Molly Hooper was annoyed. No, it wasn't the regular type of annoyance when someone slows down in the hallways or when a person just rubs you the wrong way. This annoyance digs deep.
Of course, the feeling is a cumulative effect of several perpetrations.
First of all, the body that Mike Stamford have her do post-mortems on today is, to say the least, a bloody mess. The skull was bashed in, revealing pieces of brain tissue, and the corpse was days old, which meant that it has collected a number of interesting species of insect larvae.
Second, Toby, her cat, had somehow contracted a bladder infection, which meant he was more irritated than usual.
To top it all off with a cherry is the fact that Sherlock Holmes is in the room at the current moment, observing her as she worked. No explanations other than, "I was curious," which, in itself, isn't much of an explanation at all.
But it wasn't his fault that she was acting so cumbersome under his scrutiny. It was her oh-so-wonderful brain. The brain that also made her want to pounce on him and do more than just passionately kiss him on the lips.
Ahem. She was staring.
"So, um, got any new cases lately?" Molly attempted conversation.
"No," Sherlock replied curtly.
Okay, that did not go particularly well. She racked her brain and tried to think of more conversation topics, but what can you say to someone who is perpetually bored with everything?
"I see you're going out tonight," Sherlock suddenly spoke.
"Yeah, just out with friends, you know? Mary Morstan. You might know her. She's friends with John," Molly smiled. "Did I do something that gave it away?"
"No, John had asked Mary out for coffee tonight, as I've overheard, but she had declined and said that she made plans with you tonight," he explained.
"Haha, well, tell John that I apologise for stealing her away for the night," she laughed meekly.
"Of course," he answered and they reverted back to the old silence.
Why is he here? Why the hell is he here?! Molly's head was exploding with questions she was hesitant to ask. Sherlock had hardly paid her any attention before while she had certainly paid him quite a ton. She even went as far as asking him out herself. However, whatever feelings she possessed, it was all unrequited. And that whole fiasco with Irene Adler...
"Molly," Sherlock initiated while she was deep in her own thoughts, unnoticing, and pressed a hand to her shoulder.
She squeaked and jumped at the unexpected physical contact and whirled around, only to find him close, very close, to her. Managing a stutter, she answered with a small, "Y-yes?"
Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I know I've never really been skilled at expressing my emotions, so I can often come off as cold and arrogant to many observers." He laughed, "Mummy even had a number of psychologists take a look at me."
What is going on what is going on what is going on?!
Ignoring Molly's completely bewildered and flushed face, Sherlock went on, "With the psychologists, the diagnostics also came and went– Asperger, autism, antisocial personality– but what they can't seem to grasp is that I am perfectly fine. Normal. Well, no, maybe not normal."
Molly must've looked shocked because he suppressed a chuckle at her reaction.
"And instilled in every person who is mentally sound, there is a biological drive to love and be loved–"
She is hyperventilating and her mind is racing at a speed that might be even faster than light.
"– And that drive is present in myself, although many would find that surprising for some reason. The need for family is fulfilled by my lovely parents and Mycroft. As for friends, I have John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. What I am lacking seems to be what one might call a 'significant other'."
Molly pinched herself on the forearm, attempting to check the reality of the situation.
Sherlock's eyes caught the moment and smiled, leaning in even closer, eye locked on hers. He reached down and took her right hand, "So may I ask, Molly Hooper, would you like to go out for coffee with me?"
"I– I," she sputtered. the cautious part of her mind was warning her, because this was completely unlike Sherlock, but the overwhelming majority screamed for her to say yes, to admit that this was what she had wanted for almost two years.
His lips were now centimetres from hers as he breathed out, "Or would you rather have dinner instead?" His lips curled up in a little grin.
Before Molly could answer (which she was probably unable to manage anyway), he was closing the distance between the two of them. Five centimetres... four...
Molly thought her head was going to explode.
Sherlock suddenly pulled back, the soft look now completely absent, and said, "Yes, very intriguing.. Did you know your heart rate elevated by 18%? Your pupils also dilated greatly while your shoulders stiffened and rose slightly."
"Wait. What?" Molly blinked several times rapidly. She clenched her fists.
Pulling out his phone, Sherlock began texting someone while explaining to her, "It was an experiment on the physical changes in a person when in close proximities with someone they loved. Now I know it was the governess that killed the wife." He pressed the send button and glanced up at her with a smirk, "So thank you."
Molly was at a loss for words as he strolled out the door nonchalantly.
"You did what?" John exclaimed.
"You heard me perfectly fine the first time, I am not going to repeat it," Sherlock casually flipped a page of the newspaper he was perusing.
"Let me get this straight. You seduced her, without her consent, and it was all to solve the case. Oh, and you didn't even bother to apologise."
"Oh come one," he rolled his eyes. "It was just an experiment. No harm done."
"'No harm done'? How, how did she react?"
"Well, her heart rate increased 18%, her pupils–"
"No, no," John interrupted. "How did she react after you told her that it was all just a social experiment? I honestly hoped that she had punched you. You can't just go around manipulating everyone that cares about you."
"Don't be ridiculous. Molly is too passive to resort to violence, and there was no harm done."
"You need to apologise."
"I'm busy right nooooww," he half-sang and waved it off.
"With what?"
Winning the award for the most convenient timing, Sherlock's cellphone on the table rang and he leaped up from his chair and snatched it up, "Busy with this."
"Sherlock," the voice on the other end greeted.
"Mycroft."
"Father and Mummy says to inform you that the four of us are going to that new restaurant on Northumberland Street. Tonight at 7 PM. They said that there is something of the utmost importance that they must share with the two of us."
"Why didn't they just call me themselves?"
"Because they presumed that you are going to protest or try to wiggle your way out of it, which wouldn't be unexpected, and I was the only one who could convince you."
"And how would you accomplish that?" Sherlock smirked with a dash of arrogance.
"I would simply throw Detective Inspector Lestrade a text and tell him to restrain from giving you any more cases Let us see how long you can fare in a situation like that." There was a great amount of smugness in Mycroft's voice.
"Blackmail. How original."
"It might not be, but it is very effective in the majority of conundrums that I find myself in."
"Fine, then. Tell them that I'll meet them there," Sherlock relented and ended the call. At least he had the last word. A small victory, but enough. "John," he called out. "What would be an outfit that would be greatly inappropriate for a formal dinner out that would irk my brother to no ends?"
"Why is he such an arse, Toby?" Molly stroked the tabby while trying to occupy her mind by watching a lighthearted movie. "Mean Girls", in fact. She needed something to lighten the day.
There were still two hours to kill before she had to go and meet up with Mary. Two hours left to her own device.
When the infamous line, "On Wednesdays, we wear pink!" came on, Molly glanced down at her own usually-poor choice of wardrobe. The day was, coincidentally, Wednesday, but there wasn't a spot of pink on her clothes.
To dress up for tonight or not to dress up? That is the question. The rueful laments of somebody without much of a social life outside of work.
She recalled, all of a sudden, of a blog she had recently created on a website called "tumblr".
Flipping open her laptop, she typed in the URL, then her email and password. She hasn't had any chance to make any posts herself, but she had followed some other blogs, and their posts always made her laugh.
There was one, posted by someone who goes by "absolut-neimand" that said, "In Germany we don't say 'I don't care' we say 'Das ist mir Wurst' which roughly translates as 'This is sausage to me' I think that's beautiful."
Then, the post right before, right smack in her face, was a large paparazzi shot of Sherlock in his signature deerstalker hat.
With a huff, Molly slammed shut the lid of the laptop.
Ever since John started documenting about his and Sherlock's cases, the attention of the general public has been captured. Reporters seem to hound them and strangers on the sidewalk even requested for his signature. She can't even seem to escape his wrath outside of the real world.
On the other hand, she could vent to Mary later about The Incident today at the morgue.
They were planning to eat at a new restaurant on Northumberland Street...
A/N: Dundundunnnnn, Sherlock and Molly are going to the same restaurant. Events shall ensue!
Thanks for reading, and reviews would be absolutely lovely! Have a great day and keep deducing. :)
