It had been a never ending void of gruelling autopsies in Molly Hoopers morgue, on this particular Tuesday. She was extremely exhausted and unnerved, by the intensity of the atmosphere surrounding Saint Barts. Molly Hooper hailed a cab, and offered the driver her address; 221B Baker Street. Due to his recent case, Molly had not seen her fiancé Sherlock Holmes for 4 days, and she missed him dearly.
Her mobile beeped, and she reached into the deep pocket of her peachy, woollen jumper to retrieve the said phone. The luminous screen lit up the back seat of the traditional London taxi. The message displayed across the digital screen read, 'Case solved. The murderer was the gardener. Finally home. -SH'. She grinned from ear to ear, at the though of seeing Sherlock again. The cab drive felt like an eternity, but nether the less, it finally pulled up outside the door of her new home. Clambering from the backseat, she swiftly handed the driver the correct payment before thanking him, and quickly scurrying to the shiny, black wooden door. The door was brandished with a brass knocker, but she didn't pay it any attention as she jammed the key into the keyhole.
Soon enough, the door demanded her access, and she stumbled through the threshold. In a similar manner, she clambered up the stairs. The exhaustion was beginning to kick in, and she felt her eyelids begin to droop. With what little energy had remained in her petite frame, she launched her mass onto the brown leather sofa. She was still fully clothed, and was still adorned with her coat and purse, but this hardly mattered as the unconscious ordeal of sleep enclosed her.
She awoke a matter of hours later. Molly wiped the sleep from her eyes, and proceeded to look at her wrist watch. The time displayed was 10:49pm. She had slept for nearly two hours. With a groan she swung her legs around so her feet were planted firmly on the ground. It was at this moment she realised her black coat and red converse had been removed from her body, and instead a warm blanket had been draped over her small form. She smiled as the realisation Sherlock must have performed these actions.
As she thought about Sherlock, she thought about the lack of his presence and how it disturbed her. She managed to haul herself onto her feet, swaying slightly before regaining equilibrium and placing one foot in front of each other. As she neared the hall way, she could hear the sound of water running, and guessed Sherlock was taking a shower. But that was not the only thing she heard.
She froze. This could be happening, could it? Sherlock was singing? In the shower? She covered her mouth with her hand, in an attempt to conceal a giggle. It was definitely him! She would recognise that deep baritone voice anywhere. He wasn't bad at singing, in fact he was quite good! As he sung the lyrics to Angel with a shotgun by The Cab, she listened closely, only to discover she liked the sound of Sherlock singing. But it was this thought that pushed her over the edge.
She slid down the wall, and practically had to digest her small fist, trying muffle her increasing laughter. Sherlock singing, was the most preposterous and utterly ridiculous thing ever. If any one had told her that the consulting detective sang, she would have pronounced them mentally compromised. Yet here she was, witnessing this abnormality first hand. Molly could not contain it any longer. Her fits of laughter escaped her, as she writhed on the floor, and clutched her stomach.
Sherlock froze, and the singing abruptly stopped. Molly was awake and had been listening. He used a profanity out loud, but this just ceased to make her laugh even harder if that was atomically possible. He was never going to live this down. Ever.
FIN. -Jess