*A little long, and still not entirely happy with it, but here ya go! I'm pretty sure there's just one update left; I just wanted this to be a short little drabble after having done a really long (for me, anyways) story for Blade II.
"Thought you didn't drink," came a familiar voice from the stool behind. Molly jumped lightly, spinning herself to face away from the entrance she'd been watching ever anxiously.
"Sally?" she asked, smiling in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you I was going out for drinks. I brought Anderson along, being as you declined," she motioned back to the booth where the particularly vexed man resigned. "Decide to come alone?"
"No, I, uh," Molly stammered, glancing to the wall clock strung high on the partition of the over-worked kitchen staff and the fresh-shift bartenders, reading quarter to the eighth hour. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Oooh," the older teased, smile widening with her surprise. "Who's the lucky catch?"
"Well-." Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite the best thing to answer. There were a thousand other names that were easier to say- safer too. Telling Sally Donovan you were about to catch a date—if that's what this was—with Sherlock Holmes was as bad of an idea as they came.
"Come on, out with it. Do I know him?" the woman urged, glancing away from the blossoming face. Her smile deteriorated slowly, pushing away from the bar top she'd been leaning on.
"What?" Molly asked, hesitantly following the other's gaze behind her. In the open doorway stood a tall silhouette, fitted in a dark trench coat and slacks, black curls forming around a pale, unforgettable face.
"Don't tell me that's it."
"Sherlock…"
A smile appeared on the man's face as pale blue orbs cast her direction, one not unlike the hundreds she knew he'd faked before.
"Molly," he greeted as he took the final steps to her side, shrugging off his coat. "…Female Anderson."
"Classy, Holmes. The Hell do you think you're doing here?"
He gave a prominent tisk, his head falling to a slight cock. "Your deduction skills worsen and worsen each time we meet, Miss Donovan. You might consider enlisting in some classes before they become so faint even Lestrade cannot find the sympathy to let you cling to your employment," the detective countered, taking his seat at the opposing side of the pathologist.
"Fine." The officer slipped from the bar stool in a defeat she'd deem annoyance. "Have fun, Molly. Don't show up to work cold tomorrow."
" 'Cold?' " Molly repeated, tearing her eyes away from Sally's fleeing figure to Sherlock's face.
"It's remarkably one of the nicest things she says about me," he answered with a smile, motioning to the bartender with two fingers. Lord only knew what that she'd get.
"What," she began, shifting in her seat. "What exactly brought this on? You're not the first person I'd have thought to do something like this…"
"And what, precisely, is this—to you, of course?"
"Well—it seems a date."
"And why could I not seem one to propose it? I'm more than capable of going for a bite."
"But with a plus one?" she asked, brows furrowing at his casualty, most unlike his answer.
"Have you ever thought about death? – Well, I'm sure you have, with your occupation stationing you in a morgue and all—but I mean what you leave behind. You can leave money, a legacy, a memory, property, or nothing at all. It depends on your actions as a living person. You can change what you leave behind and how much that thing means to one or one thousand people—And I'm speaking far beyond what you settle in your will just before you kick the can. If I were to die today, this morning for instance, I'd have left John, a dear friend who's seen plenty of comrades die before me, and Mrs. Hudson, one of the most stupendous women I've come to know. I suppose you could consider my address on Baker Street left behind, though I would not due to the fact that it can be repurchased and, with a little paint and plaster, it was like I was never there at all. I'd consider a legacy in order, as I've solved numerous crimes here in our fair England, though that legacy makes many loathe the memory. What's a man to do with the thought of dying alone when he'd young enough to challenge such fate?" He took a breath for what seemed like finally, ceasing his speech to ask, "What is it?"
Molly had to pause to swallow. "How long have you been thinking about this, Sherlock?"
"Roughly since this morning, why?"
Molly's brows raised, her lips unconsciously turning up into a faint smile. "You really are something, Sherlock Holmes. Our whole lives may change because of a single thought you had this morning."
"Well, not a single thought," the man corrected, keen eyes set carefully on hers. "But a series of them, leading to one conclusion. And as for making a decision, any one person can wake up to create a different world for themselves or others. One could muster the guts to set off a bomb, as another could decide to do nothing at all. For instance, you could've stayed in bed this morning; skipped work and unknowingly dodged my invitation—but you didn't. So, in fact, we've both made separate decisions that could change the course of our lives because, after all, you didn't have to show up here tonight."
"Do you ever just—get tired of thinking so much?" she asked innocently, color rising to tint her cheeks a flattering rosy pink.
"Why ever would I" he countered, raising a drink placed at the bar. He took a swallow from the glass, the glistening gold of its contents suggesting scotch. That was certainly strange.
"Isn't it ever exhausting, having no down time?" she continued to pepper quietly, gingerly fingering her own glass in circles, too nervous to delve right into it.
"Down time is exhausting. You sit and occupy yourself with nothing; letting boredom eat at you. What exactly is enticing of it?"
Though the question had a rhetorical quality about itself in the deep tenor, she had every intention of enlightening him.
"Down time is not empty, Holmes, it's only void of the stress of work-."
"The stress?" he cut in. "You must be going about it the wrong way."
"You fail to understand, Sherlock—What you and I deem as work is very different; What it is you do, for the most part, is recreational. You spend all your time wrapped in it like a blanket to hide from the bustling social world around you. You have no boss to look to, your payment of service a disinterest to you. In my line, I work at the morgue, my boss is Lestrade, and I don't examine bodies for the fun of it-."
"Oh, never for the fun. Cadavers are rarely a pleasant dealing by the time they reach the slab."
Molly's eyes narrowed, her brows pulling together. "You're missing my point entirely-."
" 'Examine bodies for the fun of it—' " he spoke out of turn, the deep tenor pulling her in. "That last bit has nothing to do with the topic of choice, nor your argument that work is the same as stress. It's a message you didn't mean to convey, isn't it? You're frightened all the same as anyone else; just as suspicious as Anderson or Donovan… But there's a difference, isn't there? One you're hiding under the veil of fake confidence I'm sane or the mockery of an idea that I can do no harm. You don't, in truth, believe in me as I am; you look in too deep just as everyone else, but you're not only nervous, as they are, no. You're intrigued, excited even—you want to learn without losing the thrill of being in the dark, don't you?"
"Did you just figure this, too, out this morning?" came Molly's faint voice, her eyes blinking away.
"Oh, Heavens no. This one's been a long time coming." He took another drink for the parchment of speech, motioning with a free hand to the bar. "Won't you have a drink?"
"I'm a bit involved in the conversation, if you don't mind, I—is it obvious?" she stammered despite her best efforts. The poison, she was convinced, would only farther deteriorate the confidence she clung so dearly to to speak.
"That depends; to me, yes, to others, no. They don't look deep enough, or pay any mind for that matter. One day Lestrade is going to have to realize that his department is full of incompetent nitwits who know less than those outside the yellow tape," he did his best to control the growl of his words, giving a short shake of his head that ruffled his curls. "Save for you, it's an embarrassment down there."
"Sally's not all that bad, you know," she peeped, a hint of a smile finding the corners of her lips.
"I wouldn't expect you to think anything else of her."
"And you-."
"And I mean by that, you're not there when we are. You don't have to feel the radiance of her stupidity while she's out on the job… It's exasperatingly aggravating; All the job takes is looking and maybe a thought or two. Not difficult."
"For you."
"Hmm?"
"It's not difficult for you."
"Of course not. Why else would I be so fired on the matter?"
"Exactly."
"Do elaborate, Dear Molly."
"I believe what you truly fail to understand is that which you've known all along." Her smile spread, bringing light to her weary eyes.
"Enlighten me, then. I couldn't think of a thing I would miss so-."
"It's not the same," she answered, a soft chuckle finding her at the confusion on his face. "You're not the same, and you've known that all along. Christ, Watson tells you every day—'Incredible,' 'magnificent,' 'amazing' – there is no one that thinks like you, Sherlock. Things that are easy for you baffle scientists, engineers—nations. You just have to learn to be more tolerable for those of us that cannot fathom such achievements."
Quiet music drifted throughout the winery, the likes of Philip Wesley easing conversations to a murmur of noise consistently in the facility. The only voice above another's to be heard was Sally's, though only through one with an ear for it, seated ways away in a booth with the secondary choice of hers.
Molly was deaf to it, consumed in the silence of Sherlock Holmes.