Wow! Again, thank you, thank you for your reviews!
Apologies for the delay…but life is going strong, now, and it's all good stuff. Praise Jesus! Woo-woo! *horribly choreographed dancing*
This is a sorta fluffy transition chapter, for your pleasure, because I will not be posting another update until after Easter. In fact, I won't be on fanfiction at all…I'm taking a small 2 week sabbatical to focus on all the other stuff going on right now. Sorry! I will be back writing strong after Easter, though….and I'm excited for what's happening next! I already have the next few chapters outlined…Moriarty may be gone, but there is a case coming that I am excited about! In the meantime, please enjoy the slight fluffiness.
Thanks to Chee2468642 for the idea about Anderson later in this chapter.
I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter 23, In Which Love is a Transition
It's interesting that a single, relatively small stimulus can catalyze a fairly large reaction. For example, less than a gram of magnesium, mixed with water in the right conditions, can have explosive results. Mycroft probably intended the resulting explosion from a visit with Mummy and Daddy to push Sherlock backwards, into the realm of not caring, once he saw how tedious and unnecessary his attachment to Molly Hooper was. But Sherlock's reaction to it all was unexpected, even for him.
Most of the time, visits with his parents were quickly deleted from his mind palace. He remembered the important things, of course – details about his parent's health, and whereabouts, should Mycroft ever fail to provide protection for them and that unfortunate task should befall Sherlock – but details about gardens and birds and hobbies and lost-and-found spectacles were nearly always speedily and effectively deleted once his parents had left, to make room for more interesting cases and more engaging work for his brain.
Not so, this time.
Late into the night, long after he had returned to Baker Street, Sherlock found his mind occupied with every detail of his parent's visit – and especially Molly's reaction to it. He analyzed the memory of every quirk of her lips, every sideways gaze or widening of her eyes, every nervous twitch of her fingers.
It was almost appalling how enthralled he was by her – or, more specifically – by the physiological responses he had to – her. All of her. How much he craved her approval – her attention – how often he found himself silently willing her to look at him, or smile, or understand.
She always understood. Him. She always understood him.
A smile ghosted his lips as he remembered their good-bye before the cab came to take her home. He noted how warm he felt, and…happy. It was a disastrous evening, by all accounts – but he enjoyed it. Well. The Molly bit of it. The parent bit he could have done without.
He found himself feeling as…pleasant…at the memory of her acceptance as he was at the time she gave it. So he recounted other Molly memories as well. (For all his past objections and qualms about sentiment, he certainly wasn't a masochist – he did enjoy feeling happy.) He remembered, in particular, the day she accompanied him to 'solve crimes'. The studious way she observed him, taking notes, the aesthetically pleasing way her hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned in to deduce the skeleton, the knowing smirk of a shared joke over tube carriages.
He wanted that again. He wanted her smiles and admiration and love.
Admiration might be a bit difficult after the punch-bowl incident with your parents, Sherlock, Mind John chided him.
Sherlock ignored him. If there was one thing he was excellent at, it was gaining admiration through the use of his brilliant mind.
This was a new sort of game, for Sherlock - and it was most definitely on.
Molly was late.
She was never late, but today – she was late.
She had slept amazingly soundly through her alarm, and was now thumping around her flat with all the hasty inelegance of a woman who had approximately fifteen minutes to get to work.
She'd already dropped her toothbrush in the toilet (only on crap days like this could she ever manage something like that), and had gotten a new one out to brush. She ran from the bathroom to the kitchen to feed Toby, gargling and spitting in the kitchen sink, and halfway to the door remembered she was still wearing her slippers.
Her stomach growled as she hurriedly pulled on some socks and grabbed her new trainers. She slipped one on as she grabbed her bag and an apple from the kitchen. Stuffing the apple into her mouth and holding it firmly with her teeth, she opened the door, hopping on one foot to put on her other shoe.
She froze, apple in her mouth, still standing on one foot with her trainer half-on, at the sight of Sherlock outside her door.
Molly's cheeks flushed a mortified shade of pink as she recognized him. Sherlock smirked at her response, noting her clumsiness and haste and how for some reason, on her, it wasn't nearly as annoying as it was on everyone else. In fact…it was almost becoming.
"Allow me," he said smoothly, ignoring the rush of endorphins he experienced at the sight of her lips on the apple and her eyes on his face, holding the door open for her, and closing and locking it after she'd exited. He'd had a key made for himself after the Fall, and had never given it up, opting to use one of her bedrooms as a bolt-hole. When he turned to see her, she had straightened herself out, and was munching self-consciously on the slightly too-large-of-a-bite of apple she'd taken. She quickly chewed and swallowed.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," he returned politely, smirking slightly.
There was silence for a moment, and then Molly shook her head, as if awakening, and her words rushed out of her as she edged towards the stairs. "Well, I overslept, you probably – know that already – but I overslept and I'm late and I'm never late and well - we can start walking, together? Unless you need my flat for something, but I can't imagine you would because you're not hiding, unless you're on a case – no?" she said, noticing the slight shake of his head, and beginning to walk towards the stairs – "Well, then, can we start – going, then? I'm never late-"
Sherlock only just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He settled on a smirk instead. "Dr. Hooper, you've been 'on time' every day for the past nine years, you've worked holidays and night shifts and overtime and covered shifts that none of the other – increasingly more incompetent staff – would. And, you've managed to work with the world's only consulting detective for most of those years without so much as a missing cadaver or lab fire to speak of. I think they'll be understanding of the one day you come in less than fifteen minutes late. Besides, you've still got two weeks before your cast comes off and you can work in the morgue again. Until then, it's just confirming paperwork and lab tests, and I hardly think those constitute as a reason to rush headlong into traffic in an attempt to hail a cab," he finished, irritated and grabbing her arm to prevent her from stepping off the curb in her desperation to get a ride to work.
Molly sighed and nodded and bounced on the balls of her feet, waiting tensely for a cab. As one arrived and began pulling in to the crowded section of curb, she looked down, and realized that Sherlock's hand was still gently resting on her arm, just behind her elbow. She flushed, and all of the stress of being late to work suddenly seemed very insignificant compared to the fact that Sherlock had been waiting for her outside her flat, and that now he was gently guiding her into a cab for work, carefully following her into it as he slid across the seat, arranging the small cooler he had been carrying in between the two of them.
She blinked rapidly for a few moments, getting her bearings, and refusing to touch the now-tingling spot on her arm where Sherlock's fingers had rested just moments before.
Cooler…right…eyeball experimentation, today. Must be a good one if he's so keen on starting straight away.
She smiled brightly at him. "Are those the eyes, then?"
And although all he'd planned on doing was smirking coolly in return, his lips betrayed him by curving into a smile of their own. "Yes. Blue, brown, green, hazel, and a particularly interesting shade of grey. Also brought the contacts and solutions. I've been meaning to test this for a while, now – it will be much easier to identify suspects in disguise if I can identify their original eye color from underneath the contacts."
Molly nodded, pursing her lips. "Do a lot of your suspects wear contacts, then?"
"No. However, there was an incident in Croatia that sparked my interest."
And Molly spent the rest of the cab ride eating her apple, and listening to and asking questions about Sherlock's case in Croatia involving a woman particularly adept at the art of disguise and how she managed to escape notice several times – all because of a pair of coloured contact lenses.
The experiment went flawlessly – Molly helping most of the time, autopsy reports reviewed and approved in record time, and meaningless paperwork abandoned in lieu of an intensely focused and remarkably energetic Sherlock.
Molly's shift was up roughly an hour and half before the experiment was finished. Sherlock had paid careful attention to the clock and Molly – but aside from stacking her folders neatly on a counter in the lab as her shift ended, she made no motion to leave. Instead, she went back to assisting him with the experiment with a quiet excitement and visible curiosity that made the warmth in his chest expand sharply – pleasantly – and allowed him to refocus on his explanations with a fervor he hadn't had since explaining the Moriarty case to Lestrade.
Anderson walked brusquely down the hallway of St. Bart's, searching for Mike Stamford – and possibly Molly Hooper as well. He'd been trying to get back with the Yard – even a desk job, anything would be acceptable, to start with – and he needed recommendations. He knew he could count on those two, at least. He just needed to find them and make his case.
He was passing the lab – Molly's usual lab – and he strolled past it, meaning to meet with Stamford, since Molly was supposed to have gotten off nearly two hours ago.
Something caught his eye through the observation window, and it took a moment to register what he was seeing. When his mind finally caught up to what his eyes had witnessed, he paused – frozen – midstep. He hesitated for a moment, and then took three brisk steps backwards, and turned to peer more intently through the window.
They were cleaning up when it happened.
Molly was struggling to hold a petri dish in her left hand and rinse it out with the appropriate solution with the right, fumbling around the cast. The dish kept slipping slight out of her grasp, and it was scooting across the counter. Molly scowled in frustration as yet again, the dish shot out of her grip.
Suddenly, she was enveloped in warmth – Sherlock, lightly pressed against her back, his hands resting casually over her own, guiding the solution expertly and efficiently into the petri dish he now helped her hold onto.
She'd looked so…frustrated. He was only helping her, really. And…if the feel of his body lightly brushing against hers, and the feel of his hands on hers, made his synapses fire in rapid succession…well, that was just – a pleasant side effect.
Right?
There was silence, and stillness, and even breathing. Sherlock's hands still rested over Molly's, and they were frozen, both lost in their own thoughts on the experience.
Molly felt her cheeks warm, and turned her head slightly – and oh!
There – right there – his face, so close to hers – she could feel his breath on her cheek.
Which did nothing to dull her colour.
She was most likely the same shade as the cherries on her jumper, now.
He was doing just fine until she turned her head.
Her cheek was presented – a pleasant shade of pink – warm, and soft – and his lips – just centimeters away.
So many endorphins, rushing – he suddenly had the very strong urge to press his lips to her cheek – and then, the thought - of her turning her head just a bit more, and meeting her lips instead of her cheek – presented itself, and –
And he took a step backwards, bringing his arms around and back down to his own sides, blinking, feeling his pulse in his own face, and he swallowed, once.
"There," he said, in reference to the now-clean petri dish, and turned abruptly and commenced cleaning the rest of the equipment, rapidly going through the series of events in his mind that lead to that little encounter.
He paused suddenly, and sent a glowering look towards the laboratory's observation window.
Molly frowned at his expression, and she followed his gaze, and her eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sight of Anderson sheepishly waving at the two of them.
Luckily - there was Molly. Anderson swallowed nervously as he let himself into the lab, a strange smirk breaking out on his face at the sight of Sherlock narrowing his eyes at him.
"Sorry – hope I'm not – interrupting anything-"
The looks of mortified denial mirrored on both of their faces caused a goofy grin to spread across Anderson's features.
Sherlock opened his mouth, and Molly sensed a particularly devastating tirade coming on, so she quickly intervened. "Hello, Anderson – what did you need, then?" Her voice was just a little too bright.
Sherlock glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and turned on his heel to finish putting away the various beakers and dishes and lab equipment.
Anderson's grin faltered as he recalled the reason for coming to the hospital in the first place, and he sighed and shifted uneasily on his feet. He certainly hadn't wanted to ask Molly for a recommendation to get his job back when Sherlock was around.
"Well, Dr. Hooper – uh. Hmm. That is - see, I was wondering if-"
"Oh for heaven's sake," Sherlock spat from across the room. "Haven't you wasted enough of the Yard's time? I assure you, their idiot department has already exceeded capacity."
"Sherlock!" Molly gasped, eyes widening in disbelief. She turned to Anderson, who was now scowling, albeit somewhat nervously, at Sherlock. "Is that what you came here for? To talk – to me about your job?"
His features relaxed as he turned his gaze on Molly. "Er – yes. I need…some recommendations. Wanted to talk to Stamford about one, but I was walking by, and saw– " he began to smirk again.
"Have you asked Greg?" She asked, too brightly once again.
"Well…yes. He did say he'd give me one, if I…er, gave up the whole…Empty…Hearse…thing…"
"Well, then, it shouldn't be a problem."
Sherlock glanced up at her, then quickly back to his work.
"…And I've already – oh. Not a problem?" He asked, confused.
"Nope!" She said, somehow guiding him without touching him towards the lab door. Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye, amused at her ability to disarm Anderson with a bright smile and direct, short sentences.
"So you'll…write me a recommendation?"
"Yes."
"Say I'm ready for duty?"
"Sure."
"Ready for cases?"
"Yep."
"That I've fully recovered?"
By now he was in the hallway, Molly holding the door, and she gave him a pointed look, tapered by a small, genuine smile. "Are you?" She asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Then – yes."
"Okay." A pause, and a shifty, knowing expression. "What was th-"
"Lovely I'll have it for you by next Tuesday goodbye Anderson!" She said it in one breath, and remarkably, did not stutter once.
"Uh – right. Thanks – thank you. Good bye." And he turned and walked away as the door shut behind him, a puzzled expression on his face.
Molly hadn't expected Sherlock to take her home. In fact, she had expected him to have snuck out somehow while she was filing the autopsy reports in their proper places. But she filed them, and got her things, and there was Sherlock, waiting calmly by the door. She blinked and paused.
Evidence from today seemed to be pointing to the fact that…she counted…perhaps romantically to Sherlock…
And then she remembered the previous evening, with parents, and punch-bowls, and decided that maybe he was…apologizing again, in his own strange way.
She smiled at him. "You don't – have to take me home, Sherlock. It's nice of you – but, you don't have to, if you don't want to."
And he looked mildly surprised at her declaration. "I never do anything I don't want to do."
She laughed once, a breathy thing. "Of course not. Okay then. Thanks."
And the ride home was spent in companionable silence, their thoughts both taking them in the same direction, even if they didn't know it.
I enjoyed this. I really enjoyed this. It's – nice. Being…together. Experiment was a success. Fascinating. And…the petri dish. That experience was fascinating, too.
And as they pulled up to the curb outside Molly's flat, she hesitated a moment before opening the door. "Thank you, Sherlock. It was a lovely experiment. Now I know how to tell if someone with dark eyes is wearing colour-changing contacts." She smiled, silly. "Great party trick, I'm sure."
He smirked in response, and she made to exit the cab.
"Molly?"
"Hmm?" She paused easily.
"Would you like to…solve crimes, again?" He asked, a smile in his voice, already anticipating the answer.
She turned to look at him, and he met her gaze with an honest one of his own. She smiled broadly as he continued.
"John has Madeline duty this Friday and both he and Mary insist that she's not to experience any crime scenes until she's at least eight years old. I think that is far too old, but the point is that John is not available Friday and you did – an adequate job, the last time, and I know you're free-"
"-Because you know my schedule by heart," she finished, for him. "Yes. I'd – that would be lovely, Sherlock."
"Good. Very – good. I'll…"
"…text me with the time, tomorrow?"
"Yes. I'll text you."
"Good. Lovely."
"Yes."
"See you Friday, then? Good night."
"Good night, Molly Hooper."
That night, after closing and locking her door behind her, Molly leaned against it and couldn't help a bemused smile from spreading across her face. Her heart fluttered, just a bit, in her chest - and she couldn't help but wonder if maybe she had more of a chance with Sherlock than she'd originally thought.
There you have it!
The next chapter, when I post it after Easter, will contain some cute crime-solving a la Empty Hearse, and then lead into a bigger mystery that I am super duper excited about.
Wasn't so sure about writing Anderson...not sure if I got him quite right, and as always, welcome to any constructive criticism on anything you find amiss.
Thanks for being awesome!