~ Advent ~

~ Chapter 2: Friends ~

"Sherlock! Good to see you," said Mike Stamford with a smile.

"Yes…" said Sherlock absently as he scanned the lab. "Where's Dr. Hooper?"

To Sherlock's annoyance, Stamford's eye glinted with amusement, but the man replied, blandly enough, "She went upstairs. Third floor linen storage."

"Don't you have lackeys for that?"

Mike chuckled, but basically ignored this. "Do you need to use the lab?"

"Presently."

Sherlock turned on his heel and left.

o-o-o

The lift was, thankfully, unoccupied. He punched '3' and then, aware that he was not at his best. made some quick adjustments to eliminate any signs of disapprobation: a straighter stance, a smile that was both charming and friendly. He committed these to memory, then allowed his scowl to return.

Ridiculous that his nerves were so on edge. He'd known Molly Hooper for six years. They were colleagues and friends. More than friends. (He permitted his mind to touch, just for an instant, the memory of the night after his "Fall".) But she'd changed in the two years he'd been gone. Or he'd changed. Maybe both. At any rate, their relationship had now undergone a strange reversal, leaving Sherlock very much on the back foot (or no foot at all - but he would not consider that unless it proved unavoidable). The discomfort of the situation made him cross, and a scene flashed through his head: Molly staring up at him, wide-eyed with dismay as he growled, Now see here, Hooper, what do you mean by-

The lift stopped and the doors opened.

Abruptly he straightened again, his aggressive fantasy evaporating. He stuck his head out and peered furtively down each of the visible corridors. No Molly.

Right, then.

He had long ago memorized the floorplans of St. Bart's and knew exactly where the third floor linen storage was located. There was no point in further delay. He set out, silently cursing the telltale rapidity of his pulse rate.

He passed several persons who looked curious, but thankfully did not otherwise attempt to communicate with him. His destination lay at some distance from the lift, but presently he turned down the narrow side hall and found it deserted - except for his pathologist, emerging from the door of the storage room, a neat bundle of folded sheets tucked under one arm.

He conjured the smile again - surprisingly easy to do - and saw her give a start at the sight of him striding toward her. And there it was, exactly what he'd been hoping for: a brief flash of joy, lighting her eyes, her whole expression, just for a moment, before memory intruded.

Memory must be overruled. "No!" he said and, with a hand on her arm and at her waist, firmly escorted her back into the privacy of the storage room.

"What are you doing? Sherlock!"

He liked the tone - not a squeak, but a bit unsteady - and she gave a small gasp as he turned her to face him, the door behind them swinging closed of its own accord. The amber of the small safety lamp threw more shadow than light on her face. He released her and said, roughly, "I'm sorry."

"You should be!" she said, tartly, straightening, smoothing her lab coat.

"Not this! That morning. Back in June.."

She stilled, considering him. Not smiling.

"I mean it," he said, but then couldn't help muttering, "Even though it was for a case."

"No," she said, barely restrained anger in the word.

"No. Forget I said that. I just… how can you still be angry? It's been months!" He frowned, perplexed.

She rolled her eyes heavenwards. "Sherlock, do you have any idea of the number of post-mortems I've done on lives ended in that manner?"

Oh! "Molly," he said, with gentle logic, "there are other specialists here, you wouldn't have to-"

She hit him. With her fist this time, hard against his chest. "You idiot!"

"Ow!" He caught her wrist and held it. "Again? Really?"

"If you insist upon being willfully stupid, then yes!"

He studied her. "You'd rather no one had to do a post-mortem on me."

"You've deduced correctly, Mr. Holmes," she said wryly. "Now let go of me this instant."

He released her wrist, but said, "I don't approve of these violent tendencies you've acquired. I had a bullet dug out of my chest, not so long ago."

"That was nowhere near where you were shot!"

"How would you know? You never came to see me!"

"I did!" she exclaimed, but then a conscious look altered her expression. "I did," she repeated, more subdued. "You might not remember. You were… sedated. Though you did speak to me. In fact, the last time I visited you told me to go away."

Exasperated, he said, "You're correct, I don't remember. And how could you take seriously anything I said under such conditions?"

"No, you meant it." Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "I may have been weeping."

"Well, that explains it. But-"

"And then I heard about your… about Jeanine. And finally saw what had been in all the papers." He scowled, but before he could speak she went on. "The details were absurd, of course, but there was truth beneath it, wasn't there?"

"No! It was all for a case. The same one."

"Was it?" she said, sadly. "But that's what you do, isn't it? Anything for The Work."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Molly-"

"But it's not my concern, really. Is it? I'm sorry, I just have to keep reminding myself-"

"Shut up!" he barked, angrily. "It is your concern, as much as it is anyone's!"

She stared at him. Then shook her head a bit, and said, "Sherlock… what do you need?"

The old question. The query that had been the prelude to so many things, up to and including saving his life. On multiple occasions. "I need my friend back," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

The emotion of the moment shocked him, throwing him quite thoroughly off balance. He wanted to grab her and shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to kiss her… more than kiss...

But then she reached up to dash a tear from her cheek, and his hope and equilibrium were restored.

She gave a sound that was on the edge of being a sob, took a deep breath, and said, "All right. But you will promise-"

"Molly," he said, a warning in his voice.

But she went on, insistently, "You will promise that if you are tempted - in a dangerous place - you will call me and talk to me first!"

He frowned.

She added, "I won't call Mycroft."

His frown lightened. "You'll just call John. Who'll call Mycroft."

"I might call John, but neither of us would call Mycroft, not unless the situation was truly dire."

"Imminent death?"

"Precisely."

He found himself disturbed that she hadn't asked for the greater promise: that he would never take drugs again. He knew that it was not a reasonable thing to ask of him, but that she clearly knew it and did not believe him capable of the more stringent curb to his behavior, brought to the fore a feeling of remorse.

He sighed. "Very well. You have my promise." There was an odd but noticeable niggling of fear in the back of his brain, but he tamped it down with some determination.

She nodded, and a smile touched her lips. She cleared her throat a bit, then asked, "Were you here to use the lab?"

"Yes. I've been allowed to consult on lesser cases since the beginning of last month, but this is the first six Lestrade's given me."

She chuckled at the exaggerated disgust in his voice, and he smiled crookedly, too.

"Come on, then, let's go down." She ran her fingers over the sleeve of his coat as she moved around him. "Mike will be wondering what's taking me so long."

"No, he won't," said Sherlock, a little smugly, as she pushed open the door and the light from the hallway streamed in. "I told him I was looking for you."

"Oh, marvelous!" she said, with a roll of her eyes.

He grinned at her rising color.

o-o-o

Two hours later he was texting Lestrade the solution to the case.

"You're finished already?" Molly asked, coming over to him.

"Mmmm. Only a four after all."

"Oh, too bad," she said, with spurious sympathy.

He pressed a final Send,put his mobile away, and looked up at her. Her eyes were full of amusement. Fond amusement. He said, blandly, "Violence and sarcasm, Dr. Hooper?"

"Not my areas?" She gave him a prim little smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She said, trying to sound offhand, "There's a new Thai place around the corner from my flat I've been meaning to try. Would you like to go halves on some takeaway and watch a bit of crap telly before you go home?"

"Oh my God, yes!" he exclaimed, not bothering to hide his relief and delight at the suggestion. "You have no idea how tired I am of 221B and John's constant nagging."

"Let me guess: plenty of sleep, healthy meals, no smoking?"

"And the most excruciating physical therapy twice a day. It's been bloody torture, for months!"

"Poor Sherlock!" she chuckled. "Well, hopefully one evening off won't set you back too much. But perhaps we should obtain your doctor's permission?"

He gave her a glare. "If you dare to even think of calling John you will regret it."

"Oh, will I?"

He was brought up short by the tilt of her chin, the sparkle in her eyes, suddenly afraid he would be forced to carry out the vague threat in some manner (several interesting possibilities occurred to him in rapid succession), altering their relationship in a way for which he was not prepared. Yet.

But then she grinned. "Don't worry, I won't call him. I'm a doctor, too, you know. Thai food and crap telly is your prescription for this evening."

He gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper."

"You're welcome, Mr. Holmes," she said, and greatly to his surprise (and possibly hers, as evinced from her delightful blush) bent and kissed his cheek.

To be continued…