Chapter 2: You're Not Molly
Nothing that Sherlock did was half-assed, as John knew all too well. When working, he threw himself into it, discarding food and sleep in the process. When depressed, he was an inert lump on their couch who did not talk for days on end. When bored, he did anything – absolutely anything – he could to relieve it. So while it surprised John to see Sherlock nervous, he was not surprised at how apparent it was (even though Sherlock attempted to hide it). All throughout the cab ride to St. Bart's, the fingers of Sherlock's left hand restlessly tapped against his thigh, and the balls of his feet were bouncing faster than any dancers. Even the neutral expression on his face was set a little too tight.
As the elevator made it's way slowly down to the morgue, John saw Sherlock shift on the balls of his feet and adjust his collar, looking into the reflection of the shining elevator doors. "You seem a bit on edge," said John, careful to keep his tone casual rather than interrogative.
"Not at all," replied Sherlock immediately and coldly.
But he couldn't fool John. "Come off it, Sherlock. I haven't seen you this jittery since the Baskerville case."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please do not mention that case, I'd rather not like to think of my failures right now."
"You must want something very badly today," commented John, hoping to get some information.
"You could say that," said Sherlock mysteriously. The lift doors opened and Sherlock walked quickly out, with John following behind and wondering what on Earth was going on.
As he always did, Sherlock burst through the swinging morgue doors as if he owned the place. "Good morning, Molly, I would like to –" His confident speech stopped immediately, along with his steps, when he saw the person in the white coat bent over a cadaver. John entered the morgue right behind him.
For the first time since he had met Sherlock, John heard him state something blatantly obvious without prompting: "You're not Molly."
It took all of John willpower to choke back his laughter.
The pathologist working was indeed not Molly, it being a male with blond hair and all. "Nnnno…I'm Alec, who are you?"
"Where's Dr. Molly Hooper?" asked Sherlock, his tone leaving no room for bullshit.
"I don't know, she took a personal day, I'm filling in," replied Alec. "And I don't think you should be down here at all!"
Sherlock's ice blue gaze became even sharper as he sized the young pathologist up and down. "Oh, boy…" muttered John to himself, knowing that there would be no stopping Sherlock now.
"Clearly new to St. Bart's, not only because I've never seen you before, but because all of your clothes are new and ironed. Want to make a good first impression. But I'm afraid the size label you've left on the left pant leg has already given people the rightful impression that you are an idiot. Either that or the fact that you used your girlfriend's deoderant by mistake this morning – the odor really doesn't suit you and has the danger of making one slightly nauseous. Also, the coral red lipstick smudge you've missed just below your pulse point tells me you've gotten into the pants of that blonde receptionist on the ground floor, who loves to greet new arrivals by opening her thighs. I hope you've used protection, though, since the sore she's trying to disguise with foundation above her lip could indicate her herpes has flared up again. I'll give you two, three weeks tops, as to how long you'll last here. Now excuse me while I go and find my pathologist!"
With that, Sherlock turned around on his heel and, with a sweep of his Belstaff coat, was gone. John stood there awkwardly for a moment before saying to the gobsmacked Alec, "Um…sorry bout that, um…bye." Then he was racing after Sherlock, who was already texting on his phone by the time John caught up with him.
It took Sherlock less than an hour back in Baker Street before he was looking for John's gun to shoot at the wall.
"Cut it out, Sherlock!" exclaimed John, holding Sherlock back from going up to John's room. "That is not going to help."
"It would relieve my frustrations!" said Sherlock stubbornly.
"No, it would make them worse and would result in you blowing this place up." With quite a bit of effort, John managed to plop Sherlock down on the couch. Then he took his own armchair, turned it towards Sherlock, and sat down. "Now, tell me what's going on."
"Thirty-seven," said Sherlock, who was texting again.
"What?"
"I've sent her thirty-seven texts now, and she hasn't replied to one of them!" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Who, Molly?"
"Who else do you think I mean?"
"What do you want from the morgue so badly, Sherlock?" asked John, thoroughly perplexed.
"Nothing. Molly never takes personal days, or even sick days!"
"Well, then, she must have had a very good reason," said John logically. "Have you tried calling her?"
"I don't like making calls," said Sherlock like a petulant child. But as he said it, he was dialing Molly's mobile number and then pressed the phone to his ear. Two seconds later, his eyes widene and he withdrew the phone. "Straight to voicemail…her phone is off, why is her phone off?"
"Well, her phone could be out of battery power –"
"Nonsense, John, Molly would never be that careless."
"– or she does not want to be disturbed right now."
"But why?" asked Sherlock in frustration, getting up to pace again. "Why would she cut herself off like that?" His movements stopped immediately. "Unless…unless something is wrong. You said it yourself, John – Molly would have to have a good reason. Something must have happened to her."
As he spoke, he was putting on his coat and scarf. John put on his own jacket upon hearing that, now fearing for Molly, too.
In the next minute, both were out of 221B and hailing a cab to take them to Molly's place.