Dr. Hooper's Day Off
Sherlolly Prompt: Molly has to dress up for a case (?)
[Time Frame: After The Hound of Baskervilles, but before The Reichenbach Fall. All feedback is appreciated (in fact wanted-criticise my work, guys!)]
I
It was raining lightly on the streets of London, and Molly Hooper struggled with her umbrella, trying to get it open before she was soaked to the bone. Ducking into a grocery shop, she took a few deep breaths and finally managed to open the umbrella. She could imagine her mother's immediate prompt when she had done this once in their home; 'Opening an umbrella inside is bad luck, Molly!'
But she didn't care much about that; she was in a hurry and needed to feed Toby as soon as possible.
It was one of the few off days Molly took from the morgue and she wanted to spend it in peace with her telly on and some hot coffee [maybe with a dash of vodka; who knows?] and the umbrella had just been obstructing her from reaching the Tube on time.
Before she could step out of the store, her phone pinged in her overcoat pocket. She hoped that there wasn't a rush case at the morgue; not that she would decline the help, of course, but she was really looking forward to her day off.
The screen flashed 'One new Message!' and she unlocked the phone, navigating to the inbox.
Come to Baker Street, NOW. –SH
Molly stared dumbfounded at the screen. Baker Street? Usually whenever Sherlock needed her he would come down to the morgue. Of course, he usually did need her when he wanted access to a body, regardless he had never really called her over to Baker Street. She was puzzled and by the time she could gather her thoughts and leave the store, her phone pinged again.
It's urgent. –SH.
She sighed and called up Marie, her next door neighbour, requesting her to feed Toby. Marie had the spare key so it wasn't a problem on that sphere. Molly scolded herself all the way while walking to Baker Street, on how she shouldn't just give everything up and abandon her plans just because he wanted her presence. Her wild imagination brought up images of her and Sherlock, alone in his apartment, and she abandoned that thought immediately from her mind. If Sherlock was merely bored and wanted a companion, he would have doubtlessly called John, even if John was busy on a date. On more than one occasions the consulting detective had also followed John to his dates, disrupting them once and for all. It was probably some whim he was on or, worse, some bloody experiment he wanted to test and John was unwilling to volunteer. Molly knew she should've just said no and gone home, but that was a possibility only in an alternate universe. Molly knew she can never say no; meeting the man in a surrounding outside of Barts was a possibility she wasn't going to miss out on.
"What took you so long?" Molly looked at the long, lithe figure lying on the sofa while his flatmate sat on a desk chair, typing something on his laptop; probably their latest escapade.
"Oh hello Molly, welcome to the flat." John looked up from the laptop and smiled, before gesturing to an armchair. "Sit down, and sorry for the awful mess." Molly giggled, before controlling herself and settling in the arm chair.
"Ha-ha, pleasantries, now can we get to the business at hand?" Sherlock spoke, deadpanned, from the couch before getting up and looking at Molly intensely, "I need you, Molly Hooper."
"W-what? I mean, um," Molly flushed a bright red before gulping loudly. She could hear John laughing softly, hiding behind the laptop screen while Sherlock looked puzzled.
"Molly I need you to go undercover for me. Well, not just for me, it's a case Scotland Yard couldn't handle, obviously..." Sherlock continued in his trademark breakneck speed as he gave her a summary of the entire rather baffling case. Baffling to the common person, that is, Sherlock had already devised most of the important clues that eventually led to the perpetrator. But Molly's mind was still reeling and she couldn't bring herself to concentrate properly on his words.
"Molly, I need you." And she had felt her heart rip out of her chest, before thumping loudly in her ears and her body flushed as she imagined the various scenarios she had always dreamt of [fantasized, her mind corrected her] coming to life. John was momentarily forgotten as she immersed herself, only to be brought back to reality by Sherlock's loud and lively declaration- "The game, Molly, is on!" before he tapped her on the shoulder and beckoned her to get up. He had already donned his scarf and Belstaff [and my God, was he fast!] and she saw John putting on a jacket. She got up wearily and followed him out of the flat, with John right beside her.
Sherlock was excited; anybody within a ten mile radius could figure that out. On their way downstairs, Molly inquired about the case that had been discussed and John gave a short synopsis. A Californian drug cartel boss had been spotted with a British MP in an elite club located in central London. Photographs had emerged which had eventually made its way to Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother. Before the matter could be sorted out the drug lord had been found dead in his hotel penthouse and the MP was incriminated, along with photographs regarding their late night escapades. The MP claimed that he was in a drug induced state and that the drug lord had probably spiked his drink to accompany him and then got someone to take the photographs. However, the drug lord's murder seemed murky, since none of the rival cartels had had any plans to get him assassinated, as Mycroft's internal sources had informed him. Therefore Mycroft had contacted Sherlock, who had visited the crime scene and found the crime to be at least a seven. But what was Molly doing with them?
"Oh, you're Sherlock's cover." John replied and, seeing her extremely baffled face, gave her a sceptical look. "Are you testing me or did you really not hear anything Sherlock said?"
"I'm sorry, he tends to speak so fast and I was, um, distracted a bit. Sorry." she said sheepishly. John sighed.
"Well, you will be posing as Sherlock's escort when he will get into the club where the drug lord was last spotted. He is trying to retrace the drug lord's steps and also the MP's. He claims he knows who it is and the person will be there at the club tonight. Don't ask me why. Anyway, you are to dress up and meet him in front of Claridge's at seven p.m. tonight, dressed up."
"Just try not to look ridiculous and over-made." Sherlock said in a subdued voice; obviously occupied with his thoughts. "We don't want it to be like the last time."
"Wait, why can't you go with John? Can't he be your cover?" Molly asked, and she heard John sigh loudly.
"Molly, you don't think─"
"I asked John but he refused. Don't know why, it would've been easier than trying to recruit you." Sherlock replied before hailing a taxi. He got in, beckoning John to get inside before speeding away. Molly stood alone on the pavement outside of 221 B, Baker Street, and his last words reverberating around her. She felt a terrible feeling in her stomach and her throat and realized that she was about to cry, but she wouldn't allow that to happen. She couldn't allow herself to cry because of Sherlock Holmes again.
He was right of course; she was ridiculously dressed in the Christmas party, in her skin-tight dress and the bow she had finished making that afternoon, and curling her hair and putting on lipstick. She felt pretty, like people could actually see her, and she loved it. Looking at herself in the mirror she had congratulated herself on a job well done, or apparently well done. She had wrapped the gifts, making sure his gift was wrapped carefully. She didn't know what she wanted to achieve that night; she just wanted to be pretty for him, to make him happy, even if he smiles because of her gift. In her heart of hearts, she knew that it was next to impossible; he was just too stone cold for it. Yet, she was in a good mood that day; she was happy and dressed up and she believed in herself.
And then she arrived at the party, and everyone stared at her. Greg couldn't even keep his eyes off of her and she felt herself swell with pride at a work well done. John looked embarrassed and yet appreciative of the dress, and so did Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock hadn't looked up from the laptop yet and her stomach had been in knots as to how he would respond. His response broker her to pieces; little shards of glass that shattered when he finished speaking. His face looked shocked and he apologized, kissed her even, but it could never compensate. It almost did, before that woman from the morgue came into the picture, but she could never forget his words, like acid, repeating and re-repeating in her head over and over again.
She tried to distract herself while walking home. It was a long distance but she had some time to kill. She called up Marie, and asked her for a favour. If she needed to go undercover, she might as well use some additional help.