Chapter 6: A Perfect Circle
Greg Lestrade signalled for the bill, a solitary cup of coffee sitting in front of him untouched. A waiter glided over to him holding a small velvet tray. He thrust a crumpled fiver onto it and left, unwilling to endure any more pitying glances. It was all so superficial, so rehearsed. Greg supposed that was part of the training to work in a posh restaurant – now here's what to do when a loser is stood up.
At least he had resisted the many offers of wine, most of the bottles of which Greg was sure he couldn't pronounce let alone afford.
Why had Molly not come?
They had spoken on the phone that very morning, and, unless Greg's detective skills were as faulty as his love-life, she had sounded excited - hopeful even.
"Fancy a go love?"
Greg turned to the ally on his right, following the trail of the hollow voice. From beneath absurdly yellow hair, two heavily-lidded eyes, bloodshot and caked in cheap make up, focused vaguely in his direction from within the darkness. His own eyes roamed over the obvious contours of the hooker's breasts and hips, which seemed to strain desperately against their limited leather coating. Usually he found the look repulsive, yet, for some odd reason, tonight it was enticing.
"You's can do more than just look babes."
Greg did not reply, but continued to stare. He knew that engaging with prostitutes was not a rare practise amongst his colleagues, but had himself found the very idea morally repugnant. Why then, could he not tell the poor girl he was the police? Or at least get the hell away from her?
"Quiet one eh?" She winked at him. "Come 'ere love. We can share a ciggie."
He took a few steps forward until he too was bathed in the darkness of the alleyway, and extracted a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. The girl smiled flirtatiously at him.
"Why dun you light it for us honey?"
Mechanically, he lit up a cigarette and held it out to her. She pursed her lips so that they sat fatter and rounder than before, forming a perfect 'O' shape. Understanding what she wanted him to do, he placed the burning cigarette inside. She inhaled and exhaled. His breathing became heavy.
"So whatcha fancy?"
Greg blinked, and gave an honest reply. "I don't know."
"Well," said the girl, as a hand slid up his thigh, "I'm sure we can figure somefin' out."
"No." Greg grabbed the girl's hand, rather more forcefully then he had intended, and removed her from him. Initially she gasped in protest, but as he turned away she merely screeched.
"Freak!"
Greg ignored her and continued on his way home, already committing himself to forgetting the incident.
He felt sick.
As Molly bent down to pick up the clothes she had dropped, Sherlock's eyes were drawn to her bare shoulders. The freckles that ran across the stretch of pale skin were, he noticed, distributed unevenly but for a small section below her nape, where the discoloured pigments seemed to have organised themselves into a faultless circle. The symmetry was perfect.
"Just give me a few minute to change and I'll, uh, meet you in the lab."
Sherlock did not respond, aware that the adrenaline seeping through him might be too rampant to contain. He wanted to see those files now.
A few agonisingly idle minutes later, in which Sherlock had recounted the Latin names of the human anatomy in his head thrice over to keep himself calm and his thoughts organised – where was his violin when he needed it - Molly entered the lab. He could see that the T-shirt she was sporting, faded and tea-stained, was a sentimental keepsake, most likely her late father's. The fact that her hair had been tied back and away from her face told him she recognised the importance of the situation, and the smudge of conditioner under her left ear that she had rushed her shower earlier. But what he could not discern was, rather disturbingly, the expression on her face. True, the features seemed to have arranged themselves into the look of both apprehension and wonder he had become so use to, but her eyes...her eyes seemed different.
No matter. Whatever lay buried in Molly Hooper's eyes was inconsequential – excepting, of course, access to information on a certain autopsy report.
"I need to examine the post mortem of Jennifer Lyle. It was conducted here, at St. Bart's, in 1993."
"Right, well it should be on our system, but whether I can get it for you depends on – well – the nature of death."
"Asphyixiation."
"Natural causes?"
"Must you ask Molly?"
Molly seemed to shuffle on her feet uncomfortably. "Was she abused too? The bruises and stuff the same?"
"It was reportedly violent and sexual in nature, but to know more I will need to see the report."
"Was the case ever solved?"
"No."
"Oh, well Sherlock I'm really sorry but it'll still be a police matter... I'm not sure I'd get ace-"
"It wasn't unsolved either."
Molly frowned at him. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock sighed. "What I mean to say is that it was incorrectly solved, and therefore technically was never solved."
Sherlock could tell that Molly was on the brink of asking more, her lips parting slightly and her head shifting forward. Fortunately, she seemed to have detected his impatience and thought better of it.
"Okay, well I can probably get it for you then. They like us to use this kind of stuff for teaching and things."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise – a rare migration on their part.
"You teach?"
She blushed. "Only sometimes."
The dark shades beneath her eyes seemed to become more pronounced.
"Night school? I suppose your student debt is really starting to take its toll – that's the price of switching courses midway Molly. Now, the file."
Sherlock turned to the computer, sitting down on the desk chair and swiftly entering in Molly's password to unlock the screen.
"How did you –", began Molly.
"Not now." He did not have time to discuss the blatancy of the fact that her password would be Toby accompanied with the year of her father's birth.
Molly stared nonplussed as Sherlock operated her computer, sifting through private hospital documents and her own personal documents alike.
"Aha. Enter the authorisation code please Molly."
He did not move out of the way as he said this, forcing her to lean awkwardly over him to reach the keyboard. The proximity caused a wave of his scent – which always reminded Molly of mahogany wood, printed paper and rich caffeine – to wash over her, and she found herself struggling to keep her balance and concentrate on the digits she was required to enter. Miraculously, she successfully entered the code and stepped back, slightly dizzy, but still standing. Within seconds Sherlock had found the file and hit the print button – it was fifteen pages. He swivelled around on his chair.
"Molly, do you reciprocate DI Lestrade's sentiments for you?"
"Wha – I – how - I'm sorry what!"
"Do you feel for Inspector Lestrade as he feels for you?"
Molly stared. Sherlock entering into a discussion on her personal life willingly was more than just new territory – it was a new friggin' universe.
"I, uh – it's none of your business."
"On the contrary Molly, it is entirely my business."
Every fibre of her body seemed to sing, alive with a dangerous hope. "It - it is?"
"Yes. I have a great deal invested in my association with the two of you, and this could greatly alter things."
"Greatly alter things?" She echoed.
"Of course. The affair – if it is to begin, and judging from the blouse you picked out earlier that would seem likely – would have, among various dates, an expiration."
Molly always knew she was a masochist when it came to Sherlock Holmes, and therefore made the decision to utter one of the most dangerous syllables one could in his presence consciously.
"Why?"
"Neither of you are invested in the relationship, but more in what it offers."
There was a silence – the printer had stopped whirring.
"And when it did inevitably conclude," Sherlock continued, walking over to collect the documents, "I would be in a position where my Detective Inspector and pathologist couldn't cooperate. Naturally I would have to find a new Inspector and a new pathologist, which will be next to impossible as the rest of them are idiots – or at least even more idiotic. I would probably end up with the IQ equivalent of an Anderson and a Donovan."
Sherlock smiled at her, as if he had just awarded her the nicest compliment in the world.
"Yes, in short I would rather things were not greatly altered, so it really would be wonderful if you did not feel the same way as the Inspector."
Molly allowed the surge of rage and defiance to flood through her, and suddenly felt ten feet taller. "Yes, yes I do like Greg Lestrade. And I'm sorry if that may in some way disrupt your life, but everything, despite what you might think, does not revolve around you Sherlock Holmes!"
There was a long silence. Oh no, Molly thought, I shouldn't have said that. Just before she could apologise, however -
"Fantastic!" Sherlock leaped into the air, grinning maniacally from ear to ear. "Ohhh this is good Molly Hooper!"
He was staring, not at her, but at the autopsy file.
Author's note: Sorry for the delay! I wrote this chapter quite quickly after a history exam, so apologies also if it's terrible. Thanks for all the reviews so far :)
With that in mind, a few replies...
Hellscrimsonangels- Don't worry, I have big plans for Molly to, not only be strong, but committ the seemingly unfeasible and make Sherlock realise a few things he has missed.
Molly's cat Toby/Toby's cat Molly- Your reviews are not stupid at all, and I love that you saw the small Pirates of the Carribean reference! I agree with you on the Sherlock/John thing as well.
Louise89- I was so touched that you picked quotes out! I'm glad you've liked it so far :)
Zora Arian- Thank you so much, and that would really mean a lot to me if you could! Hope your exams went well!