On a bustling street, stood a quiet flat, where two friends found themselves, unlike the rest of London that evening, slouched over their work. The street noise outside was matched only by the hum of their television, the hoarse roars of an unseen crowd as the rookie hero took his shot for the goal.
"John, turn it off."
"Hang on, they're about to win-"
The screen flickered to black and the remote, thrown carelessly over to the other side of the room.
John sighed, kicking himself for forgetting the first rule he made for the television. Hide the remote from Sherlock.
"Found anything yet?"
"Possibly." Sherlock said, eyes glued to his laptop, darting back and forth over its screen. "Merton went to culinary school on Farringdon Road in '95. Relocated to Ireland in '98 before returning to London to open a restaurant in Soho with-Michel Laymens."
John spun his head around, mouth agape. "Our victim?"
Sherlock grinned, taking out his phone, fingers flying over the pad in quick succession. "Exactly. I'll make reservations tonight, see if we can meet Mr. Merton."
John looked down at his scuffed jeans, "I better go change then."
Sherlock brought up his hand to halt him without taking his eyes off the phone. "No. You're not going."
"What? You're going by yourself?"
Sherlock scoffed, "Barely a seven, John."
John slumped back into his chair, confused. "Well then, whose going?"
His answer came thirty minutes later.
Soft voices downstairs, then thudding footsteps, alerted John to their guest and as he turned towards the door, Molly Hooper burst through, a little out of breath.
"Sorry—Sorry." She gasped. "Cab—cab was slow."
John let his eyes run over her. Molly was more dressy than usual. Her hair, taking a night off from its ponytail, was sleeked into soft curls and her dress, just below her knees, was a cherry red, matching her heels.
"What's wrong with your hair?" Sherlock suddenly blurted, his sharp tone instantly diminishing Molly's smile.
"Oh? Umm, gel." She mumbled, her cheeks flushed as John rolled his eyes at him. "Just gel."
"You cleaned up nice." John joked, earning him a sweet smile from Molly, (not forgetting the almost imperceptible glare from Sherlock as well)
"Yeah, some of the girls at work were going out but-I got your text, what do you need?"
Sherlock stood up from his desk to thrust a slip of paper into her hands. "Go to this restaurant and look for a medium-height, grey-haired man, Merton. If possible, try to get a look at his hand. You're looking for a distinctive tattoo on his left wrist."
Molly looked down at the paper note with puzzled eyes. "I—you want me to go-now?"
"Yes." Sherlock looked at her in earnest. "Hope you didn't rid of that cab downstairs."
Molly stood motionless, as if unable to comprehend why Sherlock called her on her night off just to go to a restaurant. John came to the same conclusion, giving his friend a look of incredulity as he stepped in on Molly's behalf.
"Come on Sherlock, you can't send Molly."
The detective had the audacity to look genuinely confused at this. "Why not?"
"Why not? Look at her. Molly's obviously got plans-"
Sherlock took this opportunity to run his eyes callously over her. "She may be underdressed but that should hardly matter."
Molly ducked her head away, mortified but John pushed on.
"What about Merton—you can't get Molly to spy on him. Said it yourself, he's dangerous."
Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."
"He chopped up his best mate!"
"He had very good reasons." Sherlock bizarrely reassured Molly, as if this reveal would be somewhat comforting to the pathologist. Given her sullen look, it was certainly not.
John, fed up with Sherlock's causality of the whole situation, took the final stand. "Absolutely not Sherlock, you can't make her go."
A moment's breath passed before Sherlock uttered a reluctant, "Fine."
"Good."
The good feeling John felt at his success, sank as he and Molly watched Sherlock stand up from his chair to retrieve his coat from the door.
"Wait-where-where are you going?"
"I'm off to protect Dr. Hooper from the peril of a limping crook of a cook." Sherlock sarcastically mocked. "Since she can't go by herself-Apparently."
"I'm going with-you?" Molly clued in.
"Yes, Molly. Do keep up." Sherlock admonished.
"Did he really chop up his friend?" John heard Molly cautiously ask, Sherlock's guiding hand, placed on her back as they walked down the stairs.
"How else do you suppose he got him into the soup?"
Their voices, slowly fading away until their exit was confirmed by the slam of the front door.
The football game held no interest for John now. Prodding up his sleepy head with one arm, he looked over to his phone anxiously, as he so done frequently, throughout the evening.
He was burdened with the possibility, that he might receive a call, the call that would ultimately lead him to be summoned to the restaurant or worst, to Barts in order to identity Sherlock's remains.
No, Molly would be far too clever for that. If she wanted retribution for Sherlock's little intrusion of her evening, John doubts they'll find his body so quickly.
Although he could humour himself with the thought, the idea of Molly beating up Sherlock would never happen.
His thoughts flew a recent memory to which he was enlightened about Molly and Sherlock's arrangement, one evening, stuck in the labs while the Detective was arguing with the Inspector outside.
He shared a look with Molly upon hearing Sherlock's 'this-will-be-done-my-way' tone, the deep voice almost cracked as it tried to reason with the Inspector outside the lab.
Neither of them would want to be on that side of the Detective. With all his genius, Sherlock Holmes, could be down-right intimidating.
Molly stifled a yawn as she looked towards the clock above them.
"You don't have to come along tonight, if you're too tired." John said kindly. "Bugger him."
She did laugh but shook her head stubbornly. "No-I'm fine. Just time for a cuppa."
"You know, you can always say 'no' to him, if you're not up to it." The question spilled from his mouth before he could pull it back and by the sudden change of her smile, John wished it hadn't left him so quickly.
"What makes you say?" Molly quietly asked after a noticeable pause.
John tried to shrug harmlessly, "I know he can be a right git sometimes but…"
"You think he forces me?"
"No!"
"Oh." Molly murmured softly. "-You think I only come along because I'm his love-sick puppy? That I can't say no to Sherlock."
John tried to shake his head convincingly but before he could reply, Molly beat him to it.
"I-I didn't believe it when he asked me-I mean, I don't think even he knew what he was doing but I was excited." She looked down to her hands, grasping them tightly as she spoke.
"I was frightened that he would change his mind and send me home-"
Molly boldly looked up at John, "You know it. That feeling of being on a case, it's-thrilling."
"And you help people, truly. Both of you, even if Sherlock forgets that sometimes." A tiny smile appeared on her face as she continued.
"I mean—I could say no if I wanted, and I've never expected anything from Sherlock, never—but how could I say no to an opportunity like this?" She finished with a small shrug.
John couldn't help his head nodding in agreement, suddenly realizing that thinking it was only him and Sherlock that loved the thrill, the worth of solving a case, all the while, underestimating Molly's capacity for it as well.
He cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond when suddenly Sherlock stormed in.
"John, hurry. Lestrade informs me our suspect is at Burchart Gardens." Sherlock called to him, causing John to scramble out of his chair.
The detective turned to Molly, his hand slightly outstretched in a gesture towards her, no doubt meaningless to him but to Molly, John saw, it was everything.
"Coming?"
Her face dissolved into a private smile as Molly nodded. "Yes."
The shrill of his phone torn John away from his thoughts, shaking the memory away.
If this be the last time John's called out to the back of the ambulance, he'll be forever grateful for it.
Lestrade's unusually frantic phone call had John racing out of Baker Street, preparing for the worst until he spotted Molly and Sherlock, sitting on the back of the ambulance, without (thankfully) the red blanket.
John took in their appearance as he approached them; Molly's hair and clothes were slightly disheveled while Sherlock looked completely disorientated, his scarf lying limp over his ruffled shirt, bits of curly hair matted onto his paler than usual face.
John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, already predicting John's disapproving rant.
John settled on something less preachy, "What was it this time?"
"Strangulation." Sherlock croaked, his hands readjusting his scarf with great unease.
Molly carefully slipped the scarf from his neck, piling it into her lap.
"Beautiful but hazardous." She murmured softly as she folded the material, all the while, missing the look of wonder Sherlock was watching her with.
"Jesus-what, Merton strangled you?" John asked keenly.
"Obviously, he was not successful." Sherlock said, and then uncomfortably added, "Due to -Molly. Handy with a saucepan."
"I promise not to make a habit of it. Saving your life and all." Molly joked.
"Yes." Sherlock muttered almost absent-mindedly. "Shame about your hair."
Molly's hands flew to her head, where John noted, her curls had fizzled out, the only victim of their struggle with Merton.
"Ah, well they couldn't have lasted forever." Molly assured, self consciously patting down her hair.
"It looks better this way." Sherlock's odd admission slipped out, perhaps even without the consciousness of the Detective himself but he did not play into their surprised looks.
"Shall we?" Sherlock stepped off the ambulance, flipping the collar of his coat up. "I'm famished."
Thank you for reading. Apologies for the slowness but feel free to imagine 'very fluffy things' in its absence.