Molly was at war with herself.
After Sherlock had kissed the life out of her two and half years ago and then disappeared, she thought she'd never see him again. Her heart had crumpled and she had felt lonely for her what seemed a very long time. Nearly a year had passed, and she'd thrown herself into her work, performing autopsies and biopsies, occasional liver transplants from recently deceased patients, and advancing to the Senior Specialist Registrar in Pathology at Bart's.
It wasn't until she went for drinks with some old medical school friends one night in Kent that she met Tom, who at first had reminded her so much of Sherlock from across the room at The White Rabbit pub that she'd believed she was having some kind of hallucination. But Tom was his own man, sweet and funny and kind, and very handsome. He was a traffic cop with the Metro police department, and he was like a summer's day after a long, cold winter.
She had been reluctant to date him at first, and had even done an online background check on him through a private agency, but gradually she went out with him a couple of times, and realized they had very similar sunny dispositions and good chemistry.
Molly was an emotionally honest person, and she believed in being true to one's self. The first couple times Tom had leaned down to kiss her full on the mouth, she did compare the passionate snog she'd had with Sherlock, and wondered if she could ever let him go, but the more they dated and the more time that passed, she realized he wasn't coming back and that she needed to move forward with her life. She knew it was twisted, but she liked it when they started their relationship, that he was so similar to Sherlock. Tom was bright and not a dullard by any standard. She might not ever be able to talk to him about the differences in elongation of rete ridges or the different hues of nests and strands of melanocytes beneath a microscope, but when she engaged in such dialogue with work friends, he would look on encouragingly. She simply had accepted the fact that Sherlock had left, and wasn't returning, and that she needed to move on and be as happy as she could allow herself to be.
And then he came back.
Molly sighed and leaned back in her office work chair, staring at the notes for the specimen in front of her, blinking but not really seeing them. She shook her head and forced herself to sit upright, move the long, slender pathology microphone closer, and she pressed the foot pedal below her desk to begin recording a digital dictation.
"The erm, specimen found in Mr. Whittaker's abdomen displays focal epidermal ulceration with scattered elongation of rete ridges, an inflamed serum crust, and overlying compact hyperkeratosis." She released her foot to stop recording as Sherlock's face, pained and uncharacteristically emotional, came unbidden into her mind.
I wish you every happiness, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.
"God, focus!" She chided herself, shaking her head as if a tiny Sherlock would pop out of one ear and skitter away along her desk. She yanked the microphone forward and looked down at her notes, continuing the dictation. "An um, immunohistochemical stain is negative for fungal microorganisms, but shows increased endothelial cells in the telangiectatic blood vessels lining the stratum corneum-" And you thought he was it, didn't you? The love of your life… "Oh bugger," she hissed into the microphone. "Um, sorry transcriptionist. Omit that last bit, please and start from 'corneum'." She stopped the foot pedal, leaned back and covered her eyes, moaning.
Sherlock was an enigma, but the really confusing thing was that he kept sending her mixed signals. He had done since he'd been back, and she had no idea what to make of any of it. She'd finally gotten so irritated by it all that she'd decided to be cheeky for once and see if he would give an honest emotional reaction if she told him she and Tom were having a lot of sex (which they were, er, had been up until a few weeks ago). But Sherlock had only darted his eyes around, stoic as ever. The real revenge had come at John's wedding, when he'd asked Tom to stand up and basically prove that Sherlock was the superior choice in a man intellectually.
All of these thoughts and so much rage were bubbling up inside her, but coupled with that, she and Tom had broken up, badly.
It had come the night of the wedding reception, when she'd seen Sherlock go out the door with his coat. She had stopped dancing and was about to excuse herself from Tom to go after him, when she realized that sometimes the hardest thing to do, however painful, was the right thing. Sherlock was her friend. She loved him, yes, but he appeared to want nothing more, and she was promised to Tom.
That night, after she and Tom had made love in front of the fire in her nice flat, she realized he was frowning down at her, and he looked angry.
"Tom?" She asked, studying his normally cheerful face which was screwed up in anger. "W-what is it?"
"You said his name."
Molly's jaw dropped, and she realized that for the first time since being intimate with Tom, she had been fantasizing it was Sherlock above her.
"W-who's na-"
"Don't give me that!" he shouted, slapping the wall above her head with the flat of his palm. Molly jumped. "You know who!"
"G-get off of me," she said lowly, suddenly scared of him for the first time. He was a big guy.
He didn't move. "No. You said, 'oh yes, Sherlock' plain as day just a minute ago as you came apart. What the hell, Molly?"
Forcefully, she pushed against his chest until he lost his balance and toppled to the side. "I said get off," she urged, sitting up and drawing the blanket over her bare breasts. "I don't remember. I must have had too much to drink at the wedding."
Tom sat up, staring at her. "Are you even serious? The guy's a bloody nut job, Molly-"
"Don't you dare-"
"He's psycho! The nutter spent half of the bloody wedding singing his own praises-"
"Sherlock Holmes is a great man-"
"Oh, obviously! That's why he got on everyone's nerves, and left the wedding early. I can see exactly now why you want to shag him, he's got more balls than anyone should ever have-"
Molly slapped his face, hard. "Get. Out."
Tom's nostrils flared, and he stood up, completely naked, staring down at her. "Fine. We're not done with this, though. You don't shag me and think of him."
"I-I told you, I must be drunk-"
Tom crouched down, grabbing his trousers with one hand and gripping her jaw harshly with another. "Listen to me, Molly. I don't care if you're drunk or sober, when we make love, you think of me and only of me. Not that self-serving jerk. He doesn't love you. I do. All he wants is an audience. Got me?" He squeezed her jaw tighter, and it hurt. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She nodded furtively. "Good," he said angrily, and released her. He left only minutes later, and Molly had spent the rest of the night curled in a blanket on the floor, stroking Toby and sobbing softly.
Now, weeks later, she was angry. Tom had had a point, she had always had integrity in their relationship and, while she appreciated the physical resemblance he bore to Sherlock, she'd fallen in love with the man he was, or who she'd thought he was.
Tom had never been violent with her before, but she was an intelligent and successful woman. Once was enough. She'd written a letter breaking it off, and left it in his mail slot along with her ring, letting him know it was completely over a week ago. She stood and walked around her desk, looking at her small office and awards on the walls. Glossy magazine covers caught her eye, and she glanced down to the wedding mags and pattern booklets and venue lists she'd binned this morning after spotting them in her drawer. She would never be in any kind of abusive relationship; she'd witnessed the post-partum contusions, bruises and bodily damage that those who stayed in them experienced. That would never be her.
Mainly at the moment the two thoughts warring in her mind were the rage behind the breakup, and also the turmoil in dealing, or in not dealing with Sherlock. He'dnot said a word nor come by since the wedding, but just an hour ago he'd shot her a text:
Molly. I have a case I need your help with; may I come by and use the lab to dissect evidence? -SH
And with that single incoming beep, she had turned into an emotional mess. Since he'd come back to life, she'd found herself being emotionally naked in front of him, just blurting out what she was feeling with no apologies for it. She was slightly afraid of herself and what might say or do, given the right provocation.
A soft knock at her door roused her from her thoughts. "Come in."
Anna, her intern, poked her head in. "Hi Dr. Hooper-"
"Molly," Molly chided patiently, smiling at the slim, red-headed girl.
"Yes erm, Mr. Holmes is in the lab, he wanted me to tell you."
"Thank you, Anna. Would you do me a favor?"
Anna entered, looking pleased at the prospect. "Of course."
"Remember the biopsies I had you dictate last week as practice?"
"Mhm?"
There's one there, just read from my notes starting from stratum corneum."
"You've got it!"
Molly smiled, pulling out her chair for the girl. Anna was finishing up her registrar training and almost where they could bring her into the morgue full time, the only problem they were having was that the girl was slightly squeamish about intestines, but that could be remedied with experience. Molly gave a nod and her thanks, and she made her way around the corner to the lab. Sherlock had hung his coat and was perched on a stool, gazing into a microscope.
"Hello," Molly said tentatively.
"Where is your ring?" he growled, his gaze glued to the microscope.
Molly wasn't even aware her left hand was anywhere within his line of sight, as she was standing more than ten feet away. She huffed, frustrated, and started towards him. "How the hell did you even-"
"Molly, you've known me for years."
Molly sucked in her cheeks and to her horror, started assisting him, bringing up a culture tray for his samples, unstoppering a vial harder than was necessary.
"Right, I forgot. You're Sherlock Holmes. "How stupid of me."
He sat up, and his clear, sharp eyes pierced her like a knife. He frowned slightly. "Are you… alright?"
Molly laughed nervously, taking some of the samples he brought and putting them in petri dishes. "Not really, Sherlock, but I will be."
"It's over with Tom?"
"Mm, that's right," she said, handing him an enclosed petri dish her with some sort of soil encapsulated inside. He held it aloft, but was studying her carefully. "I don't want to talk about it, okay? Really, I'm surprised you haven't gone out of your way to deduce what happened yet."
"I don't want to cause you any pain, Molly," he said earnestly. There was a questionable tone at the end of his voice, and she wondered if he had an idea of what had went down.
Molly threw her hands up, then put them on her hips, cocking her head at him. "And that's another thing, Sherlock. You don't text or call or email, then you just come in here and act all irritating, and then you say things like that that just make it unfeasible for me to be cross with you! Do you want to talk about causing people pain? How about when that cow, Jenny or Janette or whatever her name was at the wedding-"
Sherlock briefly shut his eyes. "Janine," he said distastefully, the way someone might say mushy peas.
"Whatever; how about after a day of flirting with you and acting like you were the sun and moon, she totally disregards you and dances with some total idiot instead? How about that!"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, a curious expression on his face. "Do you know, I don't believe I've ever seen you this angry, Molly. I believe I like it."
"Well, get used to it!" she snarled, realizing she had no rein on her emotions at the moment. She kept avoiding his gaze, grumpily moving samples to petri dishes to help him. "I really didn't like her, you know. She was all kind, and cute and lovely, but she was just like some girls I went to school with, a total fake with a cold, cruel heart. It was a shitty, shitty thing she did. I'd of danced with you in a heartbeat."
Sherlock was silent, and to her horror Molly came to her senses, placing her palms on the laboratory counter, shutting her eyes after her little tirade. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"Don't apologize," he said dismissively. "It was a dull, boring event anyway. I-"
"No," she whispered, rubbing her palms against the cold, flat surface. "You don't understand." She looked up at him, and met his eyes. "I'm sorry for not going after you. I saw you."
She felt a large, warm palm on her cheek, and she looked up at him, feeling the full penetrating gaze of his blue eyes.
"You always see me, Molly Hooper."
His thumb grazed her jawline, and without another thought, she closed her eyes and stood on her tiptoes, bringing her lips to his.
A/N: Cliffie! Thanks so much for all who have taken time out to read this story, subscribe, follow, and comment. I wanted to continue this. There were some cringe-worthy moments in "The Sign of Three", but more interestingly I felt like Sherlock was purposefully choosing Lestrade and Tom to answer how they thought the murder was committed to illustrate his intellectual prowess over the others to Molly; that's how I interpreted it, anyway, because he specifically targeted her table. And yes, I know that the Anderson-imagined hot, glass-breaking window kiss was just illusory, but I am thoroughly convinced that Sherlock did properly snog Molly before he left, and that it was a lot like the one in T.E.H (but props to Anderson for the smashing-through-the-window and hair-ruffling bit). *fans herself.
Anyhoo, I don't know how long I'm going to make this story as I'm getting ready to self-publish a big, fat romance novel in the next week or two, but I'm officially Sherlocked at the moment, so yeah… *geeky voice: "Sherlock had me at hello!" If I do continue this, it will probably go up to an M-rating (just a warning for the youngins). Cheers.