A/N: This is a gift for my best friend vancabreuniter, specifically for her beta work on Faintest, Slimmest, Wildest Chance over the last two years but more generally for being my first and biggest cheerleader. This little ficlet is a paltry offering compared to the volume that FSWC became, but it is my first foray into a fandom other than Harry Potter, it's my first Sherlolly, and ... well, look at the title. Purely fortuitous, honest :D
Official stuff: This is post season three. Molly Hooper and the world of BBC's Sherlock belong to their creators, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat (I should probably give the BBC some credit here too). I also quoted some dialogue from "The Empty Hearse," written by Gatiss.
New story: My friend kankusan and I are co-writing a Sherlock fic that will be posted on my profile here and a joint account on AO3 (Keeptheothersan), so stay tuned for that!
Molly stared at his gift for an inordinately long time. Long enough to be awkward, even by Molly standards (an average of twelve extra seconds of silence per occasion).
"You think it's your shoulder, but it's really your neck," Sherlock blurted. "Partly the trapezius muscle, with extensive involvement of the scalenes and levator scapulae. You should use a backpack to evenly distribute the weight if you insist on carrying so many books and papers around."
Still Molly stared at the paper in her hand. "It's a gift certificate."
"Ye-es." Trust Molly to state the obvious.
"For a massage."
"Obviously."
She finally looked at him, and Sherlock felt a twinge of … unpleasantness … that a simple kindness from him produced such surprise, even shock. Then Molly moved all at once, and Sherlock was the shocked one.
"Molly? What are you doing?"
"Saying thank you."
"Sherlock, what was today about?" "Saying thank you." And he had kissed her cheek. But Molly—Molly never touched him. Despite her infatuation, despite all the signs of attraction, she never initiated physical contact with him. His eyes fell on a urine specimen waiting for testing. Except when she—Sherlock slammed the cellar door of his mind palace on that memory and concentrated on what was happening here and now.
For the first time, he wished he weren't wearing the Belstaff; its thick material interfered with his ability to process tactile sensory input. He looked down to see Molly's cheek pressed against his chest and her arms wrapped around him and felt her slight weight leaning into him. Conclusion:
"You're hugging me."
"Should I stop?"
"No, it's—" wonderful, stimulating, soothing, intrusive, confusing "—acceptable."
"It would be acceptable for you to hug me back." A simple statement, no suggestion or coercion.
Sherlock doubted it; a hug was a gesture of at least friendship, and while that was acceptable and possibly even desirable with his pathologist, some hugs indicated a romantic or sexual intent, and he was not at all clear on how to differentiate between the two.
Does it matter?
Of course it mattered. This was Molly—the one person who mattered the most.
But one didn't give someone a gift and then reject her thanks; Mummy had taught him that much in the way of manners, at least. Tentatively, Sherlock raised his hands to Molly's shoulders, intending to simply rest his hands there for a moment.
But it was no good; Molly was too small. How had he never noticed how small she was, compared to him? He knew her height and weight, her clothing and shoe size, even her ring size—yet he hadn't known his long fingers would wrap halfway across her scapula. He let go almost immediately, resulting in a touch that was neither a stroke nor a pat. Stupid, stupid. Maybe if he—no, waist was definitely outside friend territory—wasn't it? Did John touch her waist? Or Stamford? Lestrade would, but Lestrade wouldn't mind being more than friends. Sherlock scowled at the thought, and his indecision cost him. Molly dropped her arms and stepped back.
The clenching of his stomach was not disappointment. It was not! Mere indigestion. He had eaten twice today already, more than his system was used to after five days on a case. There was no logical reason to be disappointed at the removal of Molly's touch. He did not like touching, or hugs, or sentiment.
But you like Molly.
Shut. Up!
Molly smiled up at him. This was the last time he was eating lunch before one o'clock. It made his insides flutter in a most peculiar way.
"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, tucking the certificate back in its envelope and placing it inside her lab coat pocket. "We had an organ donor over the weekend but her liver was unsuitable, so I saved it for you. It's in cold storage, bottom shelf, left-hand side." With a snap of fresh latex gloves, Molly returned to work, leaving Sherlock to make his way to cold storage alone.
And there was no metaphor in that, none at all.