A/N: Genuinely love how emotive you guys get over the characters. It makes me feel like I'm not so crazy after all. XD Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you like this!
Schoolgirl Crush
by Flaignhan
When the black car comes for her, Molly gets in before she is instructed to. Sherlock has warned her of this for years. She's surprised it has taken this long if she's honest. The woman who sits next to her is far too engrossed in her Blackberry to hold any sort of conversation, and so Molly stares blankly out of the window.
"If he offers you money to spy on me, take it."
Molly could do with a new sofa if she's honest. And she's seen a pair of boots in the window of Selfridges that she could never justify buying out of her own salary.
They arrive at a grimy office block, somewhere near Shepherd's Bush. Molly gets out of the car and follows the Blackberry woman into the building, enters the lift, and says nothing when the woman reaches inside and presses the button for the top floor.
When the lift doors open, Molly spots him straight away. He is standing by the window, his hands in his pockets, looking out over the city.
"I expect you're wondering who I am."
"Not really. We've spoken before."
He turns, slowly. He has a thin face, dark eyes, and is wearing a smart three piece suit. He is just as Sherlock described him. He looks mildly surprised, but then smiles, in what he must think is a warm way at Molly.
"What a good memory you have. Please, take a seat." Mycroft gestures with his umbrella towards an ancient office chair, but Molly won't be taking any orders from him. Not after the way he's been. And besides, Sherlock's given her strict instructions to never indulge any of Mycroft's requests.
Except for the spying and the money, of course.
"Very well," he says, looking down at his feet, as though inspecting his shoes to see if there's any dirt on them. "Let's not beat around the bush. My junkie of a little brother -"
"He's clean," Molly says through gritted teeth. "No thanks to you."
Mycroft smiles that chillingly warm smile once again. "Yes...I'm not sure how much credit we can give to him for not shooting up in a place where they won't let him."
"If he wanted to do that, he'd be doing it. You know what he's like," Molly argues. "It was his decision to go in. That's the hardest part."
"Yes," Mycroft muses. "I read that too...but I'm sure it will be far harder for him when he leaves next week. When he has access."
"I thought we weren't going to beat around the bush?" Molly says, wanting him to cut to the chase. She doesn't want to stand here and listen to him moan about his 'junkie of a little brother'. She won't hear a word against Sherlock, not even from Mycroft, she doesn't care how much power he has, she will not hear it.
"You're going to collect him next week I believe?"
"Yes," Molly says. She has already rented a car for the occasion, and she will be driving out to Norfolk to fetch him, then bringing him back to stay with her until he is back on his feet.
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"I think he needs longer."
"The doctor's cleared him for release," Molly argues, though her voice is soft. She has been looking forward to Sherlock's return for three long months. The only contact has been the odd phone call here and there, but it's not enough. His voice has rarely changed over the years she's known him, it's no indication of his health. She needs to see him to be able to believe he's on the mend. Needs to hold him, and make sure that there is enough flesh covering his bones.
"I don't think he's suitably prepared for the outside world."
"I disagree."
Mycroft sighs and lifts his umbrella up to examine the tip of it. "I'm sure you will do your very best to look after him, Miss Hooper -"
"Dr Hooper."
Mycroft looks at her, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I can see why he likes you..."
"He's coming out next week," Molly says, in the firmest voice she can muster. She has to forcibly remind herself that literally putting her foot down will not have the same effect as metaphorically doing so. She keeps both feet firmly planted, and stares back at Mycroft, her jaw set.
"Very well," Mycroft says at last. "There is to be no convincing you. At the very least, allow me to fund his post-clinic recovery."
"Do what you want," Molly shrugs. "It doesn't bother me."
"By the time you return home, there will be a sizeable sum in your bank account. Do not inform him of this, do not give him any cash. All I ask is that you telephone me once a week to keep me informed of his recovery. Dial one five eight on your telephone and you shall reach my private line."
"Okay," Molly says. "That's fine. But you know, you could always speak to him yourself -"
"He would never allow it," Mycroft cuts across. "He's very stubborn."
"I'm sure if you apologised..."
"I would," he pauses, "but I'm not sorry."
Molly doesn't know what to say to that, and so she stands there, her mouth slightly ajar, more determined than ever before to ensure that Sherlock doesn't so much as get a sniff of aspirin ever again.
"For your troubles..." Mycroft reaches under a nearby desk with his umbrella, and hooks the handle around something. He pulls it out and offers it to Molly, still dangling on the end of his umbrella.
It is a bright yellow Selfridge's bag.
She arrives at around eleven o'clock. The sun is peeping out from behind the clouds, and Molly steps out of the car, looking up at the large stone building. She had expected something quite different. Something clinical and plasticky. But then again, Sherlock had chosen it.
Molly pushes open the heavy oak front door, and approaches the desk. All the walls are panelled with gleaming wood, the floors are tiled, and the sweeping staircase off to the right has a luxurious burgundy carpet running down it.
"I'm here to collect Sherlock Holmes," she says, her voice sounding rather small in the large echoing entrance hall.
The woman behind the desk looks up at her, sniffs, and then picks up the telephone. She dials a number with her long, bony finger, and waits while it rings.
"Is Holmes ready? A girl's come for him."
Molly would rather be a girl than a rancid old hag, but perhaps it's best to keep that opinion to herself. She wants to be out of here fairly quickly, and she's sure that Sherlock won't want to hang around either.
A clipboard is slapped on the counter top with various sheets of paperwork.
"Sign every page. He's your liability now. God help you."
Molly fixes the woman with a dark look, before snatching the fountain pen from its ink well and scrawling her signature in the bottom right corner of every page. She jams the pen back in the ink well, ignoring the spatters of black that appear on the counter, and waits, her arms folded.
Within minutes, Sherlock is sweeping down the stairs, his suitcase in hand, and before Molly can even say a word, he is heading for the door. She follows him, as she always does, and fishes the car key out of the pocket of her jeans. He doesn't say a word until they are in the car. Molly puts the key in the ignition but doesn't turn it.
"Can we go?" he asks, looking straight ahead.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
Molly turns the key, deciding that conversation may be best saved for later. The drive back is silent. The radio is off, and Sherlock, Molly notices from the corner of her eye, has his head resting against the window, as he stares at the cars passing by. In his hand is a silver bangle. Molly's been looking for it for months. She thought she'd lost it. He turns it delicately in his fingers, and Molly says nothing.
He's changed, she's sure of that much, but whether it's for the better, she doesn't know.
He's not even been in the flat five seconds before he's up to his old tricks again.
"New sofa? And new boots I see. All a bit fancy for a graduate, don't you think?"
"Well, I'm working at Bart's and the pay's not too bad -"
"You'd never buy those boots for yourself," Sherlock hisses. "Don't lie to me. It's obvious who you've been in touch with."
"He came to me," Molly says stubbornly. "And I seem to remember you telling me that if he offered me money then I should take it."
Sherlock throws himself onto the new sofa and says nothing.
"It doesn't mean I'm on his side. He wanted to keep you in there for longer! He tried to be Mr Big-Shot-I'm-In-The-Government-Don't-Mess-With-Me but I wasn't having any of it, all right?"
"Stood up to him did you?" Sherlock asks sarcastically. "Stood your ground?"
"He called you a junkie," Molly says quietly. "And I decided I didn't like him."
Sherlock leans his head against the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He lets out a long breath, his chest sinking slowly. He looks healthier than Molly has ever seen him, and she is glad, that even if he is still struggling mentally, he is in good physical shape at the very least. It's something to build on.
"And apart from that, he called me Miss Hooper."
"So?"
"Well I'm not Miss Hooper anymore, am I?"
"Don't tell me you're married." He says it with more contempt than Molly strictly approves of, but that's not the point right now.
"No. But I've graduated. I'm a doctor. And I told him so."
Sherlock sits up and looks at her. His eyes are bright, not with the glaze she is used to, but something else. They are as crystal clear as the first time she saw him.
"Doctor Hooper."
"Yes."
It starts as a small chuckle, but soon breaks into open laughter. Sherlock's Adam's apple is bouncing in his throat, his head thrown back, his arms crossed over his stomach. Molly bites her lip, briefly wondering if he has gone mad. But hearing him laugh, something which she hasn't heard for years, is enough to induce a few silent tears from her.
When his laughter abates, and he looks at her once more, his face falls. "Molly, I wasn't laughing at you."
"I know," she replies, wiping her face with the cuff of her cardigan. "I just...I'm glad you're back."
Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear her. "Did you really correct Mycroft?"
She nods.
The laughter starts up once again, and Molly knows that no matter what happens in the first difficult months, Sherlock will be absolutely fine.
The cold hits her as the duvet lifts up, and she feels him slide in next to her. His arms close around her, and Molly pretends to be asleep. She knows he doesn't like anybody knowing about his emotional needs. Not even her. She'd never tell a soul of course, but even so, if she acknowledges it, it won't happen again.
He only ever comes to her when he needs her, and she won't jeopardise that. It's not worth the consequences.
By the time she wakes he is gone, and she can hear him pottering around in the kitchen, making coffee. The pillow next to her has been plumped up, so there is not hollow where a head might have rested over night, and when she ventures into the lounge, the sheets on the sofa are twisted, the pillow suitably dented.
She doesn't show any sign of acknowledgement when he joins her that night, nor any of the following nights. Six weeks in, and Sherlock spends his first night on the sofa.
Molly fetches a spare blanket at four in the morning because she is far too cold, and forces herself to be happy for him.
"How is he?"
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Very good, Miss Hooper."
Molly scowls and hangs up.
He shadows her while she works. He has 'acquired' a white lab coat from somewhere, and sometimes he throws it on to avoid awkward questions.
Mike knows the situation though. And Mike permits it.
Mycroft had questioned the idea of letting him run riot in a place that holds so many drugs, but Molly argued until he backed down. If Sherlock is stuck inside her flat all day, or left to roam the streets of London, the chances are she'll return to find him chain smoking. Or worse.
In the hospital however, his brain is kept busy. Boredom leads to bad things, Molly has learned that very quickly. And besides, she can keep an eye on him. Sort of.
The door to the lab opens and Lestrade enters, his face grim.
"You got anything for me, Molly?"
Molly shakes her head. "Not yet, sorry."
"Really?"
Both Molly and Lestrade turn to look at Sherlock, who is perched on a stool at the end of the bench, his eyes fixed on a test tube, which he is shaking gently with his fingers. The sediment in it settles and Sherlock pops the test tube back into the rack.
"You're looking for somebody in the construction industry. Labourer most likely. Somebody who gets their hands dirty."
Lestrade frowns. "Is this him?"
"Yeah," Molly replies. "It's him."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at Molly. "What have you been saying?"
Molly feels her cheeks redden, but she won't be made to feel bad. Not after all she's done for him. "I just told him about some of the cases you took me on. Like that first one, with Barnham."
Sherlock sniffs. "That was child's play."
"Really?" Lestrade says, "Because I thought it was murder. Double murder."
"You're looking for a construction worker remember."
"There are hundreds of them in this city!" Lestrade protests. "Where the hell do I start?"
"Sherlock," Molly says softly. "Why don't you go with him? Take a look? If that's all right with you?" She's looking at Lestrade now, her eyes pleading with him.
"Yeah," Lestrade says, nodding his head. "Why not? What's the worst that could happen?"
Sherlock opens his mouth, but Molly gives him a warning look and for once, he actually follows her silent order.
"Wonderful," he says, throwing on his coat. "Lead the way, Detective Inspector."