Do It Yourself

by cactusnell

Molly has become upset about an autopsy. What can Sherlock do to improve her mood, and her life? Sherlolly

A morgue, by its very nature, was never really a cheery place, but Sherlock Holmes always found the morgue at St. Bart's comfortably welcoming, if not cheery. And this was due entirely to the presence of one Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist. Molly had a warmth that would assuage the chill of her environment, a kindness which would lend comfort to all those who visited, and, usually, a ready smile to help visitors forget their surroundings. But not this afternoon, Sherlock Holmes noticed immediately. When he had arrived, the small pathologist was standing by an autopsy table, cadaver laid out in front of her, with a bonesaw in her hand and a look of sadness on her face. The detective couldn't help but be concerned.

"Problem, Dr. Hooper?"

Molly started, as if she had been unaware of his approach. 'Oh, Sherlock, I didn't see you come in." She glanced briefly in his direction before returning her attention to the woman on the table in front of her. Sherlock had seen this reaction before. He had seen his pathologist overcome with such melancholy and heartbreak on previous occasions, but it usually involved the death of a child, or worse yet, children. This seemed different, however, because, in addition to the grief, there seemed to be an added bit of something else. Something, he sensed, which may have been fear.

"Molly, what's the matter?"

"Sherlock, look at her," Molly spoke softly, indicating with a nod of her head the lifeless woman on the table. "What do you see?"

Ah, here was something the detective could understand. Deductions! What did he see indeed. He studied the corpse, making comments as the thoughts came to him.

"Age, about thirty-five, I would say. Not unattractive, but certainly no raving beauty. A professional, or para-professional, from the look of her hands, and her musculature. Certainly not someone involved in strenuous physical activity. Rather smallish. Brown hair, brown eyes, Not married, by the absence of a ring, or the physical mark of a ring worn for any length of time. There are small scratches on her ankles. Probably owned a cat who tended to get a bit cranky if not fed on time. Stamp on her hand indicates she had recently been at one of those fashionable clubs in Soho. Bruising indicates that she was strangled, and that she put up a fight. I assume, from the additional bruising to her upper thighs, that she was the victim of a sexual assault…"

"Stop!"

"Molly, you asked for my observations…"

""This could be me, Sherlock! A rather lonely, only semi-attractive woman, rapidly approaching middle age, with small breasts, and mousey hair, out with some girlfriends looking for Mr. Right, and winding up raped, killed, and left in an alley…" Her voice trailed off as a muffled, and very small sob, escaped her.

"Molly, this could never…"

"She even had a bloody cat, Sherlock! A ginger tabby, from the cat hair found on her rather colorful and thoroughly unstylish attire in that bag over there!"

"Molly, this could never be you! You don't date. You don't go out to those kinds of clubs…"

Molly still had the bone saw at the ready, and Sherlock could see the tiniest bit of threat in her eyes as she once again spoke to him. "I do! Or, at least I did! And just because I haven't done so lately, doesn't mean that I will not do so again!"

"I thought you had given up dating, Molly…"

"Why, Sherlock? Because you advised me to do so? Because my taste in men is so atrocious?"

"Well, Molly, must I point out that you did date a world class psychopath and criminal mastermind?"

I dated 'Jim from IT', you git! You were the one who attracted the psychopath!"

"How about 'Meatdagger'?"

"Tom! Tom was nice. He was normal. I still feel so bad about breaking his heart…"

"He couldn't have been too heartbroken, Molly, as he is currently the father of twins, and lives in Bristol with his wife."

"What? And how would you know that, Sherlock? If you're making that up to make me feel better, I have to tell you that one part of me is relieved that he recovered so easily, and is happy, but another more bitchy part is now really pissed that he recovered so easily, and is really happy! Damn, am I so easy to get over?"

"Yes, and no, Molly," Sherlock said with a small smile.

"Did you make it up, Sherlock? You can tell me."

"No, Dr. Hooper, I don't feel that I can when you're standing there with a bonesaw in your hands."

The small woman heaved a sigh. "Why would you assume I've given up dating, Sherlock? And looking? I've alway said I wanted a home, and babies, you know…"

"Well, you haven't been looking lately, so I just assumed that…"

"That I had given up!"

"Well, maybe not exactly given up, Molly. Maybe I thought that you had changed your priorities. Perhaps rethought the whole search idea…"

But Molly Hooper had now grown just a bit angry. "No, Sherlock, I have not given up on what I want! I am just in a period of refocusing, so to speak. Expanding my possibilities! Letting go of the impossible in order to focus on the possible…"

"Molly, calm down! I can see that you're upset, that this woman's death has affected you greatly. But this will never happen to you."

"How can you say that? This was a perfectly normal dental hygienist from Bloomsbury, 'looking for love in all the wrong places', as that stupid country song goes…"

"I am familiar with the song, Molly, my parents used to dance to it when I was a child. My father wore cowboy boots, and Mummy wore gingham. It was a traumatic experience!"

"I'm looking down at my possible future lying on a slab in the morgue, and you're talking about being traumatised by country music. You really are a self-centered git, Sherlock Holmes!"

"My trauma, minor though it may seem to you, is very real, while yours is simply imagined. This will not happen to you because I will simply not allow it to."

Sherlock took a deep breath, and proceeded to speak to the woman as if she were a rather slow learning student in a school for morons. "Molly, think back on any number of our previous conversations. I constantly complain about the manner in which you brew coffee, correct?"

"Okay…"

"And what do you tell me?"

"Make it yourself, you git!"

"And when I comment on the haphazard way you arrange the shelving in the storage closet?"

"It's my storage closet, Sherlock! Or the hospital's! It's not your prerogative to come in here and…"

"Makes no difference, Dr. Hooper. What is correct, is correct! So, when I complain…"

"I tell you that if you don't like it, you can do it yourself!"

"And your collection of videos…"

"Let me guess! When you pointed out that they were so disorganized you couldn't tell the scifi from the historical dramas, I told you that if you didn't like my system, you could…"

"Yes! I could do it myself. And you must admit that I make better coffee, arrange storage rooms more accessibly, and that you can now tell the documentaries from the soft core porn. Although I must admit I was initially confused a bit about how to categorize 'Doctor Whore'. Perhaps I should have filed it with the educational videos…"

"For god's sake, Sherlock, make your point, if you have one!" Molly was by this time quite exasperated.

"My point, Dr. Hooper, is that if you are bound and determined to re-enter the dating world in search of a significant other, I feel that I must, as I usually do when you prove to be woefully inadequate to the task, 'do it myself'."

"You're going to find me a boyfriend?" Molly asked incredulously.

"Of course not, Molly, as I said, I'm going to do it myself!"

Molly was now even more incredulous. She moved her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. She shifted position slightly, cleared her throat, and tried once more. Still nothing.

"Molly, do say something. You're making me a bit nervous."

Encouraged by the fact that anything she could do, or, in this case, not do, could possibly make the great detective nervous, Molly finally found her voice. "You want to be my boyfriend?" , she squeaked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I have always been well aware that I would make a perfectly terrible boyfriend. I will forget your birthday. I will leave the toilet seat up. I will tell you you look hideous, when, in fact, you do look hideous, but would prefer to hear something more kind. I will not spend enough time with you. I will be distracted by cases, and forget our social plans. I will…"

"Enough! Why would I want a boyfriend like that?"

"Why, indeed. But, while that behavior is fatal in boyfriend mode, my research has proven that it par for the course in husband mode. I suppose there will be a brief period where I will be a 'fiance', but I'm sure Mycroft can help us to shorten that interlude, if I ask him nicely. Which I am prepared to do, if only for your benefit." When he finished, and was standing there waiting for some response, Molly Hooper found that, once again, she had lost her voice. Indeed, her mouth was moving, but not a sound was coming out. It must be shock, she thought.

"Molly, I feel that I must point out that there is a maxim of the law which states 'qui facet consentir', which means 'silence gives consent'. So, I must assume that the matter is settled!" The tall man then rounded the autopsy table to approach his newly minted fiance. Molly, as required while performing her duties, was covered in surgical garb, meaning gloves, cap, with a transparent plastic mask covering her eyes and practically half her face, and holding still a lethal bone saw in her right hand. Sherlock found the only space available, and placed a lingering kiss on her neck just below her left ear, smiling to himself as she moaned softly in response.

"I shall take my leave now. I'll get in touch with Mycroft immediately. And I am sure my mother will be in touch with you to ascertain whether I am truly engaged, or merely hallucinating due to a drug relapse. I am sure that as a respected mathematician, she has calculated the odds, and will be greatly relieved to find that I am defying them! And please, Molly, try to find your voice before this evening. We have, after all, many things to discuss." Saying this, he gave her another quick kiss, and turned to take his leave.

"Sherlock…" Molly eventually managed to get out just as the door closed behind him.

Molly stood there, looking down at the poor unfortunate woman before her, silently thanking her for the change she had wrought in Molly's life. And the fear was now gone from her eyes, leaving only sadness.

Later that afternoon, as he left his elder brother's office, having endured an incredulous interrogation and a lengthy telephone conversation with his overly ecstatic parents, Sherlock Holmes was thinking about how to break the news to John and Mary Watson. And DI Lestrade. And, of course, Mrs. Hudson, who would be so relieved to hear that he had finally, in her imagination, "gotten over John". He would have to discuss this with his Molly when he went to collect her. Collect her to bring her to Baker Street. To bring her home, at last. He was thinking this rather pleasant thought when his mobile signalled an incoming text message.

YOU WERE SERIOUS, RIGHT? - MOLLY

OF COURSE - SHERLOCK

I LOVE YOU. BUT I DO UNDERSTAND IF SAYING IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE - MOLLY

YOU KNOW I PREFER TO TEXT. SO, HERE GOES. I LOVE YOU. I WOULD SUGGEST YOU SAVE THIS TEXT, AS I AM VERY LIKELY TO BE RATHER REMISS AT REPEATING IT. EVIDENTLY ANOTHER COMMON FAULT IN HUSBANDS. - SHERLOCK

When Molly didn't respond immediately, he assumed she must be overcome with emotion, or shock.

SATISFIED? - SHERLOCK

THAT REMAINS TO BE SEEN. THERE WILL BE SEX, WON'T THERE? - MOLLY

Ah, cheeky Molly was back. Perhaps she would actually be capable of speech before this evening.

STATISTICS SHOW THAT MARRIED COUPLES HAVE SEX ON THE AVERAGE OF THREE TIMES PER WEEK. - SHERLOCK

I'VE ALWAYS CONSIDERED YOU WELL ABOVE AVERAGE, MR. HOLMES! - MOLLY

Chuckling, Sherlock shoved the mobile into the pocket of his Belstaff, eager to return to St. Bart's to collect his fiance and prove to her just how far above average he truly was!