Author's Note: The second part of my fic giveaway, which is a fic for the first runner up, lokiafterdark, who won the prize of a 500 word fic based upon a prompt of her choosing. The prompt given was "Molly is doing important lab work for Mycroft (very secretive, government) and Sherlock mistakenly thinks their interactions are romantic in nature. Jealous, awkward Sherlock ensues but it all works out as Sherlock/Molly in the end."
The door to his office bursts open and Sherlock's hands have slammed down upon his desk before he can even let out a sigh.
"You have made a lot of stupid decisions, Mycroft," his younger brother spat, "and dating Molly Hooper, of all people, is especially moronic."
Mycroft half-heartedly resists the temptation to raise his eyebrows. Leaning forward, he tilts his head up, staring into the fierce eyes of his tempestuous brother.
"Such words aren't entirely kind, Sherlock."
Sherlock's upper lip curls into a snarl. "They're not meant to be."
The snarl, the abrasive entrance, the cold remarks; all primitive hallmarks of jealousy, designed to scream out 'I know best' and all laughable.
"Well," Mycroft replies, glancing down with a sigh. He stifles a yawn.
"Is that it?" his brother demands, straightening up. "'Well'?"
"Yes, I suppose it is." He presses his mouth together, a gesture Sherlock will no doubt take as a gesture of wanting the subject closed. The immediate opening and the swift closing of Sherlock's mouth confirms the idea. With a roll of the shoulders, Sherlock leaves. His coat swishes out behind him, a needless flair for the dramatic. Mycroft rolls his eyes.
"Dating indeed."
"Morning Sherlock!" That's usually how she greets the consulting detective who often enters her lab (and her morgue). Sometimes, she receives either a muttered afternoon in reply, or a grunted hello.
Not so for today. Instead, he just says her name. She smiles, cocking an eyebrow.
"Sherlock."
"You're with Mycroft. Correct?"
"Kind of, yeah." Well, she isn't 'with him' with him—Mycroft has never presented himself as one who indulges in relationships, or at least relationships with the fairer sex anyway—but she's working with him at least.
"You – like it?"
She glances up, frowning.
"Of course I do." Why wouldn't she like it? She's working with colleagues who are at the top of their game, with equipment that's top of the range. Sherlock would probably salivate if he knew the full details of it.
"Oh." Sherlock lowers his gaze. "Well – I – I hope you'll be very happy."
The realisation of what he means—what he thinks—hits her with such force, and at such speed, that she bursts out a laugh.
"We're not – I'm not dating your brother!"
His head snaps up. "You're not?"
"No! I'm working with him! Not dating. God no. Could never date a Holmes."
"So you couldn't – date a Holmes?" His tone is soft, quiet. "Right."
Oh. She looks up, and for a moment, he has devastation written across his face, like an adorable puppy that's been told it can't play with its favourite toy. He turns to leave.
"But I'd date you!" She claps her hand to her mouth, but there's no way to escape what's been said. Sherlock turns, his smirk right back where it should be.
"You'd date me?"
She nods.
"Coffee?"
Another nod.
"This afternoon, perhaps?"
She draws her hand away from her mouth, unable to stop her beam of a smile.
"Yes."