Undercover Brother / Sister
"John, the Bingham folder, I need it now. I'm at the morgue." No greeting, no thank you, no attempt at curtesy. It was just the click of the phone. Sherlock knew he was working today at the surgery, he had told him yesterday. The mad bastard probably deleted it. Well, it was either bring him the folder or the phone would continue to ring every ten minutes well up into the night with Sherlock asking where he was and why he didn't have the folder.
The first thing John hears as he walks into the morgue is Sherlock making his usual demands of poor Molly.
"Molly, coffee, black, two sugars," he orders never looking up from the microscope.
John snorts as like usual Molly turns like the perfect automaton walks from the room to fulfill his order. "Sherlock, Molly is not your personal servant." Of course Sherlock does not make a comment or gives any reaction to John's admonishment. What he does is hold his hand out in demand for the paperwork he had John bring from the flat. When he receives them he pulls away from the scope to flip through them, ignoring John's presence.
"I can't stay Sherlock; I'm due at the surgery in thirty minutes." Sherlock just grunts in acknowledgment still saying nothing. John just takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes heaven ward in a request for strength. What was he thinking, a thank you from Sherlock, he needn't hold his breath. "Yes, well." Oh why bother, he turns and just walks away.
/
"See you John," Molly says as John walks toward her on his way out of the morgue. He smiles at her as she carries a mug of coffee, holding it like it's the Holy Grail or an offering for a benevolent god. Pretty sweet little Molly, when will she ever give up on this girlish crush on Sherlock? He wants to roll his eyes, or maybe shake some sense into her. It's time for this to end, really, the girl needs to get a clue, and so impulsively he stops her with a touch to her arm as she passes.
She looks up with those brown doe eyes, simple and so trusting and it almost makes him feel guilty for what he is going to say.
"Molly, don't let him treat you like the maid. Sherlock uses people; he doesn't see the wrong of it and never will. Please, just run him out of here if he gets too much."
Her eyes dart toward her feet and she blushes as if she has been caught in some dirty secret. For a moment he cruelly wants to laugh with the thought that she didn't know everyone could see it. I mean everyone from him to the lowliest janitor as Saint Bart's could see it. "I," she squeaks, trying to say something, her blush just gets darker and he lets the moment go.
"Heck, if he gets too much you might try using the riding crop he loves so much." He couldn't help the giggle that escaped his mouth when her eyes almost popped out and she sloshed some of the coffee. The thought of Molly taking the riding crop to Sherlock would make him smile the rest of the day.
It is such a nice fantasy of her chasing him from the morgue down the long corridor. The thought of seeing Sherlock racing away on those long, long legs, covering his head, protecting the hair, maybe one hand covering his ass, while she snaps the crop at his bottom, the thought does something for him. Well, he clears his throat and takes a sharp breath where on earth did that come from? Now he has the thought of the crop on Sherlock's very well shaped ass, bare and reddened with stripes. Now he's blushing! "Oh my God," he murmurs and with that he turned quickly and left her there, pretty pink blushing Molly. Only his blush was darker and the stirring below disturbed him even more. How mortifying.
/
Molly pushes her way through the door caring the cup of coffee. Her smile is beatific, her manner is meek but the way she slams the coffee down in front of Sherlock is not the typical Molly.
"If John Watson could see you now Molly he would be so very proud. How was the 'you are not his maid' pep talk?"
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes if you demand coffee of me one more time you will be bathing in it!" She growled looking at the mug of coffee in front of him and the mess it had made on the stack of paperwork John had just brought.
"Well my dear Sherrinford Margaret Hooper Holmes, if we are doing the full name bit," he said stressing the first name, "You," he pointed at her chest, "Are deep undercover for our brother, so you must be sweet little Molly, and blush and simper every time I walk into a room."
"That riding crop sounds good now that I think of it"
"What?"
"Watson thinks I should use your riding crop, I actually think he wants to use it himself on you though." Sherlock blushed this time; it was gratifying to look at. Sherlock however caught the almost Mycroftian smug look on her face and retaliated.
"How do you do all that blushing on cue, I always wonder? Are you thinking of Watson yourself, or maybe you astride Lestrade? Oh, Oh, even better, Anderson. Does the thought of that skinny idiot An der sonnnn dampen those panties and make you blush sweet sister?"
"Nope," she said popping the p. "I think of Toby."
"The cat!?"
"Toby is my favorite vibrator." She said with a straight face which then morphed into a perfect facsimile of Mycroft Holmes's smile.
Sherlock gagged a little, "So all the times you are bragging on your cat?"
"Yep! Mee…oww…"