The morgue at St. Bart's hospital was quiet as the grave on this Monday evening, which only seemed appropriate, as Dr. Molly Hooper finished up some paperwork and prepared to leave. Every once in a while she would look expectantly at the swinging door, hoping to spot some bouncing curls and a flowing Belstaff. But so far, nothing. Her shift ended at ten o'clock, and she was alone. No interesting colleague, or cadaver, to keep her company. And she was beginning to lose hope that her favorite detective would show up.
Earlier that afternoon, Molly had called her friend Meena to inquire about first day at her new job. Meena was a trained surgical nurse, and had just landed a position at a rather posh plastic surgery practice in Harley Street. She had been so full of enthusiasm about it, that she had picked up some takeaway Italian and joined Molly in the morgue for her dinner break. Meena had described her new office, and colleagues, and presented her friend with a stylish brochure. If you were looking for a new you, Meena's new employers were definitely the ones to see. Gift certificates were available for someone looking for the perfect gift for their significant other, or themselves, if you wanted to look at it that way. The women had a good laugh, imagining all the augmentations possible, at exorbitant cost. But they did accept credit cards, and offer payment plans!
Meena had left hours ago, and Molly was now alone, but she was hoping not for long. Sherlock Holmes had taken to occasionally, and lately even more than occasionally, dropping in around her quitting time, if she had a late shift, to see her safely home. She had pointed out repeatedly that she did not need an escort, and the detective knew that this was so. But it seemed to ease his mind, after all the trouble with the Moriarty imposter, to see her safely to her door. And if she invited him in for a cup of tea, and some late night telly, all the better.
Molly had almost given up when the door did, indeed, swing open to reveal the lean figure of the world's only consulting detective. "Molly, sorry for leaving it so late. Are you almost ready to leave?"
"Almost Sherlock," Molly said as she rose from her desk. "Just let me go to the locker room and freshen up. I'll be back in a moment."
Sherlock sat himself down at the pathologist's cluttered desk to amuse himself with his favorite hobby. Snooping. Her mobile phone was buried under a scattering of papers. A takeaway food container, empty, stood next to her laptop. Sherlock removed it to the dustbin, and started to rearrange her paperwork. Then he found the brochure. The one advertising a "new you", provided, for a significant fee, by Harley Street professionals. The before and after photos were certainly impressive. Talk about making mountains out of molehills! Breast augmentation seemed to be their primary concern, but various other procedures were on offer, too. It would appear that they could suck the fat from one place, only to relocate it somewhere else. Lips could be made lucious. Posteriors, prominent. Chins lifted and tucked, and faces de-wrinkled! Why would Molly have such an advertisement on her desk? She was perfect! He preferred her molehills to the mountains featured dramatically on the bikini clad model on the front of the brochure. Although, he had to admit, given the fact that the woman was in a bathing suit, she certainly appeared much more. ah, buoyant than Molly Hooper could ever hope to be! A terrible thought occurred to the detective as he reached for Molly's mobile to check her call log. And there it was! Molly Hooper had actually called the number listed on the brochure this very afternoon.
Sherlock was stunned. His first thought was that this was entirely his fault. He knew that Molly had been infatuated with him for quite some time. And he had, on occasion, made disparaging remarks about her physical endowments. He had said that her breasts were too small, and her lips too thin. Of course he had long since apologized for these remarks, but evidently the damage had been done. He would, of course, have to fix this before Molly tried to fix something else, which required no fixing at all! He shoved the brochure in the pocket of his Belstaff as Dr. Hooper returned to the morgue, and they made their way out.
The opportunity first presented itself the following evening, when Sherlock, accompanied by John Watson, joined Inspector Lestrade in the morgue to examine the corpse of a recently deceased stripper. The body lay on the table, the traditional Y incision running like a red ribbon between a pair of rather deflated looking breasts, especially for a youngish woman with such a well toned body.
"Poor girl. Her chest looks like a couple of deflated balloons. What happened to her?" Lestrade remarked.
"I had to remove her breast implants to get at her other organs, Greg." Dr. Hooper answered his rather crude, but honest, question in a sympathetic tone. " It's definitely a drug overdose, though. Nothing suspicious. Poor thing."
Sherlock fixed the pathologist with his piercing blue-green eyes. "Interesting. Did you know that, according to a study conducted in the States by Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center, suicide is three times more likely in women with breast implants? Don't you find that informative, Dr. Hooper?"
Molly looked a bit confused about his comment. "I suppose so, Sherlock. But that study was in regard to cancer patients, not woman who had implants for strictly cosmetic purposes. Those women tend to experience a boost in self-confidence, I would imagine."
"But women who have the procedure for cosmetic purposes may not achieve the look they desire. Judging from the silicon baggies resting on your scale, I would say that this tragic young lady probably looked very disproportionate, perhaps causing a problem with her balance…"
Molly giggled a bit guiltily, "Perhaps she should have had butt implants as well to prevent her tipping over, then, Sherlock. Is that what you're suggesting?"
"Not at all, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock replied, a bit flustered. John and Greg were listening to the exchange in disbelief. They both knew that Sherlock and Molly shared a rather dark sense of humor, but this was weird even for them. "Although, in retrospect, it may have been a bit easier to balance herself on that pole if the weight had been more evenly distributed!"
"Enough, Sherlock," the woman said quietly. "This is just another poor unfortunate young woman, unhappy and dissatisfied with herself enough to take her own life, implants or not. It's just so sad."
"It is, indeed," the detective said calmly, searching her face for some sign of her own unhappiness or dissatisfaction, but found none, only a bit of guilt for having dealt so lightly with yet another tragedy. He sighed heavily, and the three men some left the facility, leaving the young woman to the cold receptacle awaiting her.
The following evening, Sherlock decided to visit a little earlier in the evening. He thought if he could observe his friend and pathologist in her natural environment, he might get a better sense of what was going on her head. It was now Wednesday, midway through the week of Molly's late shift assignment. There were no cadavers waiting to be cut up, but the pathologist had found herself busy examining slide after slide under the microscope, double checking colleague's work, and performing some original experiments.
As soon as he took off his coat, Sherlock felt compelled to say, "Molly, you look very nice tonight."
The woman looked at him suspiciously. "What?"
"Very nice, indeed. Your posture is very, uh, good. It's a good thing your figure is so, well, uh, proportionate. Nothing to affect your spinal alignment. Or your musculature. You don't have back pain, do you, Molly?"
"Well, no, Sherlock…"
"Good, good. So many women nowadays succomb to the siren call of, uh, unnatural enhancement. It can cause all sorts of problems, you know…"
"Problems? Enhancement?"
"I was merely thinking of that poor young woman from last night. Imagine the back pain she must have suffered, having to carry around all that extra weight. And look at you. Leaning over that microscope of yours with no problem whatsoever! Able to stand and walk erect…"
"My family have been walking erect for simply ages, Sherlock. Ever since we climbed down from the trees. What are you on about, then?"
"Nothing, Nothing at all, Molly. Merely making an observation, that's all." Sherlock quickly made his way to his favorite microscope, pulled a set of slides from his pocket, and busied himself with observations, glancing over at the small woman only occasionally for the rest of the evening.
But the wheels in Molly's mind were turning. They may not turn as quickly as Sherlock Holmes', but the were by no means slow in any sense of the word. She was beginning to put two and two together. He had gone through the piles of stuff on her desk, as he was wont to do whenever she left him alone in her office, and had come across the glossy brochure which Meena had brought with her. The brochure had gone missing, so he had probably taken it, hoping to discourage her. Sherlock Holmes, the most intelligent man she knew, had come to a fantastically wrong conclusion! And she was going to have fun with it!
As the two walked home that evening, Molly broached the subject of her upcoming holiday week. "You do remember that I have taken off next week, Sherlock? So there will be no reason for you to see me home at night."
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Molly. I think you should change your plans. I find I am in need of your services next week…"
"Oh, no, you don't! I am scheduled off, and I am taking off! The personnel office is on my back about all my accumulated leave time, and I, uh, promised my mother I would go see her…"
"Come, now, Dr. Hooper, you enjoy visiting your mother about as much as I enjoy visiting mine! Are you sure you're not planning something else?"
"Even if I am, Sherlock, it would be none of your business…"
"I'm your, ah, friend, Molly. Of course it's my business!" The detective was now looking a bit indignant.
"Sherlock, I need the, um, rest. Just wait and see! I shall come back a well rested, new, and improved Molly Hooper!" Molly spoke with a twinkle in her eye, which grew in magnitude at the look of silent despair on his face. And for once, Sherlock turned down her offer of tea and telly, and make his way, unhappily, home to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes could not bring himself to visit the lab the following night, but did make his way over to the flat of his best friends, John and Mary Watson. But even a lengthy period of dandling his godchild on his knee could not improve his attitude. Finally, John, being able to take the detective's sad face, and almost silent sighs, no longer, asked, "What the bloody hell is the matter with you, mate?" Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced the shiny brochure from the plastic surgery practice.
John studied it for a moment before saying, "I know you can be a bit vain, Sherlock, but don't you think this is a bit extreme?"
"It's not for me, you dolt. It's Molly!"
"Why would you want Molly…"
"I DON'T! Do try to keep up, John. I found this in her office. And I checked her mobile. She had called that office on the very day I found it! Why, John? Why?"
"I don't know mate. Lots of women…"
"Don't be stupid, John. It's all my fault of course! Me and my foolish remarks about her breasts, and her lips! They're perfect, John! She's perfect! And now she's going to change that…"
"What did she say?"
"Nothing! I can't talk to her about this! I tried to tell her, but…"
"But what, Sherlock? What did you say?"
"I told her her posture was excellent…" They were interrupted by gales of laughter from Mary. "I pointed out what a disadvantage a large bosom would be to her ability to use a microscope comfortably…" By this time John was laughing, too.
"Seriously, John, stop laughing! She's taken leave next week. I suppose that when she intends to do it. How can I stop it?"
"Really, Sherlock, how is it any of your business? This is Molly's decision, after all."
"If Mary were to consider something like this, wouldn't you expect to be consulted, John?"
"It's hardly the same, is it, mate. Mary is my wife. I consider myself to have a vested interest! You are not Molly's husband, or significant other."
"Am I so insignificant that she could not consult me, John?"
"Evidently!"
But Mary had been taken aback by the look of desperation on their friend's face. "Look, Sherlock, Molly is coming over to dinner on Saturday. Why don't you join us? Maybe you can think of something to change her mind? It couldn't hurt."
When the detective called for the pathologist at Bart's the following day, to advise her that he would be joining her and the Watson's for dinner on Saturday, he was surprised to learn that she had taken her leave a bit early, and was nowhere to be found. Not at her flat. Not answering her mobile. A vague sense of uneasiness overcame him, but he supposed he could wait until dinner the following day to try to dissuade her.
Saturday evening found Sherlock Holmes and the Watson family gathered in their their flat. The only one who had yet to arrive was Molly Hooper. Mary was busy in the kitchen, while John bounced baby Claire on his knee. Sherlock paced. And paced. And paced some more!
"What do I say to her, John?"
"Just be honest, Sherlock. Tell her what she needs to hear. Tell her what you told us, for god's sake! That you think she's perfect as she is! She'll listen to you. She always does…" he was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Mary came from the kitchen to greet their last guest, kissing her on the cheek, and offering to take her coat. And as soon as the small woman removed it, everyone fell into stunned silence. Molly was wearing a pair of well-fitted jeans, high heels, and a rather tighter than usual jumper. A jumper which displayed for all to see her newly, and rather generously, enhanced bosom.
Nobody spoke. That is until Claire pointed at Molly's chest, and babbled, "Yum!" Which of course, caused Mary Watson to collapse into fits of laughter. "I guess that's what happens when you breastfeed!"
John was still staring, speechless, holding onto his daughter, so Sherlock was the next to take action. Stunned though he was, he grabbed the small woman by her shoulders and pulled her into a rather tight embrace, crushing her to his chest. Molly was definitely surprised, as this was not the reaction she had expected. Was he approving the augmentation? But she relaxed when she heard him whispering in her ear, "Molly, I'm so sorry to make you feel you had to do this. You're perfect! You've always been perfect! I loved you as you were, and I love you as you are. Just please, don't change. Not for me. Never for me!"
Molly had a hard time believing what she was hearing. But the tall man kept her locked in an embrace as he kissed her hair, and her ears, and then moved down to her neck.
"Hey, mate, there's a child in the room. I would prefer any sex education she receives to come from her mother and I!", John spoke and the couple finally moved apart. But Sherlock kept his hands on Molly's shoulders, partly so he could study her, and partly to keep her from collapsing from shock. His eyes moved from her face, down her neck, to her chest…
"Do you mean it, Sherlock? Really?"
"I mean every word. I loved you as you were, and I love you now. Even if your left breast is relocating toward your armpit, and your right one is shifting up towards your chin!" He then removed his hands from her shoulders, and placed them in front of him, palms upward. "Hand them over, Dr. Hooper!"
Molly had turned a bright shade of scarlet, and she maneuvered her hands under her jumper to fish around in her bra, producing first one gel filled clear plastic pouch, then another. One for each of his hands.
"Please be careful with them, Sherlock. I only borrowed them from Meena. I have to return the…"
"Relax, Dr. Hooper. I have no intention of manhandling your breasts. At least not the artificial ones!"
Mary snickered once again, as she reached to take one of the silicon bags from Sherlock's hand. "It's a shame you have to return them, Molly. I bet if I chilled one, it would be a great teether for the little princess here!"
"Oh, great," John muttered, "I can see me explaining that to the ladies in the checkout lines at the shops!"
Sherlock turned his attention once again to his pathologist, whose jumper looked a lot roomier, as was her usual style. "Molly, love, perhaps in the future you should settle for one of those push-out brassiere contraptions…"
"You mean push-up bras, Sherlock?"
"Whatever. And now, about your lips…" He once again put his arms around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her gently, and then slightly more passionately. Or as passionately as was acceptable in the sitting room of their best friends, and their toddler daughter.
"Ah, just as I suspected. Perfect!" he said as he reluctantly pulled away. And Molly couldn't help but agree.