"Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock," Molly choked out in utter mortification.
Sherlock took hold of both Molly's shoulders, steadying her. "Molly, what's wrong? I'm going to call John, have him come over right away to examine you."
"No, no, I'm fine, Sherlock."
"You're not fine, clearly. I'm calling John," he said as he took out his mobile phone.
Molly took hold of the phone. "Really, Sherlock. Please don't call John. I'm alright, I promise."
Sherlock looked as though he completely doubted Molly, but he lowered his mobile phone for the moment. "Then explain to me why you've just taken ill if you're fine." He seemed almost angry that Molly kept insisting that she was fine despite the evidence all over the front of him along with her ashen complexion and her increasing blush, the blush being the result, he deduced, of her unnecessary embarrassment.
"I will explain," she promised, "but first let's get you some scrubs to put on. Ok?"
"Fine, but I reserve the right to call John if I see fit."
"Sherlock, I'm in a hospital. Even if I was sick, we don't need to involve John." He didn't look convinced, but he nonetheless let her lead him to the linen supply closet to pick out some clean scrubs. While he dressed, Molly stewed in her own abject misery.
Sherlock emerged from the locker room looking determined and worried. "Ok, Molly. Explain now or I call John."
"I'm so sorry. I'll pay for dry-cleaning."
"For God's sake, I don't give a shit about my clothes. Molly, what's going on? I've never seen you so much as sneeze before."
"It's nothing physical, Sherlock. It's just been . . . I don't know how to . . . that is to say, I . . . "
"Molly, pick a sentence and finish it, please."
"Mycroft was here."
Sherlock looked confused. "I'm sure Mycroft has made many a woman's stomach turn; however, I don't think even he warrants projectile vomiting. What was he doing here and what does he have to do with your being sick?"
Molly's face betrayed her sadness. She said as delicately as she could, "He had remains he needed identifying." At first, the information didn't connect for Sherlock and he appeared momentarily confused. But he quickly grasped the situation.
"Victor."
"Yes."
"I see." After an awkward pause, he continued, "And did Mycroft explain the whole . . . "
"Yes, yes, he did," she said, interrupting him. "Everything, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I should have let you explain when you came the other night."
Sherlock looked suddenly irate. "Mycroft had no right to burden you with this, with any of this." Sherlock couldn't look at Molly. On the one hand, he desperately wanted her comforting sympathy, but, on the other, he was equally angry with himself for so wanting it, for wanting to pull her back into his life, back into "The Sherlock Holmes Experience" and all its attendant misery.
"No, it's good. It's important that I know." She caressed his arm tenderly. "I can't pretend to understand what it's been like for you, but I, um . . . " Her voice caught in her throat.
"But, in any case, another pathologist can take your duties today. You've been ill. You need to go home."
"Let me work on Victor's bones. I want to do this for his family and for you, Sherlock."
"You don't owe me anything, Molly."
"Yeah, ok, but let me give his family peace. They've waited so long, not knowing." Even Sherlock couldn't argue with that. Molly continued, "I'm going to fast-track the DNA results from the bones. Try to get that done as soon as possible. Ok?"
Sherlock nodded. "But then you are going home. No arguments."
"It's going to be a long day, Sherlock. I have several corpses to examine." Sherlock looked as though he wanted to argue with her. Molly put up a finger to stop him. "You have your work and I have mine, Sherlock Holmes. And I intend to do it. No arguments."
He gave up. "Fine, then I have spleens to examine." She smiled, having apparently won an argument with Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock, for his part, merely glowered unhappily in response.
And so Molly went to work.
Everything on Molly ached by the end of her day. She had completely lost track of time. She hadn't stopped for dinner or even sat down for more than five minutes at a time. All that remained of her day was paperwork and that could wait until tomorrow. A hot bath and takeaway sounded like heaven.
She shuffled wearily down to the lab to fetch her things and finally be off for the day. Upon opening the door to the lab, she was shocked to see Sherlock still at the microscope. He looked up as she entered and she looked at the clock. It read 8:30. She had been here for twelve and a half hours. And he had been here for eight of them. How engrossing could spleens be?
"Oh, good Lord, Sherlock, why are you still here? I love spleens as much as the next person, but really . . . go home, Sherlock."
"I could say the same to you, Dr. Hooper. Go home."
"I am."
"Good. Mind if I walk you out?"
"Suit yourself."
They both readied to leave. Sherlock admired Molly's resolve and dedication to her profession, but he still didn't like to see her this tired and worn out. They walked out of St. Bart's in companionable silence. He was aware of his odd and unexpected desire to take hold of her hand as they walked. You're ridiculous, he thought.
At the curb outside the hospital, Sherlock offered to hail a cab.
"No, that's alright," she protested. "You can get one for yourself. I'm only a few streets away and I've been cooped up all day. I'd like the walk and the fresh air."
"Then I'll walk with you."
"That's really not necessary, Sherlock."
"You've had your way all day, Molly Hooper. I will walk you home."
"Fine." And they started toward her apartment, walking in silence once more. Molly finally broke the silence: "So, how are your parents coping?"
"Not well. They are very angry with Mycroft, as you could well imagine. Mycroft and I met with them yesterday. It was . . . emotional."
"I should think so. To not know, all these years. Can they see her?"
"Perhaps, for the all the good it will do. Mycroft says she's completely shut down—no words, no eye contact, so sign of what's going on inside that brain of hers. I promised I'd fly down to Sherrinford tomorrow to visit, see if I can reach her somehow."
Molly nodded and they spoke no more until they reached the front door to her flat.
"Thank you for ignoring my wishes and walking me home, Sherlock, I . . . "
"I'm coming up." The straight-forwardness of Sherlock's statement surprised her and left her unable to offer any argument at first.
"Well, I . . . " But Sherlock whizzed past her and opened the front door himself and then motioned her inside, leaving her no option but to follow him. They both entered the flat and Sherlock shut the door behind them. Molly immediately offered to make them both tea.
"No." Again, his forcefulness left Molly unable to form any coherent response. "No, I'll make the tea. But first I'll draw you a bath. And while you're bathing, I'll order takeaway."
"Sherlock, that's really . . . "
"Molly," Sherlock said with more force and emphasis than she'd ever heard him use before, "go get undressed." She flushed at this and he reciprocated with his own blush. "And I'll get your bath ready." What could she do but cooperate? So she shuffled off toward her bedroom as Sherlock walked toward the bathroom.
Sherlock turned on the tap and searched Molly's toiletries until he found bubble bath and poured some in the tub. It wasn't long before the bathroom started to steam up and Sherlock turned off the tap. As he started to straighten up to leave and go make the tea, he spotted Molly's shampoo. He just couldn't resist. He picked it up, opened the cap, and inhaled deeply the strawberry-scented liquid.
He turned to see Molly, robed, standing in the doorway. "I thought you hated that shampoo."
Sherlock stood up, slightly embarrassed. "For me, um, yes, but it smells good on you. Is Chinese food OK?"
"Yes, that would be lovely. Menus are in the . . . "
"I know where they are and I know what you like." He brushed past her in the doorway. "I'll make the tea."
The food ordered and on the way to being delivered and the tea made, Sherlock approached the door to the bathroom. "Molly? I have some tea for you. Would you like some now?"
"Um, yes, that would be nice, I suppose."
Sherlock was hesitant as he slowly opened the bathroom door. Even though he couldn't see anything but Molly's one bare knee sticking out from the bubbling water, just the knowledge that she was naked under there made his cock twitch. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was doing all this for Molly or for his own selfish reasons. He handed her the teacup and hastily retreated back into the living room so as to avoid having a full-blown erection.
A short time later he heard Molly exit the bathroom and, moments after that, the buzzer ring to signal the delivery of the food.
Over dinner, the conversation was light. Molly asked about his spleen experiments, about the renovation schedule for 221B, and about how he liked living with John and an infant until the renovations were completed. It was all nice, friendly, and companionable, she thought.
"Sherlock, thank you for all this. Tonight. But you really needn't try so hard. I so forgive you. Completely. I didn't have all of the context. It's alright. I'll be alright."
"That's what you think this is about? Getting you to forgive me?"
"Well, yes, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't. You should know by now that I am a selfish creature and that everything I do has an ulterior motive."
A crease appeared on Molly forehead, a measure of her confusion. "And what is your ulterior motive here?"
"Well, apparently I'm doing a horrible job of it if you don't realize I'm trying to seduce you, Dr. Hooper."
