend KendraPendragon on her birthday. Betaed by ThinkswithPen as always.
Though she had helped him, sheltered him, patched up wounds and been a good listener, Molly Hooper had not been surprised when Sherlock Holmes resumed his traditional behaviour after his resurrection. In her secret dreams, she might have hoped for a warmer, friendlier relationship but it wasn't realistic. He really was a machine.
Sherlock and John were reunited, in work and friendship if not in domestic arrangements. John's girlfriend, soon to be wife, Mary Morstan had flat-out laughed at Sherlock's suggestion that they both move back into Baker St with him. John was quick to side with Mary, even if Sherlock knew a tiny part of him would have agreed if Mary had.
It was as if two years hadn't passed. Sherlock would breeze into the morgue, demanding unreasonable things. Molly would acquiesce with genuine keenness. John would grimace in the background. One day after they'd left Molly, her eyes brimming with tears because Sherlock had commented that she looked like a 14 year old that day. It was true: what adult wore jumpers with kittens prancing around?
"Sherlock, that was really harsh. There's no need for that level of personal comment. I thought you'd learnt your lesson all those Christmases ago," he chided.
His former flatmate let out a long sigh, allowing his body to visibly deflate.
"I know. I can't help it."
"Yes, you can. Just shut your trap. Think it but don't say it. She doesn't deserve it…even if she hadn't helped you with Moriarty, she wouldn't deserve it."
"Should I apologise again?"
"Of course. And you know it without asking it. You're not that socially retarded!"
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.
Molly sat at her desk. She was allowing herself 5 minutes to wallow. She thought about what Sherlock had said. In truth, she had bought the jumper in a teen department. Her small stature meant that those clothes fitted her, and though she didn't need to make the saving, kids clothes were cheaper. If I was in a film, she thought, I'd go out, buy a whole new wardrobe and look like dynamite the next time Sherlock appeared at work. He'd taken one look, scoop her into his arms, and declare what an idiot he'd been all this time. She sighed. Why did no one ever tell young girls that these kind of romantic comedies almost never happened in real life? It was much more chance and then, if you got on reasonably well, you'd go out for a while. Nothing was ever spectacular. It was like Jim had once said, apparently, stayin' alive….it's just staying… With no particular resolutions made, and certainly no plans for shopping, Molly noticed her 5 minutes were up, and went back to work.
John and Sherlock had been working a case to do with an international jewel thief. It wasn't the usual sort of thing Sherlock concerned himself with but he'd wanted a case that didn't involve St. Barts for a while. Jewellery seemed just the ticket.
"You know, John, this case is proving trickier than I initially suspected."
"Well, let's go over it."
"I really don't need you to summarise," said Sherlock curtly.
"Indulge me. The Monk, aka Heinrich Ames, has been operating a precious gem smuggling business for at least 7 years. He's never been caught. There's only one known photograph of him and no record of his life in Germany before 2002, so he's probably using an alias. He now steals to order."
"What we need, John, is to set up a sting. Draw him out."
"How do you propose we do it?"
"I don't know yet." Sherlock lay on the couch and resumed his traditional prayer pose.
John regarded him for a moment and then decided to go buy some takeaway for them.
Over an hour later, Sherlock opened his eyes.
"John!" he called excitedly. Receiving no answer, he went into the kitchen to find John reading a newspaper, the remnants of a curry beside him.
"I have it," he announced.
John set down his paper, indicating he was ready to listen.
"We'll set up a customer for the Monk. It'll be something of a long con. She'll pose as a rich bored trophy wife and eventually, she'll procure a meeting with the Monk, where she will ask him to steal the Hope Diamond."
"What's the hope diamond?"
"Oh, only the most famous jewel ever. It was owned by Marie Antoinette amongst many others. Some say it is cursed but even wikipedia's article will show you how most of its owners died normally."
"Who owns it now?"
"The Smithsonian. We'll need their help of course."
"You mean, you actually want him to steal it?"
"No! I want him to attempt it at a time of our choosing."
"So we're going to involve Mycroft then?"
"Well, yes, I suppose."
"No doubt he'll have a suitable female agent for the role."
"Oh I'm sure, but I already have someone in mind!"
"Not Irene Adler?"
"No, and aren't you supposed to be pretending she's in witness protection so as to spare my feelings from thinking she's dead?"
John coughed awkwardly.
"You knew about that then?"
"Yes, I happened to have been passing Karachi and helped her out of that little problem."
"Happened to be passing Karachi?" John spluttered.
Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "Never mind all that. Though she is in America. She's far too notorious."
"Then who?"
"Molly Hooper."
"You can't be serious."
"She's perfect."
John filed away that comment for later analysis before speaking.
"She's a doctor, raised by her father in an ordinary English middle-class suburban setting. She has no acting training. There's no way she could pull off the about face required."
"She'll be great," Sherlock reiterated.
"She hasn't even agreed yet."
Sherlock merely smiled.
"I hope that grinning maniacally at her isn't your plan to get her to agree. You already treat her badly enough."
"Oh she won't be in any danger. We'll be watching her."
John simply folded his arms, knowing there was no point arguing with him in this mood. Mycroft would change his mind.
