7- This is for... dude, you know who you are. Ask and ye shall recieve.
"Stupid, arrogant son of a bitch," Molly muttered as she walked through the door of St. Barts.
There would be no prize for guessing who deserved that epithet. Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
He who called at stupid a.m and told her it was important that she come to Barts. He who said it was an emergency. He who 'forgot' to mention there was a thunderstorm brewing. He who had taken her umbrella and left her with nothing.
Molly had been caught in the torrential downpour not ten minutes from Baker Street and was soaked to the skin. Even her underwear was damp thanks to London's amazing ability to go from pea-soup fog to Noah's ark flood in three seconds flat. She shivered under her trench coat, cursing her flatmate for being the inconsiderate jerk he was.
She trudged down to the morgue, her trainers squelching against the tiled floor leaving pools of water behind her.
Molly took a deep breath before opening the door to her private sanctuary, knowing full well that she was going to need every inch of patience to deal with whatever was behind the door.
She pushed it open reluctantly and stepped inside, feeling a little better when she saw that Sherlock wasn't alone.
John Watson was not only a good friend but also had more tact and people skills than Sherlock. He also had the added benefit of being quite attractive himself. When you were called into work at 3 a.m you had to take your perks where you could.
John looked up as the door opened and his greeting smile faded when he took note of her condition.
"Sheesh, Molly, did you swim here?"
She gave Sherlock a death glare. "No, my flatmate is an arse who stole my umbrella."
"Ahh," John winced in sympathy. "I used to have one of those. My advice? Run."
"Molly, could you wheel out Mr. Ackbar?"
Molly took a deep breath. "'Hey, Molly. Thanks for coming out to help me.'"
He looked up. "What?"
"Nothing," she sighed. "I think I have a change of clothes here. Give me a minute."
She headed into the locker room but could still hear the two men.
"That was poorly done, Sherlock. Molly came out in the rain to help. You could at least have said hello."
"I assumed it was a given."
"It always is with you. Why did you need her here, anyway? The poor girl's soaked. Why did you steal her umbrella?"
"I used mine to impale a Russian."
"What?"
"Shut up, John."
Molly couldn't help but shake her head at the two of them. They were like a married couple sometimes. But her smile fell as she opened her locker to find it empty.
No change of clothes. She closed her eyes as she remembered taking them home to wash. Well, at least she could put her coat over the heater and that would be dry by the time she left.
She pulled off her summer coat, wincing as the white blouse stuck to her back, and her hair dripped down her face.
She avoided the mirror knowing full well that 'drowned rat' wasn't a good look for anyone.
Sherlock and John were still muttering to each other as she returned.
"Who did you want me to wheel out?"
"Mr Ackbar." Sherlock looked up from his microscope. His eyes widened slightly. "You haven't changed."
John grinned. "You can see why he's the detective, can't you?"
"I forgot, last time I did a floater, his intestines leaked over my clothes. I was going to wash them and bring them in but haven't had chance."
John bit his lip. "You can't stay in wet clothes, you'll get sick."
Molly bit her lip back on the retort. John was a sweetheart, it wasn't his fault she was wet and grumpy.
"I don't have anything else. My usual clothes had to be washed."
If she did, she'd be wearing it.
Her trousers were wet through and sticking to her knees. She was tired and uncomfortable and the chilled air wasn't helping.
"That was poorly timed, Molly."
Neither was Sherlock.
She glared at him. "Well, I didn't realise that I'd be called in at 3 a.m and that my flat mate would steal my umbrella. Also you're welcome for dragging myself out of bed to help you."
He looked a little abashed.
"Yes, well, your assistance is appreciated."
She was slightly mollified by that. But it didn't help the fact that she was freezing.
"I'll see if I can rustle up some scrubs from upstairs," John offered.
Molly gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, John."
He left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.
She wheeled out the body for him, rubbing her arms as he stared down at the corpse.
"What are you looking for?"
"I believe Anderson made several mistakes when cataloguing injuries. I know you'd work them out on the autopsy but I believe time is of the essence her."
"Hmm." Molly swept her hair back off her face, grimacing at the soaked strands.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Hypothermia is a real issue when wet and exposed to cold. I should hate you to get sick. There are very few proficient pathologists who are willing to work with me, even fewer of whom I would work with."
That made her perk up a bit. "Is that your way of saying you care if I get sick?"
Sherlock just cleared his throat again. "Your being ill would be... unfortunate. Can't you just wear your lab coat?"
"My lab coat comes to my knees."
"Yes."
"And it's white."
"So?"
Molly rolled her eyes. "Even my underwear is wet, Sherlock. Wet against white. I know you don't care but I don't particularly want to flash John."
"Of course."
Molly wondered if it was just the light or if there really was a faint blush riding up under Sherlock's jaw.
He gave her a look from the corner of his eye as she shivered again.
"Oh for- here!" He pulled the sleeves of his Belstaff and yanked it off. "Go put your clothes on the heater and wear this until John can return with dry clothing."
Molly's jaw dropped.
"You want me to take my clothes off and put your coat on?"
"It's the most logical course of action."
Yes there was definitely a deep red flush creeping over his face.
And no doubt over hers.
Wear his coat. With nothing on underneath.
Be naked under his coat.
It was like one of her old fantasies. Her fingers unwittingly curled around the thick wool.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm waiting, Molly. You will be of no use to me unless you are warm."
She bit her lip, her brain racing at all the ways this was a stupid idea but, in the end, the need to be warm outweighed any potential embarrassment or reoccurrence of feelings and she headed back to the locker room.
She peeled off her wet blouse, trousers and socks and hung them over the radiator, hesitating only momentarily before removing her bra and doing the same. She drew the line at removing her pants and used a clean tea towel to dry herself off a little. Then she simply stood and stared at the Belstaff.
Sherlock's signature coat.
She took a deep breath and slid it on, wondering if it was going to be uncomfortable.
But it wasn't. The wool was soft against her skin, wrapping around her as easily as cashmere.
It was far too big for her but she used the belt to cinch it around her waist and snuggled into the warm fabric that smelled like London and cigarettes and Sherlock.
She popped the collar and draped her damp hair over it, glad to get the dripping mass off her neck.
Molly hesitated before leaving the locker room. It was one thing to wrap herself in his coat, quite another for him to see her in it, and know that she was naked underneath. The very thought made her hyper aware of the coat against her naked body, the material scraping across her breasts.
She gnawed on her lip.
"Molly?"
"Coming." She gathered all her bravery and walked back in.
Sherlock was leaning over the microscope again, twiddling the dials. "I thought so, the ink on the back of his hand wasn't a club stamp. They use a particular kind of ink."
"So this is different?"
"Yes, this is far superior. Indian ink of the highest quality. The kind you only find at exclusive stationeries. The pigmentation is-" he looked up and the words died in his mouth.
Molly shifted uncomfortably. She wondered what Sherlock was staring at so intensely; surely she didn't look that ridiculous.
His gaze drifted down from her curling mass of soaked hair, past the collar, the cinched in waist, and her bare legs down to her feet.
He swallowed and she watched as his Adam's apple bobbed.
"No shoes?" His voice was somewhat hoarse.
"Trainers and socks are wet." She shrugged, looking down at her bare feet with the red nail polish on her toes.
"I see."
There was an awkward silence before Sherlock went back to his microscope. Molly stood there, her feet cold on the morgue tiles, as she watched him.
"So, um ... pigmentation of ink?"
"Yes."
Molly stepped closer to him. "Will it help catch the murderer?"
"I should think so. It looks like the ink was laced with a narcotic which when stamped into the skin would cause the drug to enter into his system. A slow death."
"Oh. Well, if you give me the sample, I'll send it away for official analysis and get the evidence verified."
Sherlock scoffed. "It would be so much easier if people just took my word for it."
"I know," Molly smiled, "but if we don't get verification, they can dismiss the evidence out of court. Still, I don't know if I would have looked for poison in the ink." She frowned a little, wondering at all of the suspicious deaths she had registered before meeting Sherlock. How many of them were murders that she hadn't caught? How many of the suicides were really cover ups? How many murderers had gone free because she hadn't realised?
"You can't blame yourself, Molly." She looked up to find Sherlock staring at her. "Many murders slip through the cracks, but only the once. If they kill again they make mistakes and then you catch them. You are thorough in your work and have an attention to detail that is meticulous. You are also stubborn and tenacious and will not let things slide. You are an excellent pathologist, Molly. It is one of the reasons you came to my attention in the first place."
Molly smiled as she remembered the first time she'd met him.
Molly had been working as an apprentice to Dr. Reynolds; a cantankerous old man who treated her as an indentured servant. He'd left her to do the write up of an autopsy and gone to the pub.
She was getting fed up of having to do the dirty work while Dr Reynolds slipped off early and ignored her questions and suggestions. She wasn't able to do any real pathology. She was almost reduced to a secretary. And was starting to think that maybe she'd do better at a smaller morgue, at least to start with.
But then Molly had found a discrepancy in his work and had pulled out the body to check for herself. She took an extra swab and had taken it to the lab for analysis.
When she returned there were two men in the lab. One was the Detective Inspector Lestrade, who she had met before, and the other was a tall man with a deep voice, who she hadn't. They were both intent on the report that Dr. Reynolds had left by the side of her computer.
She'd entered quietly, not even rating a greeting from either of the men as they went over the report.
"See," Lestrade was saying, "it's there, clear as day."
"It's wrong."
"Dr Reynolds is one of the foremost pathologists in the country, Sherlock."
The tall man, Sherlock, grunted. "Doesn't mean he can't miss something and I'm telling you he's wrong."
"He's not."
"He is. Adam Grupta did not die of a heart attack, he was murdered."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No he wasn't."
"A-actually I think he was," Molly spoke up.
The two men looked at her.
The tall man had incredible bone structure and the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen. "Who are you?"
"Dr. Molly Hooper, I'm the assistant." She opened her mouth to continue but was stopped as he railroaded over her.
"And you've found something, something different to what was on the report which you were typing up."
"Yes," she frowned, "how did you know?"
"Test tube in your hand. You've been to the lab, but why? If it was a full autopsy you would have had the cart and packages to take down, so only the one to test then. You took it yourself, something you didn't want anyone else to see, something you were unsure of. The report was left near the keyboard, the mouse is on the right, Dr. Reynolds is left handed so someone else was typing up his reports. Added to that you've corrected his spelling and grammar. The workstation was shut down and pass coded- incidentally your password is ridiculous, no one should keep the hospital assigned password. You left midway through the report- you obviously found something of interest and took it to the lab but you didn't tell anyone is case you were wrong. You're not wrong, Dr Molly Hooper, what have you found?"
Molly gaped at him. "Wow. That was amazing."
He smirked. "I know."
"And annoying," Lestrade said.
"No really, that was amazing and you are right. I thought that the black powder under his nails was gunpowder residue- which it was, but Dr Reynolds said that it was from only one type of gun. I distinctly remember there being two colours of powder on his clothing. I made mention of it to Dr Reynolds but I, uh don't think he heard me."
"You mean he ignored you?"
Molly coloured slightly. "There were two types. He was shot with one gun leaving one type of residue and then it was made to look like he'd shot himself but with another gun. Another make, another gunpowder composition."
"There," Sherlock said triumphantly. "Excellent. We find the second gun and we find our killer and I know just where to look. Come on, Lestrade."
The Detective Inspector sighed and followed Sherlock as he swept out of the room.
Molly grinned to herself. Well, that was exciting, maybe she'd actually like working at St. Bartholomew's after all.
The door burst open and Sherlock's head appeared. "By the way the name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Don't plan on going anywhere, Dr. Hooper. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other."
And they had.
Dr Reynolds had been called in for overlooking evidence and had opted for early retirement leaving Molly under the more affable Mike Stamford.
"Seems like forever ago," she said with a soft smile, thinking of all that had happened between then and now.
"Yes," he agreed. His gaze flickered from his microscope to Molly and then back. He cleared his throat and his shoulders tensed. "Molly, I-" he began.
Before he could say anything else, the door opened and John walked in with blue scrubs slung over his arms.
"Here you go, Molly. There was a very sympathetic nurse in A and E. I think you're about the same size." He glanced at her wrapped in Sherlock's coat and did a double-take. His gaze travelled down to her bare legs, his brain putting two and two together. His eyes widened and then alternated between her and Sherlock. "Or are you comfortable as you are?"
Molly flushed and grabbed the scrubs. "Thank you, John. I'll just go and- yeah."
She hurried into the back room again, reluctantly pulling Sherlock's coat off and yanking the scrubs on. John had even managed to find some paper shoes which she slipped over her cold feet.
When she returned, however, Sherlock was nowhere in sight and John was on his phone.
She motioned to the empty chair. "He's solved it already?"
John shrugged. "Don't think so. He told me to stay here, he'll be back in a minute but you know Sherlock. He's probably half way across London fighting with a bear."
"A bear?" her lips twitched even as John grinned.
"It could happen."
She nodded, biting her lip. "He was saying about the pigmentation of the ink being superior to normal club stamps. I'll pull up any information I have on that, maybe it will help."
"Right. Are you... warmer now?" There was something in the tone of his voice that had Molly look askance at him.
She slid in front of her computer and booted it up. "Thanks for the scrubs."
"Because you looked pretty cosy in his coat."
"I was shivering, he offered it."
"Right," John's voice was disbelieving. "Sherlock noticed you were uncomfortable and did something about it out of the goodness of his heart."
"He did. He's not a machine, you know," Molly defended.
"He pushed me in a fountain once and I got flu. He didn't offer me his precious coat."
She eyed his mischievous expression and sighed. "What are you getting at, John?"
"I think he likes you."
"I saved his life, I hope he does."
"No I mean likes you, likes you."
"What are you twelve?" Molly laughed. "He's not like that."
"He spent two days looking for your cat."
"Because I was moping and he couldn't get any work done."
"He let you wear his coat."
Insisted, but Molly wasn't going to tell him that. "I was shivering and he couldn't focus."
John nodded looking pleased with himself. "He moved you in with him."
"Because you moved out."
"He asked Mycroft, Mycroft, to move your stuff."
Molly spun around on her chair. "What?"
John folded his arms. "Uh huh."
Molly just gaped. She was well aware of exactly how much Sherlock hated asking his brother for anything. Well aware that he'd rather have his hair dyed pink and be taken to see Sesame Street live surrounded by sugared up five year olds than admit he needed help.
"You didn't wonder how he moved all your stuff in a day?"
Molly shook her head. "It's Sherlock."
She just assumed that if anyone could do it then it would be him.
"He's changing, Molly. I think it's because of you."
"No." Molly shook her head, her throat suddenly feeling tight.
"Molly-"
"No!" She cried. "Don't do that. Just don't. I can... I've always... You know that I love him. I do. I always will but I've come to terms with the fact that he doesn't feel the same way. I can be around him knowing that he will never look at me like that because it's just how he is. What I can't deal with is hope, John. Hope destroys you. Makes you wish and long and fantasize. If I know it's not going to change I can be happy and move on. I need to move on, knowing that there is no hope. Please don't-"
"Shh, sorry, Molly." John hurried over, wiping the tears as they slid down her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"I know." Molly swiped at her face. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just- you're wrong."
"I'm not," he replied equally as softly. "It may take time but I think you might need to deal with the fact that our resident Consulting Detective has feelings for you. He acts like a teenager so it might take him a few months but he will make a move sooner or later, Molly. Just- be prepared."
Molly wanted to argue more, wanted him to take the words back so she could withdraw back behind the wall and shove Sherlock into the box labelled "friend only". She wanted to curse those little butterflies that erupted as hope got a hold of John's idea and ran with it.
He was wrong. He had to be wrong, because if he wasn't...
The door opened and Sherlock walked in, his lithe figure missing the sweep of the coat. He was carrying a small cardboard box.
"I was looking at ink pigmentations, just running an analysis," Molly said as he put the box down on the table.
"Good, I was hoping you'd get started."
He reached into the box and pulled out a Styrofoam cup. He handed it to her.
The heat seared her fingers. "What's this?"
"Coffee, white, one sugar." He gave her a look. "Unless you've changed your coffee order in the last ten minutes."
"No. No. This is fine." She looked down at the perfectly coloured beverage. "Thank you."
Sherlock nodded. "John, your tea is in the box. Bring my coffee, we've got some work to do."
"It's right there, Sherlock!" John sighed but followed after the Detective, grabbing the box the man bypassed on the way to his microscope. He stopped by Molly's desk. "I guess it'll be sooner then."
Molly stared down at her coffee and the butterflies swarmed.
