Title: The Molly Files
Author: LizAMWriter
Summary: Molly writes letters to Sherlock, and keeps them on her laptop. She doesn't anticipate him or anyone else ever reading them. However, John Watson happens upon them one day when he borrows her laptop. Established Sherlock/John, first time Sherlock/Molly/John.
Literary Tags: Slow burn, HEA, NSFW, M/M/F.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters from the world of Sherlock BBC, which is owned by Steven Moffat and based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, or Dr. Molly Hooper. This story is a work of fiction and not intended to be part of the "official canon" of the series. The plot, such as it is, is mine. I am not making any money off of writing fanfiction, this story included. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: M overall due to the ménage subject matter, but most of the chapters are K+ or T.
Notes: I am not British, so please excuse any inconsistencies. I'd like to thank the person who inspired the actual letters, even though he will never know about them. Indeed, he would be quite embarrassed to have inspired fanfiction. My goal is to post two chapters a week until the story is complete, but we all know how RL gets in the way of writing fanfiction, so we'll see how long I can keep the schedule.
Letter One
I love you.
I know it's foolhardy to love someone as unattainable as you are to me. Some days, this love is all that is good and decent in my world. Other days, I wish I didn't care so much. I wish I could turn away when I see you coming…you leave me so broken it's hard to breathe.
Yet, here I sit, alone tonight and thinking of you. I'm imagining you in all your perfections and flaws. I wonder what it would be like to walk beside you in this life; to be the one you need and the one you turn to always. It causes me no small amount of heartache to admit that I'm not your type.
Images of you and him enter my mind: laughing, yelling, hurting, happy. It's variations on the same themes of life. When I think of you two together, I chastise myself yet again for wanting you. The truth is you are not mine to have. You were his from the very beginning, made for each other in a way I only understand because I've observed you that thoroughly. The cosmos ordained your joining with him long before you walked into my laboratory. You need one another the way the moon and the tide depend on each other. He drags from your depths all the insecurities and fears you claim not to have; lays them bare in the soft light of his love; and heals them in the long hours of the night. He keeps you human and compassionate.
Yes, Sherlock. You were made to love John Watson, and he was made to love you. This bittersweet reality socks me in the stomach at the most inconvenient of times – usually when you are standing close to me and I think if I were only a bit more brave I would touch you. Still, the more difficult truth to face is the fact that you will never need me like you need him.
Love can be so utterly painful. It walks hand-in-hand with melancholy and a vexing of spirit that is unsurpassed by other emotions. At least, that is what loving you is like for me. I pen these words knowing you will never see them. That brings me small comfort on this rainy, cold night. They say tomorrow will be brighter and sunnier.
We shall see.
John Watson stared at the computer screen. He knew he should not have opened the file within seconds of seeing the first words. His guilty conscious pricked at him when he read the letter through the first time. And yet, here he was, ten minutes later, re-reading the letter for the fourth time.
He asked to borrow Molly's laptop because he needed access to a few online medical journals, and she was already set up on the search engines. In her usual Molly way, she brightly agreed and turned the device on before leaving him to his task in the lab.
John found the file by accident; he clicked on the desktop link because he thought it would lead him to a word processing program. It did, but the page was not blank as he expected it to be. This file was filled with letters to someone, and it wasn't long before the astute doctor figured out who the pretty pathologist was writing about.
John ran his hands through his hair absentmindedly. He liked the petite woman well enough, but she always seemed so content to blend into the background that John eventually stopped noticing things about her. But now, staring at her private thoughts, John was glad for this insight. He sympathized with her a great deal, for he had loved Sherlock from afar for ages before The Night It All Started.
Hearing voices outside the lab, Watson took in Molly's words one final time before powering the laptop down. He was conflicted. As Sherlock's boyfriend, he should be appalled that someone else was showing interest in him – clearly Molly's feelings were more than simple attraction. As Molly's acquaintance and sometimes-friend, he well understood where she was coming from and wanted to give her some measure of comfort in her loneliness.
Well, well. That's an interesting thought, Dr. Watson.
John was just putting the laptop into Molly's briefcase when the object of his thoughts walked into the lab. And, hard on her heels, was the object of both their thoughts.
John noticed Sherlock still wore his Belstaff and scarf, which could only mean he hadn't been at St. Bart's for long. He didn't meet John's gaze; instead he was hyper-focused on Molly. That meant he was hot on the trail of something and needed her expertise.
Molly threw a stack of files she'd been carrying – way to be polite and help a lady, Sherlock – on the nearest clean counter space before turning to face the consulting detective. He removed his coat and scarf with mechanical efficiency, but John's stomach tumbled at the beautiful body beneath the coat. He carefully watched Molly's face, noting her eyes roving over Sherlock's form and her breath speeding up.
Well, John decided, she could hardly be blamed. For a man who claimed he cared nothing for sex, he fairly oozed sex appeal. Molly's eyes widened as Sherlock stepped closer to her.
"Molly, do you think I could have a look at Jane Doe 10174?"
A flicker of annoyance passed over Molly's face before she said, "She's already been processed, Sherlock."
The detective simply grinned and stepped closer. Molly swallowed. He extended his hand to her shoulders and gave her a puppy-dog stare. "Please?"
John was fascinated by the exchange. He knew Molly would give in a second before her gaze fell to the floor and she mumbled, "Ok, come on."
At Sherlock's victory, he glanced up at John, and Watson's breath caught. The look on Sherlock's face was not one of intrigue, it was one of heat. Holmes' eyes betrayed the desire he felt.
After the pair left, John was left in the silence to wonder if said heat was for him or Molly.