Title: Bait
Rating: PG
Pairings: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3,468
Summary: Molly Hooper shows up at a crime scene to help out. Mayhem and romance ensue. This is a Molly/Greg fiction.
Bait
John, Sherlock, and Greg; all three of them froze the moment Molly appeared in stable doorway. In her long, high-waisted sundress, she looked more like a lost garden party guest than a morgue supervisor come to help out on her day off. The outfit, Greg knew (with a small stab of jealousy), was for Sherlock's benefit. Fat chance catching that man's eye at a crime scene, Greg thought, not with both a corpse and John Watson for competition. Sure enough, upon Molly's entrance Sherlock's face registered only mild amusement, and for a moment Greg thought he would insult the poor girl. But Sherlock surprised everyone by instead making the peculiar observation, "Quite the tabinid trap," before turning his attention back to the murder victim, a two-year-old thoroughbred lying dead in his stall.
"Tabinid trap?" Molly asked, looking around, her once happy and expectant face now registering confusion.
"You, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly, as he leaned in to join John in the inspection of the victim's gums, "are a C-O-2 source cloaked in a frilly yellow tent. Entomologists use traps of similar design to catch tabininds, except theirs aren't usually so…" Greg saw John abruptly shift his weight so that his knee pressed up and into a spot just below Sherlock's ribcage. "…pretty," finished the detective, barely missing a beat.
John and Sherlock's eyes met briefly as Sherlock handed John a specimen vial containing horse saliva. If Greg hadn't been such an experienced John/Sherlock watcher, he probably would have missed seeing their more private exchange; Sherlock's free hand discreetly stroking the underside of John's thigh and John's flicker of smile in response as he withdrew his disciplinary knee. Molly, on the other hand, saw nothing, as she was clearly preoccupied with her own thoughts, scanning the barn with wide, anxious eyes. She must have understood the implications of what Sherlock had said. Greg had yet to catch up.
"So a tabinid's a kind of insect?" he asked.
Greg, as always, had tried to frame his question in a way that showed that he had at least half a brain so as to avoid being sliced and diced by Sherlock's ridicule. Rarely was he completely successful.
"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, his voice dripping with forced patience. "And the species of tabinid one is most likely to encounter in a barn is…"
As if on cue, an enormous, bottle-green fly flew into the stall, droning loudly as it made lazy circles high above their heads.
"…the horsefly. Ah, well, I'll leave you to make acquaintances. Come, John, we're off to the farrier's shed. If there's any evidence as to the killer's identity, I wager we will find it there."
Sherlock made for the door, John at his heels. Molly stared at Sherlock's retreating form in disbelief.
"Don't you need my help?" she asked, forgetting for the moment about the horsefly business.
Sherlock stopped at the doorway and turned with a dramatic flourish of suit jacket.
"You, Molly Hooper, have been invaluable today."
Sherlock's eyes shone with amusement, and Greg waited for the sure-to-come genius punch line.
"But I just got here. I haven't done anything," Molly protested, looking slightly peeved.
In Greg's opinion she had every right. It wasn't as if she'd invited herself—Sherlock had asked her to come.
"Well, technically that's true, I suppose. Your outfit, on the other hand, has performed a much needed service. Not more than fifteen seconds ago I saw a large fly disappear beneath its hem. I'd say that's one less distraction I'll have to contend with. You have my thanks."
Sherlock's face was all innocence and sincerity as he made his curt bow.
Molly looked shocked, then outraged. Sherlock had treated her callously before, but Greg had never seen Molly get angry with him, not like she was now. He began to wonder if something had happened earlier between the two of them.
"Of all the horrible things! This was just a big joke to you, inviting me here to help. I thought we were friends, Sherlock. I confided in you. I trusted you! Well, let me tell you something…"
Molly stopped midsentence, her mouth frozen in a wide O of surprise.
"Oh, god, I feel him on my leg!"
She let out a small shriek and began hopping about, shaking the folds of her dress.
Greg found himself instantly torn in two directions. He knew he should help, at least make the offer, but the sight of Molly's ridiculous, flailing gyrations was just so funny that it took all his strength not to laugh. Greg turned to John (always a steady bloke in a crisis) for help, but he looked to be in a similar predicament. Only Sherlock seemed virtually unaffected, raising an I-did-warn-you eyebrow before turning on his heels and heading out the door. But seconds later he was back, looking put-upon, to retrieve John who, evidently, had been too engrossed in Molly's antics to notice he'd left. Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed with impatience.
"It's an insect, John. I think that Molly and Lestrade can handle it without the help of the RAMC."
Sherlock hauled the still somewhat reluctant doctor out by the elbow. Moments after they'd gone, Greg heard them erupt into their familiar duet of giggles. Seriously, Greg thought, the two of them were incorrigible, acting like a pair of overgrown ten-year-olds. But as he regarded Molly, who was now flapping her dress in time with her jumps, so that it looked as if she was attempting to fly, Greg found that he had to bite his lip to keep from joining them.
"Can I do anything to help?" he managed to ask at last.
Molly had her dress lifted as high as mid-thigh, but the fly, it appeared, had not yet shaken loose.
"It's no use", she said, sounding far more calm and reasonable than she looked. "I'm going to have to take it off. Don't worry, I'll be quick. Just turn around and guard the door."
Greg felt his eyebrows rise. With John and Sherlock gone, the atmosphere within the barn had changed completely. It was quieter but in an unsettling way. Greg was a city boy, and the cloying smell of manure and soilage was beginning to get to him. The occasional hoof stomp and nicker of the barn's residents only served to put him more on edge.
Greg had an odd thought at that moment about how much he'd rather be at Bart's morgue, of all placed. It had become a haven of sorts, and whenever he found himself in the area he made time, when he could, to visit with Molly whose bright and breezy chatter, which shifted easily from forensic pathology to movies she'd seen, never failed to cheer him.
Maybe it was because of the surroundings, maybe it was because Molly wasn't wearing her familiar white lab coat, but for some reason Greg felt itchy and tense, like he wanted to jump out of his skin. The sooner he was out of there, the better, after he helped Molly, of course.
"Are you sure you don't want me to wait outside?" Greg asked.
He was almost ready to insist. True, Greg didn't always follow crime scene protocol to the letter, but he absolutely did when it came to being alone with a woman in any state of undress. Molly wasn't even supposed to be there, not officially. This was exactly the kind of scenario, Greg knew, that could get a guy temporarily suspended, or even demoted.
"But I might need your help," she explained.
What kind of help Molly meant, Greg could not imagine. Sure, he'd zipped up dresses before, but it looked as if the one Molly wore had no zipper or buttons or fasteners of any sort—it was an all or nothing kind of deal. Not wanting to seem unreasonable, Greg offered a compromise.
"Why don't you go into that empty stall? I'll wait here and keep everyone out."
"No, thank you," said Molly, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "It looks like housekeeping hasn't been by yet, and these shoes are nearly new. Just turn your back. Trust me, I'll be quick—it's not exactly tropical in here, so I have a lot of incentive."
Molly's tone was so positive and so reassuring that it seemed to leave no room for argument—Greg did as he was told. He regretted his decision immediately when, only seconds later, he heard the stable manager and another man talking as they walked by the barn.
"Oh, fuck and bother!" Molly exclaimed.
"Shhh!" Greg whispered urgently.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," Molly apologized in a somewhat quieter voice. (She sounded adorably sincere.) "But the little bugger bit me, and it really hurt."
"Oh no, I'm sorry for that. Is he gone now? Are you dressed?"
Greg hoped he sounded sympathetic despite his gentle reminder that she should, for god's sake, hurry up.
"Not yet. But I can feel him now, the fly. He's caught under my bra, and I don't want to squish him. The greedy little rascal just got a huge mouthful, so at least he won't be coming back for seconds—at least I hope not."
"Forget about being careful, Molly. He's just a fly and, you know, he did just make you his breakfast. If someone shows up and I have to explain why I'm alone in a barn at a crime scene with a young woman whose dress is very much out of place…"
"And bra," Molly chimed in, seemingly unconcerned. "Oh, there he goes; the fat little thing! Thank god that's over. I'm going to need your help, Inspector, sticking on a plaster. There's one in my handbag over on that hay bale."
Greg laughed. "Of course there is. Along with a scalpel and a supply of evidence bags, no doubt."
"A girl never knows," Molly replied.
As wired as Greg was, it was good to hear the smile in Molly's voice—it took the edge off his nerves.
The fly, it seemed, had taken to the air, making a last victory flight over their heads before heading out the door. Well, Greg thought, at least one creature in this miserable barn had gotten what he wanted. Somewhere behind him a naked Molly was dressing, slipping into her bra, sliding her dress over her head, while he, Greg (no, Inspector Lestrade) guarded her like a dear old uncle, like her faithful hound.
If this were not a crime scene, if they were somewhere else, somewhere where there was no chance they'd be interrupted… What then? Would he turn around, pull Molly's bare form against him, and kiss her in the way he'd wanted to for so long? No, that was the stuff of dreams. Greg's waking world was full of men, women too, who made their way in the world by capitalizing on the disadvantaged, and he'd be damned if he'd join their seedy ranks.
Greg would talk to Molly—that's what he wanted most—the way a man did to a woman he fancied. They'd been stuck, the two of them, in the groove of friendship, and enough time had passed that Greg found it confoundingly difficult to ask her out on a proper romantic date. With Molly here, away from Barts, shed of her lab coat, even her dress, down to her essential self, as it were, Greg felt powerfully inspired to try. But there were people about, and Molly needed him to protect her not chat her up. Besides, the moment was almost at an end—he could hear her dusting herself off. Greg nearly growled in frustration at the lost opportunity. Oh well, the whole incident had been rather funny and a bit of a thrill. And in truth, he did like the way Molly had trusted him; very, very much.
"OK, Inspector. You can turn around."
Greg turned and saw Molly standing, ready, with her back towards him. There was a surprisingly large crimson bloodstain where the top of her dress crossed her shoulder blades. She would need him after all.
"Ouch. You weren't kidding about that bite. So you're sure you want me to…"
"Yes, silly. And hurry up. I think I'm still bleeding. The fly must have some anticoagulant…"
"Fine, fine, spare me the gory details. I may be a cop, but that doesn't mean I enjoy blood."
Greg felt his victim sensitivity training kick in as he placed a hand lightly on Molly's bare shoulder before placing the other, as a polite warning, on the back of her dress, just above the bite.
"Here I go," he announced.
Gently, Greg pulled back the thin cotton fabric with two fingers and peered down to see what he was dealing with. The first thing he noticed was Molly's blood-stained bra. Really, that was all the information he needed. But how could he help but look further, as a policeman, as a man? Lower, vertebrae by vertebrae, Greg's eyes followed the path of Molly's pale young skin, down to the point where her lower back curved away into shadow before rising again to meet the swell of buttocks covered by simple white panties. He exhaled, a bit shakily, and forced himself to focus on the job at hand. The bite was underneath Molly's bra; cheeky fly.
"Looks like I'm going to have to pull back your, uh, bra too, just a bit, OK?"
Given the tight squeeze and the rather large size of his hands, Greg wasn't sure whether he would be able to maneuver the plaster into place. But if Molly was game, he certainly was. In for a penny, as they say.
"If you don't mind me saying so, you'd make a terrible doctor, Inspector. You're fussing over a little fly bite like it was a gunshot wound. Oh, well. You're a brilliant police inspector, so I guess it doesn't matter."
Greg huffed out a laugh. Molly's purse was crammed to the brim. He had to dig through an untidy mess of keys, receipts, pens, mint, tampons, and (yes) sample bags to get to the box of sticking plasters hiding at the bottom.
"That's very kind of you to say, Molly. I'm flattered, but I didn't realize you were that familiar with my work."
Greg had grabbed the largest bandage from Molly's collection and was carefully peeling away the papers as best he could with one hand. It was probably ridiculous that he had left the other hooked over the top of Molly's dress, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to lose contact, not yet.
"I'm not, not really. Why would I be? You never talk to me about it. But that's OK, because I can tell you'd rather talk about other things. Why else would you listen to me ramble on about morbidity statistics and weird trauma wounds and the metamorphosis of blowflies? I know you're brilliant, because Sherlock told me so."
Greg was gobsmacked. There was never a case where Sherlock hadn't found Greg's efforts to be, in some way, to put it politely, lacking.
"Sherlock said I was brilliant? That doesn't sound much like him. Are you sure you heard correctly?"
"Of course. Well, he may not have used that word. Let me think…. Yesterday, when I asked Sherlock what I should bring, he told me 'nothing but your yellow sundress and some sticking plasters.' And then when I asked why, he just shrugged and said 'That's what's required if you wish to attract the finest mind on the force.' You know that Sherlock doesn't exaggerate. If he says 'the finest mind on the force', he means it."
Greg had finished his work but continued to rub his thumb lightly over one of the adhesive ends of the plaster. He could feel the muscles of Molly's bare shoulder grow taught under his hand. Despite being able to pull off a surprisingly good imitation of Sherlock's public school diction in mock baritone, she was nervous. Well, now he was too. Every word she'd said raised questions. And they stirred up hope.
"Wait, now. Slow down," Greg started, as much to himself as to Molly. "'Attract the finest mind on the force?' He was talking to you? About me? Molly, tell me, why on Earth would Sherlock say that?"
Molly stood, not speaking, long enough that Greg began to wonder whether he would ever get an answer. He could do without one, he supposed. She was dressed, so there was nothing to stop him. He could embrace her. He could even spin her around and kiss her if he chose, if that's what he thought she wanted.
The barn was now electric with possibility. Greg gripped Molly's shoulders, grounding himself, concerned he would make the wrong choice. Molly steadied and straightened. She put a hand up to her right shoulder, covering Greg's own hand as she spoke. Her voice was even, but as light and soft as her touch.
"Because I wanted you to ask me out. Or even, maybe, make a pass at me, although that sounds silly when I say it out loud. I would have asked you, but I'm no good at that sort of thing. No good at flirting, no good at dating. I'm no good at any conversation, for that matter. I always say the wrong thing and end up rubbing people the wrong way, and I have terrible taste in boyfriends—not you of course—oh god, I've done it again, haven't I? Please say I haven't ruined everything. I did think you liked me, that you do like me. I don't always get that sort of thing right, but Sherlock agreed. He said that you were keen, so I was fairly sure. Oh, god, Sherlock! I can't believe what he did. The next time he asks me to fetch him a coffee, I'll add some methylene blue with his two sugars. Maybe while he's peeing green he'll realize how horrible practical jokes can be!"
Greg started laughing, but poor Molly looked miserable. She'd gotten dating advice from Sherlock and ended up being bitten by a horsefly—well, that sounded about right. He gently turned her to face him and saw her eyes were brimming. He slid his hands so that they rested at the small of her back and pulled her close. Molly gave a small snuffle and sigh as she nuzzled her face against his shirt. He found himself speaking to the top of her head. That was new and more than OK.
"I do like you, Molly. And I think you're an excellent conversationalist. You just don't do well at small talk—I think it makes you nervous, talking to people about the weather and whatnot. You do much better talking about something that interests you like tox-screens or," Greg laughed, "which vegetable someone reminds you of."
Molly's small laugh hummed against Greg's chest. She pulled back so she could look up at him. Whatever nervousness she'd had was gone. Molly's eyes shone with their usual intelligence and gaiety, and her mouth quirked with delight and mischief.
"So Inspector, according to your theory, I'd do well talking about kissing you. But I say that would be a disastrous choice, because you already look horrified."
Greg grinned and shook his head, not willing to acknowledge that he'd been caught off guard.
"No, no, not horrified, just a bit surprised. Wow, if this is you flirting, I'd say you're doing quite well. You're direct, but direct works for me. So kissing me interests you, does it, Ms Hooper?"
Molly's cheeks flushed, but she didn't overt her gaze. Never once had Greg imagined Molly being capable of or even interested in this style of brazen flirtation. He was equally surprised by how much he was enjoying it.
"Very much. But there's a problem. Right now I don't feel the least little bit like talking, so I'm afraid your theory will go untested."
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes. You see, I'd rather just kiss you, if you don't mind, and I can't talk while doing it, can I? It's not physically possible. Also, I'm simply no good at multitasking. I'm more of the single-minded, obsessive sort."
"You have no idea how much I'd like you to prove that."
"How?"
"By kissing me, of course."
"Oh, right. So…yes…well, here goes."
Inspector Lestrade, soon after to be called Greg (and also Sugar for the way he tasted after drinking his highly doctored coffee), got his proof. Molly was, indeed, the single-minded sort when it came to things that intrigued her. And Greg couldn't have been more delighted that he, himself, and in particular the way Molly felt when her lips touched his, had moved, like a rocket, to the top of that list.
-fin-