Yes, this got done a lot sooner than I thought possible - maybe it's all Sherlock the kid's fault - he's so hard to write. Blame the delay in the last two chapters on him. Now this one, on the other hand, went smoothly to fault. Also, this one is actually quite an amusing chapter, something this fic was lacking. LESS ANGST FROM NOW ON FORWARD, because all this angst makes me sort of sad. Happy endings galore! *throws confetti*
Also, I know some of you are worried about the jumping timelines - let me assuage your fears (is that the proper way to use that word? Nevermind) we're reaching present time, so timeline jumping will soon be ceasing. Fun times, am I right? And anyway, for this time, I have included the time present in bold, worry not.
Even the world had leaned in conspirationally to witness the second proper 'meeting' of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. It just smelled of ridiculous, Molly felt – the whole thing reeked of destiny and all the other crap she refused to believe in. However, it did happen, and Molly got the intense feeling that she was part of a large cosmic joke.
She was twenty four years old when she met Sherlock Holmes again. It was easier when she was six to talk to him. He used to be shorter than her then.
And now he towered over her.
A little context, in this scenario, would have been greatly helpful. You see, Molly had been having one of her better days – Dr. Maloney had reprimanded her for nothing (a relief), and there was a very exciting body in the lab, which Dr. Maloney was graciously allowing Molly to cut up. Exciting times were indeed ahead, until Molly's naivety was crushed – it all started with the loud voices she overheard in Dr. Maloney's office. Mother always said eavesdropping got people into trouble.
"Certainly not, Stamford!" came Maloney's voice. Molly shuddered. The man lost temper enough as it is.
"Come on, it's only one autopsy."
"I have met the man twice, and he is unbearable. I am not going to open out the bodies for him."
Well, there was something fishy there.
"He's just out of rehab, come on," said Mike Stamford easily. "He's an old friend from college, you know. He's not half bad."
"I will not be accommodating him."
Molly got the impression Stamford was pinching the bridge of his nose. "What about your trainee? She's won't mind, right?"
"She's a bright girl, but I refuse to let force her into that man's presence. She's far too gentle."
"She is?" asked Stamford.
Dr. Maloney groaned. "Yes, she is. Very smart, though. She's already impatient with whatever I analyse. Don't know what I am supposed to do once she takes over."
"You're letting her take over?" asked Stamford, surprised.
Molly went red at the unexpected praise, deciding to slink out of the way. Whatever this unpleasant man may be, Molly would be glad to take him off Dr. Maloney, for whom she had felt an unexpected burst of affection. Maybe she would make him some cookies.
She wandered into the morgue, and for some strange reason, found a live body there.
It was a dark coat, a blue scarf (traces of it) and a phone being tapped on by a set of fingers. She wondered who this was – the unpleasant and unbearable man, perhaps?
"Hello?" said Molly gently. She saw his fingers stop.
"Erm – are you here for that police investigation? I kind of eavesdropped on Dr. Stamford and Maloney."
The man turned around – in a very dramatic fashion. Molly looked him up to down – oh, wow. He was handsome. High cheekbones, wonderful height, curls all over, and the Belstaff was annoyingly sexy. Molly looked into his eyes, and saw a very, very striking blue green.
Oh, fuck.
"No," she whispered.
"Yes, I am here for the investigation," said the high baritone. Woah, thought Molly, when did that happen? "Please show me the body of Miss Larkin."
"Um, alright," said Molly quietly. "Just out of curiosity, what is your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes," said the man, without pausing, looking into his phone again.
"Right," said Molly, biting her lip.
"Are you not going to ask me for some papers? Maybe an ID card for access?" asked the man. He looked mildly curious.
"Uh – erm. I think – I think I know what you're good at – sort of – um, are you working for the police?"
"Yes," said the man, bored. "Lestrade and I have a deal."
"Oh – I like Greg. He's nice," said Molly with a smile. She blushed further.
"The other pathologists are extremely incompetent," the man adds as an afterthought. "Your superior has good work, but he's too tedious. He seemed to have been very good at some time, but he's getting old. You seem competent. I shall work with you."
Well, fuck. Wasn't one friendship with Sherlock Holmes enough? And Meena later said that she looked like she'd seen a ghost.
"He was there!" Molly said, practically yelling.
"Molly, you do need to calm down. You're sounding hysterical." Damn Meena and her sensibility. The woman could waltz throughout college caring not a dime for life, sleeping with every second boy, and suddenly she was the figurehead of calm.
"I am hysterical!" Molly whispered hysterically into the phone.
"How about you come over to my place later? We can talk there. Explain whatever ghost you have seen."
Molly snorted. She agreed to the invitation, and tried to concentrate on the different autopsies. She could barely concentrate on that very exciting that she could not longer remember for the life of her. Molly's head was hurting. She wished her Mum was here.
Later, when she was at Meena, Meena had once again shown her sensibility, by getting enough Vodka to drown Molly.
"I mean, I don't see him for years," Molly blubbered, "and he just shows up."
"Easy, girl," said Meena amusedly.
"I have just had my heart jolted out of stasis," said Molly, pointing accusingly at Meena. "And why did he have to become so hot? He's a fucking hottie. I hate him. Fucking cheekbones…"
Sherlock wasn't very impressed with Molly arriving with a hangover the next day.
If that wasn't enough, Mr. Holmes was currently driving her mad.
Not only was she about eight percent sure she was harboring a secret crush on the man, but he seemed to know it as well, and was exploiting the fact unceremoniously.
He'd changed so much. He'd become all cold, and calculating. Manipulative, and terrifying. Molly couldn't help being aroused by the way his deep baritone deduced everything around him, and more than once, she found herself in the need of just blurting out their past.
But none of them mentioned it at all. Molly didn't because she feared his reaction, she had no idea why Sherlock mentioned nothing.
Sherlock Holmes just had to grow up to be hot. Life wasn't fair.
"Um, Sherlock, I have the blood work panel that you wanted," said Molly.
"Thank you," said Sherlock, fiddling with his microscope.
"No problem," she said, going red. "Are you working on Mrs. Davies?" she asked.
"Yes," said Sherlock briefly.
"She's got bloody medical abnormalities all over the place," complained Molly under her breath. "More irritating than effing Cecilia Gregson. And she was the one who was constantly giggling around my high school boyfriend."
She could have sworn she saw him smile briefly.
Molly Hooper had developed morbid humor. Well, that certainly was not something he was expecting. She actually managed to make him laugh occasionally. And, she was just as devoted to him as she was when she was seven years old. This time, fuelled additionally by her obvious infatuation.
It gratified Sherlock enormously that Molly Hooper was infatuated with him. He could use her very easily through that – she did everything he asked her to (one of the reasons why he didn't deliberately try to insult her, like he did Lestrade). And whenever she looked like she was wavering, he would compliment her about facts about herself dressed in prettier language.
It was a convenient little relationship they had.
"Molly, could you assist me with an experiment?" asked the commanding voice of Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh – erm – I was just about to –"
"I hope you have the time," said Sherlock in a more pleasing tone. "Man's alibi depends on it."
Molly glanced around the lab. "I have a date –"
"Oh. Well, alright," said Sherlock. "Another time, maybe?"
Molly bit her lip. "No, I'll cancel it," she said with a brief smile. "Set it all up, Sherlock. Hang on."
He heard her talking on the phone a few seconds later, "No, work just showed up, I'm so sorry. Can't help it – man's alibi depends on it, apparently."
He smiled to himself.
It was on the case of the Dancing Men that Molly really came through. It was the first drug cartel case he had taken up since his return from rehab, and Molly had been at the crime scene with him.
"Um, Sherlock, I think you should leave," she said, with as much firmness as she could muster.
"What? Why?" asked Sherlock, concentrating on the small bags which were in the crates of the warehouse.
"Because –" she took a breath. "Look, I know about your stint in drugs and all – and, um, I'd like you to not relapse."
Sherlock's cold and calculating blue eyes had simply stared at her, drilling through her soul. Molly was a bit scared of it, but she focused right back, despite the red blush that rose at her cheeks. She had no reason to fear. He couldn't do anything about it; besides, she was only concerned.
"Later," he said briefly, picking up one of the packets – cooked heroine, maybe?
"Woah, what are you taking that for?" asked Greg immediately, a wary look arriving on his face.
"I'm going to analyse it. And don't worry about it, Lestrade – Molly shall be with me."
Molly smiled briefly, and hurried after Sherlock's stride.
Molly bit her lip nervously at Sherlock analyzing the heroine.
"Look, I can do it," she said. "You shouldn't be exposing yourself to that."
"Molly, do shut up," said Sherlock. "If you are that worried about it, then let me put your fears to ease – while I was high almost constantly, I was doing so because of lack of stimulation of the mind. I have enough stimulation to not go high for a while, particularly since the case requires my full attention and drugs do not help in that scenario."
Molly stared into his eyes, and Sherlock again got the feeling that she was reading his mind – learning of all those nights without being able to think – the pain, the constant buzz which did not quiet down.
Molly bit her lip again. On an impulse, she went down to the fridge, and picked up a small cooler. "Here," she said, thrusting it at him.
Sherlock looked up briefly from his experiment.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Open it," she said easily.
Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh, and opened the little container. Inside was a small human hand.
"Don't get high, okay," said Molly. "Take it home, experiment on it, I don't care. Don't tell anyone I have given it to you though – I could probably lose my job."
Sherlock smiles at her, and he has a strong suspicion it isn't even faked.
Sherlock had not expected Molly to not be in the lab, particularly when he had told her he was coming. He had not expected her to be in the morgue. He had not expected her to be crying.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she sniffed. "I thought you were coming in half an hour."
Sherlock said nothing, offering her a handkerchief.
"I'm just coming, Sherlock – I just sort of received some bad news, and there were Doctors flooding the washrooms – so I just –"
Sherlock waved her away. "Someone died?" he asked.
Molly hiccoughed at his tactlessness. She laughed a little. "Grandma."
"Ah," said Sherlock.
"Yes, Mum just called. I didn't like her a lot, you know – she was really rude to me when we lived together. But I dunno – I got fond of her. She expanded my library a lot. Apparently, she's left everything to me."
"Hmm," said Sherlock noncommittally.
"Well, I will have to go home now," she sighed, finally getting up. I'll take my paid vacation, I suppose.
It suddenly flashed in Sherlock's mind – Molly Hooper wouldn't be there for autopsies.
Well, as anyone would have ever guessed – disaster was the word.
Apparently, and according to everyone in Barts, Molly better come home soon, because from day one, Sherlock was being unbearable. Molly felt like screaming into her pillows – she was one of the people Sherlock was unbearable to.
Why couldn't people just learn to live with Sherlock Holmes?
And he wasn't particularly kind to her either, Molly would have disparagingly told everyone. But in her heart of hearts, she knew that Sherlock regulated himself. Whether this was because of their prior connection or the fact that he didn't want to upset the pathologist that gave him body parts for experimentation (Molly didn't even need to explain how illegal and against hospital policy that was).
Well, Molly grit her teeth together – Barts was just going to have to cope. Her Grandmother had died, and her Mother wasn't in a very good shape, for god's sake.
"Dear, what are you going to do with the stuff she has left you?" asked her Mother one day.
Molly shrugged – "I was thinking about getting tenants," said Molly.
Her mother had moved back to their old house when Molly had left for university. Molly knew this was because she could only handle living with her Mother for so long – and now, the strain of keeping it up was getting to her Molly's Mum. Molly's entire course had been expensive, despite the scholarship.
"That's a sound idea," said her Mum. "Or you could simply leave it, you know. Hire a caretaker. I don't fancy someone else touching all of Mother's stuff."
"No, you're right," said Molly. "I'll get someone to take care of it."
The funeral has just gotten over – and Molly did have tear tracks on her face. She looked around the house, where she had spent a lot of her youth, hiding away from her Grandma, since she was mildly scared of the woman. But her Grandma did have a fantastic taste in literature. Additionally, the stern old woman taught her many things in life, including the necessity of having a man understand exactly who you were.
She was a force of nature. It had been hard enough seeing her mellow down to nothingness in her old age. But Molly had faced worse.
Her mother was the same – slightly strict, demanding, wrinkled, and less loosened up than anyone else and terribly sad.
"So, are you seeing anyone?" asked her Mother.
Molly grinned ruefully. "I wish. But there's a fellow at work I've met, I suppose."
"Is he nice to you?" asked her Mother.
Molly stared at the handkerchief Sherlock had given her. "He can be. Occasionally."
"That's the second time you've fallen for someone who was not very nice to you. Maybe it's in the genes," said Molly's Mum thoughtfully.
"You didn't fall far one," Molly pointed, half in accusation.
"Your Grandma did," said Molly's Mum pensively.
"She did?" asked Molly, surprised.
"My Father abandoned us when I was four," said Margaret.
"I did not know that," said Molly. "You told me my Grandfather was dead!" she was indignant.
"And so he was," said Molly's Mum. "He died when I was seventeen years old. Left us enough money to get me through college."
Molly did not know what to say at that. "Are you seeing anyone?" asked Molly after a pause.
Her Mother sighed. "I really don't have the inclination for it, dear."
"Molly? Are you there?"
"Greg, it's one in the night!" said Molly. She was in her apartment for now. Her trip home had been relatively uneventful.
"I know, but I need you to speak to Sherlock – he's being a pain in the arse."
Oh, what now? Thought Molly.
"Molly, there's a man with poisoning –"
"Symptoms?" cut Molly, getting out of bed and into her dressing gown.
Sherlock recited some symptoms for her, and Molly sighed once again. "Sherlock, I think you're describing Antimony poisoning," said Molly.
There was silence on the other end.
"Of course!" said Sherlock, and the phone clicked.
Molly sighed, stirring the pan she had made some tea in. The man was driving her crazy.
Sherlock and Molly had formed a sort of uneasy acquaintanceship – when Molly said uneasy, she meant it in an I-have-no-idea-what-to-call-this-let's-just-call-it-uneasy way. She had no idea what they were. Were they the best friends they used to be as children? Were they work friends? Were they even friends? Were they just some strangers with some memories?
Ugh, that last one sounded nauseating. Molly needed to read something besides Paulo Cohelo. She was still at a loss to know why she was reading him, because she hadn't liked any of the stuff she read so far. And he came so highly recommended.
But she could acknowledge – no matter how much she wanted to interpret any data concerning Sherlock Holmes and social situations cautiously – that Sherlock had a level of comfort around her that she didn't quite as often see. It had been one year of being – something – with him, and he did seem to not mind her as much as he minded the human population. Which really wasn't saying much.
He didn't think much of her head, though. And in Dr. Maloney's old age, he had slowly been handing over control to Molly. It was extremely gradual, but, here they were. Molly was glad the old man was retiring soon. The Head Pathologist position was going to her, and she was apparently the youngest person to have gotten it. Comfort, that. Didn't put any pressure on her at all.
Molly really hated her life sometimes.
Dr. Maloney finally passed the mantle onto her, and Sherlock did not come to the party. Molly was glad. She had enough of trouble facing the job itself, not to mention being the youngest one to do it.
And he really was taking her for granted these days. Pathetically enough, Molly couldn't do anything about it anymore – being so used to not denying him. When did it happen that the nice seven year old with demands that didn't go beyond copying her homework disappeared into this horrible man and his demands that went beyond supplying body parts?
Molly didn't care to know. However, on the first day of work, she walked into her new office, with a box of essentials, to find him bent over his favourite microscope (he didn't have favourites, he insisted. He simply liked routine).
"I had to tell you, Molly," said Sherlock, suddenly. Molly looked up hopefully. Maybe today was the day she got a date with him. "Your worries about being incompetent are baseless. All humans are incompetent, but you manage reasonably. Please do not let your work slide, for my work depends on it."
There was a small pause. "Thanks?" asked Molly. "Oh, and –" said Molly. "I won't be around for your birthday," she said, as she dug through her bag. "I made you this," she said brightly.
It was only some muffins with icing. Molly liked baking. Baking made her feel better.
"Thank you?" asked Sherlock.
"No problem," said Molly sunnily. "Um – I also have a bit of a – ah, request – if I give you – erm – an entire head – you can even keep the skull, promise – would you please – please – not bother the people of Barts? I really need this vacation with Mum – and I don't want to be called in because – um – because you set fire to one of our friends."
Sherlock stared at her. Molly twitched under his gaze.
"How large?" he asked.
"Sorry?"
"The head. How large?"
"Oh – standard. Should I show it to you?"
Molly and Greg had formed a funny friendship – out of taking care of Sherlock, and because they both seemed to have some sort of idea on how to do it. While Sherlock was a lot more patient with her, it was Greg who was the Dad in the whole deal. And like a Dad, he was constantly wary, tired, and mildly out of air. It was after over two years of friendship with Sherlock that Greg was finally beginning to ask Molly to handle Sherlock for a few days.
But at least he could pull of silver hair like Sherlock could cheekbones.
"Molly, I really, really need you to give him an experiment for a few days," said Greg one fine day to her.
"Oh no – why?" asked Molly, chewing her lip.
"Because he's driving me on the edge. I'm going to commit murder very soon. And then I'd have to catch myself. And put myself in the locker. Do you want that, Molly? Do you?"
Molly grinned. "Alright, I'll find him something."
Mycroft Holmes was a man of few words. In fact, most of the words he used usually required a lot of decoding, a few linguists, and one Sherlock Holmes. He was riddled with all sorts of intricacies, double meanings, and multiple syllables that could cause war at any moment.
That being said, Mycroft Holmes was often at a loss where Doctor Hooper was concerned. Or as he liked to call her – the Other Doctor.
Molly Hooper had been best friends with Sherlock Holmes when they were six years old. She had been his companion for three years before John Watson came in. She had been twenty four when she met him, if he remembered correctly.
He did not remember Molly the child very well. All he remembered was that she was a small girl, and he had no idea why she was so interested in Sherlock. Or even that devoted. Conversely, he did not understand what his little brother saw in her either. She only weakened him.
Mycroft was mildly embarrassed with the role he played during those days – pushing Sherlock away from Miss Hooper. It had been deliberately cruel, after all. And Sherlock had become openly malicious without Molly, and Mycroft had a hand in it, after all. Which was why he did not interfere when Sherlock met Molly again. After all, this time, Sherlock made the choice to keep her at a safe distance.
And he thought nothing of her. He had a background check run on her, but it was a pointless cause. He'd kept an eye on Molly Hooper ever since they had parted ways all those years back, when Sherlock was twelve. But Molly Hooper had grown quite a bit, and Mycroft hadn't anticipated seeing a brown haired, small, but pretty woman in the black and white picture that was at the top of the file.
When Molly Hooper performed the autopsy on Irene Adler, Mycroft had wondered what was wrong with the woman. He wondered how she could be so lonely, that she'd perform autopsies. It felt odd – Molly Hooper certainly did not seem like the kind who would not have friends. Yet, devoted to his brother. It would always baffle him, he supposed.
And then The Fall happened.
It was necessary for Miss Hooper to save Sherlock, and for that, Mycroft was perhaps, most grateful. And the unflinching way in which she carried out what needed to be done, was remarkable. When he met her, he expected a blubbering mess that she had been when she was five.
"What do I need to do, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, looking at him directly in the eye.
Well. That was a pleasant surprise.
"Miss Hooper, you will have to listen carefully. And when I say carefully, I mean follow the details exactly. Are you capable of this?"
Molly looked at him, smiled a little, and chuckled nervously. "You're all terribly dramatic, aren't you? Regardless, I can do whatever you wish, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't have stuck with your brother for over ten years if I couldn't."
Mycroft gave a half smile and looked the woman over. Well, it depended on this, did it not?
When Molly Hooper determinedly called up the assassin aimed at John, offered him a cup of tea and spoke to him calmly about his options, Mycroft was impressed. When she replaced Sherlock's body as quickly as possible, Mycroft looked at Molly Hooper with mild admiration. When Molly Hooper snuck a van in, took Sherlock out while providing him the necessary medical attention to her flat, Mycroft could frankly say that she was possibly the most iron hearted woman he had seen.
"You did well Miss Hooper," said Mycroft slowly, while Sherlock slept on the couch. His arm was fractured, along with one leg. He had sustained some head injuries, but they were minor.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And do call me Molly."
"Miss – Molly," said Mycroft, not offering her the same privilege.
"He's going to be fine, isn't he?" asked Molly anxiously.
"He's going to be perfectly fine," said Mycroft. "I'll tell some of the Homeless Network to drop a word here or there – rumors – it will make some choice followers of his believe he is alive. That'll make the shock easier to bear. For London, that is."
"What about John?" asked Molly quietly.
Mycroft did not say anything for a while. The woman was inquisitive. "He will – heal."
"I suppose," said Molly. "When will the funeral be held?" asked Molly.
"I don't know," said Mycroft. "We'll have John decide the particulars. He was, after all, his best friend."
Mycroft really should have been more tactful. Especially when Molly had been Sherlock's best friend so long back. He wondered what it would have been like for her, to see herself replaced. "I'm sorry Miss Hooper," he said quietly.
"No, it's alright," sniffed Molly. "It wasn't supposed to be, I suppose."
The oven dinged. Mycroft wondered what she had been baking. There was a smell going, of something extremely chocolaty. Something clearly very delicious.
Molly smiled. "Would you like to stay for some tea?" she asked. "I've made some chocolate cake."
Mycroft's mouth watered. He really shouldn't. He was on a diet.
But the cake came out of the oven, and unfortunately for the United Kingdom, the British Government was floored.
It was fantastic.
And Molly Hooper, Mycroft realized, was a seriously important woman.
"Oh good, we're all eating," said Sherlock dully.
Molly jumped out of her skin. "Sherlock!" she said. "Lie back down at once. You have a bruised rib!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I will not," he said. "I have to go out of England –"
Molly muttered under her breath, and for a second, Mycroft wondered what she was going to do.
"For fuck's sake," said Molly finally, out loud. Both the brothers were astounded. "You can fucking forget it, Sherlock Holmes. Not only are you not shifting from that couch, you're also going to eat the cake. Why are you going to do that, you ask? Well, I have a syringe of morphine. I actually keep morphine around my flat," her face was red again, and her hands were twitching in nervousness.
A beat. "Impressive, Molly," said Sherlock flippantly. "But you cannot imagine I'm staying –"
"Erm - either you retreat to the country with your brother's escorts and doctors, or you stick around here and I'll make you chocolate cake everyday. Your pick." To Doctor Hooper's credit, she only stuttered a little.
Sherlock glared at her. "Molly, you can't possibly imagine you will make me st-"
Molly raised a syringe threateningly. "You need to fix yourself. You're taking down no criminal network in that condition," she said in a low voice.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" said Sherlock out of frustration.
"I find myself at a loss of words," said Mycroft, taking another sip of tea.
Sherlock gave a frustrated groan. "More like you're planning on installing a camera at once to know exactly when Molly bakes. Fine! I choose to stay here. Now everybody shut up. I need a breather."
"Good. I'll help you plan exactly where you should begin," said Molly hesitantly. How a woman like her became nervous around Sherlock was beyond him.
"And how would you help me?" asked Sherlock, irritated.
"I still have access to files," said Molly, twitching, like she normally did. Mycroft had a strange suspicion his brother enjoyed it.
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