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“You're a consultant,” she says.
He frowns.
“Yes.” In a way. He was a consulting detective . It said so - right on the door.
“And you help find things for people!”
“Yeees……” he says this slowly, like he knows he’s walking into a trap.
“Well,” says Molly Hooper proudly, “You’re going to help me find a boyfriend. Specifically, John.”
His face is skeptical.
“Your roommate,” she adds pointedly, as if he didn’t know that.
“This isn’t a dating service,” Sherlock Holmes snaps back. This annoying girl had already gotten him written up in chemistry class for not following safety procedures (so he didn’t use regulation tongs! He was improvising!) and now the tiny menace had wormed her way into his dorm room declaring she was his latest client.
Molly stands abruptly, so quickly that Sherlock flinches backwards. She leans across the kitchen table, turning his laptop around so she can see what is currently on his screen.
“Hey!” He has a right to be indignant.
She narrows her eyes at the laptop.
“You’d rather help find this - this Bluebell , this missing bunny, than coach me?” she asks. “Hmmm.”
“I know you like experiments,” Molly barrels on with her sales pitch, “and this one has unparalleled variables.”
She’s right, he thinks. Oh, the struggle.
Molly quirks a brow at him, and pushes the laptop back to its original position.
Sherlock grinds his teeth in annoyance. He glares at the bunny.
Molly gives him a big, glowing smile, as his gaze rapidly flickers between the screen and her face.
“Oh alright!” he groans. She jumps and squeals and claps her hands together like the small maniac she is.
“BUT,” Sherlock interrupts before she gets too happy, “If it works and you’re here all the time, I’ll have you know it’s my room too and I don’t plan to leave out of courtesy, I don’t care what it is you two get up to.”
Molly stops, forehead creased, mouth open, and gives him a funny look.
.
Sherlock stands in front of his mind map (it’s not a mood board, John) , hands poised before his lips, palms together. He’d have to cover this all up later, before John got in.
The case: Molly liked John. Molly wanted to date John.
Sherlock pins up a photo of Molly (taken by her roommate Meena, which he’d downloaded from her Facebook. They were “friends” now, post-meeting. Not friends-friends, but Facebook friends), beside a photo of John (which he, okay, also printed from John’s Facebook).
The dilemma: John’s type was...decidedly not Molly. John has no idea Molly exists. Her previous attempts at catching his attention have all failed.
Sherlock looks at the photos he’d then taped on the web under John’s photo - Janet, Elsa, Bridgette. They were all...buxom. With big hair. And lashes. They majored in things like international relations, and political science, and sociology. He jots this down.
He looks again at Molly’s photo, and makes the appropriate notes. Hair too flat. Chest, too. Science major. Not sure that one was a deciding factor for John, but worth noting that she had more interest in the micro-details than the macro view of power relations across the globe.
Oh! Personality, he remembers. Personality was probably important, too. Attraction was such a finicky thing.
Sherlock purses his lips. He can’t quite remember John’s exes’ personalities. He hadn’t paid much attention.
Thankfully, John’s laptop is easy to hack (password: watsup. really?), and Sherlock pulls up his trusty datamine: Facebook. He scans the girls’ pages, careful not to click on anything so John wouldn’t yell at him about this later, and gleans enough key details to work from.
Shared traits: laughs easily, social climbers, image conscious, narrative-seeking.
He looks again at Molly.
Sherlock frowns. No, no, he needed things that were more easily adapted. He needed things like “likes dogs.”
Aha - he clicks on interests. Pop music, that would be easy. Oh, outdoor dates, also replicable. They wore sundresses and heeled sandals (judging by the earlier consultation, and chemistry class, Molly’s wardrobe consisted of patterned cardigans, ugly trousers, and A-line skirts that didn’t fit right). Owned multiple pairs of sunglasses to coordinate with outfits. Different colored bags. Adventurous palates.
It didn’t matter if Molly was none of these things, or somehow already secretly all of these things. They were low-stakes common interest areas she could easily adopt, and, if all went well, she’d pique John’s interest, and he’d fall into dating her just as easily as he’d done the rest.
Sherlock secretly titles the moo- the mind map ( dammit, John) “project: pygmalion.”
.
Molly looks at the picnic basket in Sherlock’s hand skeptically.
“I should...ask John out on a date, a picnic, in the park? With Thai-Mexican fusion?” she repeats, wrinkling her nose.
Weird menu, yes, but it’s from a trendy new place that someone like John’s many exes would have wanted to try (Kimberly - ex #3 - or was it 4? - already had an Instagram post of lunch there). It would evoke familiarity to the archetype John was attracted to, and Sherlock told Molly as much.
She reaches out for the basket slowly.
“Alright, if you’re sure…”
Sherlock blinks rapidly.
“Almost forgot,” he says, dropping the basket on the table and rushing off to grab a paper shopping bag he’d procured via messenger (Billy, his intern). He practically shoves the bag into her arms.
“What’s this?”
“Clothes,” he says, clapping his hands twice to summon the intern. “Time for a makeover.”
.
Molly stands in front of Sherlock’s full length mirror, wondering how the hell he had one when she didn’t. It didn’t come with the dorm, and she hadn’t realized he was so vain.
She’s put on a red dress - a bright, shocking color she secretly loves but never had the gall to don in such a huge, eye-catching manner before. The short cap sleeves puff just slightly, the fabric ruches together underneath the square neckline, and the waist ties up with a bow in the back before the skirt flares out in a bell shape with the hem hitting just above the knee - giving the impression of an emphasized hourglass figure she’s sure she didn’t have just a moment ago.
“It’s - um,” Molly is searching for the words to thank Sherlock, who stands intently behind her, surveying his work through the mirror in a startlingly serious manner.
“It makes up for your flat chest,” he says, squashing any feeling of gratitude she had bubbling up. She levels a look at him, then decides to ignore him in favor of inspecting the rest of the look.
She wobbles, just slightly. It’s not that she hasn’t worn heels before, but sensible day pumps were a far cry from the strappy sandals she’d been given.
“Don’t worry, if you seem like you might trip, John will just reach out to catch you. He likes being chivalrous.”
“Oh,” Molly likes the idea of that. She pats her hair - she’d never tried curls before, and hadn’t expected Sherlock to own a curling iron. She eyes his own mess of dark hair.
“Mine are natural,” he says snippily.
She shrugs, wide-eyed, signalling no offense.
“Billy’s um. Quite good at makeup. What is he majoring in?” she asks.
“Accounting.”
“Huh.”
.
Sherlock and Billy peer out from the bushes, binoculars more for face-obscuring purposes than vision enhancement. They’ve both got 20/20 vision, and could see plainly that the date was not the romantic Grand Gesture Sherlock had hoped it would be.
Molly indeed wobbles, leading John to hold his arms out to steady her, but rather than cute and heart-stopping, it’s off-balancing and awkward and results in the two of them sort of twisting around wildly in circles before sitting heavily down on the grass, now quite dizzy.
The picnic blanket is spread, the food set out, and then a gust of wind blows by - depositing a pile of dried leaves into their meal.
Molly and John smile awkwardly at each other, neither quite sure what to say.
“Raincheck?” John finally asks.
Molly nods miserably.
.
“John, how did you date go?”
John turns around, slowly, and gives his roommate an incredulous look. He follows it up with a suspicious once-over.
“Why?” John asks, eyes still narrowed.
Sherlock puts on his most affronted look.
“I - what? I can’t even ask my roommate how his date went?”
John turns back to his laptop, chalking it up to Sherlock’s usual weirdness.
“You never ask,” John says casually, typing away. Lise from World Histories had sent him a video via Messenger.
“I always ask!” Sherlock is indignant. He takes pause. No, John was right, he never asks.
John raises an eyebrow at him.
“Went okay, if that’s what you’re really looking to ask about,” John says.
“Why would I be asking about something I didn’t want to - ask about?” John could be so strange.
“Like that time you asked me about what I had for dinner because you were running an experiment on sensory recall.”
Ah.
“So? Just ‘okay’? Tell me more,” Sherlock pries.
John shrugs, clicking on the video. “Not sure we have much in common. She stares a lot. Head in the clouds, maybe. She insisted on a picnic on a windy day. Seemed pretty dejected when it didn’t work, and we. Kind of walked in silence all the way back.”
Sherlock peers over to find John smiling at the screen, biting his lip in failed restraint.
“What are you doing?”
“He just flops over, ” John explains ineffectually, gesturing at the screen.
“Right.”
.
Irene licks the frozen yogurt off her spoon so slowly it’s like she’s putting on a show. Sherlock knows she’s not. She has her thinking expression on, and, yes it’s weird, but she eats (slowly) when she thinks.
“Look, Sherlock,” she says. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but it’s not that hard.”
Sherlock scowls.
“In fact, it’s laughably simple,” she explains with pity in her eyes.
“I didn’t ask you for advice so you could make fun of me,” he grumbles.
“All she has to do is show up in his room and start taking off her clothes, men are simple.”
Sherlock spits out his water.
Irene laughs, and he scowls. “She wants to date him, not eat him alive.”
“Same thing.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, and grabs his things to leave.
.
Sherlock stands before a bubbling, boiling beaker of violently pink liquid, goggles on ( thankyouverymuch ), hands gloved, tongs at the ready.
He watches his photogenic chemical experiment intently, contemplating his so-far failed social experiment.
Molly Hooper was...odd.
John dated, he dated lots. He dated all sorts of women, similarities be damned. Cindy was pre-med and Annaleigh was studying psychology. Naomi was studying architecture, and Rebecca was a student of dance theater, and she had a pixie cut.
John liked women, period . And he liked dating.
But he didn’t want to date Molly, or at least wasn’t particularly invested in dating Molly, and it couldn’t be from lack of noticing her because Sherlock had already fixed that! He dressed her up, and John did look twice - and then when Molly stopped him in the hallway and asked him out, he said yes.
Conclusion: The problem was Molly.
Sherlock frowned.
What was so wrong with Molly that John had no interest in her? John loved it when women paid attention to him, and Molly was-
Sherlock stops, and drops his tongs.
Molly was lying .
The pink solution bubbles over.
.
Sherlock finds Molly standing alone in the communal kitchen, behind the island, fixing herself some apple slices on the countertop. He hurtles his finding at her before she's even turned around.
“Fact: John likes women, John likes attention from women, John has never turned down a date with a woman from what I can recall in the short few months I have known him,” Sherlock says, striding straight toward her.
“Erm, think that was three facts,” Molly says, caught like a deer in headlights.
“Fact: John is stupidly easy to get the attention of,” Sherlock says, ignoring her. “Fact: You said you couldn’t catch his attention, couldn’t get him to notice you, couldn’t get him to date you.”
“I did say that…” Molly agrees slowly, inching away.
“Conclusion: You lied,” Sherlock rounds the table, cornering Molly and hovering above her.
She squeaks.
“I wasn’t lying !” she protests with some hesitance.
“The date went terrible not because he wasn’t interested in you, but because you weren’t interested in him ,” Sherlock deduces. “John thrives of female attention and readily - happily - accepted when you asked him out, but you were closed off with him, seemingly disinterested in connecting with him, or furthering his interest in you.”
SHerlock’s closed expression suddenly turns dark.
“Now, why, Molly Hooper, would you do that?” he asks accusingly. “Are you dating him as some kind of joke? Stringing him along?”
Her eyes snap up, mouth dropping open.
“No! I would never-!”
“Then. Why?”
She opens and closes her mouth, several times, no sound coming out.
“Alright so, I did notice he was easy to date -”
Sherlock glares.
“But I wasn’t trying to be malicious - I just- “
Her voice trails off, and she stares down at nothing.
“I’ve never had a boyfriend. And I - I wanted to try, you know? I figured, he’s nice. John is nice. He was the only one who spoke to me first day of chemistry class, remember? And then you snapped at me, and he came to my defense. No one hardly ever does that. I had hoped, maybe, that we could try. And that it would be nice.”
Sherlock is frozen from head to toe. This is the farthest thing from what he expected to hear.
“I just want to do what all the other girls have gotten to do. First kisses in middle school, a sweetheart through high school, and the girls who aren’t experimenting their way through college are probably practically engaged! And I know nothing about that. How will I know if I’m cut out for romance if I don’t give it a try?”
A part of Sherlock nods along enthusiastically; yes, data collection first hand was imperative. The other part of Sherlock slaps nodding-Sherlock across the face. Now was not the time to begrudgingly admire Molly Hooper.
He peers down at her, curious.
“So it was...an experiment?” he asks haltingly.
She nods, giving him a half shrug.
Interesting.
“And what were your plans, had I not barged in foiling your motivations and John had continued to ask you out on a second date?”
Sherlock asks very sincerely, so Molly thinks it over seriously, finger on chin.
“The aquarium,” she answers decisively. “And after, ice cream. Coffee dates are for people nearing middle-age who work long full-time hours and want to just cut to the chase. I want to have fun. I'm only 19! And I've never been on a proper date.”
Sherlock nods along.
“Yes, good. I like penuins and mint-chocolate chip,” he supplies.
“What?” she says, caught off guard. Then, catching on, a smile spreads across her face. “Do you mean penguins?”
Sherlock frowns. “That's what I said.”
“Sherlock,” she says, smile only getting broader. “Are you asking me out?”
He scoffs, looking away in a futile attempt to hide his reddening face. “Isn't it obvious?”
“Nooo you have to ask properly!”
“I am free this Saturday.”
“Sherlock!”
“We should meet in the morning, the lines will be less chaotic then.”
“I will agree to nothing until you ask properly.”
He squints at her. She sticks her chin out. He sucks in air between his teeth, then steels himself, pulling himself up to his full height. Molly blinks, realizing for the first time how different they were in mass, and oddly excited by this revelation.
“Molly Hooper,” he barks.
“Yes?” she responds, just as formally.
“Will you…” he sucks at his teeth, and tries again. “Will you go out with me? On a date. Will you go on a date with me? This Saturday. Saturday morning at the aquarium, and ice-cream for lunch, and a stroll after, where we can peruse a second hand bookshop with interesting Victorian medical texts?”
Molly graces him with a sunny smile. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will do just that. I'll go on a date with you.”
And so they did, that Saturday, and the next.
And the next.