My humor began to dry… Again, many thanks to kind propoise-song. XD
Chapter Three
Life sucked and Molly understood this perfectly well. It first showed its devilish horn by giving Molly all kinds of not-the-best-boyfriend-of-the-year, e.g. fireman who set St. Bart's on fire to play hero, a drug dealer who hid ecstasy inside a body bag to transport, and a gun lover who gave her a GLOCK18 as a birthday gift. Apparently, those were not enough for Fate, that bitch, so she sent Molly the very, very asexual you-know-who and the very, very gay Glee/bomb-lover.
It wasn't until she and Sherlock swapped bodies that Molly realized how fucked up her life had been.
Sherlock got the extraordinary intelligence, the handsome looks, and the sexy voice. Molly knew some people were born lucky. Every time Sherlock acted like he was the only one in the room with a brain, Molly comforted herself that Sherlock must have a weakness somewhere, such as a small penis.
It turned out…No, not small at all, not even compared to all the penises she had seen…during autopsies.
Presently, at the moment, Molly was naked, staring into the mirror.
Molly had imagined that under the posh suit and shirt, Sherlock would look like a Greek statue, pale and flawless. The truth was that Sherlock had a scar on his abdomen which absolutely increased his virility along with six abdominal muscles. Sherlock's long legs seemed to go everywhere and look at the hip…
Molly turned left and spanked it.
…so tight and bouncy.
How could life be so bloody unfair?
A strong feeling of envy and fury crossed Molly's mind and she promptly took it out by spanking hard on Sherlock's the other half hip.
"The name's Sherlock." Molly imitated Sherlock's serious expression and tone "I am the world's only consulting…" Molly's hand flew through the air as if it held a riding crop "…dominant."
She even mocked the crack of the whip.
Molly knew she should blush, feel shameful, quickly get dressed, and pretend that she didn't stare at Sherlock's cock for one hour like a nymphomaniac. But, hey, who knew what Sherlock was doing with her body?
A small voice in her mind whispered "He will test the shapes of wounds kitchen utensils can leave on you and put your head into a microwave."
Molly shivered with fear. The image of herself putting her head into the pink microwave with Toby aside using his fuzzy claw to press the button frightened her.
While she put on the underwear, it suddenly occurred to her:
"Does this count as masturbating?"
Sherlock wheeled out Mary Ann Nichols, forty-three years of age. Her face was bruised and she was reported as being stabbed in abdomen.
"Oh, I remember her. She was found in the region where other muggings have also been reported. She struggled and probably got the mugger angry and hence killed her", Detective Inspector Lestrade recollected, so sure of himself.
Sherlock snorted.
"Excuse me?" Lestrade didn't expect Molly to behave like that.
"Sorry, I caught cold", Sherlock quickly explained. "The wound was clearly caused by a bullet."
"But there was no bullet or trace of gunpowder found." Lestrade had had the suspicion, too. But after searching around the crime scene and the report came out, he eliminated the possibility. "Also the blood at the crime scene had a radius more than one millimeter so it fell at medium speed so the cause of death must be stabbing."
"Look at the photo. Idi…" Sherlock stopped at that word and coughed, "Didn't it occur to you that the blood was too diluted?"
"Diluted? No…" Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave Lestrade a small test tube of blood. "Oh, I see what you mean. A bit diluted", he observed as he swished the blood around.
A bit? That was far more than a bit. Sherlock was a bit frustrated. "For a wound which is two millimeter in radius, that's too diluted." Sherlock wondered how people couldn't see such obvious fact.
"What's that then? Not real blood? Not Mary Ann Nichols' blood?" Lestrade questioned. Sherlock could almost see many flows of theories flying through Lestrade's head. Unfortunately, none of them were correct.
"Mary Ann Nichols' blood had extra water." Sherlock handed Lestrade a test report. If Lestrade asked where Sherlock got the blood sample, Sherlock would blame "Sherlock" and Lestrade would leave innocent "Molly" alone and lecture naughty "Sherlock" for fifteen minutes. He didn't even have to lie.
"How come there was more water?" Lestrade still didn't get it. Sometimes Sherlock really wanted to smack on his head.
"With extra water, it was more than one millimeter. Without water, it was not." Sherlock warned himself that he was Molly now and Molly was patient. Still he couldn't help it when "It's a bullet which killed Mary Ann Nichols, not a stupid knife" exploded from his lips.
Lestrade eyed Sherlock, "You sound like Sherlock."
"Not the point!" Sherlock then wildly swung his arms. "An ice bullet you idiot!"
Ta da!
A light bulb dinged above Lestrade's head. "Yes, that does explain everything. Mary Ann Nichols was found immediately so the water hadn't evaporated. Good job, Molly!"
What? Good job? No "You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock"? Or "That's insane, Sherlock"? Not even a "Bollocks"?
How come being Molly make it easy for Lestrade to believe?
Sherlock didn't get that. Maybe he would ask Molly later along with where did she get that take-away he ate all last night. Hmm…
"There was also another victim, a Martha Tabram, found dead on the same day. She was shot once in the head and twice in the chest, but no bullet was found at the crime scene." Lestrade cupped his chin in thought. "Same murderer?"
That was new. Sherlock was now becoming very interested. "Maybe you should text Sherlock," Sherlock "kindly" and "coyly" suggested. "He's really adept at the strange cases ." He wasn't lying about that either.
"I'm not sure", Lestrade hesitated.
"You're willing to sacrifice a poor, innocent person 'cause you have too much pride? If you call Sherlock, the murderer will be caught. That's… the important thing, right?" Sherlock "accidentally" let Molly's voice slip although he honestly didn't believe in a word of the crap he said.
"You're right." Lestrade heaved out a defeated sigh. "Thank you for your assistance. See you, Molly." Lestrade walked out of the morgue with a wave.
Less than a minute later, Sherlock's mobile buzzed with an incoming text from Lestrade informing him the details of the case.
Being Molly obviously took much fewer efforts to persuade Lestrade.
Sherlock hummed in thought and started typing out a response.
Molly picked up John at ten at the hospital. Seeing John back on walking stick really made Molly feel bad, but John seemed generally cheerful. Molly guessed it was because John had been in the military or had gotten used to getting injured since knowing Sherlock. She also suspected it had something to do with the telephone number she saw the nurse slip to John.
"So…how's your first day as Sherlock?" John asked as he ducked into the cab.
"I cleaned up and threw away some of the dead penicillin cultures" Also, I stared at Sherlock's naked body for hours before wearing your fluffy jumpers, particularly the teddy bear one and the reindeer one.
You don't want to know what else I did to your jumpers, either.
"Change of plan. Sherlock is shopping on Oxford Street and he summons us", John told the driver to go to a different destination.
"What do you mean by us? Why do I have to go?" Molly originally planned to channel Sherlock by shooting the wall with the FN P90, which was a break-up gift from the gun-heavy boyfriend. She had wanted to do that for ages but her landlady wasn't as nice as Mrs. Hudson.
"Well…consider it as a chance to be Sherlock." John scratched his head.
She already was going to be Sherlock, but it's not like she really had a choice.
Molly heaved out a sigh. "Alright, fine."
As the taxi sped to Oxford Street, a plan formulated in Molly's mind.
She was going to be Sherlock, a better one.
Taking the champagne dress that the shopping guide gave to him, Sherlock carefully observed it and shook his head.
"No, She…I look too pale."
John and Molly watched the shopping guide nod and run for another dress. A few seconds later, she ran back with a violet long dress. Sherlock frowned, "Do I look like a forty year old?" He dismissed the shopping guide with a curt wave of her hand.
"Sherlock?" John was bewildered, "What are you doing?" Molly's attention was caught by curious sights that other shop assistants shot at them.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock didn't even pay John and Molly the courtesy of looking at them. "I'm shopping."
"Why are you shopping?" Molly asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Because you don't have serviceable clothes."
"I have serviceable clothes." Molly drew herself up to her full height to seem confident.
"No, you don't." Even before digging through Molly's wardrobe, he thought that she had a horrible taste in fashion. Digging through her wardrobe only confirmed these assumptions, which was a pity as Molly did have a decent body actually looked biologically pleasant. She should be forbidden to touch those awful clothes again.
"Why do you need serviceable clothes?" John was still puzzled.
The shopping guide handed Sherlock a wine-red dress and Sherlock followed her into the dressing room while John and Molly waited by the door. "Lestrade gave me a case in which two victims were shot with ice bullets."
"Sounds fascinating, but that still doesn't explain the shopping." John frowned.
Sherlock had suddenly become strangely quiet.
"Sherlock", he sighed out in name, warily. John sensed something was not right, "Why do you need clothes for a case?"
"Why don't I? I can buy clothes. There's nothing illegal about clothes", Sherlock retorted defensively.
"Sherlock!" Ignoring other people's strange looks, John went into the dressing room and stood outside a compartment with hands on his hips. Molly looked around and gestured to the other people that she didn't know these two.
Sherlock hesitated. John would be mad and punish him with awful tea for a whole year.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, his voice clearly indicating his anger.
"The only link between two victims is that they both signed up for speed dating at the bar called 'Whitechapel'."
Immediately realizing what Sherlock was planning, John punched the door of the compartment. "You bastard."
Even on the threshold of possible death, Sherlock smirked in amusement. "You are aware that you punched the wrong door, right?"
After a few seconds of embarrassment, John knocked on the door, "Sorry, miss" and moved to the next door. He pointedly cleared his throat. "Have it occurred to you that you should discuss it with her?"
"I don't think that's necessary" Sherlock said airily. "I'm giving her full reign over my body"
"Really?" Molly squeaked rather too cheerfully.
"Being an assistant is one thing. Being bait is another." John kneaded his temple. "You can't just make a critical decision for other people", he shouted out.
"She's not the bait. I am." Sherlock tried to zip up the dress. What idiot designed zip at the back? It's so not practical.
"That's her body! You're risking her life!" John screamed.
"Actually I want…" Molly raised her hand.
"Quiet", Sherlock and John both said to.
"Okay", Molly obediently whispered with the same tone she always had when she ran to fetch Sherlock a cup of coffee.
She moved to the nearest couch and sat.
"Since when do you care about her safety? You're the one who suggested taking her." Sherlock really thought John was a hypocrite sometimes.
"Excuse me." Molly waved to a shop assistant, "May I get a glass of water?"
"Firstly, I ASKED her, Sherlock, I fucking A-S-K her." John seemed to be on the edge. "Secondly, I can't go and you will need her." The shop assistant gave her a glass of water and Molly drank it, thinking that Sherlock and John argued rather loudly.
"I still don't understand why you can't go." Sherlock lowered his head and tried to zip up forcefully. Oh God. The zip was trying to kill him.
"Because I'm injured." John sighed.
"No, not because of that." Sherlock released his hands from the zip and took a deep breath, "You're not going because you got a date that mediocre nurse. You can't at least try to come up with a better excuse."
"How…she…I…" John stammered. "Never mind. Molly is a pathologist and she can help you." John exhaled a breath to calm himself down, "Just be nice to her."
Sherlock didn't say anything. Why did John say that? He had been nice to Molly. In fact, he enjoyed Molly's company when she wasn't mooning over him like a damn schoolgirl. He held professional respect, he never insulted her (well intentionally), and he had considered Molly—not as his equal, of course—but as a highly successful test sample in human revolution. Another prosperous culture i.e. John was not as developed intellectually as Molly and was easily distracted with the whole issue of morality and tact. Under current circumstance, the second disadvantage was a blessing because whining John was barely tolerable.
Hey, look. It zipped up!
"John."
"Yes, Sherlock?" John stared straightly at the door in front of him.
"Are you still facing my door?"
"Yes, I am."
"Play some music."
"I forgot to bring my iPod."
"No, I mean play some music with your walking stick. Knock some rhythm."
"What?"
"Otherwise I will take your lovely lady to that speed date instead."
"This is ridiculous." John sighed and started to knock out 'We Will Rock You'.
The door in front of John slammed open. A girl ran out with red cheeks and tried very hard to suppress a laugh, but failed.
"What?" John was shocked. He looked around and found Sherlock behind him, "Oh…I see…"
Just for a moment, Sherlock grinned wickedly. Wishing that he would not die young under a berserk walking stick, Sherlock's expression quickly returned to neutral.
"You look… nice." John said awkwardly.
Molly went in to see how "nice" "she" looked like.
"What do you think?" Sherlock turned around.
Molly's eyes widened and pointed to Sherlock's dress with a shaking finger. "No, no, no! I'm definitely not gonna wear that!"
"Correction, you aren't, but I am." Sherlock straightened the dress and studied himself in the mirror.
"It's so…" Molly searched through her mind for the suitable word to describe, "…slutty."
"No, it's not." Sherlock lifted his hair, showing the smooth neck, and considered which hair style would fit.
Molly looked at John for help with puppy eyes. John sighed. "Is this necessary?"
"Yes. All victims were brunettes, stunning, and wore clothes like this. Or, to put it like Molly, they were sluts."
Sherlock looked at them through mirror.
"No! There was no way I can stand that. My whole body is almost naked." Molly suddenly wondered if this was some twisted karma for what she had done to Sherlock's body earlier.
Sherlock flashed Molly a patented winning smile.
Molly realized what Sherlock was trying to do and this only reminded her how pathetic and silly she had been. Instead of feeling the stupid butterflies flying inside her stomach, a fierce anger took over all of her control. "Don't you dare dress me like a whore!" Molly shouted furiously, "I swear I will get a butterfly on your butt!"
Don't you dare manipulate me again, Sherlock.
Sherlock dropped the friendly face immediately. Damn it! How could he forget? He was not in his own body now. Of course she would be immune to his charm.
"Two people are dead." John interrupted, "Whoever the murderer is, he or she is not gonna stop until he or she is caught. And it's not too bad, Molly."
"It's 'Whomever', not 'Whoever'." Sherlock murmured.
John shot him a dead look.
Sherlock shrugged. Grammar was important, wasn't it?
"Think about those innocent people, Molly."
Thank you, John! Finally, the morality was useful. Sherlock wanted to clap his hands in victory.
Molly seemed uncertain even after hearing John's words.
"It's just for one night." Sherlock's voice took on a whine.
Molly eventually, and reluctantly, agreed. No matter how mad she was at Sherlock, somehow she always ended up doing exactly what Sherlock wanted. This is the last time, Molly thought, but later she remembered she promised herself that last Friday, last Tuesday, the beginning of September and…
"Molly, pay the bill using the credit card from the left breast pocket." Sherlock dismissed her without a blink, "Don't forget to sign it as 'Mycroft Holmes'."
"Okay." Molly hoped whomever this Mycroft person (his brother, father, whomever) would not accuse her of being accomplice of a credit card fraud.
Seeing Molly run away like a rabbit, Sherlock asked John, "You may speak free now since she's gone. What do you think?"
"I'd suggest some black leather boots, Sherlock." John crossed his fingers, praying that Molly was not hearing this. "Molly is not slutty enough."
On the other side of the shop, Molly was writing down M-Y-C-R-O-F-T, when it suddenly crossed her mind that she was indeed a push-over.
