A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, faved, and followed!
The cab ride to their destination was mostly filled with silence. Said silence was only broken with a few choice questions from Sherlock, who when satisfied with Greg's answers, retreated to his mind palace. Molly found herself sandwiched between the detective inspector and consulting detective; much to her dismay. Regardless of who sat next to her in cramped spaces, she always felt overwhelmingly self-aware of her own breathing and the way that she would shift in her seat.
"What are we up against, Lestrade?" he'd asked beside of her. Her shoulder vibrated with the rumbling of his deep voice.
"Abduction," he answered, shifting his gaze between Sherlock and Molly, "we got a phone call from a panicked fiancé less than an hour ago. He came home early from a business trip to check on her. He spoke to her last night from his hotel before he went to bed and hadn't heard from her all day. All phone calls went to voicemail and texts left unanswered. According to him, it is out of character for her not to respond; she's practically glued to the thing. He rushed home to find their flat empty and a strange note."
"Define strange," Sherlock requested.
Greg shrugged, "Dunno, Sally only said strange. Didn't clarify."
She could feel Sherlock's eye roll, "Tip top force you've got, Geoff."
Molly scolded herself for snorting at Sherlock's words. Both men looked at her: Greg with annoyance and Sherlock with amusement. She smiled apologetically at Lestrade but made no effort to return Sherlock's smirk. She instead chose to keep her head forward and remain expressionless.
"It's Greg," Lestrade muttered under his breath, followed by, "egotistical wanker."
Molly knew Sherlock was smirking as he turned his head to look out the window of the moving cab.
Finally arriving at the flat, Sherlock was out of the vehicle in one swift move as Molly scooted out behind him. She surveyed the complex of homes, they were quite nice, something she would love to upgrade to someday. Lost in her thoughts, the men moved quickly ahead of her. When she noticed she shuffled quickly behind, wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into this time.
Once they got to the correct floor Molly could see Sally and Anderson, standing outside of a door, deep in conversation. Upon seeing their detective inspector, they stood up a little straighter and nodded to him in greeting.
Anderson seemed unsurprised by Molly's presence but Sally on the other hand, grinned, "Freak rope you into this, Dr. Hooper?"
Before she could respond, Molly was interrupted. "Molly," Sherlock stated, "please refrain from speaking to the two of them, they'll lower your IQ. Besides, we have work to do."
Her mouth opened and then closed again, shrugging her shoulders to Sally and following the mad man into the flat. She admired the decorations in the flat, they were things she herself would pick out. A lot of mustard yellow and beige. Simple, yet homey. Incredibly Molly.
Sherlock seemed to have this observation as well, "Do you live here as well?" he whispered to her; attempting to alleviate the tension she felt towards him.
She locked eyes with him, "Are you quite finished?"
"Just making an observation," he defended.
"I am aware of what you do, Sherlock."
He stared at her a moment longer before turning on his heel, "Quite."
He led them into what appeared to be an office of sorts. Designs hung from the walls, carpet swatches strewn across the floor, and paint samples tucked in the corner.
"Interior design," Sherlock said out loud. She wasn't sure if he was speaking to himself or to her. She decided to answer him anyway.
"Yes, it appears so."
"Mr. Holmes," a male voice frantically spoke behind them. Molly turned to find a tall man with auburn hair and freckled skin standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted, worry all too apparent in his green eyes.
"I am," Sherlock confirmed.
The man hurriedly stepped forward, grasping Sherlock's hand in his own in a frantic handshake. The man then turned his attention to Molly. He reached out his hand awkwardly, "I'm sorry miss, I'm afraid I don't know your name. I was expecting another gentleman to be with the detective."
Molly gently placed her hand in his, "Molly, Molly Hooper. I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's. I'm a," she paused, "friend of Sherlock's. I sometimes fill in for his usual partner, John."
"Oh," he smiled briefly, "Well, it's nice to meet you Miss Hooper. I'm Nathaniel May. You can both call me Nate if you like. Most people prefer it."
"You're the fiancé," Sherlock said absently.
The young-ish man looked sad as Sherlock spoke. The grief was evident on his face. Molly's heart broke for him.
"You're in your early thirties, judging by your hairline and the skin around your eyes, but you appear much younger to those less observant. You have a nice job, hmmm," he stared the poor man up and down, "you sell pharmaceuticals. There's a business card for a depression medication company sticking out of your breast pocket and the messenger bag sitting by the door of this room has a brochure from the hotel you just frequented located in the outer side compartment."
The man's lip twitched, as if he wanted to smile but was too preoccupied to, "You are good, Mr. Holmes."
"Your fiancé," he paused.
"Quinn," Nate offered.
"Yes, Quinn. She's an interior designer, a successful one at that. Judging by the mass array of photographs of the two of you located on her desk and the numerous wedding invitation designs in that pile just to the left there, the two of you are quite happy. Wedding is coming up in three, no, four months"
"Absolutely correct," Nate confirmed. "Mr. Holmes, I didn't know where else to turn. When I came home, the door was wide open and Quinn wasn't here. I panicked. As soon as I found the note she left behind, I called and requested for you specifically straight away."
"Where is this note everyone keeps going on about?" Sherlock asked; his tone less than sympathetic.
"Sherlock," Molly warned, giving him her, 'bit not good' look.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, "Sorry, um, could I see the note please?" he smiled in that fake smile he'd used on her for so many years. Her anger soon returned upon seeing it. She stalked ahead of him, following Nate, and not looking back at him.
The note was located in the living area. Nate had sat it back down on the coffee table where he had found it. Sherlock snatched it from the table top and squinted at the writing and seemed to be lost at its meaning.
Growing impatient with his facial expression, Molly snatched the note from him and read it herself.
'Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you. You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking (it comes to me in a dream).'
"Walt Whitman?" she asked, clearly as confused as Sherlock.
"Walt who?" Sherlock asked.
"Surely you must know Whitman, Sherlock," she said, "I've seen you read multiple books in one sitting. He's quite famous."
"I read scientific books, Dr. Hooper, not this sappy dribble."
"Well, he's quite famous. This is a part of his poem 'To a Stranger', if I'm not mistaken."
"But what can that mean?" asked Nate.
She chewed at her cheek nervously, "I don't know," she admitted.
"And this," Sherlock started, pushing the paper into Nate's face, "is Quinn's handwriting, correct?"
"Yes," he answered without a beat.
"You're absolutely sure?"
"Without a shadow of a doubt," he fired back.
Molly looked to the photo hung above the fireplace in front of their sofa. She saw the happiness on Nate's face and he stood hand in hand with his fiancé, Quinn. She quite reminded Molly of her best friend as a child, Marine. Her dark skin practically glowed as it contrasted with the coral dress she was wearing. In that moment, Molly felt determined to find out what happened to Quinn and to hopefully bring her home alive to her fiancé.
"Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?" Nate asked in desperation.
Before Sherlock could open his mouth, Molly answered for him with her back still turned to them, "We'll find her, Mr. May."
When she did finally turn around to face them, she saw the gratitude on Nate's face and what seemed like pride from Sherlock's. But as soon as it was there, it was gone.
Nate stepped forward, taking her hand again, "Thank Dr. Hooper."
Sherlock and Molly caught a cab yet again, but this time without Lestrade; he had a few more things he needed to take care of at the May-Evert flat. Molly was grateful for the extra room on this ride and felt as though she could breathe easier, not having to be in such close proximity to Sherlock. She said nothing to him until the cab reached her flat.
"Do you think he had anything to do with it?" Molly asked.
He just simply looked at her.
"Nate, I mean," she clarified.
"No," Sherlock answered without hesitation.
"Good," she answered, lifting the handle to get out of the vehicle and head up to her flat to check on Toby.
"Molly," he called out to her before she shut her door.
She sighed, "Yes, Sherlock?"
"Why did you pause?"
"What?"
"When you were introducing yourself to Nathaniel, you paused before saying you were my friend. Why was that?"
She hesitated for a moment, considering her answer. "Because sometimes, I doubt that you think of me as one."
With that she shut the door behind her and walked back into the chilly air on the way to her flat.
A/N: Poem credit to Mr. Walt Whitman
Also, I imagine Nate to look like Eddie Redmayne and Quinn to look like Kerry Washington. I like sharing my inspirational visuals. :) I'll do so with every original character I create.
