"Gosh, it's late," I say out loud. The clock on the wall reads 11:50, almost four hours later than my normal quitting time. Today it seemed the country had been decimated and all the bodies were brought to me for autopsies. Letting out a sigh, I undo my dilapidated braid and turn back to the microscope. A corpse came in with a strange white substance in his mouth, and I need to figure out what it is. I turn the knobs to focus and see the basic chemical compound of-
"Strychnine," I jump and gasp as a deep voice fills the lab. The one and only consulting detective is standing in the doorway, sopping wet. "Common in pesticides. People accidentally spray too much in the flower beds, the poison seeps into the groundwater. Drink more than sixty four ounces of tap water that day and down you go."
"Why are you soaked?" I ask.
"It's raining," he replies. "Obviously."
Thunder rumbles. I glance through the window and notice the streets are sopping wet. It must have been raining for a solid hour, I just had not noticed. "Oh."
Feeling stupid, I ask another question. "Why are you here?"
"John kicked me out of the flat for the night. I set fire to his favorite jumper. He'll come 'round eventually but until then I'll wait here." He gestures to the lab equipment. "Lots of experiments to keep me busy."
"Okay," I remove the slide from the microscope and take it to the sink. "I've still got some work I need to do, if— if you don't mind sharing the lab." I curse myself for stuttering. You aren't supposed to care about him, I tell myself. Don't you remember what he said? What he did?
"Not at all," With a fake smile, he walks over to the cabinets and roots through them.
"Can you take off your coat? You're dripping all over the equipment," I chide, annoyed.
He grunts in reply. Taking off his coat, he strides to the door and brushes against me. A thrill runs through my body and I notice he is wearing the purple shirt. Darn it, Sherlock.
He is gone for several minutes, so I wonder if he is coming back or if he has found some other lab to work in. I hope he comes back, but only because I don't like working alone at night. It's a spooky, even for someone who does postmortems. Trying not to think of the scary film I watched last night, I start collecting beakers to clean.
Over the racket of glass clinking, I hear footsteps. My heart leaps before I can tell it not to. Sherlock pushes open the door to the lab, completely dry.
"How did you—"
"Hand dryers in the loos," He interrupts. His hair is a wild mess, even wavier than usual. Running his fingers through his curls, he returns to rifling through the cabinets.
When he starts pulling out various beakers, I say, "If you're going to make a mess, could you clean it up yourself, please? I've got tons—"
"Mm-hm," he dismisses, nose in the cupboard.
I allow myself to stare at him for a second, then return to my scrubbing with a quiet okay. The next few minutes pass in silence, except for the sounds of running water, glass clinking, and Sherlock mumbling to himself. I occasionally glance over at the detective, and every time I do my heartbeat quickens, much to my dismay. His profile is highlighted beautifully in the dim light, making him look like an angel or a king. I angrily chase that thought away, but find myself staring at him. He glances up and meets my gaze, so I quickly avert my eyes, cursing silently. I shiver involuntarily. The air conditioning kicked on and I am freezing.
I hear the stool scrape against the floor and see Sherlock leave again in my peripheral vision. For the best, I think. I am tired and my emotions are running rampant.
Unfortunately he does return. By the time he does , I have finished scrubbing equipment and revisit the microscope. There are a few more samples I need to analyze. With my eyes glued to the eyepiece, I do not notice him approaching me and am caught by surprise when I feel something thick and soft draping over me. I start and glance at the fabric around my shoulders.
"A shock blanket?" I ask.
Sherlock stares awkwardly at the floor. "Shock blankets efficiently reflect body heat. They are excellent for keeping warm."
I cannot help but blush. "Thanks." He noticed I was cold. Odd. It's nothing, I tell myself. Cuddling under the orange knit material, I try to focus on the compound I was analyzing, but my mind keeps coming back to Sherlock.
I groan, knowing I will never finish work at this rate. Might as well call it quits. I switch off the microscope, dispose of the slide, remove the shock blanket, and replace it with my coat. As I grab my purse and head out the door, I hear the detective say, "Goodbye, Molly."
Thoroughly baffled and mildly irritated, I stop in my tracks and face him. "Why are you being nice to me?" I ask. "You've never said goodbye before or noticed when I'm cold."
Sherlock looked up from his petri dish, his eyes piercing mine. "What do you mean, I've always been nice to you."
"So humiliating me and scaring off my boyfriends is being nice?" My voice rises with my wrath.
He looks uncomfortable. "Molly, I've always been honest with you. I'm not what people understand to be friendly or caring. I'll never lie to make you feel better. I'll tell you when your hair looks bad, or when your boyfriend is gay."
My fury deflates, replaced with a sickening feeling. "I suppose that was for the best." I admit after a long pause.
Sherlock nods. "I thought so. That is why I spoke up."
Silence falls between us. Swallowing hard, I wince at the pain in my gut. You selfish git. You despicable shortsighted git. I never realized the motive behind Sherlock's rudeness. He cares about me and shows it in his own convoluted way.
I know I should say something to alieve the awkwardness and make up for my baseless anger, but my mind is blank. Sherlock surprises me by standing up and drawing closer to me. I hold my breath as I stare into his crystal eyes and he gently touches my shoulders.
"Molly Hooper, you are an extraordinary person, and I would trust you with my life. While I may hurt you in my ignorance, I would never do so intentionally." He places a soft, lingering kiss on the top of my head.
Guilty tears fill my eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." I grab him and bury my face in his chest. His muscles tense.
Nervously, he pats my back. "I forgive you, but I have no clue what you've done wrong." I feel the vibrations of his apprehensive laugh. "Aren't I the one who's supposed to apologize?"
"No. I didn't realize that you were looking out for me, I just thought you were being cruel." I let go and look at him. My eyes are dry now and I can tell he is relieved. "I'm sorry I doubted you."
He smiles. "To be fair, I've given you many reasons to."
I laugh and take a step back, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. Silence creeps back into the room. We meet each other's eyes for a moment, then I pull my gaze away.
"I should be going." I turn and walk out the door, only to stop and come back. "Thank you, Sherlock."
"You are most welcome."
Thanks for reading, guys! I love reviews, so please leave one if you can. Shout out to hipster4lyfe, who helped me out with this one. Love ya, dear! Y'all should check out her fics, she's great.
Anyway, I've been posting like mad the past couple days, which is very uncharacteristic. I've been finishing up old fics I started a long time ago. This was the last one I intended to finish, but there may be more. Who knows? Creativity works in mysterious ways ;) Until next fic! -jarjarjinx