Molly wasn't sure what to do, once we reached my office. She looked at the walls, mostly, and all the things pinned to them, then at the papers on my desk. I offered her my chair but she would not take it.
"I should be getting back to work," she turned toward the door, mostly closed. She rubbed her mouth, looked at the red smudge on her hand, then stopped to sort through her bag.
I expected her to take out a tube of lipstick and refresh it, but she took out a blotchy little towel and ensured it was thoroughly removed. She looked at me for a moment before leaving. I imagine she wanted my approval, in place of a mirror's. I sat down behind the desk.
"I liked it the way it was," I began, then recalled the reaction this usually got from my wife. Ex-wife. "But it's fine like that, too… whatever you like."
"Thanks," she giggled, "I try not to stand out much, unless I'm going out. Not 'going out' going out, but… not at work. I guess for dates, too, but that wasn't really a date, so I..." she took a shaky breath, "I don't wanna be late. I'll… see you later?"
"'Course."
I couldn't define the last three years better if I tried…
We'd never been on a proper date. I hardly had time for my wife – she's probably right about that one – so how could I balance an affair?
Molly was always more than willing to work with me on cases, in Sherlock's absence. It started with her comparing all of our actions to his. First, sadly, then as an eager student. She never claimed to be as quick or as thorough, but she did save me rather a lot of time and trouble. I'd call her an 'angel', but not to her face.
Donovan did that once, sarcastically. She's got a name for everyone, and Molly's came about when we were sharing a cuppa and laughing at an old video of Sherlock; the one where me and John had to drag him up the stairs because he could barely walk. Kept babbling on about a woman. A lot like I'm doing… Anyway:
Molly was wearing lipstick then. A lovely, matte one, which settled in the air between us like fresh peaches. She pointed at Sherlock on the screen, tapping it and pausing it by mistake. Her laugh was quiet and apologetic, when Donovan stepped into my office.
"You're an angel," she scoffed and passed me a finished report. Finished, due to Molly's input.
"I can go," she offered, dropping her smile. I paused the video and set down my phone.
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Donovan, "I was heading out, anyways."
Sally left early that day, and many days after. I had no reason to stop her, and she knew it.
This didn't stop me calling Molly. She was at the Yard more often than I was, some weeks. It depended on the case, details, and her schedule. I never complained; walking into my office and meeting her eyes straightaway. She always had something happy to say. Or, she would make it sound happy, if it was a story she brought from work.
"Didn't you hear me?" Donovan's voice dragged me out of my daydream.
She was standing in the doorway, no doubt leaving early for the evening. I shrugged.
"Yeah," I said, "Fine."
She rolled her eyes, took a half-step in, and tossed a shimmery envelope onto my desk.
"That's for the Christmas party," she told me. I guessed there was some insult concerning a date on the way, so I stood and spoke.
"Bit early, innit?" I turned over the envelope and opened it. I set the card on my desk.
"So you've got time to buy a date," she said. I should've expected her to have a back-up plan. "In case you're actually through with the divorce by then. I hope you're not; I like her."
"Alright," I muttered, "Going anywhere special tonight?"
She said nothing, but continued out of the building anyway.
I sighed, sat back down, and sipped some water. I read the card a few times, and tried to think of something better to do.
My phone chimed before I could come up with anything.
Sherlock may be right.
Call me?
Molly
I did:
"What'd you find?" I asked her.
"I'm still collecting some samples, but there are strains of bacteria that grow over plastic. Biofilms, they're called. People with catheters have died from it before, and Kelley had the prosthetic arm… maybe the infection moved there from the cut on his finger?"
"But why under the ring?"
"Keeps it hidden, I guess. Anyway, there's a lot of bacteria there. Most people don't wash under 'em."
"That's… great work, Molly. Did you tell Sherlock?"
"Yeah, I texted him, but he hasn't answered yet. I hope he's not—"
"He's fine," I hope I didn't sound jealous. That would be ridiculous, "See you tomorrow?"
"Probably, yeah." She hung up on me.
I put my mobile back in my pocket, and checked my watch. Decent time to go home, since my house was empty. I rather liked it that way.
As I tugged my coat from the back of my chair, my phone chimed again. I had one arm caught in my sleeve, and decided to remove it before answering.
Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude.
Molly
No worries.
Thanks again. You're an angel.
G
I didn't know whether or not I wanted an answer. My face felt hot, so I left my coat draped over my arm, rather than putting it on. I stepped out into the misty evening, and cringed at the text-tone.
:)
M
Author's Note: What do you think so far? I'm doing my best to balance happy and sad for you guys. Don't want to completely wreck your feelings before Series 3. Reviews = awesome artwork. Thanks!
