Author's Note: I like Mike Stamford. That is all.
Sherlock Holmes was back, and the good natured Mike Stamford could not be happier about that development. Not only was Sherlock back home on Baker Street, he was also back at St. Bart's, his home away from home. Sherlock came to see Stamford in his office, early in the day, to rather haltingly explain himself—to clarify why he decided to take a nosedive off of the roof, send Stamford's oldest friend into a depressive spin and implicate his head pathologist in a fraudulent act, when Stamford interrupted Sherlock's halting explanation by drawing him into an enormous hug, squeezing the wide-eyed detective breathless before clapping him on the back. He stared Sherlock straight in the eye with a steady smile and said, "No explaining needed between friends, eh?" Sherlock straightened up and after looking at Stamford searchingly for a moment, he nodded, turned and strode out of Stamford's office with all the drama he'd had before and then some. Stamford grinned. Being "dead" really hadn't changed him at all, now, had it?
All felt right in the world, when after lunch, Stamford passed by the morgue, and glancing in, he saw that Molly had just unzipped a body for Sherlock to examine. She was bent over the corpse, purple latex gloves on, a pair of tweezers in her hands as she attempted to retrieve something from the cadaver's left nostril. Sherlock cut a familiar but intimidating figure, black clad, coat collar turned up as he hovered behind the petite woman. Sherlock was removing his own gloves, presumably in favor of the extra pair of latex ones on the examining table, when one hand dropped out of sight behind the table, behind Molly. Molly suddenly gave a yelp, muffled from where Stamford stood, and dropped the tweezers with a clatter. She turned furiously on Sherlock who looked down at her with an unabashed expression. Stamford stared for a moment, trying to understand what he had just seen. Sherlock Holmes had goosed Molly Hooper. That couldn't be right, could it? Molly's mouth was working—she was telling the smirking man something very sternly and pointing to the opposite side of the examining table. Sherlock Holmes had grabbed Molly Hooper's bum—Stamford's eyes told him this information, but his brain could not quite process it. Down in the morgue, Sherlock pushed out his bottom lip at Molly, but she continued to point to the opposite side of the table. Turning irritably with a swish of his coat, Sherlock moved to the other side and the examination continued. Stamford paused a moment more before shaking himself and moving on—there had to be a logical explanation—it couldn't have been what it looked like. He'd bring it up to John the next time they got together.
It was late when Mike Stamford stopped in the hallway outside of the lab, pausing before heading to his office where an unwelcome pile of paper work awaited him. His wife would be irate—looked like he'd be missing his exercise class tonight—too bad, he thought to himself delightedly. It almost made the paperwork bearable when he considered what he would be missing.
The light in the lab was still on—Molly was working late again, or Sherlock was, with Molly assisting. Feeling a bit like a peeping Tom, Mike glanced through the window into the lab and smiled to see Sherlock back at his usual post, prepping something in a petri dish before moving over to stare into his favorite microscope. Sherlock was again where he belonged. He was a bloody marvel—back from the dead, a real hero. And if the woman in the white coat and the ponytail standing next to him with a pipette in her hand had something to do with his "death" and return—well, what was it to Stamford? Mycroft let him know when to look the other way, and Stamford had a blind eye turned to most of what Molly did in regards to Sherlock Holmes. She was a consummate professional in every other way. It was good to have everything back to normal.
Still lost in his thoughts, and delaying the inevitable paperwork, Stamford stood in the shadows, idly and happily watching the familiar scene play out before him when something happened that was decidedly unfamiliar to Stamford's wondering eyes.
Sherlock sat back with a triumphant smile and gestured to the microscope. Molly leaned over, quite close the consulting detective, to take a look herself, and as she was gazing into the microscope, Sherlock looked at her bent head quite intently. He inclined his head ever so slightly and when she raised her eyes from the microscope, Sherlock nuzzled her face—a proper nuzzle, eyes closed. He looked like he was breathing her in. Molly jerked up suddenly with a smile quirking her lips and faced Sherlock. She leaned in and rubbed her forehead and nose over his face in a playful Eskimo kiss before pecking him on the lips and returning to her pipette and slides. Sherlock grinned and bent over his microscope again.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, but Mike Stamford stood with a cooling cup of coffee in his numb hand, blinking rapidly. What had he just seen? It couldn't be what he thought he saw, because he just saw Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper in a … romantic moment. But it couldn't be. Could it? He mentally replayed what he saw in the morgue earlier in the day, adding one and one together and coming up with two—those two in the lab, currently working side by side, not looking at each other or touching—those two were together. Together-together! Feeling like a gossipy old hen, he stood as long as he dared, peeking through the window but the display was not repeated. Molly and Sherlock working in the lab, same as it ever was.
Mike fumbled in his pocket for his phone, hurriedly punching in the numbers. He needed to talk to John right away. Disappearing body parts, fraudulent death certificates, Stamford could look the other way, but stolen kisses and surreptitious groping? No sir. Some things you just couldn't pretend to not see.
