A/N: Sorry to keep you all in suspense. THIS is the scene you've all been waiting for! I hope that it's up to your expectations! :D
Thanks all for your lovely reviews. More feedback is always appreciated!
Molly had practiced what she was going to say for the whole cab ride to Baker Street, forming the words silently, trying to infuse her demeanor with a courage she was far from feeling.
You'll be able to do it. You'll be great. You can do this.
That's what she'd been telling herself since she walked out her own front door, leaving a skeptical Toby behind her.
That's what she'd reassured herself with as she leaned back against the faux-leather covered seat of the taxi.
That's what she'd sworn to as she marched up the streets of 221B.
That's what had utterly, completely, entirely left her as soon as John opened the door and she found herself in the same room with Sherlock Holmes.
The man who barely ever looked at her but to find a flaw.
The man who had manipulated her and stolen from her.
The man whom she loved.
Molly's throat was dry, and her jaw seemed paralyzed. She was pretty sure that she couldn't' have said a single syllable, even if she had tried.
Robbed of one ability, she found her perception sharpened to almost painful heights. Not unlike a certain other hyper-observant person, she began to notice everything about the scene—John's kind face, lined with patience and weariness…his eyebrows tilted slightly, like he wasn't sure what to expect.
Almost unwillingly, her eyes were drawn next to Sherlock—the object of her fury and her affection.
Am I really furious?
Yes, I am! He stole my samples.
As she steeled herself for the burgeoning confrontation, she tried to not to notice how…attractive he was. It was hard. His piercing blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her, and every filament of his finely structured, fiercely handsome face was characteristically impassive.
She had a moment's misgivings, and her stomach flipped like an acrobat hurtling between trapezes. If Sherlock felt surprised, or guilty, or nervous, it was not apparent form his expression.
"Hello, Molly," John said slowly. "…come in?"
"Thanks, I won't stay more than a moment," she murmured, and was disheartened to hear how squeaky and diminutive her voice sounded. Just like usual. Come on, Molly. Keep it together. You're in the right here.
Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot behindthe microscope, but his long, inquisitive fingers were toying with a very familiar DNA sample. His expression hadn't changed, but she felt as though she caught a hint of derision in the depths of his eyes.
He's making fun of you. He doesn't have to say a word to make you feel like nothing.
Darn it, Molly Rose Hooper! Put him in his place!
She squared her shoulders, like she'd seen her dad do a thousand times when he'd gone out on a call with his police squad. She tilted her chin and stepped forward, putting out a hand.
"Sherlock, give me back my samples."
Behind her, she could hear John's intake of breath—it spoke as clearly as though he'd said, Good Lord, here we go.
Sherlock's perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. "Your samples, Molly? They are being used in a rather crucial experiment at the moment, so accommodating such a request is not possible." His deep, rich voice sent the usual thrills over her—Gosh, I can't help it—but she wouldn't let herself give in.
"Now. I mean it."
Sherlock just leaned back in his chair slightly, surveying here with the same expression he had had a moment ago when he was peering through the lens of his microscope. "Do you mean it? Really? Evidently, you're agitated—the fact that you didn't even stop to consider the untended buildup of cat hair on your coat and the crooked fit suggests that you left in a hurry…although sartorial interests have never really been yours, have they? You've chewed all your lipstick off—another sign of nervousness, and right now, you're clenching your hands…indicating that, despite this façade of a 'meaningful' request, you are, in actuality, no more confident than usual."
He'd done it again. There was a tightness in her throat that felt like crying did. Once…just once…look at me like you care. Like you don't think I'm a silly, pitiful idiot. Just once. See me as a human being.
He couldn't—or wouldn't. She didn't know which. For a few seconds, she blinked hard and debated about whether or not she should walk away, defeated.
Yes, you should.
No, you shouldn't. It's not like you have anything to lose anyway. Certainly not his respect…
With a sudden and unexpected surge of defiance, she clenched her fists tighter. "You know what? I don't care. I don't care if the fact that my nail polish is chipped means that I'm a nervous nailbiter. I am. It doesn't matter if I wear baggy clothes because I don't like the way I look. It's true, I don't. It doesn't matter if I'm silly, and plain, and boring, and stupid. I'm the only pathologist at St. Bart's who will help you, because nobody else will put up with your behavior. I don't mean to be harsh, but you can be rude to people. Especially me. The only time you've been nice to me is when you're lying, bringing me coffee to get something you want or complimenting me on my hair or makeup to get a favor. And you know what? I'm sick of it. So we're done. See how far you get without the help of someone who has a real, actual, boring job. Go find your own DNA samples, Sherlock, for your crucial experiments." She reached forward and snatched the whole pack, right out of his hands. "But I'll have mine back now."
She paused, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide and she knew that she was probably chalk white or bright red—or perhaps some a mix of the two, which would make for an odd combination.
What had she just done? Her fingers, clutching the rescued samples, felt icy cold. Oh goodness, I just 'talked back' to Sherlock Holmes.
Mousey Molly was regaining control, but it was too late for timidity. The room was superbly silent. John had his mouth hanging open, but Molly thought he actually looked pleased, like he was saying, "It's about time."
Sherlock was motionless, staring at her. There were no emotions to be read in his keen eyes, but she sensed that he was looking at her with interest, real interest, for the first time.
She knew herself too well to believe that she could withstand that gaze for much longer. She would melt right in front of him, stumble out some foolish words about how she was sorry, even—heaven forbid!—hand him back the samples with all the dignity of a penitent puppy.
Mousey Molly was ready to do all of this. But the other Molly—the Molly who had watched her father walk out the door every morning with a fearless stride, who had paid her way through university, who had not come all this way to lose her job over a bag of stolen DNA samples and a pair of ice-blue eyes—was not going to stand for it.
So before she could do anything stupid and utterly destroy the moment, she turned and walked out, clutching the samples. She walked past Sherlock—still speechless (what a shock!)—and John, who had begun to smile, past Mrs. Hudson, who had shown up at some unknown point and who, from her astonished expression, had listened to the whole tirade…past them all and down the stairs of 221B.
She had set her hand on the knob of the front door and was just turning it when she heard footsteps above.
And then—to her complete shock, she heard a familiar voice saying, "Molly—wait!"