Prompt #1: Sherlock is working in the lab per usual. Molly is bringing him coffee when she trips and twists her ankle, the coffee spilling everywhere and burning her. Sherlock helps her in his own clumsy antisocial way.
"Get it together, Molly," thirty-one year old lab technician Molly Hooper said aloud to herself as she bustled down the long corridor holding a cup of steaming black coffee, complete with two sugars. Recipient of the coffee, the one and only Sherlock Holmes, and the love of Molly's life (albeit one-sided), was waiting back in the lab as he combed over various samples he had retrieved at his most recent case. Something about a dog-walker finding a body in the park with no apparent cause of death. Molly wasn't so sure. She had been to fascinated with the way Sherlock's lips formed a small line when he was rather perplexed by something, or the fact that his hands caught the underside of his angled chin in the right moment as a source of clarity struck him, presenting him in another magnificent light that caused Molly's insides to shudder with intensity. She had no idea how she'd survived around him this long, and ever since that night when she helped him fake his own death, when he had so openly admitted that she counted, that he trusted her, and that he needed her, it had taken every ounce of self-control Molly had not to fall into a puddle at the brilliant man's feet.
The transition of Sherlock being dead and then being alive wasn't well received by the public. He was ridiculed in the papers, and talked about on the news, but what hurt the most was how his friends seemed to shun him. LeStrade was still asking for help on cases, he couldn't deny that Sherlock was a genius, despite his dickhead attitude, but he was distant, and rarely made eye contact with the man. Mrs. Hudson didn't come up to clean the apartment as much, the gleam in her eye a little less bright when she talked of Sherlock, and then there was John.
Molly and John didn't communicate that much. She really only talked with him when he was with Sherlock, but after Sherlock's "death", John had reached out, probably trying to hold on to the tangled threads that wove together Sherlock's life. It was the hardest then to keep John in the dark. He wept for his best friend, and became angry at Moriarty and how little he could actually do for him in the end. Molly comforted John the best she could, but she found it hard to continue seeing him, lying right to his face. She confronted Sherlock about it, but he was adamant that John stay in the dark. It was at the same time he pushed an unruly strand of hair on her face behind her ear, so she let the argument drop.
When Sherlock came back, the look of betrayal on John's face wasn't missed by her. He was ecstatic that his friend was back, but so hurt that he had not been involved. That he had believed for so long that his best friend was dead, and Molly had been in on the fact. John never said anything mean to her about it, never yelled at her for lying and keeping such a secret, but she could tell in his eyes he wouldn't trust her again, probably for awhile. With Sherlock, his sense of relief and joy over his friend's return clouded his anger and kept it from forming, and Molly could see how truly happy John was to have Sherlock back, but with her, it was different. Molly didn't mean much to John to begin with, and now, here she was, the person that could have stopped his suffering, yet didn't. She was the person linked to backstabbing and she didn't know how long John would continue to hold his grudge, even though he was gentlemanly enough to do it when he thought she wasn't looking.
She about forgot where she was, so lost in her thoughts, when she almost plowed right into the lab doors. Stopping to compose herself, swiping a few loose strands behind her ears and wiping any sweat off of her forehead, she entered the lab and stopped short.
Sherlock stood there in nothing but his trousers, his hair tousled on top of his head, as he sprayed what looked like a red substance all over his white shirt. He moved to various angles, continuing to assault the button-down shirt with the liquid. He did not notice Molly enter, completely encased in his experiment.
Molly stood, staring at the amazing figure of Sherlock Holmes. She had never seen him in this state of undress, and while he was not the least bit indecent, she could feel her cheeks become inflamed as she tried to look away, and failing miserably, from his unclad upper half.
"Here..here's your cof...fee," Molly stuttered, and Sherlock stopped a moment to regard her. He wiped his face a little, before setting down the red substance on the counter.
"Molly, don't stutter, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock commented and Molly nodded her head, ignoring his quip. He was rather fond of brutal honesty, and it was one of the many reasons she had come to adore him so much. While she didn't like to be made fun of, or have her feelings hurt, she knew with Sherlock he was what he was, and that was a brilliant, antisocial detective who lacked in the emotion department.
She made her away around the counter, about to set the coffee down on the counter when her foot caught hold on a stack of books laying on the floor that she hadn't seen, and she saw the ground coming toward her at an alarming rate. The coffee was sent into the air, spilling out all around her, effectively landing on her forearm, causing her to hiss in pain. She met the ground with a thud and her vision swam.
"Molly," Sherlock said. Molly could hear a slight twinge in his voice, but nothing else. He was beside her in a minute, helping her into a sitting position.
"Ouch," Molly said, rubbing her head. She propped herself up with one arm and suddenly became aware of a mass beside her. She turned to see Sherlock's face a few inches from hers, and she turned away quickly. Embarrassment and shame hit her like a ton of bricks, and she squirmed on the ground. She wanted to be as far away from this moment as she could. She began to stand, when a sudden pain in her right ankle halted her movements. She dipped slowly, ready to fall again, but there was an arm around her waist and another on her shoulder, holding her steady. She was pulled rather closely to Sherlock and Molly tried to forget about how he smelled of fresh peppermint with a light hint of something earthy, or how his grip was firm, yet soft, or how some of his hair tickled the top of her forehead as he maneuvered her in his hold.
"Molly, are you alright?" Sherlock asked and Molly turned to look up at him. His face didn't really show any concern, but his eyes were slightly wide, just a hair.
"I think I twisted my ankle," Molly explained, and Sherlock helped her onto a stool, sitting her down softly.
"I really have a lot of work to do, so I don't have much time to take you to a doctor," Sherlock commented, and Molly grimaced at his words. He was rather unfeeling. "I'm just going to have to take care of you here."
Molly looked up, stunned, to see Sherlock already on the prowl for bandages and some ice. He was going to take care of her? He was actually going to help her and take care of her? Molly was shocked, and her heart began to flutter immediately. Wait, is he going to have to touch my legs? Did I remember to shave this morning? What if my feet smell as he's wrapping my foot?
Molly's insecurities were creeping up, and she tried to keep them at bay. It was too late now. What's done is done and if Sherlock was actually volunteering to help her, then by god, she was going to let him do it.
Sherlock appeared not a moment later. Bending down on one knee, he pulled up her right leg. She gritted her teeth as he began feeling the already swollen appendage. Molly hissed as he applied a little to much pressure to the right side and he looked up at her.
"It doesn't appear broken, probably just a sprain. I'll wrap it up and you will just stay off it. It's best to see a doctor tomorrow once the swelling has gone down and you can walk," Sherlock said. "Brace yourself, Molly, it's going to hurt when I take off your shoe and sock, alright?"
Molly nodded her head, gripping the side of the table as Sherlock released the throbbing ankle from its cage. The shoe came off quickly, and the sock right after. Molly focused on Sherlock's fingers. They were soft and nimble, yet the left fingertips were calloused, from all his violin playing. His touch sent tingles up Molly's leg and she tried to keep steady. "Hold still, Molly, or this is going to take longer than it has to."
Molly quickly settled down, feeling berated like a child, and puffed out her lips. She wanted to tell him that she was the one in pain, not him, but what good would that do? He'd probably say something like "Well, Molly, next time don't be so clumsy and fall over your own feet."
Molly continued to watch Sherlock as he carefully wrapped her foot. "I'm sorry for the trouble I'm causing," Molly admitted.
Sherlock didn't look up as he said, "I've caused you enough, this is nothing in comparison."
Molly smiled a little at his statement. He was right. He did ask her to help him fake his death and lie to all his friends on his behalf. Wrapping up her ankle and applying some ice was the least he could do.
When Sherlock was done, he lowered her leg carefully and stood, staring at her. "Thank you," Molly said, casually moving her hair behind her ears. It was a nervous habit, one she wished she could stop. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit before he grabbed her arm. Flipping it over, he examined it.
"And you managed to burn yourself quite well," Sherlock stated, as he ran his hands over her arms and Molly was seriously having trouble thinking as sparks fluttered in her body. Could he really not feel the electricity?
She looked at her arm and noticed several patches of skin that had already started to bubble up from the hot coffee landing on her. "Oh, it's nothing really," Molly said, and she began to pull her arm back, but Sherlock had it in his firm grasp.
"It's not nothing. Nothing is what's inside Anderson's head," Sherlock joked and Molly couldn't suppress a giggle that emitted from her mouth. Sherlock smirked slightly as he reached over for some cream. "Applying this cream will help ease the pain and the burn should heal faster."
Molly made a move with her free hand to grab the cream, ready to apply it herself, but Sherlock was already unscrewing the cap. He was actually helping her again and Molly smiled at him. He was unaware of her stare, but she didn't care. She loved admiring him, and now his attention was on her, for once. Not a body, or evidence, or even John.
Sherlock finished applying the cream. He looked up and nodded. "That should do it," he said. "Next time don't be such a klutz. It would help you and me."
Molly smiled and nodded her head. She looked over and noticed that Sherlock still had a grip on her arm, his finger running over her skin. She wondered if he even realized he was doing it or if it was subconscious. "Thank you, Sherlock, for everything."
"You're welcome, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said. He released her arm and moved away from her quickly.
"I can go and get you more coffee," Molly said. She knew it would be hard for her to move, but she felt bad for spilling the coffee and for being such a burden.
"No need," Sherlock said. He ran over and picked up his coat. He threw it on, covering up his well-toned body, for which Molly was sad to see disappear from her sight, and headed toward the door.
"Did you figure it out?" Molly asked and Sherlock smirked.
"Of course," he said. Pulling his coat collar up, he opened the door and headed out, shouting over his shoulder: "The maid did it."
Molly shook her head at him. Always thinking of the case first, and Molly knew that would never stop. Sherlock wasn't one for emotions and definitely not romance, but at least she knew he cared in his Sherlock kind of way.
She was about to stand up and begin cleaning up the mess when the sound of her phone chirped, letting her know she had a text message.
Fishing the phone out of her coat pocket, she pulled up her messages and almost fell off the stool at what she read: Be at your place at 8am to take you to doctor. SH
Molly couldn't help the enormous grin that formed on her face and she laughed out loud. Yes, he certainly did care, and maybe there was hope after all. She was always the optimist, and while things surely didn't look to be in her favor, she pushed all that aside and clung to the moments that made her smile like she was doing right then. Because no matter what anyone would say or do, Sherlock held her heart in his grasp, and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.