CHAPTER TWO

For the last three Saturdays, Molly had made her way on the bus to Sherlock's home to complete their tutoring sessions and the two had fallen into an easy pattern. They kept conversation to a minimum, which oddly seemed to suit them both, and they worked in comfortable silence. Sherlock was strangely happy to be obedient and complete the worksheets given to Molly by Mr Nielson with minimal complaint about how easy they were, and Molly diligently sat and marked all his completed work even though she knew it would all be correct. She had a sneaking suspicion that his idea of a prank would be to one day complete a sheet of entirely wrong answers just to see if she would notice. The most recent Saturday, Sherlock had made her a cup of (admittedly horrible) tea upon arrival and remarked that both his parents often worked on weekends and that his older brother, Mycroft, was away at university. Molly had already assumed both things to be true but appreciated the unprompted piece of information about his personal life, although for some reason felt embarrassed that the otherwise empty house was now acknowledged between them. At school they both maintained a frosty distance, neither breaking character to acknowledge the other with a smile or a wayward glance. Perhaps that was wishing too much, Molly wondered, after all they weren't exactly "friends". Just because Sherlock tolerated her for a few hours each week for the purposes of passing his A-Levels it didn't mean he owed her anything beyond that, especially knowing the reactions the two would likely get from their peers if they started hanging out. Socially, Sherlock held an odd position at St. Bart's. His proximity to popularity with Mary Morstan and John Watson meant that he was off limits to bullies. There was to be no shoving him into a locker, destroying his property, stealing his money, or pantsing him in the locker room, lest John and the kinder few of his rugby teammates (and their fists) have something to say about it. That being said, Sherlock was not exactly well-liked, and not even John could do much to stop the whisperings of "freak", "psycho" and other such nastiness in the hallway. Molly's history as the mousy girl with the crush on the socially inept genius/freak didn't bode well for either of them, and there was an unspoken rule between them that if they were to interact publicly at school it would only set off a chain of rumours, laughter and insults. She understood it, but she still wished that he would look back at her just once as he passed her in the halls.

Sometime during their studies, Molly and Sherlock had exchanged phone numbers in case of an emergency cancellation, and on Friday afternoon before final bell Sherlock felt his phone buzz.

Sorry I can't do tomorrow anymore, family thing. Can we do after school today? Can wait 4 u in the library until 4:30 if u want. Ppl should be gone then.

Sherlock felt a small pang in his chest at her message. She thought he was embarrassed to be seen with her. It was neither true nor untrue, simply an unofficial bargain they had both wagered with the rest of the year level. He quickly typed out a response:

Today is fine. No need to wait until 4:30.

He backspaced the second sentence and retyped it before hitting send.

Today is fine. See you at 4:30.

Molly ignored the twinge of sadness and humiliation in her chest as she loitered around the library for an extra half hour, watching the rest of the school file out the gates. It made her all too aware just how lonely she was at this school, watching girls hug their friends and kiss their boyfriends goodbye before parting ways. She waved a meek goodbye at a few people she considered acquaintances; however it was only Mary, flanked by her hockey teammates, who waved back. It was a particularly melancholy day for Molly, one where she felt constantly a little bit sad without much reason, and her apparent lack of impact on anyone she'd known at this school for the last decade was not the wakeup call she needed right now.

'Ready to go?', a deep voice appeared from behind her, startling her out of her pity party.

'Uh, yes, sorry, let me just check I've got everything', Molly flung her schoolbag on the ground, double-checking she had all necessary books, worksheets and stationery.
'Shit' she grumbled, tears pricking her eyes out of frustration and a general done-ness with today. 'Ughhh' she grizzled, dumping the contents onto the ground and slumping over in defeat, trying not to cry. 'Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't have chemistry today and I didn't know I would have to reschedule until this afternoon, so I didn't bring my books with me-'

Her rambling was interrupted by a large, firm hand on her shoulder. It was the first time Sherlock Holmes had ever touched her.

'It's alright', he said in a calming tone she didn't know he was capable of, 'we'll walk to your place and pick it up. It's not too far'.

She nodded in amazement at this rare moment of compassion and managed to pick herself up with her belongings.

'How do you know I don't live far away?' She asked, placing her cool hands over her cheeks to take down the redness.

'I know the addresses of our entire year level. I got bored. Memorised the phone book'.

'Oh. Of course'.

Molly managed a genuine smile for the first time that day as Sherlock looked down at her and winked, their first joke between them.

Molly's house was tiny. Quaint, her mother would say. Modest, her father would agree. But in comparison to the Holmes estate, it was decidedly according to Molly "a bit shit". It was no secret that Molly was one of the scholarship students, and with no family driver to take them across town like the Holmes's, this was the best they could afford within the school district. It was messier than usual, the front lawn needed mowing months ago and there was a window around the side being held together with duct tape, but the interior was charming and homely. Sherlock tried to not make it obvious as his eyes darted across all aspects of the home, deducing bits and pieces of information about Molly Hooper's life from the state of her home.

'You don't have to come in if you don't want. I won't be long. We're not…posh', Molly admitted with embarrassment. 'I mean I'm sure you could already tell.'

She fiddled with her key in the door, made of old wood Sherlock noted, the kind that swelled and swayed with the house according to the seasons. He didn't respond to her offer, simply choosing to follow her inside silently. Sherlock loved being invited inside people's homes. It was a deduction goldmine and he could already feel the adrenaline at the prospect of being able to do some good old fashioned snooping without ever having to leave the front room.

There was the usual that he expected, wallpaper that hadn't been changed since the 70's, hair from three cats that normally adorned Molly's clothes all over the furniture, dust settled over the tv set that indicated no adult in the house had the time to clean regularly, and dozens of mismatched photo frames that all pointed to a sentimental, happy, loving family. However, Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he had stepped fully inside, Molly closing the door behind him. A man, between 40 and 50 years of age, almost definitely Molly's father, and almost definitely severely unwell and attached to an oxygen tank, huddled into the sofa watching the telly.

'There's my beautiful girl' the man exclaimed as he saw Molly, although his voice was shallow, and his breath was laboured. 'And who's this?'

'Dad', Molly said shyly, 'this is Sherlock, a boy from school. We've just been studying together. Sherlock, this is my dad, Martin'.

There were very few times in Sherlock's life that he struggled to find words, however this was one of them. How had he missed such an obvious factor in her life? He prided himself on his deduction abilities, but he had been so focused on this charade of not looking at her too long that he didn't really see her. He saw glimpses of the obvious, when she parted her hair differently or changed the colour of her lipstick, or when she kept her cardigan on in the hot weather even though she was breaking a sweat because her bra was the wrong colour and she didn't want it peeking through, and that was all he'd allowed himself. Any real deductions he could have made about Molly Hooper would mean he would have to really look at her and that was just something he could not afford to do. He was embarrassed to admit that up until recently he had also categorised Molly as someone with nothing interesting to deduce. He internally kicked himself as he remembered her sudden almost-outburst of tears. He had shallowly believed she must have been crying over a boy or whichever romance novel she was carrying around at the time and didn't bother to look any deeper. Sick father. Around 6 months left. Mother works full-time and is also his carer. No time to keep up with menial housework, hence the bra colour mishap. No siblings. Too proud to accept generosity from extended family. His eyes darted over to the calendar on the wall, appointment tomorrow on Saturday afternoon. Must be a big one, which is why Molly needed to reschedule so she could be there for her dad.

'Shall I put the kettle on and make us all a cuppa?' Martin offered, breaking the now uncomfortable silence created by Sherlock.

'No need, we're just popping in and out to grab a book,' Molly said sweetly, breezing past her father and giving him a kiss on the forehead as she ran to grab her book from another room. Sherlock stared blankly at Martin, a million thoughts racing in his mind and yet nothing even vaguely in the land of polite conversation made it to his lips, barely noticing Molly's return or the gentle push of her ushering him out the door again.
'I'm sure Mum will be back soon but you give me a call if you need anything, yeah?' Molly asked, earning a smile from Martin that seemed to take a tremendous amount of energy.
'Love you', she called out as she shut the door, catching a glimpse of her father's fallen face, the façade dropped as he struggled to maintain his smile.

….

'I don't understand', Sherlock said simply, now that Molly and himself had found themselves back at the Holmes estate and working over their science books.

'Oh don't tell me I actually get to do some tutoring today', Molly said excitedly, leaning over to see which question Sherlock was finally struggling with.

'No, not that. I want to know…I don't understand…Why did your father offer to make tea for us? He's clearly too unwell to get up and put the kettle on,' Sherlock asked sincerely.

Molly's brow furrowed as she took a moment to process the question. Her mother had warned her about this months ago when her father had first fallen ill. "A lot of kids won't understand, they don't have experience with a sick parent or family member and that's okay", she had said.

'Well', Molly began patiently, taking her time to choose her words. 'A lot of sick people don't want to feel sick, Sherlock. Or at the very least, they don't want their loved ones to treat them like they're sick. It makes him feel normal, offering, so I let him, even though we both know I'll always say no from now on and offer to do it myself.'
She met his eyes and saw a rare moment of pure interest in them, allowing herself to continue.
'He has bronchial cancer. Never smoked a day in his life and they caught it really late, just very unlucky unfortunately... I don't mean to sound so blasé about it, it's more just that some days I feel I've cried all the tears I can possibly cry about it, and nothing is going to change it so I just have to try my best to accept it even though it hurts. It's why I want to go into pathology. Autopsies, I think. It was bizarre, seeing a man be so healthy and happy one day and so quickly become a shadow of himself. It was both the most human and inhumane thing I've ever seen. The body doesn't care about how good of a person someone is, or how much they love their family, it has its own will to obey. If I can just understand a tiny fragment of why that is, I think maybe then he won't die for nothing', Molly trailed off, fearing she may have shared too much. Sherlock looked…moved? He was impossible to read.

'Okay now you have to tell me something about yourself' she jokes to relieve the tension. Sherlock suddenly became animated, as if he decided to put his thoughts on pause for the moment and re-join the land of the living.

'I want to be a private detective', he said bluntly, watching as Molly tried not to giggle. 'I wanted to be a pirate, but then I found out I get seasick.'

Molly let out a laugh, relieved that he wasn't put off by the discussion personal life. In all honesty, it endeared Sherlock. All his life he has taken an interest in the macabre and wanted to know details about death that his family and peers had recoiled from him, calling it morbid, yet here was Molly wanting to pursue the study of death and the human body as a way to honour the shortened life of her father. There was not a hint of judgement towards the idea of morbidity in her voice as she said it.

'Is that what all this is, then?' she asked, pointing to the clippings on the walls.

'Mm,' Sherlock murmured in response, 'Yes, waiting for a real case to somehow jump out at me. I tried stealing Mycroft's work files for a fix but apparently they're quite important. He's still studying at university but already interning for British intelligence.' He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and murmured playfully, 'and if you tell anyone I'll simply have to kill you.'

'Well that's fine, just make sure my body is given to science', she laughed back at him. 'Shame I can't do my own autopsy. Maybe I'll come back as a ghost.'

The two of them shared a smile and a small laugh, allowing the moment to subside naturally and return to a moment of sincerity between them.

'In all seriousness,' Molly stated, 'thank you for listening to me about my dad. I know we're not...friends. But can get a bit lonely sometimes, only a few people at school know apart from the teachers and it's been pretty tough.'

Without warning, he slowly and carefully leaned towards her as they both sat on the floor, keeping his hands firmly planted on the ground as he used his palms to balance his weight as his face moved closer to hers. His lips softly brushed against her cheeks, intentional and delicate.

'I'm sorry, Molly Hooper', it escaped his lips as barely a whisper.

'Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me you had guests?' A woman's voice startled the two teens far apart from their almost-embrace and Molly could feel her heart pounding and suddenly panicked at the optics of their situation, cursing herself for removing her school jumper and her tie when she arrived. The woman was tall, the same age as Molly's own mother with cropped hair, chiseled cheekbones, signature blue eyes, the same commanding and intelligent presence as Sherlock but with a distinct warmth and openness he hadn't quite mastered. Mrs Holmes.