Sherlock told people that Mycroft was "the smart one". Mycroft was more canny, more savvy. He could make roomfuls of strangers listen to him. He could make important people trust what he told them. Nor always the whole truth, not all that he knew, he told people what suited the situation.
Sherlock always said that Mycroft was "good at parties". He slid in smoothly and charmed everyone. He looked so right, that it didn't matter how handsome he actually was or wasn't Not everyone liked him, but he did impress them. Even when they'd been kids, that's how it was. Mycroft's birthday parties were huge; when he was fifteen, his parents had to lease a hotel ballroom for the event. Mycroft spent that evening going from one table to another talking briefly, if heartily, with everyone. Even as he watched the festivities, Sherlock knew that his elder brother was destined for a political career.
His own birthday celebration that year, Sherlock remembered as one of his best. His mother had taken Sherlock and two friends to the British Museum. He'd liked walking in the Museum with three people who accepted that he often didn't talk very much. He'd loved eating take-out vindalu and then going several streets away for perfect chocolate cake. The best part, by far, was riding the subway.
Sherlock was bad with crowds. No, actually, he loved crowds, the way he could slip in and out of them, the way they could carry him unseen. In a crowded office or lab, he had to be seen because there was nowhere to hide. It meant having to bump elbows with people, to make room.
Lestrad had i-med him, "See you in the morgue this AM. - G.L." "This AM " didn't mean much, but it was the same kind of message he would have left. Before he left, Sherlock had a warm shower with an unusually long wank.
Even when he was working, that's how he started the morning; by masterbating. All touch, he knew how his body responded. All physical memory and primitive brain; he didn't think about anyone or any body, usually. He just did it in the morning. This morning, he had anticipation, and imagination and the memory of a girl in a lab-coat. This morning, it wasn't just his usual wank, it was something exciting, so he gave himself more time.
When he reached the morgue, a crowd was forming. Inside already were DI Lestrade, a Sargent, M.E. Anderson, his assistant, Molly and one morgue attendant. Outside, Sherlock met Sally Donavan, who probably never knew that he respected her. Or he would, if it weren't for the way she treated herself. She was at least as smart as Lestrade, and somewhat more ready to question people's motives. For someone investigating murders, a little suspicion was good. She certainly questioned what he did. The way it must look to her is that he showed up at a murder scene when he had nothing better to do and solved the murder in whatever way he saw fit all the while being rude to anyone within range. She called him, " The Freak" because she said he enjoyed his work too much for someone who wasn't being rewarded for it. If that was what he saw, he would loath himself too.
And then there was her dirty little affair with that clod Anderson. Nobody understood why it was happening, but everyone knew that it was. Whenever his wife was out of town, people could tell by the way he would sidle up to her and stand way too close. They'd giggle, almost like school kids, almost because school kids were only trying to get something going behind their parent's' backs; they weren't planning something that would hurt someone one of them had sworn in front of a church-full of people he'd be faithful to forever. Everyone also knew when his wife was back in town because he would avoid her and she'd act resentful to the entire world and act distracted.
That morning, Sally waved Sherlock into the morgue with nothing but a scowl. He didn't mention it, it seemed unfair. It was best to just not see her.
Again, Sherlock stood at the door to the morgue, unable to move until somebody spoke. Over at a table, Anderson was talking to Molly! Anderson was smiling his most smarmy smile, and waving his hands about as if telling a story to a chum. Molly was smiling too, but not much. Everyone eles was filling up the space and waiting for something to happen.
"Hello Sherlock!" Molly turned and called to him.
Molly, back in a fresh white coat, she looked perfect. He could see that she was wearing jeans that day, the skinny kind which was the only kind women should wear. On himself, he hated jeans, mostly for the way they felt, and he hadn't owned a pair in years. On girls though, there he liked them. Under that lab-coat, Molly Hooper might have a cute, round bottom; who would know?
"Molly! Good morning Ms. Hooper, good to see you again."
There, he'd claimed her. He knew her, nobody eles in the room could say that.
"And you Sherlock; sleep well?"
"Not sleep; won't say that exactly." Well, what was it?
"Oh, I slept," she told the floor. She giggled. "Fell asleep soon as my head hit the pillow."
"One would hardly know you'd been out all night to look at you. You're not all baggy-eyed or anything"
Was this banter? Was this a chat?
"Hate to break this up," Lestrade sounded amused, and amazed. "We just have a few questions about exactly what you were doing here last night. Anderson says your results are a little suspect."
"Sloppy's what they are, you missed a step." Anderson practically yelled from the table. "And sloppy's fuckin' dangerous with this."
"Anderson, what happened to poor Sally out there? She looked too miserable to snark at me. I assume you did something horrible to her. "
Molly needed to know that the man who'd been chatting so cozily with her was horrible to women.
Anderson looked away quickly.
"Which is not what we'd expect from you." Lestrade talked as if he was standing between two fighting brothers. Just like Sherlock's own mother, a peacekeeper.
"My answer isn't sloppy, it just what happens if you change one thing. I did exactly what I meant to do. You just don't like my answer because it doesn't tell you what you assumed it would. My answer means work."
"We just have to check that answer for ourselves. That's why we're here."
One thing Sherlock had learned from living with his brother was that reasonable looked better than histrionics. Time to be the adult, before Anderson tried doing the same.
"Okay, check away. I'll show you what I got and how I got there/ Do you want to bother Molly here for a fresh body""
Sherlock knew that was plain unfair, dirty pool. Blood made the Inspecter vomit. He never got used to it, he puked up every time. Sally said it was sweet that somebody still cared, but she didn't say it in a kind way.
"I don't have one, not yet." Molly had turned to her work. Lestrade gave a little jump, like he'd forgotten she was there, "not the kind you'd need."
"What's the kind he'd need?" Was Anderson mocking her?
"A female, age 25-35, drug-free. Wasn't that it?"
"Good memory," he wanted to hug her, for two reasons. Could this bring them together?
"Were you here last night Ms. Hooper?" Lestrade again.
Molly was looking at the floor. She was twisting her hair. Maybe she didn't like crowds either.
"I had the night-shift, so I was here until three. Sherlock came in at almost eleven."
"That's a long time. And here you are again."
"Yes."
"Tired?"
"Yes."
"You're new right?"
Why was Anderson going after her? Bastard!
"I just started this week."
"Miss Hooper was very helpful. She provided me with the perfect subject very quickly. Stop bullying her, you idiot!" Sherlock was not going to let them tear her to bits.
Truth was, he always enjoyed yelling at Anderson. He'd just look at him with those blank eyes, not defending himself.
"Did he tell you why he needed it?" He just kept going at her, stupid, cruel bastard.
"Said he wanted to run some experiments on the adrenal glands of a freshly dead woman. He said he was doing it to help you."
"To help us, really?" Lestrade was looking right at Sherlock.
"That's what he said."
"Did he tell you anything about these experiments?"
"No. He seemed like he was working very hard, like he knew what he was doing. He kept things very clean."
"So, he keeps it neat, and seems to know what he's doing?"
His tone mocked her, and she looked like she was starting to doubt herself. "That's what I saw.."
Sherlock caught her eye. He mouthed the words, "thank you."
"So Sherlock, your young friend brought you what you asked for. She says you seemed very diligant, and kept your work-space clean. Nobody but you knows what you were doing."
"I guess that we need to see those results." Lestrade broke in again, and for once Sherlock didn't resent him for it.
Sherlock knew that they would ask, but he hadn't expected it would take them this long. He just handed them over. It was all there, he would just let them take it in and see how right he was.
"Alright, I want to have a coffee." Molly sounded stronger than she had. Confident, or maybe just desperate to leave. "Anybody else want one?"
Sherlock wanted to go with her. In the river of moving people flowing to the cafeteria, he could tell how brave she'd been. He could thank her, he could apologize.
He moved toward her, she waited.
"You're staying, you're sitting down." Anderson called out.
Sherlock called our over his shoulder, "Of course I am. I just wanted to make sure Molly heard me. You know Molly, black two sugars."
He smiled, holding up two fingers like a peace-sign. Maybe she'd laugh, like it was their little joke.
When he sat back down, the other two might joke about his new friend. His alibi for the evening was practically a school-girl. Was this he trusted? Did he expect Lestrade would take that seriously? Sherlock knew he'd have to keep it cool in front of others.
Nights would be the time with Molly. Nights, the place could be empty. That way, he could enjoy being with her surrounded by memories of sex. He could really look at her, talk to her. They could drink hospital coffee and laugh. In a daylit room, things would have to be different. No-one could know how he felt about women in lab-coats.
Sherlock Holmes didn't "like" too many people. He was furiously loyal to some few, mostly the people who could tolerate him. He saw the good in them, and admired it. He enjoyed their company, usually one person at a time. He wanted to protect them. It was easier for him to be needed by someone than to need someone There were people he cared about in his own way, but sometimes they didn't even know it. Maybe Molly would figure it out.