second chapter! thanks so much for the kind reviews (and to Guest too), very happy you're enjoying it so far :)
hope the latest addition is just as pleasant.
II.
As Molly fumbled with the keys to the morgue, Sherlock leant against the doorway, stifling a great sigh. He was already pressed for time; every second wasted felt like years he could have spent solving the client's alibi.
"Do make haste for the sake of my withering patience, Molly."
"Sorry! I'm so uncoordinated this morning," she exclaimed in a huff, pulling her pony-tail back and giving him an apologetic grin. "Word of advice, don't ever plan a Glee marathon in the middle of the week. It's pretty exhausting."
Sherlock winced at the absurdity of her statement, but decided to ignore it. He usually filtered out any unnecessary information, including small talk.
It was too bad that her particular brand of small talk was too grating to be tuned out completely.
Once inside, though, Molly wasted no time before she pulled out the body he needed. She was fast on her feet. If you stood back and watched her move across the room, you would get dizzy.
"How fresh?" he asked as he unzipped the body bag.
"Just in. 67, natural causes. Used to work here," Molly offered quickly.
"I knew him, he was nice," she added with a lingering smile. "This is for a case, isn't it? Not just experiments?"
"Case. I need to inflict damage on the skin tissues. Well, enough damage to validate my theory," he mumbled, already lost in thought. "A man's alibi depends on it."
"A man's alibi? That sounds pretty serious. Need any help?"
"I suppose a ruler will have to do for now. Will get tedious after a while, though. Not enough scarring," he rambled on, ignoring her.
He took out a long ruler from his coat pocket and slid his fingers down its length, testing its strength.
Without any preliminary warnings, he suddenly dropped it on the dead flesh with an audible flick.
Molly almost flinched.
Sherlock dropped it a second time, more vigorously. Then a third.
"Ouch. Poor Johnson. He's being flogged like a schoolboy," Molly joked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder.
The detective frowned as he inspected the corpse closely. "Not very satisfactory, I'm afraid. This calls for a different instrument."
Molly scrunched her eyebrows, a sudden idea "cropping" up in her head.
"How about a riding crop? Would that do?"
Sherlock, who had momentarily forgotten she was there, turned towards her, eyebrows considerably raised.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"You've got a riding crop in the morgue?"
The pathologist had a playful glint in her eye. That look was usually reserved for her novels and cat, though.
"Halloween party left-over. One of the students forgot to take it back."
Sherlock bent over the body again, hiding a smirk. "I suppose that would be a vast improvement."
"It's in the changing room somewhere. I'll go fetch it," she replied, already making for the doors.
"That took longer than necessary, yet again. Is that just a habit of yours or is your attention span that short?"
Molly placed the riding crop in his hand, trying desperately to pull back the loose strands of hair.
"It was just really fun walking around with a riding crop, is all," she confessed, in a fit of giggles. "You should've seen David from Neurosurgery. He looked as if he'd seen me naked!"
Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, counting backwards from five.
"That's quite enough amusement for one day, Molly. You may leave now. Thank you for the assist - Hang on," he stopped, surveying her face in interest. "You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."
Molly's cheeks turned very red and she stammered her way through the explanation.
"I just - I refreshed it a bit."
"Yes, I noticed, obviously. Why?"
"No reason," she mumbled, trying to seem innocuous about it.
"There is always a reason. Usually a male one."
Molly's blush deepened.
Sherlock wondered whether she cherished the delusional notion that she might make herself more attractive to him by applying some cheap make-up.
"Well, you're going to laugh, but I er, I saw Stamford outside with your potential flat mate. He's sort of cute."
Sherlock's gaped at her for a fraction of a second before he concealed any trace of surprise. He would not allow himself to look stupid on account of such trifles.
"I see. I suppose they'll be up soon. I don't know why you think you are going to meet him, though, as this hardly concerns you."
"I know, I know I'm being nosy, but what's the harm in making a brief appearance? Let's say I come up to bring you some coffee. How about that? I promise I'll keep to myself."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in annoyance.
"Now why would I agree to such foolish schemes?"
St. Bart's pathologist and his potential flat mate. How utterly stupid.
Molly chewed on her lip in thought.
"Well, you'll need me to tell you what bruises form on his body after you're done with him," she said, pointing at the corpse. "It's why you're beating him to a pulp, isn't it?"
Sherlock smiled, shaking his head.
"Nice try. But you can text me the details. No need to come in person."
"Hmm. Fine, then. You can keep the riding crop, provided you let me bring you coffee. Come on, that sounds reasonably fair. More than fair actually," she offered, giving him one of her winsome smiles.
After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock reluctantly and begrudgingly agreed.
"None of that silly writing on the cup this time!" he called back after her.
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked again, trying to hide the pleasure he derived from John Watson's startled expression.
They all succumbed to it so fast. This one was interesting though. Gullible, but interesting.
Just then, Molly Hooper decided to make her "unexpected" appearance.
Sherlock groaned inwardly as the bubbly pathologist popped her head through the door.
"Brought you some coffee, Sherlock. Oh, hello there! Didn't know you had company. Hi, Stamford!"
She had mercifully brought Sherlock a mug which she dropped in his hand without any warning. It was scalding hot.
Sherlock hissed under his breath.
"Hallo, Molly," Stamford greeted her cheerfully. "This is an old colleague of mine, Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson, Doctor Molly Hooper, one of our top pathologists."
"A pleasure, I'm sure! It's always fun to meet one of Stamford's old friends. I've seen the pictures. He was a lot less plump in his younger days, wasn't he?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes in disdain, but John Watson seemed pleasantly surprised by her presence.
"Oh, Molls!" Stamford moaned in distress. "This one's always badmouthing me!"
"That's what you get for introducing me as a pathologist," she joked light-heartedly.
John only smiled, slightly overwhelmed by her energy. He liked her though, Sherlock could tell.
"He's grown a bit round, I'll admit," John mumbled, amused, casting Sherlock a curious glance.
The consulting detective was now back to handling John's phone, but even the Army Doctor could see he was not pleased with Molly's interruption.
Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat, making Molly glance up at him. She was met with such a furious glare that she almost yelped.
"Well, I'd better be off then! The dead wait for no one! It was lovely meeting you, though. Hope you'll come visit again."
With that she threw one last look at Doctor Watson and slipped through the doors.
John was left reeling.
"Well, she's quite something, isn't she?"
"That's our Molly," Stamford said fondly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was Molly, all right. An obnoxious, overly-excitable child. He should have known better than to make a deal with her. No riding crop was worth this kind of laughable display.
"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the phone. He was going to pretend nothing had happened. Eventually, John Watson's attention would be focused solely on him.
And he would make sure to keep Molly Hooper away, for future occasions.