This is my first venture into the lovely land of Sherlock and Molly.
I read a couple one-shot swaplock fics somewhere, and just wanted more, more, more.
So I wrote more.
Like... the whole series more.
We're doing a chapter per episode, maybe with one extra on the end.
As of now, I'm without a beta so I apologize for any and all errors. Also, on a related note, I am in the market for someone to beta this sucker. Let me know if you are interested.
Okay. Here we go. New story time. This is always so exciting.
Chapter 1: A Study in Pink
As is rather typical, it is raining in London. Equally as typical, Sherlock Holmes finds himself without an umbrella.
Although he is needed at Bart's, instead of getting a cab he has spent the last twenty minutes tearing apart his flat in a futile search for the umbrella he purchased after a similar morning just last month.
He thinks perhaps his brother stole it, but Mycroft is rather particular about his umbrellas where Sherlock is not.
After another five minutes his cab arrives and Sherlock gives up. He pops the collar of his coat and huddles down in his scarf, sprinting from his front stoop to the waiting taxi.
Just before he reaches the vehicle, a very small person under an umbrella beats him to it. Her dress is extremely unpractical for the weather – beyond short, excessively tight, exposing fishnet covered legs - and Sherlock scowls at her safe and dry in the back of his taxi. For a moment he thinks her to be simply a rather aggressive lady of the night but under her bleached blond hair, there is something about the tilt of her head that is familiar.
"Molly!" he shouts, sliding in after her. He pulls the door shut behind him and scowls at her makeup job. Garish red changes the shape of her lovely, serious mouth, and he finds the blue contacts equally unpleasant. "Are you wearing a prosthetic nose? You are wearing a prosthetic nose."
"St. Bart's Hospital," she tells the cabbie, pulling off the wig.
"Is that my umbrella?" he demands, absolutely seething. His hair is nearly soaked.
"I was returning it. Just got a bit caught up. That's all."
"Caught up masquerading as a prostitute?"
"Yes. Hold this." She thrusts a ridding crop at him and suddenly the whole thing is so ridiculous that he struggles not to grin. His hair is soaking and she does not deserve his grin.
Removing a hair net and pins, she lets her hair fall down in messy waves around her shoulders. She shakes out her long locks, the natural light brown much more pleasing than the bleached monstrosity, and Sherlock tries not to stare.
"It was bloody hot in that wig," she mutters, frowning down at the mass of blonde in her lap. "No one ever recognizes me. Only you. I bumped into Morstan, totally on purpose, of course, and she wasn't the least bit suspicious. How'd you know?"
"Tilt of your head."
"Tilt of the head," she mutters, running her fingers through her hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. "Tilt of the head. I always, always forget something."
"And that's my umbrella."
"I was returning it to you!"
"What's all this for, then?" he asks, reclaiming his umbrella. "A case?"
"Yes, of course. Don't ask silly questions. You originally suspected Mycroft when you couldn't find your umbrella, didn't you? Before you recognized your own stupidity because Mycroft is very particular about his umbrellas."
"Molly," he says, letting his head drop back. He closes his eyes. "It is far too early in the day for this and I am far too wet."
"Would you prefer I just sit here silently for the remainder of the trip."
"Yes. Wonderful."
Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.
It is easy to forget when she's standing about, being absurdly short, drowning in a hideous jumper, turning that intense, dark eyed stare on him as she catalogs every detail, but now he watches her, beating the corpse of his former colleague black and blue with a riding crop, and he is once more reminded.
Her face is scrubbed free of makeup and she changed into normal clothes she apparently stashed in his office. Now she is in his mortuary, fierce and perfect. Watching her is all he can do.
Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.
Her innocent face and short stature is something she does not hesitate to use to her advantage, and the effect of her cultivated aura of weakness is devastating to the many fools who don't know better.
He knows better, yet Molly often devastates him. Thoroughly.
Hiding beneath her horrid wardrobe are hard muscles and strong limbs.
Sherlock tries very hard not to think on that as Molly finishes her assault and strides over to him, pushing the hair that escaped her ponytail back behind her ears.
"So, bad day, was it?" he asks, smirking slightly and wondering what she's been doing since they shared a cab in this morning.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," she informs him, in no mood to chat. As she talks she brandishes the riding crop it gets alarming close to his face. "A man's alibi depends on it."
"Right," he replies, taking the weapon from her hands and hanging it on a nearby hook. She doesn't seem to notice. "Any thing else?"
His annoyance and sarcasm also go unnoticed, or more likely, are deliberately ignored.
"Coffee. Black, two—"
"Yes, yes, two sugars. I am well aware of how you take your coffee, Molly," he replies.
"Then don't cock it up too badly," she says, turning on her heel. "I'll be upstairs."
Sherlock sighs, watching her go. It seems as though he is eternally watching her go.
He considers the laboratory door and then the mugs of coffee occupying each of his hands. He peaks through the narrow window on the off chance that Molly is lingering nearby to assist him.
She is hunched over her favorite microscope, staring at a blond stranger with a cane. He extends his mobile phone and Molly arises, nodding in thanks as she begins to text. Across the room Mike Stamford watches with a slight smile.
The sight of the stranger has him sloshing hot coffee all over his hands. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and it burns worse than the coffee.
Hunching nearly in half, he pushes down on the handle with his elbow and enters the lab.
"Which was it," Molly asks the stranger without glancing up from the borrowed phone. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. Wait, sorry how did you—"
"Ah, Sherlock." She beams at him, that phony smile that he loathes. The one where her eyes squint to a ludicrous degree. The one that never fails to get her exactly what she wants. "Coffee. Thank you."
The "thank you" is a surprise and she accepts the beverage.
"You're welcome, Molly," he replies.
"Yes, yes." She waves him away, leaning to the side to look around him at the stranger. "How do you feel about cats?"
Jealous beyond reason and extremely uncomfortable, Sherlock retreats to the back of the lab, flipping through a file that he does not need just so he has an excuse to linger through the rest of the exchange.
"I'm sorry?" asks the stranger, blinking rapidly.
When he is not struggling against an irrationally jealous rage, Sherlock quite enjoys watching people meet Molly for the first time. The result of her observing is typically blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded expressions. Occasionally there is violence.
"I have a cat," Molly says, handing back the phone. "Toby. I pet him while I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"
Flatmates.
The situation is much more dire then Sherlock previously thought. It has been a long time since Molly showed any interest in, well, anyone really, and now she wants a flatmate.
It is unfathomable.
By the time Molly is pulling on her ancient and excessively bright, red leather bomber that once belonged to her mother, Sherlock learns that the stranger is a former army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an alcoholic brother of whom the stranger does not approve.
Unlike most privy to Molly's deducting for the first time, this man seems genuinely impressed.
He is blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded, but also impressed.
And he has an invitation to Baker Street, although Sherlock never catches his name.
There is a dead bird on the gravel road that leads from his house to the crumbling building that was once a stable, back before purebred horses were replaced with sports cars.
The dead bird is fascinating. Beneath its dull black feathers are bones and muscles that once allowed it to fly but now it's dead on the side of the road. Sherlock would very much like to know how it all works.
Despite his deep interest in the dead bird, there have been many dead birds this summer, but never a girl, staring down at the deceased creature with her skinny arms crossed over her chest.
She is new, not a child of the housekeeper or the gardener. The community surrounding the Holmes estate is not large and Sherlock knows all their faces.
The girl is new.
He stands opposite her, the dead bird between them at their feet.
"Hello," he says, trying to determine her age. She could very well be ten, like him, or younger. Perhaps she is simply small for her age, or maybe she is younger, but when she glances up at him, eyes dark and brown, he decides that she is actually much older than she looks.
She studies his face for a few seconds, eyes darting from feature to feature. The intensity of her stare is captivating and he frowns when she drops her gaze once more. Not once did she make eye contact and it makes him nervous.
"This is the fourth dead bird, far more than is average for this part of the country in the month of June. And that is only what I've happened upon in my five days since arriving. This is a mystery," she says, tapping her chin as she continues to stare down at the bird.
As far as Sherlock is concerned, the girl on this road is the only mystery.
"I must save the birds. It is imperative I save the birds."
She uses big words like Mycroft, but while his brother always sounds bored the girl has passion.
"I am Sherlock Holmes," he says, extending a hand just as Mycroft taught him. "I live—"
"Yes, yes," she interrupts, waving a hand around her head and staring at the dead bird. "You live up in the big house. I know. I could tell by your shoes."
Sherlock shuffles his feet. "My shoes?"
"Stuffy. Expensive. New. No wear on the soles as you spend the majority of the year off at boarding school where they do not have dirt roads."
And now she sounds even more like Mycroft.
"Ah," he says. "Yes. And you are?"
The little girl taps her chin twice and turns on her heel, veering of the road and making towards the woods, leaving Sherlock to gape at her retreating form.
"The name's Molly Hooper," she calls over her shoulder.
"Hooper?" Sherlock yells back. "As in Dr. Hooper in the village?"
"Yes. Are you coming? We really must save the birds. If we do not care about the birds, than no one will."
He nearly trips over his gangly, too long legs in his haste to follow.
"Your bother is an idiot," says Molly, making Sherlock jump. She is seated at her favorite microscope, hunched over and focused.
"What did he do?" Sherlock asks. His shift ended half an hour ago and he planned to clean up before spending the evening at home with his violin. But Molly is here for the first time in a week, so he gives up on classical music and take away in favor of chemistry and Molly ordering him about. "It must be bad. You only call him 'your brother' when it is bad."
"He kidnapped John."
It is very hard work to keep his jealousy from lighting up like a green sign stamped on his forehead, visible only to Molly. He leans against the counter with long practiced nonchalance and watches her. "John?" he asks.
"New flatmate," she says, lifting her head to roll her eyes at him. "You met him weeks ago. Do keep up."
The man's name is new information, and Sherlock was hoping that the flatmate business was merely a Molly-whim, forgotten when something more exciting came along.
Apparently not.
"Mycroft kidnapped your new flatmate," Sherlock repeats. "Well, that seems right on. Did he return this John unharmed?"
"Yes, yes," she says, stretching her arms above her head, showing off her standard hideous jumper. "He offered John money to spy on me and the loyal idiot said no. We could have split it. Split the fee."
Sherlock snorts. "So they're both idiots, then."
"Yes."
"He's just worried about you, Mo. Can you really blame him?"
"Its been a years since an incident!" she snaps.
"Incident? Really, you are going with incident? That's how you are choosing to describe your addiction? And overdosing?"
"You Holmes boys." She waves a dismissive hand around her head. "I swear."
"Molly—" His attempt to be appeasing is immediately interrupted.
"I can blame him for being worried and I blame you," she says, arms crossed over hideous jumper number thirty-seven. "I am a grown woman with volumes more mental capacity than the bloody British Government himself. It is really overbearing. Even for Mycroft."
Sherlock grins because yes, Molly is certainly a genius but she always misses something.
"What?" she demands, eyes searching his face. "What did I miss? You absolutely must tell me, Sherlock."
"It was a test," Sherlock replies. "Mycroft was testing your new friend."
"Flatmate," Molly corrects. "Or maybe colleague is more appropriate as he is rather useful on a case, but not friend. Friend would imply sentiment."
Sherlock snorts. "God forbid you feel something for someone."
"A test," Molly says, turning back to whatever bizarre thing is undoubtedly beneath her microscope. "A test. A test in which accepting the money would have been a sign of a character flaw."
"Obviously," drawls Sherlock.
"And John passed." Although it is no question, Molly looks up at Sherlock, awaiting his confirmation. It is a habit leftover from their youth, when Molly was outcast and insecure, before she became a disciple of Mycroft and lost her father.
Before she changed form the girl who cared too much to the consulting detective who scoffs at sentiment.
The expression is no less endearing now than it was before.
"It would seem so," he replies, smiling at her fondly.
"Good," Molly says, back to her work. "Good."
All feelings of warmth for the small, infuriating woman before him abruptly depart when he realizes that Molly is genuinely relieved that her John passed Mycroft's (first of many, Sherlock is sure) test.
"Is he… are you… is he your, ah." He clears his throat. This is uncharted territory as Molly's typical indifference to people has kept him from thinking on the very real possibility that she might someday elect to be with someone else.
She said colleague, she said roommate, but Sherlock must know.
"You are pretty when you blush," she says without looking up from her microscope. "Now how about those thumbs?"
"Are you together, Molly?"
This question does earn him eye contact, but under her narrow-eyed stare he feels like a lovesick fool.
"Together?" she asks, tapping her chin as she studies him. "At the moment, no. John is not here therefore we are not together. You and I are together. But I imagine John and I will be together at home later, with him trying to force an artery-clogging horror down my throat, no doubt. He's even worse than you with this obsession to feed me."
Sherlock nods and turns away, on a mission for thumbs, but something makes him brave. After all these years of allowing her to smile her way into whatever she wants, surely he deserves a real answer at the very least and he turns to face her once more, standing tall in the doorway, not even shuffling his feet. "You know very well what I meant, Molly."
She raises a single eyebrow, appraising him quickly in that way of hers that strips him so utterly.
"Not my area," she declares after a few moments of a silent standoff. Her microscope is suddenly more fascinating than Sherlock and she is back to it.
Again, it is not a real answer but more than he's come to expect from the consulting detective. "It used to be," he mutters.
She does not hear him or in the very least she pretends not to.
"And," she says, stopping him just before he turns back to the mission for thumbs, "John would shoot you for that ill-advised assumption, Sherlock. Do check your facts before making such asinine inquires. Angelo made a similar assumption and if John's deep discomfort was any indication I would say his preference is decidedly not towards the female. Does that answer satisfy?"
"You took John to Angelo's?" Sherlock asks, frowning.
"It was a case. Thumbs, Sherlock. Thumbs."
He wonders about Molly's preference for the remainder of the night as he sits by her, assisting with her experiments late into the night. If their long history is any indication, he would say her preference is decidedly not towards Sherlock Holmes.
Not anymore.
"We saved the birds, Dad."
Dr. Hooper set Sherlock's broken arm when he was six and saw him through a nasty bout of flu last year. He is a quite man and he seems to like Mycroft more than anyone should like Mycroft.
Now, he frowns down at Molly as he opens the door to them after supper.
"Oh," says Dr. Hooper, looking up from Molly to Mycroft who stands behind them, a hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "Where did you find her?"
"I did not find her," Mycroft replies. "It is my understanding that Miss Hooper spent the afternoon with my brother, saving the birds. I was under the impression she rang you about staying for supper. We fed her already, I'm afraid."
"I thought I told you to stay in the backyard, Molly," says Dr. Hooper.
At his side, Molly cowers, staring intently at her shoes.
"Perhaps in the future you should keep a more studious watch over your daughter, George," says Mycroft. "I was unaware you even had children."
Dr. Hooper rubs his temples.
"Dad," Molly says, bouncing in place. "Dad, we saved the birds. It was an illegal fertilizer. Poisoned them. Threw off the integrity of the whole ecosystem. But the birds will live, now. They'll live!"
Sherlock smiles at Molly, but Dr. Hooper doesn't. He looks at his daughter as if she is an alien invader. Sherlock doesn't understand how it's possible not to smile at Molly when she is so excited. Even Mycroft smiles back, did so all through supper, and usually all he does is sigh and sigh.
Dr. Hooper glances down at Molly, nods once, and looks back to Mycroft. "Fancy a drink?"
"Please, can we stay?" asks Sherlock. "Can we, Mycroft?"
"Oh, all right. One drink."
Molly Hooper shows Sherlock her room. The walls are covered with newspaper clippings and posters, maps and pictures of cats. She has an impressive number of books for someone who is ten – he asked her age three times before she seemed to notice – and she selects one, pushing it into his chest without looking at him.
"Your knowledge of birds is embarrassing. Might want to brush up."
There is a knock on his bedroom door and Sherlock marks his place in the book.
"Come in," he says.
Mummy enters and he sits up a bit straighter as she perches on the edge of his bed, hair slightly disheveled and grey suit wrinkled from a long day spent traveling.
"You're back!" says Sherlock, delighted.
"Yes, darling," she says, kissing his cheek. "I caught an earlier flight."
"How long until you have to be back with the symphony, Mummy?"
"I have a whole five days and I plan to spend it right here with you."
Compared to her typical day visits, five whole days seems an eternity. Grinning, he throws his arms around her neck.
"Will you read to me?" he asks, scooting over in bed to make room for her. She kicks off her heels and stretches out beside him, extending her legs over the covers.
"The Anatomy of Land Birds?" she reads, raising an eyebrow in question. "This is a far cry from your usual pirate stories, isn't it?"
Color floods his cheeks and he stares at his lap. "It's interesting."
"Does this have anything with your little adventure with Molly Hooper?" she asks.
"How did you know? Mycroft. Mycroft told you. Mycroft tells you everything."
She laughs a bit and brushes his dark curls off his forehead. "That is his job as the oldest. You know he is in charge when I am away."
And she's always away. Which means Mycroft is always in charge.
"It was a mystery, Mummy," Sherlock says, the excitement of the day returning. "Molly and I solved the mystery. Well, Molly truly solved it but I was her assistant."
"That's lovely, darling. I'm glad you've made a new friend. Molly Hooper could use a friend like you."
"Why, Mummy?"
"Well, she is new to the village," Mummy replies.
"I know. She is Dr. Hooper's daughter. But she just met him for the first time last week! Isn't that strange?"
"Quite strange."
"Molly says her Mummy drank herself to death and that is why she is living here with Dr. Hooper who she met for the first time last week. What did she drink that made her die? You don't drink it, do you?" he asks, suddenly very concerned.
"Not like that, Sherlock. She certainly gave you a great deal of detail, didn't she?"
"I think Molly likes detail a great deal, Mummy. Also she likes mysteries and saving things from dying."
"So it would seem."
"Tomorrow I will show her the pond." His eyelids get heavy as he snuggles into Mummy's side. "Can you read now?"
"Of course, darling."
He manages to stay awake for a full four minutes before he drifts off.
