Dream by InSilva

Disclaimer: just playing in the Sherlock playground

Bart's wasn't her first job. Not by a long way. To support herself in her studies, she'd worked as kennel-maid, chambermaid and for one ill-fated night, barmaid. But making it to Bart's…it was everything she'd been working towards.

Her dad would have been proud. He believed in hard work bringing its own rewards. Not that she'd completely understood that when she'd come down to breakfast in the school summer holidays and found ten sums with "Best of Luck!" written beside them. She'd done them, of course. Just like she'd studied hard to achieve GCSEs and A-levels and to get into the best university and then into medical school. Dad had been there for all that and none of that knowledge she held in her head had been able to stop him succumbing to the cancer that was eating him from the inside out.

It had been a slow death. Slow and painful and he'd faced it with a smile on his face when he'd thought people were looking and such sad regret when he thought they weren't.

"Try your best, Molly. That's all you can do."

Try your best. And it had brought her to Bart's.

The junior doctor who'd been asked to collect her clearly didn't want the job. He strode through the hospital, throwing a word or two over his shoulder as she hurried to keep up.

She arrived breathlessly at Pathology – "Here you go. Pilkington's inside." - and was greeted at the door by a well-dressed man in his sixties who was very obviously on his way out of the department.

"Ah. You're the new girl."

She supposed she was. She smiled and nodded and tried not to notice his surreptitious glance at his watch. There was a grunt that spoke of plans being rearranged.

"My name's Pilkington. Looking forward to working with you, Doctor…?"

There was a definite question-mark at the end of the sentence.

"Hooper. Molly Hooper. And it's Miss Molly Hooper. Can I just say how terrific-"

"Bellamy!"

Pilkington was looking over her shoulder and she half-turned to see another smartly-suited senior member of the hospital staff standing in the corridor alongside a younger man in his late-thirties. Pilkington moved to join them and Molly hesitated and then followed him over.

"Young Stamford, isn't it?" Pilkington asked and without waiting for an answer, added, "this is Miss Molly Harper who's joining my team. Would you do me a favour and show her the lockers?"

"Of course, sir."

Bellamy gave her a brief look up and down. "Unusual choice. Pathology. For a girl, I mean."

She smiled nervously and bit back on the thought that the man was pompous and old-fashioned and just a little bit sexist.

"I like the idea of piecing together the puzzle-" she began but then realised Bellamy hadn't been talking to her and she closed her mouth again.

"I'll see you after lunch, Molly," Pilkington said by way of dismissal. "Head on in and make yourself at home. We'll run through procedures when I get back."

She stood and watched her new boss disappear down the corridor with Bellamy and then there was a polite cough behind her.

"Mike Stamford," the other man said, holding out his hand.

"Molly Hooper," she said with emphasis on her surname. "Nice to meet you."

"Come on, Molly, locker room's this way."

"Thanks," she said, still thinking about her welcome.

Mike must have guessed her thoughts.

"Pilkington's alright," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I mean he will leave most of the work to you and he'll take credit for the smooth running of the place but he won't stand over you and he'll be happy for you to work out the answers. That's a lot of freedom."

"Do you work in Pathology too?"

"No, I'm one of the lecturers here but I do borrow the lab from time to time," Mike explained, holding the door to the locker room open. "It's quiet and peaceful."

"Morgues are like that."

"Thank God. Don't think any of us would be keen if the corpses started coming back to life. Here's your locker. Have you brought lunch with you? 'Cos if not, there's the main canteen or there are some vending machines next door. Soft drinks, hot drinks, sandwiches, crisps and chocolate. Not all that healthy, I'm afraid."

"Thanks," she said.

Perhaps she looked a little lost because Mike added:

"I've got a class coming up but I'll look in on you on my way back. Make sure you've found everything."

"Thank you," she said again, meaning it.

She'd opened up the locker which had once belonged to one "Stan Williams" and had found a clean lab coat hanging up. She pinned her identity badge on the front and slipped her arms into it and set off to explore.

It didn't take her long to complete the tour of the morgue and the lab, both of which were devoid of any sentient life. She sat on a stool and exhaled slowly, swinging her feet. She was keen to begin work but she needed Pilkington to at least start her off.

A microscope and a tray of specimens beckoned. There couldn't be anything wrong with just looking, could there?

So engrossed was she with the magnified blood samples, she didn't notice the door open nor the footsteps nor the stranger until he was right on top of her. She turned her head and found herself looking up into the face of the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She felt the shock smack through her like a physical thrill.

"Eyeballs."

"Wh…what?" Speaking and breathing at the same time was suddenly incredibly difficult.

"I need eyeballs. Six will do. They don't have to match." A frown crossed the perfect brow. "Where's Williams? He said he'd have them ready."

"Stan Williams?"

There was an irritated shrug that suggested first names were unimportant.

"I think I might have replaced him," she volunteered.

Blue-grey-green eyes stared at her unblinkingly for the longest time and then there was the tiniest nod.

"Eyeballs," the man said again. He took up residence on the stool next to her expectantly. "I can't promise to be patient."

Right. From the way this man (this god) was acting, he was must be some sort of consultant. Exactly the sort of person she didn't want to mess up in front of on her first day at Bart's.

"I'll just go and find them, sir," she managed and headed to the morgue.

In one of the cold drawers, there was indeed a jar with random eyeballs just waiting which was kind of a relief. She clutched the jar and tried her best to compose herself. Pretty much impossible, she concluded, as her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that the beautiful man surely had to hear it even though he was sitting in the other room. She straightened her glasses, wishing that she'd worn some lipstick and then took a deep breath and walked back into the lab.

The Man was sitting staring down the microscope. He must have heard her re-enter because he flung out his left hand imperiously for the jar, his eyes never leaving the slides.

"Here you are."

She put the jar into his (ringless) hand and there was the briefest of touches and surely he felt the electricity arc between them the way she did. He didn't acknowledge it though. His focus was entirely on the magnified culture.

"It's really interesting, isn't it? The bacillus has mutated into a really aggressive strain. Imagine running into that down a dark alleyway!"

She was gabbling. Talking for the sake of talking and with no response whatsoever and if she didn't shut up now, she was going to do something stupid like ask him out. Ask this ridiculously attractive man out. Or tell him how gorgeous he was. Or ask him out.

There was absolute silence for about fifteen seconds.

"So,-" she began and then the door opened and Mike Stamford walked in.

"Hi," he smiled at her and then glanced across at The Man. "Hello, Sherlock. How's the latest case going?"

The Man had a name. Sherlock. An unusual name and that was so perfect for him because he was definitely not ordinary. He raised his head and looked at Mike.

"Regretfully closer to being solved."

Mike nodded in her direction and Sherlock turned to face her. "Have you met-"

"Miss Molly Hooper," she said quickly, holding out her hand which Sherlock didn't seem to have the slightest inclination to shake. She let it drop to her side. "I'm-"

"New to the Pathology department," Sherlock interrupted, those wonderful eyes on her again, "and new to Bart's too. Keen to make a good impression – shiny shoes, new jacket, a different hairstyle to one you'd usually wear – doesn't suit you-"

Automatically, her fingers went up to the bun that held her hair in strict place.

"-and a receptive attitude to perceived authority. Your badge declares you to be a Specialist Registrar which means you're a qualified doctor but yet you call yourself "Miss" which might be to draw attention to your obvious single status but is more likely to point to your role as a surgeon. Why would a surgeon be spending time here in pathology? Working towards her doctorate. Seeking to differentiate herself from rivals. Understandable. It's a difficult job market and you don't project a memorable persona."

She blinked, the colour rising in her cheeks.

"S-single status?" she stuttered.

"Yes," Sherlock said decisively. "Unless you count the cat."

"I don't have a cat," she protested weakly.

"Only a matter of time." He stood up. "Doubtless, we'll see each other again. I'll need your mobile phone number."

Was that…did he mean…all that about her being single and now asking for…could he mean…

"Well?"

Not patient. OK, not patient. She remembered. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled her name and phone number down and passed it to him with a hand that she refused to let shake.

"Good." The number disappeared into his pocket without a second glance. He held up the jar. "I'll take these. I'll let you know if I need more."

And with that, he was gone in a swirl of coat. She stared after him, her lips forming silent half-words.

"Sorry about that."

She jumped. She'd forgotten Mike was in the room.

"Sherlock isn't the best at social situations and he's worse than usual if he doesn't have a case to get his teeth into. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just sees something and generally it comes out of his mouth. The first time I met him, he told me I needed to listen to what my dentist had said that morning and start flossing as it would keep my breath fresher."

"Keep your breath…"

"Fresher. Yeah. My wife agreed." Mike chuckled to himself. "Don't take offence. Sherlock's worth getting to know."

Well, yes. She thought so. And she hadn't been offended as such. Bewildered, maybe, by the rapid-fire deduction and the bluntness and the how did he know.

"Surgeon, eh?" Mike sounded impressed.

"Oh. Yes. Orthopaedics. What's-er-what's his specialty?" she asked as casually as she could. "Which department?"

"Oh, he's not on the staff."

Her eyes widened.

"He's not on the staff?" she repeated faintly. "I've just given him a jar of eyeballs and he doesn't work at the hospital?"

"It's OK," Mike said reassuringly. "Sherlock has some sort of arrangement with Pilkington to use the lab and to sometimes borrow a body part or two to help with his research."

She wavered between asking about the research and trying to get to the bottom of the arrangement. Mike obviously sensed the double question.

"Sherlock's a…well…a private detective, I suppose. He works quite closely with Scotland Yard on different cases."

Very different cases. Criminal not medical ones.

"I don't know the details but I understand he helped Pilkington a year or so back. As a result…well, he gets lab time and John Doe eyeballs."

She made a little noise of fascinated acknowledgement and then saw the sympathetic smile on Mike's face.

"I know. Lot to take in. Look, do you want to grab some lunch? I'm headed for the canteen."

She hesitated. She should probably wait at the lab for Pilkington. Mike was still speaking.

"I can tell you more about Mr Sherlock Holmes and I can introduce you around-"

"Yes," she said a little too quickly. "Thank you, yes. Lunch would be good. Great."

It was later, much later, and she was back home off shift, her shoes kicked off and all the pins pulled out of her hair. She was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a packet of bourbons and she'd just phoned her mum.

"So how was your first day, Mol?" her mum had asked and she'd told her.

She'd told her about the journey in on the tube.

She'd told her about Pilkington and the morgue and the lab and about how it had all ended better than it had started because Pilkington had returned and had actually spent time with her and she felt like she'd learned something.

She'd told her about Mike and how at lunch, he'd introduced her to Stacey from Radiography and Ian from Dietetics and Jo from Facilities and they'd all been as friendly as Mike and she'd felt included.

She'd told her that her first day had been good. Great.

She dunked a biscuit into her tea and thought about what she hadn't mentioned. About dark, unruly hair and cheekbones and indescribable eyes and an imperious manner. And about dreams coming true.

A/N: in researching Molly, I came across a post entitled "Meet Miss Molly Hooper" which makes, I think, an excellent case for Molly being a surgeon. So thank you very much to its author.