Chapter Four: Just Friends
The git was right where she knew he'd be, behind a microscope studying slides as if he hadn't just trampled some innocent girl's feelings into dust. Well, not innocent, Molly mentally amended, but still undeserving of such harsh treatment. She slammed the door to the lab as she came in, hoping to at least put a jolt into his unruffled demeanor. Instead, all Sherlock did was calmly make a note in his little black notebook before replacing the slide he'd been looking at with another.
And, with that, any remaining guilt she'd had for striking him all those months ago was gone. He'd be lucky if he escaped without her hitting him now. Wanker.
Smug, beautiful wanker, but wanker nonetheless.
"Is this where you slap me again?"
Had he read her mind? Sometimes, it seemed like he could. Molly ignored his obvious dig as she shrugged on her lab coat.
Sherlock, however, seemed determined to remain in control of the conversation. "You're late."
"No."
That brought him from behind his microscope. He peered at her as if confused. "No? I've been sitting here for almost fifteen minutes. You are definitely late."
"No, as in we're not going to sweep this under the rug and pretend it didn't happen. Do you have any idea the damage you've done? I couldn't even get Meena to talk to me."
"Good. Stay away from her. No need to thank me."
"Thank you?" she echoed. "Are you mad? You reduced my dearest friend to a puddle of tears and you think I should be grateful?"
"Haven't you been paying attention? She wasn't your friend. I proved that. And, yes, you should be grateful. I saved you a lot of trouble." Sherlock's tone indicated he believed himself to be the injured party. He went back to his slides, muttering to himself in the whiny tone she'd once found adorable. "Honestly, this is worse than John with his revolving door of twit girlfriends. Each one more tedious and insipid than the last. I tried to tell him they were hopeless, but did he listen? No. I don't know how he managed to find Mary all on his own. A miracle, if you ask me."
Molly remembered all the times John had complained about Sherlock being rude to his girlfriends as well as all the times Sherlock had wailed about John bringing round some new totty he thought was particularly horrid. She'd known then that it wasn't merely jealousy which had Sherlock acting this way. It was more a protective measure he'd employed for his friend. Molly had tried to explain to John on more than one occasion.
"What are you saying?" he'd asked. "That Sherlock is operating like some kind of x-ray machine for my girlfriends to see if they're a bomb about to blow up on me?"
"Yes," she'd replied. "Right in one!"
John hadn't believed her. Or, at least, he hadn't taken her seriously enough not to stop being furious whenever Sherlock practiced his x-ray technique on the next unsuspecting prospective lover. Nevertheless, Molly'd always believed her theory to be sound. Could the consulting detective be employing the same measure with her? Why would he even care? Meena wasn't a potential romantic partner; she was a friend. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to deduce Tom in the few times the men had been in the room together. Truthfully, he seemed to avoid her former betrothed like the plague.
"You're wrong about Meena. She's a good person."
He scoffed. "You think that about everyone, which reminds me. I've decided to take you under my wing. It's time you had a proper education on how to stop your incessant need to see the world through the eyes of a Disney princess. That's a liability which will get you killed one of these days, or, worse, heartbroken."
"Did you just imply heartbreak is worse than dying?"
"Yes. So?"
"How would you know?"
That threw him, to be sure. She watched him, curious to see what his expression might give away. There were few gifts she had to combat Sherlock's powers of deduction or his overall brilliance of mind. But there was very little he could hide from her if she was observing him like this. She always somehow managed to see beyond the façade he usually hid behind. It wasn't a power she showed off too often. If he ever knew how much she could truly intuit from his expressions, he'd probably never come near her again. Thus, she often kept her findings to herself. Still, on more than one occasion they had proven helpful at giving insight into the mind and heart—Yes, he had one—of Sherlock Holmes.
Besides a wariness in his frown, he gave nothing away. He opened his mouth as if to ask her a question and then seemed to think better of it. He returned to the microscope, busying himself with work. Molly turned away from him and went over to her desk. She picked up where she'd left off before going to meet Meena, who she endeavored to deal with tomorrow.
She was signing off on the third report when he finally spoke.
"I wasn't wrong. Meena isn't your friend. She uses you as a measuring stick. As long as you are lonelier and worse off than she is, she's OK. The second you have something that she deems only worthy of her, she seeks to take it away."
She hated how much what he was saying seemed true. How happy had Meena been to take her in after the demise of her relationship with Tom? She'd almost … reveled in it. Molly had thought at the time that it was an effort to raise her spirits, but now she wasn't as sure. Still, there was more to it than that. Meena wasn't perfect. No one was. But she had her good qualities as well. Molly focused on those and endeavored to get to the bottom of the rest when and if she ever got to talk to Meena again. "Don't talk about what you don't understand."
"I understand friendship."
"Really?" She looked up at him with a glare. "Does it matter that, in hurting Meena, you humiliated me or that you caused needless strife between two women who have been close for over a decade? Is that the actions of you being my friend?"
"I never said I was your friend."
This time, it felt like he'd slapped her. Molly let out a shallow breath and looked away so he wouldn't notice the tears threatening. The silence between them was filled with a host of unsaid things. Molly clenched her jaw and dove into another report, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to run from the room in tears, or to in any way give him the assurance that his hurtful words had struck home. Of course she and Sherlock weren't friends. How could she have been stupid to think so? Sure, she'd helped him fake his death, assisted him a million different times in a million different ways since she'd met him. But to the great Sherlock Holmes, all of these things did not make them friends.
She'd knew he'd never choose her as a romantic partner. That was bad enough. But all the time they'd spent together, all the work they'd accomplished, and the trials they had endured, she had at least thought she'd earned a place in his inner circle. She wouldn't be his girlfriend, but she could be his friend. Somehow, she told herself more times than she wanted to remember, that would be enough. Sherlock had so few friends. It would be an honor to be considered one. She counted. She counted amongst his friends. That was much more than many people could claim.
Except she didn't count. Not really.
"I've upset you?" he asked quietly.
She jumped, unprepared for the fact that he'd moved to stand near her. The body heat emanating from him brushed against her arm, causing the little hairs to rise. She gave a dismissive wave. "It's fine."
"Molly, I—You see, I—"
She kept her eyes firmly on the work in front of her. "I don't know what I was thinking. Why would someone like you ever consider me a friend? I'm just a … a pathologist, a work colleague, a pliable tool to use when you need it."
His hand reached out, his touch nearly searing her skin briefly before she snatched away. "Don't. Just don't," she said. She rose from her desk, shoving past him and walking a few steps away before she flipped about to face him. She needed the space, needed him firmly out of reach—just as he always was and how he always would be. Her frustration and anger towards him was growing, but there was additional amount aimed at herself. When would she learn? Maybe he was right. Maybe she did see the good in people too much for her own best interests. But was it really better to go around so cynical and apathetic all the time? This outlook had not served to bring him any measure of true happiness, had it?
"Molly, you're important to me. You must understand that."
"No," she said. "No, you don't get to lie to me now to try to smooth things over, fill my head with a bunch of rubbish about how I count when I clearly don't. Not really. It's fine, Sherlock. You're not my friend. I accept that. It was foolish of me to think so in the first place. I'm not John Watson or Irene Adler or even Greg Lestrade. I'm just me. Boring, old me."
"You're not. You're …" He clenched his eyes closed as though searching for the right word. Then popped back open to stare frantically at her. "You're … just different."
"I don't have a problem with being different. I never have. It took me a long time to accept myself." She glared up at him, defiantly, not daring to hide the tears welling in her eyes this time. Let him see. It was time he truly saw her. Past time. "But I have, and you or no one else is going to take that away from me. I don't need you to tell me that I'm important or that I'm different or that I count. I already know that. I'm a good person. I'm smart—maybe not as exceptional as you, but I have my own set of talents. I can do things, understand things that even you can't."
"Molly—"
"Shut. Up. Now."
His mouth snapped closed. Whether it was because of the vehemence of her tone or from surprise that she would speak to him in such a way, Molly didn't know. She didn't care. "You always have the last word. Well, not this time. This time, it's mine. Let me tell you a few things about me, Sherlock Holmes, a few things your brilliant deductions have certainly missed." She took a deep breath. "I do see the good in people. You consider it a liability. I consider it an asset. One look and you see someone's every fault. One look and I see every potential. No one is perfect. Not even you. People make mistakes, they fall short, and they need second chances. They need people like me to see the decency in them—even in its smallest quantity—to remind them of that decency and to give them a reason to want to be a better person, to try harder. Otherwise, they truly would be lost souls indeed."
She edged nearer to him. It was dangerous having him this close, but she had to make her point. He had to comprehend. "I want to see the goodness in people because, for all the ones I get wrong, all the ones who disappoint me or 'break my heart,' there is one who is everything I believed him to be and more. There is one who can overcome all the wrong he's done and make the world a better place to be. My seeing the good in him, my trusting that goodness when cold logic would have told me to turn him away, made a difference. I will never be sorry for that."
All the blood drained from his face at the implications of her words. She held his gaze, her chin cocking up at him. That's right. You, she thought. People like you desperately need people like me.
She continued, not allowing him to speak. "Meena has her failings, but she has been my friend for a long, long time. The woman you see as a vain, hanger-on who only uses me as her personal self-esteem test, is also the woman who skipped her bio midterm our first year at uni to bring me chicken soup when I got the flu. She's the one who talked to my professors and got them to let me make up the work I'd missed. She has her issues. She flirts to make herself feel more comfortable around men, and she doesn't always think before she acts or speaks. But she is my friend, one of the few I have in this world. And if you say one more word against her, I will throw you out of my lab and refuse to work with you ever again."
With that, she turned on heel and left the room. She moved down the hallway, unsure of what this would change between her and Sherlock. Would he hate her now? Or, would this just be something else he chalked up to her naiveté and silliness? Whatever happened, she didn't regret her words. She'd been right. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket to see if Meena had bothered to respond to the three texts she'd sent. So far, nothing.
Tomorrow, she told herself. I'll deal with it tomorrow. The news of the abortion had shocked Molly, but not really. Meena was always one of those people who could never be truly satisfied with what she had. She was always wondering what was over the next hill, intent on finding greener pastures. Nevertheless, Molly knew Meena should have told her what she'd been struggling with. I should have been there to lend an ear, she mentally chided herself as she entered the heart of the morgue and began to prep her next post-mortem. She's been going through all of this on her own. It's not right.
She wheeled out the next body on her list. Black female. Early twenties. Suspected suicide by drug overdose. As she took samples and worked through her protocols, she put all of it out of her mind. Sherlock, Meena, all of it. This is why she loved this work. Not only was it always a mystery to uncover—she loved puzzles—but there was also the added comfort that came from protocols and completing the same pattern of steps in an attempt to reach concrete conclusions. Working through her incisions, little mysteries within the body were uncovered. Pregnant. Barely a few weeks. Focusing on the organs gave her further insight. Last meal was chicken, rice, and vegetables. Removing the heart, she weighed it. Healthy. No former signs of drug-related damage. The lungs, kidneys, and liver corroborated this theory. In fact, the longer she worked, the more Molly became certain this suicide was hardly that.
It was as she'd moved lower that she heard him come in. She sighed, putting down the scalpel she'd been holding and looking up at him. He entered the room at his usual pace, stopping only when he was a few feet from the long, metal table between them.
"I'm sorry," he began, swallowing nervously. "I would … if you want … I would like to be your friend. Would that … be agreeable to you?"
A myriad of thoughts rushed her brain all at once, but only one made it out of her mouth. "Sherlock, if this is about what I said, it doesn't matter. We don't have to—We can remain as we were. It's fine. I don't want you do this because of a guilty conscience. It's better if—"
"Molly," he interrupted, a small grin quirking the side of his mouth. "I'm a sociopath. We don't have consciences, remember?"
She laughed. She couldn't help it. Having her words from before so wittily turned against her was humorous. He joined in on the laugh, his rich, deep voice blending so well with hers. It was at times like this, when he was unguarded and so at ease with himself and her, that she loved him best. At times like this, she knew why she was destined to love him for the rest of her life. It all made sense. He was wonderful and good and caring and so, so clever.
The laughter ended as an air of seriousness returned. "Well?" he asked, his ever-shifting eyes giving away his nervousness.
"Yes," she said, a light, happy feeling hitting her. "I would like that."
"John will probably offer you his condolences when he finds out," he commented. "He often complains I'm not the easiest friend to have."
"I know."
He gave a swift nod, his usual expression of seriousness sliding into place as he clasped his hands behind him and surveyed the body lying before him. "Lestrade has a case involving three bodies found in an arson fire. The building was condemned, and the room they were found in was locked from the inside and without windows. I've brought samples and need tests run to verify my assertions." There was a pause. "Will you help me?"
It was his complete sincerity which left her smiling. "Give me fifteen minutes," she replied. "I just need to finish up here."
He leaned down, studying the female's fingertips. "Suspected suicide?"
"Yes, they claimed drug overdose—"
"No," he swiftly countered, "murder."
"Yes, I'd already worked that out. Fifteen more minutes, and I can prove it."
They shared a look. Something glinted in his eyes, something she'd never seen from him before. It was an odd, almost feral expression. Not anger or frustration at having his moment of deduction glory stolen. This was something earthier, and strangely heated. If he'd been anyone else, she would have immediately thought he wanted to shag her. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and she was Molly Hooper. The day he desired her sexually would never come.
As quickly as it had flared, the expression was doused and gone. He cleared his throat, nodded his head, and told her he would be waiting back at the lab when she finished. Then, he swept from the room. Molly blinked, unsure of what had just happened. Whatever it was, it wasn't what she'd initially thought. She knew that. That was ridiculous. She and Sherlock were friends. That was all it would ever be. It was fine. After all, it was more than she'd had a few minutes ago. She'd take it.
Just friends. That was enough. Wasn't it?
