Molly settled into her seat and stirred her coffee again, blowing on the steam that swirled above the surface, which signaled that it was still too piping hot to drink. She was seated in the small corner booth of Speedy's café. Having woken up long before her alarm this morning, she had gotten ready for work and decided to stop into her favorite breakfast place, since she knew Mrs. Hudson liked to chat as well. What she had not been expecting, however, was a certain tall, dark, and curly-haired newbie detective, sitting across the room, opposite of her own table. He had his small laptop and dozens of morbid crime scene photos laid out on the table and in his hand. Molly watches him leaf through them, looking completely engrossed.
"He's so odd", she thinks to herself, then quickly shakes it off. "What am I even saying? I'm just as morbid as he is. I just don't bring photos of dead people and gore into crowded cafés", she chuckles to herself. Blowing on her coffee again softly, and finally taking a sip, she continues to gaze at him.
"He's just…/so/ beautiful. How can a man be that beautiful? It's unfair. Completely, totally unfair. Absolutely ruthless that he gets to be that gorgeous", she thinks. "He's so…dark. So mysterious. He does it so freaking well too. I wish I knew what was going on in that crazy brain of his. It's incredible how he can read things as if they were a book or a magazine. Unbelievable almost."
Molly spends the next three-quarters of an hour glancing over at him in awe, playing a game within her head about what she believes him to be thinking about. Once the last droplets of her coffee are cold, she gets up and leaves a tip on the table. She wants to go over and say hello to him, but even the first time she met him she knew that he would always make her flustered, and the last thing she wants to do is stutter in front of him. She always feels stupid when she trips over her words. Especially when she likes someone, though she doesn't remember falling for someone as hard or as fast as she has fallen for him. Her attraction to the bad boy types was always a delicate spot within her. Of course, it's not her intention to be attached to those types, but she was always completely enthralled with them. They somehow draw her in.
As she ponders whether to make a quick, passing hello, she realizes that she's standing awkwardly near her table seemingly frozen and staring at the man. Blinking and shaking her head, she makes a beeline for the door, which is when she hears an unmistakable baritone voice calling out her name. She freezes then slowly turns, giving him a half-smile.
"Oh, h-hello Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock gives her a light smile. "Sherlock, remember?"
"Right. Sherlock."
"I need your professional opinion."
"Oh, um…sure. What's up?"
"This looks like a postmortem bruise with a blunt instrument, wouldn't you say?"
Molly peers over at the gory photos in his hand, leaning close enough to smell his cologne, but she prevents herself from breathing it in too obviously. "Yes, it looks like the skull was shattered using a blunt, heavy object. From the shape of the bruising, I'd say some sort of…metal pipe or handle of sorts. Maybe even a skinnier baseball bat."
"Mmh", he hums and looks her over approvingly. "Good job."
Molly raises an eyebrow. "Erm…thanks? I've seen many of those in murder victims, unfortunately. Anyway, you probably shouldn't be looking at those types of photos in a busy café. Bit…morbid…for the general public, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Who cares about the general public when there are crimes to solve and time is of the essence? I doubt any of these people would want to be this criminal's next victim."
"Well I suppose that's true, but you could be more discreet. What if a child were to walk in? You never know who could see what you're up to. They may get suspicious and think it's you. Better to be careful with the information and in this case, photographs you possess."
He rolls his eyes and shrugs. "People usually believe it's me, especially the ones that hate me. Now that you've given your input, you can go now, I'm done with you."
"Done with me?"
"You know…you're no longer needed at the moment."
"Right. I guess Greg wasn't kidding when he said manners aren't your strong suit."
"No time for manners. Now, if you please", he waves his hand towards the door, beckoning her out. "I have a lot of work to do."
Molly huffs. "Fine. Don't come crawling to me when you need information on an autopsy or access to the forensics lab then. I might just be too busy to entertain you." She goes to turn away and Sherlock carefully grabs her wrist.
"Wait."
She swallows a bit, feeling his fingers across her pulse point. Her whole body freezes for a moment, knowing that he must feel it beating hard underneath her pale skin. If asked, her attraction to him would be undeniable. At this notion, her cheeks bloom the color of a pink carnation. She tries to force the blush away and then slowly turns around to face him again. "Y-yes?"
Sherlock puffs out a sigh. "I didn't mean-…I get very focused on my work and frustrated easily. It's not you in particular. I'm like this with everyone."
"Oh, how comforting", she snarks, despite the hammering in her chest, as his skin has yet to leave hers, and she can bet that her own is heating up.
"I am very fond of your pathological work, Doctor Hooper. I do need your connection with St. Bart's, and I am very appreciative of it, despite the fact that I may not vocalize or seem it too often. You'll notice a pattern of what some would call rudeness on my behalf, and I can assure you that it is nothing you do or say, it is purely my own disposition."
Molly nods a bit and almost frowns when he removes his hand from her wrist. "I'll take that as an apology then, as I suppose that's as good as it's going to get. Therefore, I'll leave you to your work. Good day, Sherlock Holmes."
"Good day, Molly."
As he turns back to the photos and his laptop, Molly's stomach does flips when he says her name. It's so odd how she would like to skin him and snog him at the same time. He is just so frustrating yet attractive. "How is one both? How is that even possible?", she wonders to herself as she enters her car.
As she makes her way through the crowded streets of downtown London, she lets out a heavy breath in frustration. No matter what she does, she can't seem to get him out of her head. She tries and tries but he is always there. Since the moment she first laid eyes on him she couldn't think of anyone else. It's beginning to become a curse.
"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you and your perfect fucking face with your ocean eyes and your fucking cheekbones and your gorgeous jawline and your crazy wild amazing curls that I want to run my damn fingers through. Ugh, I hate you and your pompousness too! But fuck, I wish you were mine..." she says out loud to herself as she drives.
Today was going to be another day of trying to focus on nothing but work, but her mind wandering to the memory of him. His looks, his voice, how he smells with his new cologne. Though she hates herself for it, work has become a distraction until the next time he graces her with his very presence in her lab. Molly knew she was head over heels. So damn him, indeed.
"Damn Molly Hooper", Sherlock thinks to himself as he looks through the crime scene photos for what seems like the hundredth time. His mind couldn't seem to focus when she was in the room. Sherlock had kept sneaking peeks at her throughout breakfast. Of course, he had known that she was looking back when his own head was turned, but he wonders if she knew that he was looking. "Oh for God's sake, pull yourself together", he scolds himself internally. But she looked so...Molly. If that was even a word to describe her. But that's just it. There is just a certain air about Molly that makes her so unique and so /her/. She's innocent-looking, but he knows she is as morbid as he is. She wears these ridiculous mismatched tops, but she's more professional than he. Plus, despite her clothing choices and her morbidity, she is one of the most beautiful women Sherlock has ever seen.
It's not that Molly is socially beautiful. A lot of men would probably look over her as plain or average, however, when you have a larger mind you can notice the little things that make a person attractive. For Molly, it's not just that she has brown eyes, but it's the wonder and intelligence within them. It's not just her cute little upturned nose, it's the way she can identify a chemical with it in one whiff. It's not just her small mouth, it's lips that make way for a beautiful voice. Yes, she may have a smaller figure, and not so many curves, but she is perfectly proportionate which makes her aesthetically pleasing to his eye. Her hair may be straight and brown, but when it's up in its ponytail he knows she means business and doesn't mind getting her hands dirty. Though he absolutely wouldn't mind seeing it down and about her shoulders, flowing around her face. Honestly, he wouldn't mind it staying in a ponytail either. Makes it easier to grab when... "Sherlock, enough! Get to work!" he yells at himself.
Unfortunately, he quickly realizes, that he has said this aloud. Awkwardly looking around the room, he makes some stupid excuse and gathers his things, quickly walking out and hailing a cab back to his flat. When he gets there, he dumps his armful and goes back outside, taking a long drag of a cigarette. He loves when he has a full box.
Softly blowing out the smoke, he relaxes a bit. "Emotions get you nowhere, Sherlock. You need to think, not feel", he thinks, remembering that lesson from Mycroft.
"Think, not feel", he murmurs to himself. "Superior minds don't need to be fogged up with feelings. It just can't, or you'll get nowhere in life. Pull yourself together."
He finishes his cigarette and squashes it under his foot, going back inside his terrible flat. "Damn you, Molly Hooper. Damn your perfect face, your warm eyes, your fucking jawline, your soft-looking lips, and your stupid ponytail. I hate you and your incredible heart. It's not fair. I can't do this. I have to work."
Laying down on the hard sofa, he groans in frustration and then settles into his mind palace. As he wanders within it, filing away information about the case, he sees a perfect rendition of Molly Hooper standing there smiling in a loud jumper and her lab coat, her ponytail swishing behind her when she walks toward him. "Get out of my head!"
"Oh, I can't quite do that. You put me here."
"Just go!"
"Go…where, exactly?"
"I-I don't know, just go away. Go in a room and stay there."
"But I don't have a room."
"Well...then...I'll make one." Sherlock walks down the hall, irritated, to a blank part of the wall. He waves his hand and a heavy wooden door appears. As he opens it and enters the room, he takes all of his thoughts and memories of Molly and waves his hand again, making file cabinets appear. With the flick of his wrists, he files away everything of her that he knows up to this date. Turning to his Mind Palace Molly, he waves her close. "In here is where you shall stay unless I need you for a dire emergency...though I don't know what exactly I'd need you for."
"Alright", she smiles sweetly and goes into the room. Sherlock makes a cozy chair appear and she goes to sit in it.
"Wait", Sherlock mumbles, catching her wrist and feeling the throbbing pulse underneath his fingers, identical to real Molly earlier that day. "Just...one more thing. Since this isn't real and nobody will ever know."
"What is that?"
Sherlock pulls her close into a kiss, and she eagerly returns it, caressing his face as he moans into her mouth. He slides his hands into her hair beneath her ponytail and pulls her hips closer with his free hand. Mind Palace Molly moans as well and slips her arms over his shoulders. After a moment he pulls himself away from her and sighs. "If only that could be real. But alas, it can't. You get in the way of my work, so I'm going to have to keep you away now. For possibly ever. I need to concentrate, you see. And with you wandering around my head, I just can't. This must be goodbye. I have to close you up in this room now. Goodbye, Molly."
"Goodbye...", she says softly and quietly as Sherlock leaves and heaves the heavy door shut. He leans against it for a moment, his head spinning and his heart aching. Sherlock forces himself away and back to his case filing room, finally able to concentrate on the details of the case at hand, his mind clearer.
Without those thoughts of Molly Hooper distracting him, he finally has the type of clarity that he hasn't had since the day he laid eyes on her.