Molly loved watching Sherlock Holmes. She wondered briefly, if maybe this was the love everyone else seemed so keen on. She thought he was such a lovely and interesting anomaly in the data stream and pursuing a sexual relationship with him didn't sound too particularly horrible, although it would have been amusingly clumsy and disastrous. Sherlock obviously wasn't too in tune with the baser details of humanity, and this included the act of sexual intercourse. Molly simply found it pleasing to select the right men from her observations; aesthetically pleasing, knew what they were doing, STD free, and not in the market for a long term relationship. Married, had a girlfriend, really just a douchebag, it didn't matter to her as long as he fulfilled the criteria. They were simply good for release and pleasure—must like eating very good food and watching a mystery unfold. The rest of the world didn't sympathize.
It was almost a euphoric godlike feeling to get a number. She giggled giddily, just as Sherlock walked in the room. "What is so amusing, Molly?"
Quickly, Molly pulled up a picture of a kitten rubbing his nose against a dandelion. "Oh nothing."
"Really Molly, I would have thought you would have gotten over such a juvenile activity by your age. Looking at photographs of kittens? Really?"
"T-they're cute." Molly stuttered back, "A-are you working on your—"
"Do not attempt to make conversation, it is not your strongpoint. Yes, I'm working on my experiments. Now please do shut up."
He must be in a particularly bad mood. Usually he at least halfway somewhat tried to be a bit civil to her, showering her with fake (although not entirely untrue) compliments in order to make his own work go more smoothly. Instead his expression indicated frustration. The fact that John Watson wasn't at his heels indicated that the detective was unleashed and the doctor was probably at work or on a date. Molly bit the end of her pencil and watched as Sherlock dragged out beakers and flasks full of labeled liquids and solids. She already knew the answer, his hypothesis was incorrect. When she was younger she used to go through experiment after experiment, trying to fill time and trying to separate herself from people that didn't understand her, that refused to while she spent a great amount of her time trying to understand them. She did now. People, while sometimes unpredictable, were easy. It was even easier to act like them.
She could tell him that oxidation would not occur. She could have told him that the widower obviously killed the sister on the previous case. She could tell him everything. But there was no fun in that. Sherlock Holmes liked to show off and Molly Hooper certainly didn't. Sherlock was a right and proper genius (although her IQ was still nine points higher, then again those tests weren't perfect yet) and Molly Hooper was just a shy morgue attendant. She wasn't supposed to know better than him, but she did. She knew that the experiments eventually become boring, and although there's no way to discover everything, the sheer act of trying to find an answer becomes tiresome. She eventually had to fill her days with cloak and dagger heroism, ridding the world of Bad Code one imperfect piece at a time. Just that morning she put cyanide in the coffee of the rapist sitting next to her on the train. His number came up, she performed his investigation and deemed that he was a perpetrator, not a victim.
Molly bit her lip, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, "What's wrong?" She asked at last, seeing him stiffen slightly.
"Molly what did I say—"
"I'm sorry—it's just that, uhm you look frustrated." Molly ducked her head, and returned to her task, pulling up a picture of a woman—a dominatrix to be exact. She searched for her name, finding seven different aliases, but the name that seemed most relevant was Irene Adler. How annoying.
"No cases." Sherlock grunted.
"Oh. Well we live in London. Good thing about that is there's bound be a murder—oh no that sounded bad. Sorry." She ducked her head, and returned to tracing Jim Moriarty's number.
She stepped into his silly trap in order to figure out why his number kept coming up, and right away knew he was bad code. He was playing a game with Sherlock, one that would go on to hurt more and more people as he spread like the cancer he is. He disappeared from view, but he was still doing things. His number kept coming up, meaning that Molly would have to do something before he ruined her favorite anomaly and spread his bad code further. Molly almost felt pain at the protectiveness she felt when thinking about what could harm Sherlock. The only reason she disposed the world of bad code was because of her father, the only other person she could say she felt that same protectiveness for. On his deathbed, he asked her to make sure she only got rid of the "bad apples." He knew she wasn't normal. He thought she was a sociopath or possibly a serial killer. Molly was neither, but she decided to indulge him, and after his death it still felt wrong to ignore the wrongs of the world so easily.
Sherlock would never know everything she's done for him. He simply turned away and continued without speaking to her. Molly was fine with this. It was better to let him think he was the smartest man in the room. Psychotic maniacs like Jim Moriarty weren't exactly tripping over each other to engage in a battle of wits with Molly Hooper after all. That was the point. But it was starting to become boring sticking to her perch as an observer of her anomaly. So she fingered the edge of the Christmas party invitation Dr. Watson had given her the day before. It would be fun to observe her subject outside of the laboratory and morgue, as well as off camera. She even had just the dress….
