Molly thought Sherlock's influence over her might get better over time, but it only just got worse. Every time he strode into the lab, she went from confident pathologist to quivering child in less time than it took to say "Sherlock Holmes". And then there was the blatant flirting. Molly knew perfectly well that he only did it to get something from her – Sherlock wasn't one to date, being "married to his work," and all that – but the fact that he was so very, very good at it didn't help. An offhand comment about her hair ("You've parted it differently today, it looks better like that"), her makeup ("That color lipstick really suits you") or whatever else came to mind – you name it, Molly fell for it. It wasn't all bad, though, considering – at least it meant she got to spend time with him. And occasionally text him, even if it wasn't about a date.
One fine autumn morning, Molly was busy with a chemical analysis when the door of the lab slammed open and Sherlock burst in, looking preoccupied and slightly annoyed.
"The morgue," he said in response to Molly's raised eyebrows. She needed no further explanation but left the lab and walked downstairs with him to the aforementioned place.
"Yes…this is the one," Sherlock said, indicating the body of a slightly overweight man on the far right table. "How fresh?"
"Just in. 67, natural causes. He used to work here," Molly replied. Sherlock's response was to pull out a riding crop.
"Fine. We'll start with this," he said. Much to Molly's astonishment, he then started violently beating the body with the riding crop, over and over and over. He was putting an awful lot of strength into it, Molly thought. She didn't quite know why, but the whole image was kind of…hot.
"Um…bad day?" she asked timidly once Sherlock had finished several minutes later.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. Text me."
"Of course." Then, feeling brave, she added, "I was wondering…"
"Are you wearing lipstick?" he interrupted suddenly. "You weren't before."
"Um…I just refreshed it a bit." Molly tried to sound casual, secretly glad that Sherlock had noticed the change.
"Hmm. You were saying?"
"I was wondering…whether you'd like to have coffee?"
"Black, two sugars, please, I'll be upstairs," he responded with a small smile, then left the morgue.
"Ok," Molly squeaked. Then she rolled her eyes. Why couldn't she just tell him how she felt? Why didn't he understand what she'd meant when she asked about the coffee?
"Oh, he definitely understood," Molly thought to herself. "He's Sherlock freaking Holmes, remember?" She sighed and went to leave the room. Even if it wasn't a date, she might as well go see about that coffee. It was probably about as close as she was going to get. Then she rolled her eyes again. What the hell, she thought. I don't even like coffee…
Molly returned to the lab several minutes later to find it occupied by three men. One, of course, was Sherlock, who was busy fiddling with the microscope. She didn't know the heavyset gentleman's name but recognized him by sight, having seen him chatting with Sherlock before. He was talking now too, readjusting his thick glasses as he spoke. The other, Molly didn't know at all. He was on the shorter side, well built, simply dressed, and carried a cane. His sandy hair was cut short, and his eyes took in every inch of the lab. Molly thought she heard him say, "A bit different than my day." He'd worked at Bart's too, then? The men paused in their conversation as Molly entered.
"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," Sherlock said, accepting the mug from her. His fingers lightly brushed hers as he took the cup, and Molly tried her best not to visibly shudder, managing to contain herself to a slight tremble that she didn't think he noticed – but, Sherlock being Sherlock, he probably had.
"Why'd you take your lipstick off?" he asked suddenly. Molly felt her cheeks burning. Was there anything he didn't catch?
"Wasn't working for me," she said, as calmly as possible. No way was she going to let on in front of everyone that she'd taken the lipstick off because of Sherlock's earlier comment about it.
"Pity," he said. "Should've kept it on, your mouth's too small now." He took a sip of his coffee and returned to the microscope.
"Ok." There was that squeak again. Dammit! Molly nodded politely to Sherlock's companions and then left the lab before she could say or do anything else she'd regret later. She found refuge in the women's room across the hall and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
"What am I supposed to do?" she thought to herself. She was pretty sure nobody else had ever driven her this crazy before. Maybe she should take the rest of the afternoon off? No – she still had that analysis to finish, and she wasn't about to let Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much he made her swoon, drive her that far. After all, Bart's was her workplace, not his. Strengthening her resolve, Molly pulled the tube of blush pink from her pocket, reapplied it – ok, maybe that decision was partially because of Sherlock – and left the restroom.
She returned to the lab, gave a curt nod to the three men, and resumed her work, concentrating so intently that she was surprised when she finally looked up from the microscope and found them gone. At least the analysis was successful. Pleased with her progress for the afternoon, Molly packed up her things and headed home, more than ready to curl up on the couch with Toby, the remote, and a steaming cup of tea.
