Ah yes, once you're down the Sherlolly rabbit hole, it is inevitable that you write a drunklock. Also I am very sorry for the last angsty piece. I have been informed that it has broken a few hearts. Fluffy drabbles for you this time!
This one is for darthsydious! :D
Elbows deep in a corpse was not the way Molly would have preferred to have found a drunk John and Sherlock.
'Found' being a loose term. They were the ones who found her, bizarrely enough. Why they directed themselves towards the Morgue would be an explanation Molly would dearly love to learn, but for now, she had to concentrate on not getting any blood or entrails on the men in front of her.
Or rather, the men at the door.
"Molly!" yelled Sherlock. Molly looked up from the corpse on her table, turning to tune down the radio.
"No, no, she's always listening to the radio at this time," continued Sherlock. Molly assumed he was talking to John. "Molly! The door is closed! Infernal thing…"
Molly fervently thanked all the Gods in the many pantheons that had ensured it was a Saturday and people were not around the Morgue at nine-thirty in the night.
"Holly Mooper!" yelled Sherlock.
"Thash right, the Mooper Holly," John said beside him.
"Sherlock," said Molly patiently, walking to the door. "You're opening it the wrong way…"
She opened the door and a Consulting Detective tumbled in. A smug looking John Watson entered, and sniggered mercilessly at Sherlock. Once again, Molly sent a fervent thank you to the man upstairs. She directed Sherlock to a chair, and began helping John to the same before Sherlock jumped to his feet.
"No, no," said Sherlock. He wobbled uncertainly. "I did not come to s-s-sit. You, Molly Hooper! Sorry, you Ollie Cooper!"
Molly raised an eyebrow at the man.
"You mesh-messed up the calculations!" he went on.
"I told you to take into account that John might slip a few on the sly," sighed Molly.
John giggled. "He loooveeess you, Molly."
"I do not!" said Sherlock indignantly. It would normally have been an effective delivery, if the effort did not make him sway precariously.
"I know, Sherlock," sighed Molly again. "Plain face, small breasts, small lips. We all know, actually."
Sherlock squinted at Molly. "D'you really believe that?" he asked quizzically.
Molly tilted her head at him. "Well…" she said, "you're the one who said it…"
Sherlock was frowning at her then, and Molly did not quite know what to say. He kept watching her, while John sat down on a chair, muttering about Mary and how much he wanted her right now. Molly was beginning to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
"Beauty is a societal construct, right?" asked Sherlock, his words remarkably clear.
"Well, yes," said Molly, unsure where his train of thought was going.
"Therefore, you will concede that what others find pretty you may not?" he prodded.
"Yeah, but what does that –"
Sherlock walked up to her, steps remarkably stable, and peered down at her from his height. "So whether or not I find you pretty should be completely irrelevant – despite the fact that I do, in fact, find you very pretty. You have a pleasing figure and nice eyes."
"Um –" Molly was beginning to get a bit scared now. He held her elbows, stepping back. "Yes, you are pretty," he went on. "But it shouldn't matter if I do find you so, right?"
"Right," said Molly uncertainly.
"The only thing stopping you from thinking you are pretty is that you don't see yourself as pretty, right?"
"Um – Sherlock, this is not the time for a pep talk –"
"Molly, I'm not giving you a pep talk," said Sherlock, his voice becoming unstable again. "I want you to un-under-understand – beauty is science. It doesn't matter whether you bel-believe in it or not, just like it doesn't matter whether people believe in evo-evolution or not. It still happened. And my belief in your beauty does not stop you from being your version of beautiful, just like your disbelief in it doesn't stop you from being beautiful either."
"I –" Molly muttered, unable to escape his gaze.
Sherlock continued to peer at her.
"That was a very coherent thought process for a drunkard," said Molly finally.
Sherlock cracked a haphazard grin.
"Molly he looooovvesss you," said John, snapping out of whatever he was thinking about. "He told me so, I promise!"
Molly was momentarily distracted. "What?"
"He said so, promise. He said 'I love Molly Hooper. She's so annoying.'" Sherlock, who was playing around with a few chemicals (which Molly promptly snatched out of his hand), turned.
Molly looked at Sherlock. "I did not!" said Sherlock, scandalised.
It was Molly's turn to squint at Sherlock. "Not a very truthful drunk, I suppose," she assessed. "I can take the involuntary pep talk but there are limits to my imagination."
"He did, he sooo did," said John.
"I think this a sign that I should take you both home," said Molly. She gripped the two fully grown men by the elbows, leading them towards the Morgue doors.
"Helen Louise's autopsy shall just have to wait," she groaned, as she pushed the men out. "Okay, here we go."
"Molly. Molly. Molly. Ollie? Dolly. I like your name, Molly," said Sherlock.
"Mmhmm," said Molly, struggling to drag the men out of the hospital.
"Yes. It's so nice and short. And bee-like. I like bees, did you know?" continued Sherlock. John laughed haphazardly.
"I'm aware, Sherlock," said Sherlock. She finally managed to make it out of the hospital. Now, to hail a cab.
"I wish you guys were a little less drunk," said Molly plaintively.
"Yes!" said John, suddenly. "The drunkenness is a thing!"
Molly glared at him. "John, do be quiet," she said.
"Sorry, Molly."
"How do you do that?" asked Sherlock, squinting at her.
"Do what?" asked a preoccupied Molly, managing to get a cab.
"Make people apoly-apolo- say sorry," clarified Sherlock.
Molly opened the cab doors, and shoved John inside. "Sherlock, maybe another time," said Molly, shoving Sherlock in as well. She took a deep breath, and directed the cab to Baker Street.
The cabbie was remarkably nice to her, and the cab began to make its way through London. Molly ignored the men who seemed to be giggling or fighting, occasionally telling one or the other to stop complaining, or not to shout, or not to fight, and so on. Molly watched London blur past, the lights and the cars disappearing – a warm feeling seeped into her belly.
Beauty is a science.
Well, Molly had never thought of it that way. It made her feel slightly stupid – and it invalidated all her struggles as a teenager. Beauty was a science. The notion was so simple and so disarming – like evolution itself, in a way.
"Molly! Molly! He's being rudeee!" said John.
"Sherlock," admonished Molly.
"Sorry," he said. "There you again! Stop doing that!" said Sherlock indignantly.
Molly sighed. "Come on. Give me the keys for the flat."
Sherlock was being decidedly unhelpful, so Molly searched his pockets while John and himself fought over rudeness. Finally extracting a small key, Molly opened the door. The men went inside, but before she could lead them upstairs -
"I like this bed," said Sherlock, lying down on the stairs.
"Yeah, me too," said John.
"Guys!" said Molly.
Both of them seemed oblivious.
Molly smacked her forehead. "My God, this was insane. Okay, okay... Helen Louise waits."
She turned, to march out of the house, but Sherlock gripped her wrist.
Molly turned around. "What?" she asked.
"You're exhausting," said Sherlock.
"I am?" asked Molly, confused. There seemed to be a lot of confusion today.
"Stop it. Whatever you're doing," said Sherlock.
"Sherloc –"
"Come on, lie down, Molly. You must be sleepy." He tried to drag her down, but Molly resisted.
"Another time, Sherlock," she said gently. "I must finish the autopsy."
"Alright. Sometime else?" he asked hopefully.
"Yeah," nodded Molly.
Molly left, shutting the door behind her. She took a deep breath and leaned against the door.
"Confusing would be inadequate a word," she muttered, deciding that Helen Louise was really waiting.
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