Sequel to 'Little Miss Hooper'. Since you guys wished it, I delivered - hopefully, it is up to mark. I'm dedicating this oneshot to incomprensibile, who has read most of my Sherlolly crap, and I think incomprensibile really wanted another oneshot of Mary and Molly. So yeah, for incomprensibile.
Chemistry – the strangest of all sciences. One usually imagines a labcoated individual, playing around with an elaborate chemistry set of beakers, test tubes, coloured liquids and a lot of fire. One does not imagine a blonde haired, red coated woman, who stifles her laughter as she plays with the romantic notions of one Consulting Detective. Towards a pathologist, too.
Of course, Mary now understood exactly what Sherlock went on about. Chemistry was a fantastic science, it really was. It gave her a sense of power, a sense of purpose, and perhaps a sense of creationism. So this is what God felt like when he manipulated the elements into the universe we know.
When Molly had been browbeaten into moving into 221B, Mary had been thrilled. Her original assessments of Sherlock's sentiment had been bang on. Never cross an ex-assassin good at reading people. She was yet to explain her theory to John, but they were getting somewhere, especially when Sherlock came over later, to the Watsons, to explain the Molly was settling in and it was distracting.
"Oh, of course that would be distracting," said Mary innocently. "You can stay here for a while, Sherlock."
"He can?" asked John while Sherlock frowned at her particularly innocent expression.
"Course he can. Molly Hooper can be distracting. She has loud jumpers."
John chuckled. "That's one thing."
"What of her loud jumpers?" asked Sherlock.
"Nothing at all," said Mary, going to the table to clear some trash littered across it. "They simply pose so many colours on you all at once, is all I'm saying. Might lift you out of your memory palace. That and the singing. It's alright, Sherlock, we understand."
"I'm sorry, am I missing something?" asked John.
"She wears her jumpers because she likes the colours – they remind her of her father, and of better times. Additionally because she finds no need to dress fancy in a morgue. It indicates her need for a little bit of attention, and a slight melancholy."
"Well, that really has nothing to do with what I was saying," said Mary, amusedly, walking to the kitchen.
Sherlock followed her there. "I don't have a problem with Molly's jumpers."
"Neither do I," said Mary easily. "I never said anything about that, did I? Besides, they suit her, don't you think?"
Sherlock was momentarily thrown. "They hide whatever pleasing qualities her body possesses," he said without commitment.
"But they do suit her?"
His eye twitched briefly. "Yes, I suppose they do."
Score one, for Mary Watson. Zero, Sherlock Holmes.
The next time Mary decided to dabble with the Chemistry set, with all the beakers and all the colours, she was going for a different and slightly unforeseen approach.
"Molly, hi!" said Mary cheerfully in the morgue.
"Oh, hi Mary," said Molly, eyes brightening. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mary.
"What's going on?" asked Mary cheerfully.
"You won't believe what happened!" said Molly excitedly. "This guy right here," she said, pointing hurriedly to a body on the slab – "He has a rare brain tumor. It's gigantic!"
Mary laughed. "Time and again you display your insanity, Hooper," she said indulgently.
"Are both of you friends?" asked a deep – practically laced with jealousy – voice.
"Mary's nice," said Molly with a blush. "She doesn't get all offended when I get excited about brain tumors."
"We've been shopping a few times," said Mary noncommittally, but grinning on the inside. "And for coffee. Dinner, once or twice. And you know, between Christmas and everything we became really good friends."
Sherlock's eyes were spitting.
Mary wasn't lying. After becoming friends with Molly Hooper that first coffee, she couldn't help it – Molly was engaging, she did not make any assumptions about people and she had a curious preoccupation with morbid jokes. It was a perfect combination for Mary.
What she had not anticipated was Sherlock.
And while she was friends with Molly Hooper, she might as well make the most of it.
Score two for Mary Watson, zero for Sherlock.
"I don't know – I don't think it's my colour," said Molly complacently.
"No, this one suits you perfectly," said Mary, picking up light red colour of nail-paint.
"You think so?" asked Molly. "Well, alright," she said.
"Want to go out for dinner tonight?" asked Mary. "I know a cute guy from work!"
Molly nervously laughed. "I can help you with shopping for your baby, Mary. I can even take your advice about red nail paint. But I certainly can't do more dates. Goodness, the looks they give when they find out I am a pathologist."
"Don't worry about it, just give it a go," said Mary mischievously. "Or is it Sherlock you're worried about?"
Molly blushed red, as usual. Her blushes could be triggered by the smallest things. "He deduces everyone," said Molly in a hushed whisper.
"Didn't deduce Tom," Molly pointed out, waving a dress at her. "And let's face it Molls – there was a lot to deduce there."
"Oh alright," said Molly.
"Perfect," said Mary wickedly.
"Oh, fuck," came the voice from Molly's room. "I hate heels. What was I thinking? This is ridiculous."
Sherlock looked up amusedly. He wondered what Molly was up to.
There was a very distinct sound of tripping, and a toppling of a dozen things. Seven books or so, a lamp, and a few clothes, deduced Sherlock. Was she going somewhere?
"Okay, okay," went her breathy voice. "Alright, here we go. Call Mary."
Sherlock's eyes immediately narrowed. What was Mary Watson doing, messing around with his pathologist? What did she mean by waltzing into his morgue while he was talking to Molly? And when had Mrs. Watson and Molly Hooper become friends, anyway? As far as he knew, Molly was the same, petite pathologist of Barts, with her ridiculous jumpers and her equally ridiculous sense of humor.
It wasn't like he didn't want Mary and Molly to be friends. They were both women who were his friends, who had a lot of patience with his eccentricities, who could force him into mundane activities like eating and sleeping. But he was vehemently opposed, to have anyone, in any sense in form, who could make Molly feel comfortable enough to allow her to express her excitement over tumors. It was simply not done.
"Yes, hi," said Molly from the room. "I'm trying to wear the fucking dress, and I'm stuck, Mary! Help, or I will cry and ruin the make up."
Sherlock glared. So it was a date.
"Oh – that's where that thing goes? Oh. Oh. Alright, thanks," she said sheepishly. "No, I won't. Don't worry. God, Mary. Mother instincts kicking in early? Alright, alright, I'm going. Yeah. Hmm. Alright. Sure. Bye."
Molly stumbled into the flat, and Sherlock whirled around, expecting to see an awkward Molly Hooper in an awkward dress, feeling awkward, but whatever he was expecting was crushed.
"Sherlock?" said Molly gently. "I'm going out. Mary insisted on setting me up. Said he won't be scared of my profession. Alright?"
It was rather simple – tube top, no straps, white in colour, with red flowers to match her nail-paint. It was a light red, not bold, like The Woman's. This was a Molly red. Black overcoat on top, and minimal make-up – only a touch of red on her lips. She seemed to have abandoned whatever heels she was wearing in favour of a simple set of black flats. Her hair was down. There was nothing fancy about it.
Oh God, Mary, groaned Sherlock.
She wasn't looking uncomfortable, like she had during that Christmas party. She wasn't looking out of place, even if she was beautiful. She was looking so typically Molly – the dress was supposed to be highlighting her whimsical sense of clothes and making her look nice.
"Sherlock? You haven't said anything."
The phone call came, predictably. For all the air of mystery Sherlock pretended to exude, he was hopelessly obvious sometimes. Mary grinned brightly. John wasn't home – one of his patients had needed immediate attention.
"What – is – wrong – with – you?" said the voice on the other end, biting words.
"Well, presently I have back pain which is killing me. The morning sickness passed, though, so that's good."
"What did you do to her?" he asked.
"Didn't you think she looked nice?" asked Mary innocently.
She could hear him struggling with his words. When he did speak, it wasn't what Mary was expecting. "He's all wrong, you do know that? He took her out to dinner, for God's sake. Anybody with half a brain would know she prefers ice-skating. And he wears a polo shirt, Mary. A polo shirt. Red hair, really? They're dyed, it's obvious. He's not even a natural redhead. What were you thinking?"
"Sherlock," said Mary slowly, "How do you know what he is wearing? I told Molly he'd meet her at the restaurant, because she wanted to avoid your deductions."
Sherlock paused for a beat. Mary paused for a beat. They said nothing. "Goodbye Mary," he said abruptly.
Mary started laughing, openly, guffawing into oblivion. Goodness, Sherlock Holmes. It's three to Watson, none to you. You're losing.
I have been reliably informed by my friend that this ending is also very cliffy, because one wishes to know what happens next. Either way, until next inspiration hits!
Don't forget to review :)