A Good Old-Fashioned Fairytale

Because every modern soul needs a good old-fashioned story.

old-fashioned: /ˌəʊld ˈfæʃ(ə)nd/

-in or according to styles or types no longer current

So what happens when the modern times patterns itself to the stories of old?

Chapter 4:

The Spell's Hold

Just like every other day of the week, she's in her beloved morgue, content with being alone. Just like every other day, she takes in new members of her little circle of friends, creepy as that may sound. Just like every other day, she feels that conflict inside her whenever a new friend is wheeled in, one where she can't decide whether to be sad for another death or glad for another post-mortem. Just like every other day, she accidentally glances at the clock and wonders where the day has gone.

But unlike every other day, she doesn't catch herself glimpsing at the door, hoping to see it swing open and reveal the three people that make her after-hour shifts at the morgue more exciting. Unlike every other day, she doesn't feel a second conflict inside her, one where she either wishes to see the great Sherlock Holmes tonight or pray that he'd leave her heart in peace and not show up. Unlike every other day, her thoughts are not divided.

Not today.

Her whole being is focused into hoping that there are not interesting cases or experiments that the Holmes-Watson-Morstan (soon to be Watson) trio needs to solve or perform today. At least not one they would need her for. No, all she wants is for the clock to strike 7:30 and signal her day over. All she wants today is to put on her coat, she won't even remove her lab coat if that saves her time, march out the doors without anyone stopping her, walk as quickly as she could so she could avoid any surprises, avoid Sherlock Holmes, and see him instead.

Him. The person who, bit by bit, makes her feel like she can do this. Whatever this may be. She glows, she's been looking forward to this all week. Only seven minutes to go before she can rush out of here and see the man that might have a fighting chance at helping her get over Sherlock Holmes. The only man that might compare.

After all, both him and her had been victims of love and circumstance. She's known him and his story for such a long time now and he understands her better than any other, strengthening her belief that if she ever had a chance of being happy despite living in constant pain, she'd find it in him.

If she thinks about it, one of the main reasons she's not wallowing in her unrequited love for the CEO-by-day super-sleuth-by-night is him. Just seeing him and being in his presence, it makes her feel lighter somehow. She wishes she could see him every day of the week, but considering they spend their hours in two different hospitals, it wouldn't be plausible. Today is the one day of the week that they get to spend time with each other, hence, the excitement. Four minutes more…

She'd hear his voice again. Not the deep, mysterious baritone her heart stops to, but a gentle firm voice that her heart gets massive comfort from. So far, it hasn't been enough to drown Sherlock's completely, but she hopes someday it will be.

She sighs in relief as she sees the minute hand hit the number 6. This might probably be the only day of the week when she's eager to leave the comfort of her morgue, and she casts one last sweeping glance at the room to make sure everything's in order before walking towards the doors. One hand on the coat rack, one hand on the light switch, her entire brain focused on getting to him… and the doors swing open.

So close.

She moves herself instinctively to avoid getting hit by the door, her body and her mood deflating rapidly.

"Ah, Molly!"

And there he is, Sherlock Holmes, in all his confident glory. John Watson follows closely behind, his face a mixture of frustration and gentle apology towards her and she knows that he tried to stop Sherlock from marching into her morgue after her shift. She gives him an it's okay, I know how he is look before noticing that Mary isn't with them: Probably busy arranging the last minute details or passed out from the exhaustion of doing so. Meaning, she's going to have a much more difficult time trying to convince Sherlock to postpone whatever this visit is for and let her go.

Great.

She realizes that she's been standing there like a post while Sherlock was already picking up her clipboard from the table. She turns to them, not knowing how to start.

"Sh-sherlock…" Yes, that's great Molly. Start with a stutter. You idiot.

He looks directly at her and just like every other time, she feels like her body is being spellbound. His glance doesn't linger on her for too long though, his eyes darting back to her clipboard without so much as a good evening. His lips open to speak and she doesn't notice that she's holding her breath: One word and she'll probably freeze and melt at the same time. "Molly, I need you to wheel out body number 000-394 tonight. I have to check Mr. Antoine's knees." There. Frozen on the outside, melted mess of a puddle on the inside. Like some sort of bizarre dessert.

A tiny part of her brain resumes function, and she thinks of him waiting for her and it gives her a speck of courage, enough to open her mouth and speak. "I have p-plans…?" Apparently not enough courage to speak like a normal human being. Her statement comes out a question and she absolutely hates herself for that.

He doesn't even look up to acknowledge the silent I can't assist you tonight, Sherlock beneath the three-word question-statement she had just muttered. Instead, he takes off his coat and places it on the back of the chair by her desk, ignoring John's heavy look of disapproval. "Sherlock, she said she has plans. Can't we just come back tomorrow?"

"Why would we? We're already here, it'll be most impractical to leave just to come back tomorrow for the same purpose." He flips though her logbook casually, as if occupying himself while she what he asked. "Molly, body number 394."

John looks at her, awkwardly standing there, obviously trying to think of what to say to counter the man who seemed to command the English language. He decides to give it one more try, just to help the poor girl. "Sherlock, her shift's over. You can't just expect her to stay!"

He really is starting to get bored, turning his attention to other files in her desk drawers. "Why not?"

The shorter man looks at him as if to say I just gave you a reason! but he stops himself, rolling his eyes and deciding to use a different tactic. "Come on, Sherlock. Mary called me a while ago to tell me that she's doing her round of calls to all the wedding personnel tonight. Let's just go help her threaten the caterers, okay?" At Sherlock's lack of response, he fights the urge to just beat him up then drag his unconscious body back to the Holmes estate, an urge that comes quite often, but he keeps his smile up for at least one more attempt. "She also told me to keep you away from her until the wedding. Want to go annoy her? I know you love doing that." Sorry Mary… I love you but you can hold your own against Sherlock better than Molly can.

Much to John's annoyance, the pseudo-detective barely acknowledges his suggestions, opting instead to just continue flipping through random files, obviously waiting for the pathologist to move and get him the body. The two doctors share a look, actually, it's more of John apologizing to Molly through his eyes, and Sherlock, tired of the idleness that has befallen them for thirty seconds now, turns to the still-speechless woman by the door. "This is starting to bore me terribly, Molly, and I must insist that you not make me repeat myself after this. Wheel out body three-hundred and ninety-four."

After that, what else could she do but hide under a smile and obey?

Note: And there it goes, the author hopes that this sets the initial tone of the existing Hooper-Holmes and Hooper-Watson relationships, combining canon and headcanon in this semi-alternate universe. What does the reader think? Reactions are always appreciated in all that one does, and most of the time, anticipated.

Also, the author had alluded (or all-too-obviously referred) to another rather influential British masterpiece (at least, a masterpiece in her opinion) in this chapter. She would not be ashamed to admit that she is slightly interested in whether the reader had caught the reference or not. Anyone?