Treat this story as if Season 3 never happened. Time is set after Sherlock returns from playing possum. Prior apologies for Sherlock being OOC.
It begun innocently enough Sherlock would come to recall when immersed in his mind palace. A conversation conceived for three different reasons: he was seeing less and less of John around the flat since he otherwise lived at Mary's, Molly was the only individual still working so late at night in St. Bart's, and he was bored after having determined a relatively simple solution to what initially had the potential to be a challenging problem.
Three separate reasons and one consulting detective determined to cure boredom. Curing boredom, he knew, required lively conversation. Interesting, lively conversation.
And so emerged his question.
"Whom did you lose your virginity to, Molly?"
Her reaction was as he expected: a mix of shock and confusion, followed by a startled, open mouthed stare.
He fought back the urge to smirk. Catching her off guard was a pastime he frequently enjoyed participating in, mainly because Molly was so delightfully open with her facial expressions. It amused him to watch them play out across her face. There wasn't a single secret she could keep from him.
"Can I ask why you're wondering?" she replied, finally recovering the use of her voice.
"Bored."
Molly wasn't as receptive to this explanation as he'd hoped.
"That's sort of private."
Her head bent back down to her papers, hand resuming its writing.
"If I tell you mine, will you respond in kind?"
She still didn't look up, prompting a sigh from Sherlock. It looked like he'd have to actually put forth an effort in convincing her. And the longer she ignored him the more persistent he knew he'd get.
"It's hardly a matter to trouble yourself over. Obviously, you're still not with them. So, I don't see what harm you can do in telling me."
"It's confidential, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about it."
He was surprised to hear her serious voice aimed at him. The one she reserved for speaking into her recorder post-autopsy.
"Her name was Sophie," he began, sliding off his stool so he could lean against a work table. "I was in the peak of my drug use and she foolishly attempted to pursue a relationship with me. I only wished for her company when I was high. She found this arrangement unsuitable and after three sexual encounters, departed."
When the pathologist continued ignoring him, Sherlock cleared his throat.
"It's only fair you go next."
The hand gripping her pen ceased its writing. Her gaze, however, remained on the paper.
"Sherlock, please. I don't want to talk about this."
It was the vulnerability in her tone, detectable only because he was searching for it, that made him press the issue. And Sherlock was nothing if not persistent.
"Consider me your therapist, Molly, despite the occupation's uselessness."
"I consider you many things, Sherlock. Someone who willingly wishes to listen to my feelings is not one of them."
Her honesty would have been comforting had it not been working against him.
Because at this point, Sherlock understood Molly was denying him the answer to a mystery. And he was becoming only that much more determined to gain the answer, even if it served no monumental purpose other than curing him of boredom.
"Molly," he drawled out, hoping for a physical response from her body. He'd noted on several occasions his voice tended to have that effect on her. "For the most part, we're comfortable in each others presence. More or less friends, even. Can I not get to know you more?"
"I have no objections to that," she agreed, "but you don't have to ask that question. Ask me something else."
He made his way toward her desk, satisfied to see her shoulders slouch as she peeked up at him.
"But this one in particular makes me curious."
"Can't you just deduce it?"
"No," he lied.
"Sherlock-."
This time, she was begging. And as a result, a sense of triumph filled him. She'd cave in sooner or later. It wasn't often she could refuse one of his requests.
And honestly, was it really that much a secret?
Personally, he guessed her significant other to be a fumbling, inexperienced boy rather than man, if Molly's lack of sexual confidence and promiscuity was anything to go by. Relationship couldn't have lasted long and most likely, he broke up with her.
Then again, he had a habit of missing something. It was possible she ended things with him.
"It's just a question, Molly. I trusted you enough to have revealed mine."
A part of him knew he wasn't playing fair in referencing this, but a greater chunk of him didn't care.
Molly looked at him with a pained expression. She released a deep sigh before answering.
"I-I don't know."
His eyebrows pulled together at this.
"How can you not know?"
"He never told me."
"Did he know your name?"
"No."
Sherlock could no longer contain his bewilderment, though Molly wasn't watching him to see it.
"Well, well, well, I'd have never thought you to be so blase when it comes to intercourse, Miss Hooper. You've successfully surprised me. No romantic first date? Cheap flowers? Promises of forever?"
Had he observed his own voice delivering these words, Sherlock would have recognized he was being indecent toward a woman who meant much more to him than he let on.
However, that apathetic side of him which sometimes managed to convince John he wasn't human, kept a firm hold of the words spewing from his mouth.
"No romantic date," she said quietly. "No flowers, no promises of forever. When he took my virginity, it was dreadful."
"Was it his inexperience? I guessed this initially, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself," he rambled. "Did he have a certain mannerism that drove you mad? Why was it so dreadful?"
"Because...it wasn't consensual."
Sherlock hesitated, unsure if he'd heard right.
"You were-."
"Generally," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "not wanting to have sex to begin with, then being forced to, shouldn't count as your first time. But he did take my virginity, didn't he? Along with my dignity. Satisfied with your answer?"
She didn't sound angry, only mildly defeated.
"Molly, I-."
"Forget it."
She returned to scribbling away at her paper.
Sherlock watched on, unused to the stirring developing in his chest.
"Why didn't you inform me sooner?"
"It happened ages ago. Not a big deal. I went to counseling and got over it."
For once, he recognized being in the wrong. He was at fault for the wounded expression she was trying very hard not to display. And he'd have marveled at how quickly he reached this realization had the matter at hand been of a lighter nature.
Before he could respond, Molly abruptly stood and gathered her papers in a neat pile. She slipped them into a folder before grabbing her coat and purse.
"I think I'm going to call it a night. Don't forget to lock up after you leave," she reminded, steering around his anchored form.
"Molly-."
"Mike still doesn't know I let you make a copy of the keys. Please, don't make me regret it. Good night, Sherlock."
_x_x_x_x_x_x_
For the next five days Sherlock stayed silent on what had transpired between himself and Molly whenever John mentioned the pathologist. He also took to avoiding cases that might involve an expedition to the hospital. Cowardly, perhaps, but her revelation still echoed in his head and he wasn't sure if their professional relationship could remain like it was before.
Throughout those five days, he forced himself to replay their conversation in his mind palace until he could memorize each time they paused for breath.
It took hours before it properly sunk in. And when it did, he wondered how long it would take before he could look Molly in the eyes again without being the first to look away. Yes, he had a natural desire to discover the truth, but in this case, he knew he'd more or less bullied out of her a secret he wasn't sure he wanted to know in the first place. Primarily because it brought out some rather alien feelings in him - uncertainty, alarm, a distorted sense of helplessness he hadn't felt since his addiction days, and a rather violent animosity so unlike any he'd experienced before.
Though it would surprise some, he never considered himself to be outright cruel.
And yet, Molly's expression spoke volumes. The only reason she told him was because of their friendship. Because she understood his boredom and would do anything to help abate it. Something he'd exploited mindlessly.
The trouble with a sociopath having such a loyal friend was never giving thought as to how that sort of sacrifice affected them. Sherlock certainly hadn't.
Until now.
To make things more troubling, there was the animosity rumbling around in his chest. Certainly not toward Molly, but rather, the individual responsible for her suffering. The need to hunt down this faceless, nameless man was at the forefront of his mind for a number of days. And in the midst of his wandering thoughts, he wasn't sure which of his newfound emotions to pursue.
_x_x_x_x_x_x_
An astonishing two weeks passed before Sherlock was confronted indirectly about the events of that night. Just not by the person he thought.
"Why is she avoiding you?"
He pretended to feign ignorance, but the woman before him was exceptionally pushy. He wasn't sure if he admired or disapproved of this trait yet.
"I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific, Miss Morstan. I've been informed I repulse a great population of the female race. It is no surprise they wish to avoid me."
When she grabbed him by the collar of his purple dress shirt, Sherlock begrudgingly commended her audacity. It was doubtful John got away with many mistakes in their relationship.
"You know who I'm talking about," she returned, tightening her grip.
"I wasn't aware Molly was avoiding me."
"For goodness sake, Mr. Holmes. Please don't make this difficult," she groused, slowly releasing him. "The two days you came in last week, she hid on my floor until you left. Wouldn't explain why, but as her friend, I'm having a difficult time believing it's for no reason. Stop whatever game you're playing and leave her feelings alone."
"I don't pretend to know why Molly is acting the way she is, but rest assured, I am not toying with her feelings. They are her own to control."
"You know she would do anything for you. Whatever it is you did, I expect it fixed. I know you don't care about Molly, but I do. As does John. And I really don't think you want to drag him into this."
"Molly saved my life. Assuming I don't care about her is daft."
"You've never done anything to prove otherwise," Mary pointed out, refusing to stand down despite the stony glare he aimed at her. "Fix whatever it is you've done, please. Or at least stop showing up at the lab. It's her domain, not yours. Hardly fair you get to have the emotional victory as well as her laboratory."
Once again, he wasn't allowed the last word because at that moment, John returned from the bathroom.
"Ready to go then, Mary?" he questioned good-naturedly. "So glad you two are getting on. Think that's a first for any of my girlfriends."
Mary threw on a charming smile, slipping over to his side. "Sherlock and I were having an enlightening conversation. I hope my point sunk in."
Sherlock offered her a stiff nod, mentally rummaging through the information she'd presented.
True, he did think it strange that both times he visited, Molly hadn't been present in the lab or morgue. The first time, he was even faintly relieved. There was still uncertainty as to what he should say to her. Ignoring the incident altogether seemed inappropriate.
The second time, he'd attempted to search for her, staying a half hour longer after his experiment was finished. It didn't occur to him then that she was avoiding him. And that made him feel worse somehow.
With Mary's revelation, he was determined to find her. And apologize. It had worked the last time he had messed up and he hoped it'd have the same healing qualities again.
_x_x_x_x_x_x_
Three days later and he cornered her in the hospital lift. A mandatory action considering she didn't look particularly thrilled to see him.
"Molly," he acknowledged, taking a step closer to her once the door slid shut.
"Sherlock," she greeted, features unusually reserved. "Is there something you need in the lab?"
"No. I simply wished to discuss with you the information you revealed to me three weeks ago."
She stared at him blankly.
"What about it?"
There it was again. Her complete aloofness towards the topic. It didn't sound nearly as right coming from her as it did from him.
"You were right. I had no business pushing that information from you. I apologize."
"Think nothing of it. I forgive you."
Those were the words he'd wanted to hear, but it still seemed wrong. Molly's voice was as emotionless as ever and everything about her body language indicated she didn't forgive him.
But what did it matter? Their relationship was salvaged. If Molly said she forgave him, didn't that mean-?
"Think nothing of it?" he repeated, turning toward her. "I've had little else on my mind."
"Well, that's your issue to deal with, not mine. You asked your question, even when I begged you not to. It's not my fault you weren't prepared for the answer."
The lift halted, and the doors sprung open.
Sherlock battled the urge to grab her elbow and drag her back inside to continue their discussion. He had a very strong feeling such an action would not go over well, especially if Miss Morstan were to hear of it.
So, with an impressive amount of restraint, he watched Molly walk away.
_x_x_x_x_x_x_
The next time he ran into Molly, Sherlock feigned surprise.
He knew, of course, that she frequented this particular cafe every Wednesday evening, seeing as Mike held a penchant for scheduling shorter shifts on Wednesdays. However, he was sure she wouldn't be quite as pleased to know that he knew that bit of information.
"Fancy meeting you here."
Molly jumped nearly a foot before twisting around. Her surprise subsided into a barely held back grimace.
Sherlock ignored the look, refusing to delve into why disappointment flooded him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Is this normally how you treat friends in public?"
She sighed in an obvious attempt to control her temper.
"Sorry."
She wasn't, but Sherlock shrugged it off.
"John insists some of the best coffee in London is served here."
"I'm surprised you didn't ask him to get it for you."
"He declined, quite rudely may I add. But imagine how relieved I was to see you in line."
"I get you coffee at the lab as a courtesy," Molly muttered, color rising in her cheeks.
She twirled around, pony tail flying through the air before landing neatly against her red windbreaker. Sherlock smiled before evening out his expression.
Ahead, the customer at the counter picked up his latte and wandered off to a nearby table. Molly dutifully stepped forward as the cashier trained his eyes on her.
Slowly, Sherlock leaned forward and murmured, "Don't forget, two sugars."
Molly stiffened for a second before placing her order.
Perhaps it wasn't the wisest idea to provoke her, but Sherlock found a relieving sense of familiarity in doing so. An irritated Molly, he could handle. A Molly devoid of emotion, he could also handle, but chose not to. She was unpredictable when he couldn't determine what she was feeling. Unpredictability tended to be dangerous in an adversary and though Molly didn't necessarily fit this role, on her, he still found it disquieting.
Her tea appeared in less than a minute and without so much as a glance back, Molly hurried out of the line, feet guiding her to a more remote part of the cafe.
Sherlock half-heartedly placed his order. Most of his attention was fixated on Molly's location. She chose a quaint corner of the cafe, shrouded in a great deal more darkness than where the main entrance was. A simple lamp above the booth was the only source of light. Purposely, she chose to sit with her back to him, head tilted toward the window.
As soon as his coffee touched the counter, Sherlock shot off in her direction.
Molly didn't appear surprised when he sat down opposite her. The grimace she'd displayed earlier, reappeared.
"What more do you want from me?"
She asked it so softly he almost failed to hear it.
Taking a sip from his cup, Sherlock sank into the booth.
"Can't I enjoy a nice cup of-."
"Stop it," she snapped, striking the table.
They were quickly approaching the threshold of her patience. A month prior and Sherlock would have thought Molly's was infinite.
Now, he knew differently. If he pushed just a little more, he would see a side to Molly he doubted she'd ever shown anyone before.
"Stop what?"
At his casual tone, Molly flexed the hand she'd struck the table with.
"Stop thinking you have to say something so this can be alright."
Sherlock broke the intensity of her stare, giving the cafe a quick once-over. Suddenly, he wished they weren't so obscured from view. He wasn't used to this level of intimacy. The privacy, the conversation topic, the setting- it made him wish he'd thought over this plan a second time.
"I am still...processing what you've told me. I need to understand why you kept this hidden in all the years we have known each other."
The laugh she emitted set him on edge.
"Of course you do." She shook her head, the tendons in her neck, tightening. "I need to, I need to- it's always about what you need. Always. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself."
His fingers tightened around his coffee.
"Do not proceed to think you know me," he warned.
"I don't know anything about you," she answered, "except that you're heartless."
"Heartless?" he repeated. "Considering your dating history, you have an affinity for heartless men."
It slipped out without thought and he braced himself for her response. With how heated their exchange was getting, he knew they were in the sort of territory that caused people not to talk to him for a long, long time.
"Sometimes," Molly began, voice quieter than he'd ever heard, "I think about what you do to my self-esteem and I realize there is no difference between you and the man who forced himself on me. Who else would continue treating someone so horribly even after they've begged them to stop?"
Sherlock felt like the oxygen had been punched out of him. And for once, he wasn't able to hide it.
Molly blinked, lips parting. She appeared briefly startled by her own words before quickly turning to face the window once more.
The conversations in the cafe retreated to a drone. Outside, the traffic sounded muffled. The light above was suddenly much too harsh.
They sat in silence, Molly's eyes fixed on the window, Sherlock's gaze boring into the side of her face.
Only when he could no longer feel heat through his coffee cup did he glance down.
"I...apologize."
He was somewhat amazed at how easily it came out. It was no secret he lacked the humbleness to apologize. Though, he couldn't be sure what he was apologizing for. It felt long overdue for a number of things that at the time, had escaped his notice.
"If it'll make you feel better, I'll accept it."
She sounded tired. Or maybe it was a willingness to placate him. Had he ever been that considerate with her before? He couldn't remember.
"I've...damaged things between us," he said. "What can I do to repair them?"
"Things between us have been damaged for a long time," she answered, throwing him a weak smile. "Why put in the work of fixing it when we both know nothing's going to change?"
He hesitated before asking his next question. He wasn't entirely sure he would like the answer.
"Was I truly that awful to you? Enough that you would compare me to your rapist?"
Sighing, Molly pushed away her tea.
"No."
She didn't elaborate and Sherlock was glad. He didn't think he could hear the comparison again.
"I'm going to go."
He watched her slip out of the booth. Her tea sat abandoned and cold.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me outside of work," Molly requested, unable to meet his eyes. "I mean, unless it's an emergency."
Sherlock nodded stiffly.
She left without a word.
_x_x_x_x_x_x_
Molly's POV
Three weeks passed and Molly hadn't yet glimpsed Sherlock at St Bart's. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or worried.
Now wasn't that upsetting? She could hurl the worst insults at him and beneath it all, she'd still be concerned about how he was doing. What a bloody plight it was, being in love with the man.
She tried not to think too much about the last few things she'd said to him. Some of which she meant, some of which she didn't. That evening in particular caused a lot of built-up emotions to spew out. Then again, he wasn't entirely innocent either.
How was it that someone so brilliant couldn't see just how selfish they could be?
Whatever the answer, she didn't dwell on it. Doing so ushered in a headache and she still had ten hours to go before her shift ended.
As she glanced over the John Boggs once more, eyes paying particular attention to the lacerations above the trachea, the door to the morgue slid open.
She ignored the figure for a moment, one gloved index finger tilting the chin to the side.
"Miss Hooper?"
Molly paused. She recognized that voice, though she wasn't necessarily thrilled to hear it. Dealing with one Holmes was exhausting enough as it was.
"Mycroft," she greeted, stepping away from the body. "Is there any possibility that this can wait another half hour?"
Her request caused a displeased expression to cross his face. But just as quickly, it was replaced by a tight smile.
"Take your time. I'll wait outside."
Before he turned to leave, Mycroft tilted his head, eyeing the body.
"I'd suggest checking his throat. The laceration seems rather puffy from my end."
When she excavated a crumpled up newspaper article with tissue clamps, a minute later, she tried not to act surprised. Tried and failed.
"Damn," she mumbled, placing the soggy paper into a small bin, "Scotland Yard's lucky they're not serial killers."
With Mycroft's input, Molly finished the autopsy in fifteen minutes. A part of her wished it would've lasted longer. That he came to her place of work rather than summoning her over his way, concerned her. He had a government to run. What could be so important that he took time off to come see her?
After changing out of her lab coat, Molly exited the morgue. Mycroft sat in a lone chair in the hallway, one leg hitched over the other. His attention was on his mobile.
Clearing her throat, Molly shuffled in place, unsure if she should say something.
"I'm quite aware you are there, Miss Hooper."
"Right. Is, um, there something I can do for you?"
Mycroft stood, eyes still fixed on his mobile. Slowly, he approached her.
Her nervousness teetered as he stopped an arm's length away from her.
"Do you, by chance, happen to know this gentleman?"
He turned his mobile so the screen was facing her.
Molly's brows flew together as she analyzed the figure.
"Do you need my help on a case?"
The man's face had been badly beaten. His nose was turned a full ninety-degrees and one eye was swollen shut. Yellow and brown bruises littered his cheeks, hovering above a swollen upper lip and a split bottom one.
She couldn't tell if the man had been knocked out or killed.
"No," Mycroft revealed, turning the screen back to him, "the case was clear cut. This man was beaten to the brink of death."
"Oh."
His expression was undreadable. She wished she could mimic it. It was obvious he was searching for something from her.
"I'm sorry. Was he...a friend of yours?"
"No. At least not that I'm aware of. Someone searched for his name and information on my personal laptop."
Molly nodded, unable to shake loose her confusion.
"That's certainly odd. Do you think someone on your staff had ill intent towards this man?"
"If I'm to believe my source this man had procured a list of offences ranging from theft to crimes of a more serious nature." His face gave away nothing. "Rape and sexual assault, to be precise. I am sure a number of persons wanted him dead."
"I-."
Her brows scrunched together.
"Ma-may I see the photo again?"
"Would it serve as closure?"
Words formed in throat, but they couldn't crawl past the weight of her tongue.
"Or would that upset you? Sherlock wasn't clear on what your reaction would be."
Molly shook her head, taking a step back.
"That-he...he..."
She inhaled sharply, exhaling only when the oxygen began to burn in her lungs.
"We have ourselves a bit of a situation," Mycroft explained, moving toward her. "My baby brother, renowned for his discipline and rational, has done something impulsive. Something without my blessing, may I add."
He stopped, one hand coming to rest gently on her back. Molly worked on controlling her breathing.
"Are you in need of medical care, Miss Hooper?"
She rapidly shook her head. Now that the shock had passed, she couldn't prevent the influx of words.
"I didn't tell him to-."
"I don't believe for a moment you would," he reassured, rubbing her back. "However, I need to make sure all the information is correct. The man whose photo I showed you-."
"He-." She swallowed. "When I was still in uni, he-."
Mycroft dropped his hand.
"I am sorry that is something you had to experience."
Molly bowed her head, unwilling to linger on the unwanted memory.
"How did he find him?" she redirected. "How did he even know who he was?"
"I believe when you had informed Sherlock of your past, you had mentioned attending counseling?"
She blinked before turning to him.
"You have access to doctors files on your laptop?"
Mycroft appeared sheepish for a moment, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.
"A little secret I would appreciate to be kept between the two of us."
"Of course," she promised.
"You were not the first to be targeted by this man and certainly not the first to attend counseling for it. Sherlock accessed your counselor's notes as well as a list of women whose descriptions matched your version of events. As luck would have it, one of them knew your attacker by name. A...Lars Greyborn."
She tried speaking again, but nothing came out.
"I apologize that such sensitive information was made known to Sherlock. No doubt there will be extra security added to my laptop alone. And yet, considering what he chose to do with it, I find myself conflicted."
Molly frowned.
"Are you going to arrest him?"
"It certainly would do nothing in rebuilding our already strained relationship," he reflected. "But, I cannot have my baby brother playing vigilante, no matter how abhorrent his victims are. So, Miss Hooper, I am leaving the decision up to you."
She couldn't have been more surprised if Mycroft had pulled out a tiara and declared himself the Queen of England. And that such a decision would ever rest in her hands, seemed like a poor brand of poetic justice. Her assailant now physically looked as bad as she had once felt, and Sherlock had a very good chance of being sentenced for the attack.
With his fists. God, he'd beat him with his fists. Molly may not have had the insight into criminals that Lestrange or Anderson had, but enough bodies passed through her morgue to know which ones were killed quickly and cleanly and which ones were made to suffer. Beating someone wasn't quick and it had to require an extensive amount of energy. That Sherlock, normally cool and collected, was able to gather so much of it, made her queasy.
He'd been entirely right in that regard. She really didn't know him.
But the obvious couldn't be ignored either. Her assailant was in his current condition, not as a result of coincidence, but because she had revealed what the man had done to her. And in that way, she was just as responsible for the event. To pin it all on Sherlock and have him take the blame...there was more fault in that than covering up the man's attack.
"Don't arrest Sherlock."
Mycroft considered her carefully. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
He nodded, unable to mask a half smile.
"For future references, make sure to keep from telling my brother the names of all the nannies you disliked. There are only so many bodies I can account for."
Molly's eyes widened.
"Come now Miss Hooper surely you understand why my brother targeted Mr. Greyborn? And why you being harmed in any way will make Sherlock more dangerous than normal?"
"I-I mean he..." She struggled to get the explanation out, reluctant to believe it was anything more than what it was. "He just wanted to get rid of a horrible person."
"My dear, Sherlock is not a vigilante. He's well aware of the importance the justice system serves, even with its flukes. There is a reason Jim Moriarty was afforded the luxury of a trial and Mr. Greyborn was not."
Her brain sputtered at the statement. There was too much weight attached to it.
Mycroft sighed. "Well, I won't meddle any further. Until we meet again, hopefully under better circumstances. Good afternoon, Miss Hooper."
She could think of nothing to do but nod.
When she finally stopped hearing the clack of his expensive shoes, Molly backed up against the wall and slumped down. She sat there for a solid ten minutes, running over everything that had just transpired. Specifically, she kept replaying Mycroft's words.
"There is a reason Jim Moriarty was afforded the luxury of a trial and Mr. Greyborn was not."
I believe I may write another chapter. It seems as if a confrontation needs to occur between Molly and Sherlock. But maybe ending it here is alright as well? Not all stories need a resolution.