Disclaimer: Don't own nothing. Just having fun.
He was looking at her again. Part of her hoped that the cool steadfast gaze was growing warmer. Maybe, he had finally realized that he wanted her. Maybe he would walk closer and lean towards her and those wonderfully compelling lips would….
"Molly, I need my phone."
Right. His phone. Because she should know by now that Sherlock only looked at her when he was deducing things about her that she wished he would keep to himself or when he wanted something. Something. Not someone. Definitely not her.
She stood up from her place on the couch and walked over to her kitchen table. John talked about this all the time. Apparently the great detective was too lazy to reach into his own pants pocket…
Oh. He wanted her to reach in to his pants pocket and retrieve his phone. Molly could feel her face turning red.
It was so unfair. She was trying. She was trying so hard not to make this about her feelings. When he was bloody and hurt, she did her best to clean him up and bandage him without giving in to fantasies of her unusual patient miraculously developing romantic feelings for her. She knew Sherlock had to come first and she refused to let herself ogle him. The poor man had nowhere to go and she couldn't make him uncomfortable in her home.
So she did her best to get over her own discomfort. If three times our of four, she couldn't help looking at him starry-eyed when he deduced something amazing, at least none of those four times were spent looking at his body as he stalked about her small flat.
But now, she had to get close yet again. Molly, girl, this is yet another test and let's hope you have the strength if not to tell him to get his own bloody phone then certainly not to grope him like drunk bridesmaid after a male stripper at a hen night.
Done. And really, his hands were full with the experiment he was working on, and although she knew he was methodical about science, she somehow wished her kitchen were not being turned into another lab. She didn't mind dead bodies; it was her job. But really there should be some separation between work and home. And at least he hadn't called her John when he thanked her.
He thanked her. Molly, seated once again on the couch, turned this startling new behavior over in her mind. Most likely he was just trying to curb his more irritating behaviors. She had put no conditions, no limits on her help, but Sherlock most likely didn't want to push her – not when everyone else thought he was dead.
He was still looking at her. What now? She had brought him coffee ten minutes ago, looked through her old medical books for a citation he wanted, and in general done all the little tasks he had asked of her this morning and every morning for the past two months, had it already been two months, since the fall.
If it were anyone else, she would have thought the constant glances, the constant requests, were part of a scheme to create intimacy. But this was Sherlock and all of these behaviors, well except for the staring and the thank you, were typical. And Sherlock, he wasn't interested in her.
He cared about John, deeply, with a true affection that reminded her of the way books used to describe men's great and noble friendships. John, bless him, used to be embarrassed by those feelings – though she would have thought the former soldier understood about strong bonds – hating the way people misinterpreted the friendship. And now, poor John, was left adrift, with puzzles he couldn't solve and a cold grey world she couldn't brighten.
Sherlock, well, maybe he did care romantically for his flatmate. His eyes certainly sought out John's. But, she didn't think, hadn't wanted to think that she had no chance. Why? It wasn't any better to moon hopelessly after a straight man who wasn't interested in her but recognized a dominatrix by her naked figure than it was to lust after a homosexual or asexual man. He had never truly looked at her – not to admire her or imagine them entwined.
He was looking at her now.