Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Originally done for a prompt on Livejournal.
The victim, a woman of twenty-two, had died of a sharp blow to the head. It was quite obvious. There was a bloody wound on the left side of her head. The angle suggested it had come from someone taller than her; the depth of the impact suggested the wielder of the murder weapon was someone quite strong.
Sherlock studied the cadaver on the cold metal table with his usual cold scrutiny.
"I brought coffee," a cheerful voice announced followed by the sound of slamming doors.
Sherlock groaned inwardly, but replied, "very good. Thank you, Molly."
He barely had time to look up before he felt the blunt corner of a cart shove itself into his side. Medical instruments went flying through the air. The force of the blow forced him to keel over and let out a small cough of surprise.
Molly's collision with the cart had caused a sharp pain to shoot through her hip. The jolt had surprised her so much that the muscles in her right hand relaxed, and the coffee cup succumbed to gravity. If it had been Molly's lucky day, the coffee would have avoided completely soaking her chest and ruining her favorite sweater, and instead. But, of course, it wasn't.
Molly squeaked. It wasn't until Sherlock spoke that Molly realized he was still in the room.
"If you could please take your awkward behavior elsewhere. It would be most appreciated since I am in the middle of conducting an examination."
"Sorry," Molly said as she rubbed her sore hip, although, irritated, she did not mean it.
Sherlock slightly tipped his head, and turned back to the examination table without a second thought.
Molly scowled as she went to fetch some paper towel from a cupboard. She dabbed at her white cardigan, attempting to salvage what she knew was already ruined. Molly berated herself. It had cost a whole month's salary. You saved up for this. You bought it at sodding Harrods, Molly. And what do you do on the first day you wear it? Spill coffee on it trying to impress Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who probably didn't even notice. What's he doing right now anyway as I mop this puddle off the floor? He's talking to the hell is he talking about anyway?
Sherlock was, in fact, mumbling to himself. When Molly perked her ears up to listen, she heard: "victim was doing something with her right hand, but what?"
He was silent for a moment. Molly feared that he might have discovered her eavesdropping, so she went back to halfheartedly scrubbing the white laboratory floor. But Sherlock had forgotten of Molly's existence. He was too fixated on the victim's mysterious last moments.
"Couldn't have been writing. No, no, there are no pressure marks on her wrist. No indent in her palm."
Molly pulled her head up again. She slowly stood up from her position on the ground, and busied herself with pretending to throw away the soaked paper towels. She pretended to casually glance at the victim's right hand.
"She was holding something in her hand," Sherlock continued. "Scissors? No! There was nothing she could have been possibly cutting."
On her way to the garbage bin, Molly took the opportunity to gain a better view of the body.
She was pretty, the kind of girl Molly always aspired to be. Beautifully styled blonde hair, well-sculpted eyebrows. Traces of lipstick still found on her lips suggested that it must have been the kind that cost a fortune.
As Molly silently reminded herself that she was envying a murder victim, she noticed something odd about the face. The woman's hair had been done with care, and she had lipstick and blush on, but only one eye was done. The left eye sparkled with eyeshadow, and the lashes curled to envious proportions. However, the right eye was plain.
"She was curling her eyelashes right before she died," Molly thought aloud.
"What?"
"The girl, she was using an eyelash curler before she died. See? She only had enough time to do one eye." Molly pointed to the left eye with a sense of self-satisfaction.
"Hm," Sherlock said as he leaned over the body again, disappointed that he had missed something.
"You thought it was scissors because eyelash curlers are shaped sort of like scissors." Molly ran to her purse at the corner of her room, and dug around to whip out her own eyelash curler. She demonstrated the use by slipping her fingers through the appropriated holes, and clamping shut on her eyelashes.
Sherlock was truly enchanted. He had never seen such a device, nor had he any idea how to use it. "Fascinating," he said, watching as Molly did her demonstration. After she finished, he held out his hand towards her. "May I?"
"What?" Molly wasn't sure how else to respond.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "May I try out your device?"
"You… want to try out my eyelash curler?" Molly asked as she handed the object over, dumbstruck.
"That is what I just said," Sherlock replied as he greedily snatched the curler from her hands.
He looked satisfied as he looped his long, pale fingers through the finger holes. With gusto, he raised the device up to his eye and clamped down on his lashes.
Molly gazed at him in shock before she was interrupted by a squeal.
Sherlock had the eyelash curler held away from him as if it had just turned into an animal and bit him. Molly noticed that his fingers were still squeezing the clamp closed. She gently pulled his hand down, and separated his fingers. The clamp opened, and small eyelashes floated towards the ground like delicate snowflakes.
Sherlock whimpered. Molly looked up, and saw tears forming in his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, as he hastily rubbed his eyes.
Molly stifled a giggle as she retrieved her eyelash curler from him, before he could do anymore damage.
Sherlock groaned as he touched his eye. "I think I need some ice."
"What? No, you don't. It's only a few eyelashes."
"For your information, 'few' is classified as 'three', and with my own eye as evidence, I definitely pulled out more than three. I would say that ice would be most needed."
"You're such a baby." Molly couldn't believe she'd just said that, but it was true.
Sherlock ignored her. "Women are so strange. Why would you submit yourselves through such methods of torture for beauty? Obviously ripping out eyelashes never helped you."
"Oi, no need to get vicious!" Molly said, as she tugged on Sherlock's arm. His one hand still covered his eye.
"Where are we going?"
"To get some lunch."
In the end, Sherlock did get his ice. Molly shoved the pack into his eye which caused Sherlock to whine and protest even further. He pouted like a child the entire time.
By the end of the day, when John came to pick up his flatmate, he found Sherlock sitting in the canteen, with Molly, surrounded by empty yogurt containers.
"Did you know," Molly said when John approached the table, "that you've neglected to feed your flatmate for three days? He may seem like a machine, but he's quite the baby."
"What—" was all John managed to sputter.
Sherlock, with the ice pack still pressed to his eye, was furiously spooning yogurt into his mouth with his free hand.
"And he's developed quite the taste for cherry yogurt, I've discovered."
"How did you get him to eat? He never listens to me!"
"Oh, he's been pouting."
"Why?"
"Let's just say I had to promise never to let my eyelash curler anywhere near him again."
"Right, well. I'll pay you back for all the food."
"Oh, it's no problem. It's been fun to spend the day with him."
"We better go home now. He's probably tired from being on the case all day. I'll have to put him down for a nap."
Sherlock snarled as he finished the last bits of yogurt. A smudge of pink yogurt marked his right cheek, but he took no notice. He arose from the table, ready to leave.
"Sherlock, what do you say to Molly?" John said, blocking Sherlock's leave.
"What?"
"Sherlock, we've talked about manners."
Sherlock groaned and turned around. "Thank you, Molly. It has been a most splendidly enlightening day," he said, placing emphasis on his words as if Molly couldn't already pick up on his biting sarcasm.
Molly smiled. "You're welcome, sweetie," she replied before Sherlock dramatically exited.
"Yup, that's about about as polite he gets," said John with a final smile. "Thanks for looking after him, Molly."
As John left too, Molly made a mental note never to let Sherlock near her flat iron in the future.