Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The snow falls gently against the window, sticking, imprinting their unique silhouette against the pane for a moment, maybe two, before melting. The once-flakes skid down, icy tears on a glass cheek.
She sits in the darkness and watches the window cry. It's unsettling, how eerie the streaks are against her fogged windows. On this, the most peaceful night of the year, she cannot calm herself, cannot sleep. Cannot even cry – there are no more tears. So she jealously stares at the windows in her flat, daring them to show the emotion that her chilled heart cannot express.
She feels the ring of her mobile phone as it vibrates against her leg, watches as it lights to life, illuminating the room with a tiny square of light. She glances at the screen, hesitating before bringing it to her ear. She takes a deep breath and answers.
"Hello?"
"Molly?" She recognizes the voice instantly, the timbre and pitch too familiar now to mistake for anyone else. "Sorry to call, but it looks like I will need your help after all. Can you come in?"
She bites her lip, watching as another snowflake leaves a wet trail down, down, down.
"I'll be right there."
...
Molly stood in the corner of the room, nursing a second glass of wine. She'd downed the first one shockingly quickly, and taken it upon herself to have another. With the way the night was going, no one would blame her, or even much notice. Not that anyone ever noticed her anyways, especially not when Sherlock and his bizarre behavior were the subjects of everyone's curiosity.
Out of everything that she had hoped might happen tonight, this was not on the list of acceptable scenarios. Sherlock had humiliated her, apologized to her, and then kissed her all in a manner of moments. For once, she was actually glad he'd left the room in such a hurry. After all of that, she wasn't sure that she could take any further embarrassment.
She didn't know why she had even bothered to dress up, to come to this party. After all, what had she thought would happen? Had she honestly thought that Sherlock wouldn't have seen through her ruse, not noticed her hair and dress and makeup and been completely enamored with her? She was an idiot, that's all. An idiot who single-handedly made a fool of herself by daring to think that someone would even think her worth of his attention.
First Jim, now Sherlock… Perhaps a third time would be the charm,she thought ruefully as she finished off her drink. She went to set her empty wine glass down in the kitchen sink, brushing past Detective Inspector Lestrade as she did so. His eyes followed her silently and Molly felt herself blush. He probably thought of her as nothing more than a stupid girl. He'd always been polite to her when their paths crossed during an investigation, always appreciated the value of her work (unlike some of his colleagues), and she'd always thought him such a nice man. She doubted he'd think the same of her once the evening was through.
As she returned to the sitting room, all eyes had turned to John as he reentered the room after following Sherlock and his hasty departure. His mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes were just a bit sad.
"I'm afraid that Sherlock isn't much in the mood for Christmas anymore," John apologized for his flatmate. "So much for a happy holiday…"
Molly felt sorry for him. John was a good and honest man through and through – everything that Sherlock was not. She didn't know how he did it, why John kept putting up with his eccentric behavior when he could just as easily cut the man out of his life. But then again, she was perfectly willing to do the same when it came to Sherlock. After all, people make concessions for those they care about. The thought made Molly want to have another drink.
"It's not your fault, John," Mrs. Hudson soothed, grasping John's hand in a motherly way. "Sherlock's responsible for his own decisions."
"Let him spend the holiday how he wants," Lestrade threw in his opinion from the back of the room, regardless of whether or not anyone wanted his opinion. "He's always done what he wants. That's not about to change just 'cause it's Christmas."
John nodded and smiled tightly, looking around at the rest of his guests. "Right. We can have a perfectly decent time without him."
"A-actually, I think it's time for me to be going," Molly spoke up suddenly, seeing her chance to escape before things had a chance to become more awkward than they already were. There was no reason for her to linger. She'd mucked everything up enough already. All she wanted now was to go home, wipe off all this stupid lipstick and get out of this dress.
"Molly," John stepped forwards, "Don't feel like you have to go just because Sherlock was being a prick."
"No, no it's okay," she tried her best to smile. "I should be getting on home. I have Christmas with my family tomorrow, so…"
"Molly, I really am very sorry," John spoke softly, his eyes conveying the sincerity he felt.
"I know," she averted her eyes, turning to reach for her coat. John made a move to help her with it, but she took a step back, hoping she hadn't insulted him, but she didn't want to be touched or helped or coddled over any more. She just wanted to go. "I'll see you soon, I'm sure."
John placed a hand on her back and walked with her to the door. "Thank you for coming tonight, Molly. It was good to see you."
"You too," she smiled quickly and turned away, speaking over her shoulder. "Goodnight. A-and Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!" Mrs. Hudson called from the other room, waving from her perch on the overstuffed chair.
Molly did not stop to return the sentiment.
...
She dresses silently in the dark, grabbing blindly for clothes and hoping they match, not much caring whether or not they do. The pulls a pair of jeans from the floor, the denim cold against her skin from hours spent lying on the hardwood. She gropes at her dresser, her fingers sinking into soft wool and she pulls, raises her arms and tugs the garment over her skin.
Without checking a mirror, she drags a comb through her hair and wipes her fingers under her eyes to clear her lower lashes of any stray makeup. Not that anyone would notice. And if they did, they wouldn't care.
She leaves her room and, slipping on her boots and stopping to grab her coat and purse, leaves her flat, and its silent, cold tears behind her.
...
"Taxi!" Molly hollered, stepping out into the street. "Taxi!" She waved her arm frantically but the cab didn't stop, or even slow down. "Wait! Wait…" Molly took a few steps as the cab sped by, trying and failing to chase down the cabbie's attention whilst wearing much too high heels. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, retreating back to the curb.
Nothing about this evening was going right. Nothing. Her eyes stung with tears as she clutched her coat tighter around her. Her breath formed little ice crystals, suspended in the air as she looked up and down the street for signs of another cab. She hated herself for wearing this dress. Not only had it failed to even catch Sherlock's attention, it did absolutely nothing to shelter her from the harsh December cold. Just further proof that she was an idiot. A foolish, cold, wet…
"Damn cabs never stop when you need 'em to, do they?"
Molly jumped at the sound of the voice behind her. She turned suddenly to see that DI Lestrade had joined her on the sidewalk.
"Sorry," he offered in apology. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine. It's… nothing," she shook her head. "It's me. Just a bit on edge tonight."
"Yeah. We all are, after that show upstairs."
Molly could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment once again.
"No! I… sorry. I meant him. Not you."
"I was part of it too," she said, folding her arms over her body. "Just being a silly girl."
"But he had no right to treat you that way."
This, again?! Why couldn't everyone just let it go? Molly struggled to swallow as her throat became thick and her eyes filled with tears. She didn't want to cry. Not here, on the street, in front of the Detective Inspector. He would think she was more of a child than she'd already proved herself to be, foolishly trying to seduce – oh, god, seduce? But that was what she had tried to do, wasn't it? – her colleague at his own Christmas party.
Lestrade must have realized his error and began speaking again. "Oh… I've gone and said the wrong thing again. I'm sorry, Molly, I…"
"Will everyone just stop apologizing to me?!" Molly snapped. When she realized what she'd done, she looked up in horror at the startled look on the Detective Inspector's face. Immediately, she regretted her harsh tone. "I didn't… I mean… It's not your fault. It's just that Sherlock… and well, this evening and… a-and…"
Despite all of her best intentions, she began to cry. Mortified, Molly covered her face with a hand and turned her back on the detective inspector, wishing she could just melt into the sidewalk. Whatever he had thought of her before was nothing compared to what he must think of her now – a rejected wreck crying on the sidewalk outside the flat of a man who wanted nothing to do with her.
She was surprised when she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a soft voice near her ear. "Hey… Hey, now. It'll be all right. Just… please don't cry. I-I really am sorry. L-look! Here comes a cab. Hang on. TAXI!"
While he was turned away, flagging down the car, Molly swiped at her eyes with her hands in an effort to compose herself. She didn't want to be seen as any more of a child than she already had made herself out to be – first with the outbursts, then the crying. She had nearly calmed herself down when he turned back to her, placing a gentle hand at her elbow.
"Here we are. See? Get in." He carefully helped her into the cab and made sure she was settled before going around the other side and climbing in himself. "Let's get you home, all right?"
His hand on her shoulder was reassuring enough and his gentle smile made her believe that he really did care, so she nodded and gave the cabbie her address.
...
This cab is cold, colder than the one she rode in earlier this evening. That cab had been warm from hours of use, of fares catching a ride to a party, to their friend's, to their mother's or aunt's or grandparent's. A ride home. But this cab is freezing, the chill of the leather seats seeping into her legs straight through her jeans.
She wouldn't normally have taken a cab, but it's too late to be out walking about in the snow and she doesn't quite trust herself to drive. Her eyes are bleary and she's running on a few hours sleep.
Sleep. She should be sleeping right now.
She looks out at the streetlamps, bright streaks that shimmer like fireflies amid the falling snow. These burning sentinels are the only signs of life on the darkened streets. Not a soul walks the streets tonight. They are all tucked up in bed, dreaming dreams of presents and dinners and family and love.
No one should be awake right now. No one should be alone. And yet she rides on, letting the cab carry her further away into the silent night towards the last person she wants to see.
...
Once the taxi stopped in front of her building, Molly waited for Lestrade to open her door and help her out of the cab. Thankfully, he'd been mercifully silent for the majority of the ride, allowing her to hold onto what shreds of dignity she had left. He'd sat there quietly while she sniffled and bit her lip to keep from crying again. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was to embarrass herself any further.
As she climbed out of the taxi, Molly noticed she that the wine she'd had at Baker Street combined with her bout of tears had left her a bit lightheaded. Dizzy, she stumbled in her heels as she stepped up on the icy sidewalk. Molly let out a squeak of surprise and braced herself for impact when a large hand closed around her arm. Lestrade was right beside her, pulling her close to keep her steady her on her feet.
"Careful! You all right?" he asked, looking down at her.
Molly nodded, taking a shaky breath and pushing away from him, wanting to stand on her own two feet. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine thank you."
"Here," Lestrade opened the door for her and ushered her through. "Let me walk you up. Okay? I just want to make sure you get back to your flat in once piece."
Again, Molly agreed, allowing him to follow her inside. He was right, she supposed, and what harm was there in having him walk her to her door? Nothing – except he thought she was a child that needed a chaperone to make sure she got home safely.
"We'll have to take the stairs," she said over her shoulder, by way of explanation. "The lift's broken. Has been for months now. Super keeps saying he'll fix it, but..."
"Lead on," he said, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
Molly took the stairs slowly, one hand on the banister and the other on the opposite wall, careful not to trip in her heels yet again. Behind her, she could hear the steady thump of his steps as he followed her, each heavy footfall echoing the click of her heels.
They reached her floor – thankfully only two flights up – and he walked with her to her door, waiting as she fished her keys out of her purse. She only fumbled for a minute before she was able to unlock the door.
"Well, this is me," she said, giving a small smile to allay her anxiety as she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"All right. Well. Good then," Lestrade nodded, shifting awkwardly from side to side. Molly looked up at him and wondered, for the first time, if he was doing all this just to avoid going home to an empty house. She had thought that Lestrade and his wife were going to spend Christmas together, but Sherlock had ruined that too, apparently, by revealing that hurtful truth about Mrs. Lestrade. It seems that she wasn't the only one who'd been slighted by Sherlock's carelessness tonight.
"Would you... would you like to come in?" she asked. "Let me make you a cup of tea? It's the least I can do."
He looked unsure, and Molly thought that he might have misread her intentions, but after a moment, he shrugged and smiled. "All right. Why not?"
Molly returned his smile and stepped aside to allow him in, shutting the door behind him. She quickly shucked her coat, hanging it by the door, and stepped into her small kitchen. He followed her, standing awkwardly in the doorway as she puttered around the kitchen, looking for the teapot.
"It'll only be a minute," she explained.
He didn't seem to be bothered as he stood there and watched her move about the room. She rifled through cupboards only to find that she was out of tea entirely. The grocery note attached to the refrigerator cheerily reminded her of that. Damn it all.
"So," she turned around, clasping her hands in front of her. "Seems I'm all out of tea. Can I interest you in something else? Glass of wine? Beer?"
The corner of his mouth turned up in a sort of smile. "A beer would be great."
...
The bright lights of morgue draw her in, like a moth to the flame. She follows their gleam down the dark tunnel of hallway, emerging into the white light only to find death waiting for her.
A cold body lies on the slab, but a warm one waits for her, arms folded across his chest, face grim. He looks up when he sees her enter, his mouth quirking in a ghost of a smile.
"Thank you for coming," he says.
"Of course," she shuffles by him, keeping her eyes down as she moves through the room, depositing her belongings somewhere that the stink of death can't find them. "Death doesn't take a holiday, does it?"
His smile dissipates into a frown. "Unfortunately not." He sighs heavily, passing his hand over his eyes, looking grayer, more tired than he did moments ago. "This one's a doozy. Female. Approximately thirty-two years of age."
"What happened to her?"
"Gunshot wound is the likely cause of death. Found shell casings at the scene. But someone took care to mess her up either before or after. This isn't a pretty one, Molly. I'm sorry."
"I'm sure I've seen worse," she says, ignoring that sickly feeling that makes her stomach seize up, the feeling she gets just before she sees a body for the first time. The anticipation is always so much worse than reality.
"No," he says, his eyes serious, filled with a warmth and sadness that she is unused to seeing in her line of work. All the eyes she sees are dead and cold. "I'm sorry… for earlier."
...
Several beers later, Molly found herself sitting on her sofa across from Detective Inspector Lestrade, laughing at the circumstances that had drawn them to Baker Street that evening.
"I wasn't really even sure I wanted to go," Lestrade explained, "but then, like some of the boys on the squad said, this was a perfectly good chance to see what Sherlock's like the rest of the time… when he's not bossing us around, 'helping' on a case."
"To see if he really is that strange all the time, you mean?" Molly chuckled. "I always wondered that too."
"I guess it's true," Lestrade mused, taking another long sip of his beer. "May I ask you something?"
Molly gave a one-armed shrug. "I don't see why not."
"So why is it you put up with all his shit? Sherlock's… I mean, you do good work. You've always done an exceptional job for us. You're smart enough not to have to deal with how he treats you. And there are plenty of other morgue workers he could pester."
"Why do you?" Molly countered, the beer in her hands giving her the courage to challenge the man before her. "If you're such a good policeman, why do you need Sherlock Holmes' help?"
"Simple," Lestrade shrugged. "The man's a genius. He may be one of the biggest dicks I've ever met, but he knows what he's doing. There's not a man in Scotland Yard – or the whole of England, for that matter – who can do what Sherlock Holmes does. That's why I need him. He can do something for me that no one else can. I know that. But you…" he grew quieter, turning his body and leaning in closer, "you don't need Sherlock Holmes to tell you you're good enough. Because you already are, Molly… Any man could see that."
Something about his words and utter seriousness of his voice caused Molly to blush all the way up to the tips of her ears. "Thank you," she mumbled, looking shyly up at him.
"You're really very pretty, Molly Hooper," he smiled at her, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from her face.
Molly felt something bloom in the pit of her stomach, a heat that wasn't quite due to embarrassment and didn't make her feel badly. In fact, it made her feel good.
It happened before she was even sure she had even moved. One moment she was looking at his face, the next, he was kissing her. As surprising as it was, it wasn't unpleasant. He tasted like beer, but so did she. Regardless, she pulled away with a gasp, bringing a hand to her lips.
"Oh, Christ," the DI swore. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I should…"
"No. No, it's okay," Molly assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. It was more than okay."
"Really?" he looked up at her, a mix of caution and confusion in his eyes.
"Really," Molly nodded, her voice betraying a confidence that she didn't quite feel. Lestrade was a nice man, a bit too old but not unattractive and his attention made her feel good, like she was worth something. And when he'd kissed her, she felt something she hadn't before – attraction, lust, warm and unfamiliar and dangerous. And, most shocking of all, she liked it.
Emboldened by the drinks she'd had, plus the strange power of being thought desirable, Molly set her beer down on the coffee table and turned more fully towards him, this time taking the initiative to lean in and kiss him. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised that she had decided to continue down this path, but relaxed and took control of the kiss once more. Molly was perfectly content to follow his lead, to be swept up in what was happening. It was completely irrational and absolutely nothing that she had ever anticipated when she'd invited him in for a drink, but she found herself wanting it and going along with it all the same.
Reaching out for her, he pulled her on top of him, pushing the skirt of her already short dress up enough for her to be able to sit astride him. His hands were warm and large as they covered her body, snaked up her thighs and gripped her hips. Molly closed her eyes and wondered if Sherlock might ever touch her like this, if he would ever want to touch her like this. Just the thought made Molly's heart race and she clutched him a little bit tighter. He kissed her lips and neck and jaw as his hands fell once more to her thighs, seeking her skin. Molly bit her lip and let her head fall back as he touched her, taking in the feeling he was awakening within her.
She had some experience with sex, sure. The indelicate fumblings of adolescent and university years, but nothing like this, never this heady rush of sensation. Never before had she been the object of any man's, particularly an older man's, lust. Neither was she the type of girl that boys had fantasized about shagging. This unfamiliar feeling of want, so new and just a bit dangerous, caused her to crave more of him, to give in to his hands and mouth rather than shy away, to enjoy being craved, desired as if she were something more beautiful than she'd ever been before.
...
At his apology, the vise in her stomach squeezes harder, making her lungs ache, her eyes burn with tears. She has cried too much this night and she refuses to give in again. No more tears for her. She left them behind on her windows.
"It's fine," she manages. "It's not your fault. It was what it was."
...
The act itself was quick and dirty fucking. Only the barest amount of clothing was removed, shifted to make room for what they were about to do. There was no intimacy in the act, no whispered endearments, no gentle touches or reassurances, just frantic grasping and gasping, the shifting push and pull of two bodies seeing release from the frustration and disappointment of their daily lives. They clung to one another in the dark and for one bright moment, they shone together as a beacon in the dim loneliness, a flash of lightning, a crashing arc of electricity.
...
He hears her words and pretends not to see the strained look on her face. His mouth sets in that ghostly grim smile again, an expression that looks frighteningly close to pity. He seems resolved, and she watches as he once again slips back into his role as Detective Inspector. His shoulders square as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
"I'll leave you to it then," he nods towards the body, the only gift he has brought to her this night.
"Thank you." She turns her back, reaching for her white coat, pulling on the armor that will shield her from the horrors she is about to see. She hears his footsteps retreat. He pauses at the door.
"Merry Christmas?" The way he calls it over his shoulder makes it sound like a question.
"Merry Christmas," she agrees.
...
When it was over, Molly lay back on her sofa, watching the ceiling, catching her breath as she made out the sounds of his rough pants beside her. As the weight of what they had just done settled over her, she was careful not to touch him, and, she noted, he kept his hands to himself as well. It was as if neither of them wanted to make what had happened real. As if they lay there long enough and kept quiet enough, maybe they could forget what had just happened, or pass it off as a frenzied daydream.
She was contemplating what to say – and what could she say? – when the sound of a mobile ringing cut through the silence. She rose up on an elbow to look for her purse, but Lestrade caught her attention, showing her that it was his phone that was ringing. He motioned for her to be quiet, and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Lestrade," he answered. Molly watched his face as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. Lestrade frowned. "When?" He sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. "Jesus… All right. All right. I'll be right there. Just… go ahead and start without me. I'll be there as soon as I can. Thanks."
He hung up and turned his eyes back to Molly, who, by this time, had sat up enough to right her skirt and slide the straps of her dress back up her shoulders.
"That was work," he said softly, fiddling with phone. "I have to go. They've found a body."
"That's awful. Guess they'll be calling me soon too," she said, her lips quirking in a nervous smile.
"Probably," he agreed with a nod. "Mind if I use your loo?"
"Oh. Of course, it's, uh… It's just over there, on the left."
"Thanks," he smiled tightly at her and left her sitting alone on the sofa.
She listened to his footsteps retreat down the hall. Once the bathroom door clicked closed, she stood. Her legs were just a little shaky as she scuttled around her living room, picking up empty beer bottles and placing the pillows back on the couch where they belonged, tidying up the mess that the two of them had inadvertently caused in their haste. When she picked up his coat from where it had fallen off the back of the sofa, she found a discarded condom wrapper on the floor. A blush rose in her cheeks. What had she been thinking? She hadn't been thinking. Sex with a coworker, someone she considered a boss? Worse than that, sex with a married man? This had been a mistake… albeit a wonderfully good mistake… but a mistake that she would not make again.
Molly was startled by the sound of the bathroom door opening and turned around, looking him in the face for the first time since they'd… done what they'd done. He had tried to tidy himself up a bit by tucking in his shirt and smoothing down his hair. It caused her to wonder how she looked right now, if her hair was just as wild and her lipstick smeared across her face, if she looked as frazzled as she felt.
Lestrade was the one to break their uneasy silence. "Sorry I have to run out on you like this, but… You know how it is."
Molly nodded, unsure what to say, when she remembered. "Oh! Here's your jacket." She passed it to him, careful not to let their hands touch in the process.
"Thanks," Lestrade took it, keeping his eyes from meeting hers as he tugged it on, preparing himself to once more go out into the cold night.
But just before he left to go, he turned back to her and smiled. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he whispered.
And with that, he was gone. Molly quietly closed the door and leaned back against her. Her hand lifted to her cheek, which had felt the press of two very different sets of lips this night.
Then she slipped to the floor and cried.
...
Alone once more, in a room that is familiar to her and yet not hers, too clean and cold and sterile to belong to any one person, she begins her work. Taking a long, slow exhale, she turns on her recorder and speaks.
"Case number: 1647DXZ.
"Date: Twenty-five December, 2012.
"Investigating officer: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.
"Autopsy performed by Molly Hooper.
"Victim's name: Irene Adler."