John paid the cab driver quickly and ran after disappearing figure in the swathing shape-fitting coat through St. Batholomew's rear entrance into the mortuary. John remarked to himself just how much faster Sherlock's pace seemed now that they had finally arrived. The consulting detective said nothing further after the text he had received from Molly, but John had seen the infinitesimal flicker of something in his eyes, indeed, almost as though a fly had been found in his ointment or the nectar had disappeared from the flower he was hunting.
His matter-of-fact tone in regards to Molly's apparent need for dinner, seemed almost 'too' matter-of-fact. Granted, Sherlock always seemed to put upon the poor girl at the most inhumane of hours, but it felt to John as though something more was frustrating his Captain ever since he had texted her way to inform of their imminent arrival.
Sherlock was nothing if not a mystery himself, but John suspected that Molly was finally fighting back, and that Sherlock did not know what to make of it or that perhaps some other tactic was required to maintain her favours which would not involve losing the door she held open for him, forever.
When John finally caught up with Sherlock, he could see his friend holding a snickers bar in one hand and packet of crisps in the other. Clearly a pit-stop at the vending machine had occurred since arrival.
He was unclear as to Sherlock's intentions where the chocolate snack and crisps were concerned, but John thought that if it was meant as a truce with Molly, he could not necessarily guarantee the effectiveness of such a ploy. Granted Sherlock was a genius, and there could be no doubt of his success and the results he produced, but John was weary.
Would this be one of those incredibly rare times that Sherlock would apologise and be a gentleman? Since their partnership, John was not able to recall a moment where he found Sherlock to be the apologetic sort.
'Hmph.' He thought to himself. John was doubtful. He was seriously thinking of betting with himself. How something like that could be done he didn't know, but he began to calculate odds.
Dr Watson, should Sherlock apologise, we help Sherlock to ensure Molly is taken to dinner. Okay Dr. Watson, and if Sherlock doesn't not apologise? Well Dr. Watson, we still have no other option but to help our Captain to take Molly out to dinner. John shook his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he momentarily sighed.
Reigning himself back to the matter at hand, he walked up to stand in support beside Sherlock who himself standing poised at the door leading to Molly and Mr. Earl.
Sherlock had already observed Molly through the little window view of the door. She was noting a few things down on her clipboard as she stood in front of zip-lock bag containing Mr. Earl's remains. She was intently focused on something on her clipboard. She had her hair in disarray, her white lab coat obviously opened, pockets filled with paper and mobile phone it seemed, hung on her mildly stooped posture. She was tired, it was clear, but her mind was ever at work from the focus she seemed to be directing at her scribbling.
Sherlock was mildly dismayed at himself. How would he ever be able to explain to the lay person how hard it was to switch off this over-active mind of his. How he wished at times, others were driven to even half as much as he was. He could not help the fact that when he caught the bug of interest, there was no stopping the flu of chaos that inevitably followed. He was incomplete until the case was solved. He had no intention of harming anyone in trying to achieve the results he wanted. But sometimes, he did. Sometimes, special persons like Mrs. Hudson, could be kidnapped, or Watson could be shot, and sometimes he stepped on Molly, when he didn't mean to.
Sherlock could not offer reasons to himself as to why this mattered, but she mattered. She mattered enough not to want to create a rift in their working relationship at least.
He would not admit that he liked seeing her in the lab, and sometimes would sabotage her plans just so that he had an excuse to see her under the pretence of a case. It was lonely being Sherlock, and Molly, with all her innocence of mind, was somewhat soothing for him. John was the same way. Except that he often had to lead with John.
With Molly, he just was.
Sherlock needed to do something.
He stared at John.
John nodded.
Sherlock opened the door into the mortuary. John held back a few steps to allow Sherlock to say the necessary.
'Molly,' Sherlock spoke clearly.
Molly jumped slightly when she heard his voice, turning towards him as he entered the room.
'Sherlock,' she breathed his name, unable to help it.
She noticed the controlled, slightly solemn look on his face. Somewhat unlike Sherlock she noted to herself.
Moments before he had entered, she had been standing there, berating herself whilst hovered over her clipboard, next to the dead body of Mr. Earl. She was annoyed at her stupid text suggestion of dinner. Her absence of mind ever since he had texted her, resulted in the folly of dinner as a suggestion for all the trouble they were causing her. She had been a little angry, and it was just her having a little text rant if anything. Molly knew Sherlock would never deliver on such a suggestion. She was at that moment in time actually quite hungry, and in need of dinner. But Molly, of course, did not actually mean dinner in that sense and was worried that her text of dinner, would be so misconstrued to mean that she wanted dinner, with him, dinner with Sherlock. In her dreams, she did, but she was sure that her second slip that evening was not intended that way. She was, wasn't she?
She had started scribbling frustrating circles upon the paper clipped to her clipboard. Circles grew from one small perfect circle, round and round, growing bigger until it depicted a mini tornado on the document. Fate would have it, that he entered just as she sighed, startling her when he uttered her name.
She felt almost caught out, in her private moment.
There was a long silence that passed between them. Possibly only two seconds long in reality, but lifetimes could be recalled in such moments.
Molly sensed Sherlock's perusal of her. But she also sensed a shift in him.
'Molly,' he stepped took another step forward, a mere half a metre between them now. His beautiful piercing eyes meaningfully and deeply directed towards hers. If she was not so uncertain of her own perceptions where Sherlock was concerned, she could have sworn she saw a look of genuine apology cross his features.
Her doubts were blown away, when he uttered his next words upon those perfect lips of his. Molly was trying to maintain composure. She was angry wasn't she? But his height, his presence, took away hers.
'I would like to sincerely apologise for putting upon you at this hour Molly.' He paused briefly, not one breaking eye contact, 'I promise, I will make this up to you Molly.'
Sherlock did seem genuinely sorry.
'Sher-,' she began unsuccessfully, stumbling. He didn't give her the chance to continue.
In his silky deep voice, he had her mesmerised, eyes still locked with hers.
'Molly. I know, that you are quite busy at with a multitude of other matters. I wanted you to know, that without your help, half the cases I have entertained in the last three years since you have been here, might not have come to fruition. I have no doubt, that what I shall discover this evening shall give me the answers I require and thus a successful result. Your help on this as on every occasion, is never unimportant to me. And in this case, shall not be unrewarded.'
He continued to stare at her. There was such a veracity of his focused eyes upon on her face and in his words that the room seemed almost alive with static.
If Molly could count every individual hair of hers on end in that second, she was certain it would probably never end. She had just been given goose bumps, possibly for the first time, by the one and only Sherlock Holmes who never ever apologised. It seemed as though she had just been thanked by the man too.
Her breath was as if stillness in a barren land. Caught in her throat she had no idea how to breathe again. He was still looking at her. Her lack of response it seemed prompted more words.
'Molly, I know this does not make up for it this evening, but, if in case this may help,' he spoke quietly, highly unlike Sherlock, and left her with the snacks in her hand. 'I'll unzip the bag and take over from here.'
He waited for her to respond.
A brief thought crossed Molly's mind about Sherlock's calculating mind and ability to pull a multitude of strings like a puppeteer, but the girl inside of her, discarded it quickly.
He was still waiting for her to respond before he began. Was he trying to be nice? His behaviour was so unlike him that it was starting to unnerve her.
Recovering quickly, as she did not wish to remain under this particularly melty Sherlock gaze any longer, and for not truly trusting herself at that moment either, she responded.
'Um, Sherlock, thank you for this,' she shook the snacks in her hand and then back up at him.
Walking to the body, she directed, 'Please, continue.'
She watched, as his eyes, still upon hers, continued to do so until he arrived at the cadaver. Nodding his head once, he started upon the bag.
Molly was aware of John entering into the room in the distance, walking closer towards Sherlock. Her focus however, was entirely on the object of her affections, and his crop of hair. His hair always appeared so curly and well groomed. She cast a distracted thought.
Sherlock? Apologising to her? She supposed it paid to be angry every once in a while.
He probably deduced that she was angry. It did not seem however, to her, that it was play acting on his part. And the way he was examining Mr. Earl now, seriousness graced upon his defining features, she appreciated too that without her, he would be missing a vital clue this evening.
So whether or not she could decipher his motives, something else, deep inside, told her that he had not lied.