Author's Note: I've never written anything with Molly as a main character before - I'm a little nervous, haha. Anyhow, wrote this yesterday during class, I hope you enjoy it. I really think Miss Hooper is far more complex than we tend to give her credit for, and I tried to explore that complexity just a little bit in this chapter. I do plan to revisit the character in future chapters. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and subscribed - please continue to do so : ) you're all lovely.
Molly Hooper had never been attracted to ordinary men. In high school she'd chased after college boys – in college she'd pined over her professors. When she herself had acquired a doctorate, she seemed to have reached the pinnacle of academic excellence and so worried there would be nobody left to chase after. Then, of course, Sherlock Holmes had walked into her life in a blaze of arrogance and glory. She remembered quite clearly the afternoon Mike Stamford had popped his head into the morgue and declared:
"Got somebody coming in later to take a look at some bodies, Molly, got permission to wheel them out from Lestrade."
"What?" Molly had been slightly annoyed: "A cop?"
Mike shook his head and smiled knowingly, "No, definitely not a cop. Don't worry, you'll like him."
And like him she had. From the moment he'd stepped through the door of the chilly mortuary, walked purposefully up to the corpse displayed on the table, examined its fingernails, and declared to Lestrade: "See, look there. Of course I was right."
And Lestrade – whom Molly knew quite well due to his frequent trips to St. Bart's and who was, perhaps, the toughest man Molly knew – gave a defeated little chuckle and put his palms face-up in surrender. "How did you know he'd be–"
Sherlock had very rudely interrupted, "It's really quite obvious, isn't it?" When Lestrade didn't answer, Sherlock had gone through a very rapid, very thorough description of a case that Molly really knew nothing whatsoever about, but which seemed to culminate in the conclusion that the man on the slab was not the victim of some violent crime – he had, in fact, been the perpetrator, and: "Do please try to follow along, Inspector, I despise having to repeat myself."
Molly had made a little squeak of surprise. Surely the inspector would not tolerate this type of disrespect. Molly was certain the insolent newcomer was about to receive what was probably not his first black eye. But her own surprised noise had distracted the two men, and they both looked at her. It was the first time the taller man had even noticed her. He creased his brow at her. "What was that? I'm sorry, did you … squeak?"
Molly shook her head quickly, cheeks flaming a bright, hot pink.
Sherlock turned back to the DI: "You had best get back to Scotland Yard, Lestrade," then he grinned nastily: "You'll have a mountain of paperwork, I'm quite sure."
Lestrade smiled a small smile in agreement and rolled his shoulders wearily. "Yes. Right as usual." Then he turned to Molly and smiled genuinely: "Thanks a million, Molly. I know you're probably in overtime for this."
Molly had smiled reassuringly – as far as cops went, she rather liked Lestrade. At least he was one of the few men in her life that still treated her like a lady.
"Goodnight," the Inspector departed.
When Molly had turned back around, it was to find the man Stamford had told her she'd "like", the man called Sherlock Holmes, taking himself on a tour. He pulled open drawers, lifted up white sheets, opened jars and sniffed at their contents.
"Excuse me," Molly began timidly, "Mr., um, Holmes, is it? I'm sorry, but you will have to leave now, I-"
Sherlock Holmes straightened up to his full height and approached Molly slowly, soundlessly. "I beg your pardon," he cocked his head to one side, observing the girl carefully – the girl who hadn't merited a second glance twenty seconds ago. The tired lines around the eyes; the careful cut and modest style of dress beneath the white lab coat; the pink splotches of a blush across her cheeks; the wide, intelligent eyes. Overworked, underappreciated, and desperately craving some attention.
Sherlock smiled, and he looked dashing.
"I just thought I might linger for a few moments longer. You don't … mind, do you?"
Molly stuttered under the full force of Sherlock's gaze. "Well, I really should be closing up, you know, and it really wouldn't do to have-"
But Sherlock took the young lady by the shoulder and pulled her along by his side. "Oh," he simpered dramatically, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."
Molly felt her entire body buzzing.
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the grand tour?" Sherlock looked down on the young lady, his teeth sparkling white like an alluring predator.
And Molly Hooper was doomed. Strolling about a mortuary in the dead of night, showing corpses to an intriguing sociopath with bad manners, cold hands, and impeccable speech. Oh yes, Miss Hooper was in love.
And Sherlock knew it, and Molly knew he knew – but they continued along just the same. Sherlock became a frequent visitor to St. Bart's morgue, and Molly made vain attempts to impress him. But she knew it was futile. The men Molly Hooper chased after were always unattainable. But that was all right – because she was making progress, wasn't she? The college boys from her high school days had never even looked at her; her professors at university never bothered to smile in her direction. Sherlock Holmes smiled at her occasionally – even if it was oftentimes little more than a haughty grin – and he would look at her, too, if he weren't particularly engrossed in his work.
But it was enough. Molly Hooper wasn't like other girls. She didn't expect to seduce Sherlock – couldn't even fathom the idea of sex with him. In fact – if push came to shove – sex probably terrified Miss Hooper as much as it did the object of her fixation.
No. Molly Hooper had never been attracted to ordinary men, and she supposed she had found the most extraordinary of them all in the form of Sherlock Holmes. So it was alright that he called her "John" from time to time, and it was permissible that they could sometimes work elbow-to-elbow all afternoon when the detective would suddenly turn his head and exclaim: "Ah, Molly, when did you get here?" Because Molly was more than content to look and not touch. Some things, Molly knew, were far too fine for clumsy human fingers, anyhow…
"Molly, what can you possibly be thinking of?"
Sherlock Holmes was sitting across the room at a black granite lab table. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his slim fingers were resting on a microscope. But his eyes were on Molly, and he was looking bemused.
"S-sorry?" Molly stuttered nervously.
"You've been unresponsive for nearly fifteen minutes." His tone was mildly irritated.
"Have I?" Molly's eyes widened in mortification.
Sherlock watched her suspiciously. But after a moment he smiled and turned the microscope in her direction. "Come here. I need you to look at something for me."
