It has been a long time since I've actually written a proper note on here, and that's largely because of laziness (and because there's no note system here). So if you've got any questions about my stories or about my sad and inconsistent posting schedule, feel free to PM me. And if you want to see more consistent notes on my stories, feel free to find me on Archive of Our Own under the same name! ^.^
"Your eyes are a...particularly nice shade of brown..."
"Sherlock?"
It was 11:30 PM, and Molly Hooper was up far past the time she usually went to bed. Molly was a creature of habit, a woman who had a compartmentalized schedule for each of her nights spent at home. But tonight, despite her best efforts, she simply could not sleep. Perhaps it was her rocky relationship with Tom, or maybe it was the return of one infuriatingly attractive consulting detective, but Molly's mind refused to drift off to the land of dreams. So now here she was, with the aforementioned detective slurring into her ear through the airwaves.
There was a distinct drone of voices in the background, and Molly would have bet on her life that Sherlock was at a pub. But Sherlock didn't go to pubs. The bloody man didn't even like shopping for shoes. How could he be in a pub?
"Mooollly," Sherlock drawled in a pitch that sounded far too cheerful to actually belong to the Consulting Detective, "I saaaid-"
"I know what you said, Sherlock," Molly cut in, "But Sherlock, it's nearly midnight, and it sounds like you're in a pub."
"I am," Sherlock huffed, sounding a bit petulant, "With Jaaawwwn. He's gone to get more beer, and I got bored waiting. It's-" he paused, "Oh no, women have surrounded him. I must save him."
Molly heard the phone being dropped onto the table, but the call didn't disconnect. She sighed and rubbed a hand down her face in exasperation. Molly had been drunk dialed a few times in her life, usually by close mates, but this was beyond bizarre.
The pathologist kept the phone pressed to her ear for nearly five minutes before giving up and simply letting it rest on the pillow next to her head. She let the dull drone of people in the background lull her to sleep, and she smiled as she felt herself drifting off. Finally, some peace and-
"Moooolllly!"
Dammit.
Molly huffed and returned the phone to her ear, "What, Sherlock? What is it?"
"I saved Jawn," Sherlock hummed, sounding like a schoolboy who got an award in school, "There was one woman who touched his arse. That's Mary's job."
Molly rolled her eyes and allowed herself to laugh. Sherlock really was drunk if he was bothering to tell her all of this. The man could hardly offer up a sentence if the subject was a waste of time, but apparently John Watson and the women he attracted was fair game. Not that this was conversation for when Sherlock was strictly drunk; the man loved to complain about John's boring women.
She had honestly lost track, but apparently Sherlock had continued talking, and the subject matter had changed greatly: "I mean of couuuurse I would let you touch my butt. I like you."
"Sherlock!" Molly gasped, blushing deeply in the dark of her room, "You know I-"
"You woooooould," Sherlock teased, "John lets women he likes touch his butt. And I like you, so you can touch my butt," the man giggled like a baby at Christmas, "And I would touch your butt, and we'd both laugh."
Molly pursed her lips and sighed. Sherlock was drunk. He wasn't saying anything that he actually meant. She might as well just nip this entire thing in the bud.
"Sherlock, I-"
"You and Tom are breaking up," Sherlock whispered, sobering up quite suddenly, "And it makes you sad that he can't accept all of the recent changes in your life. I'm sorry that I caused them."
The silence between the pair was palpable, and Molly was certain she had heard Sherlock's voice waver. Or perhaps that was just the sound of her own heart breaking.
But then there was a loud crash and a cheer and the moment was gone.
"Come on, Sherlock! Next pub!" John Watson's drunken yell could be heard through the din of the crowd, and Molly couldn't help the smile that crept on her face.
"The race is on, Molly!" Sherlock cheered, and Molly would be damned if she had actually heard him blowing an air kiss into the phone, "Farewell!"
And so Sherlock Holmes hung up the phone, and Molly Hooper followed suit. She set the phone beside her bed, certain that after everything she had heard, she wouldn't be able to sleep at all tonight.
She hadn't slept so well in weeks.
Yours till the chocolate chips,
SerendipityDreamer