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On Monday morning, she’d dropped coffee on her favourite jumper, and at night said jumper had shrunk in the wash. On Tuesday, some stupid intern had sewn up a glove inside a body - female, forty four, natural causes. Wednesday had been relatively uneventful, until she realised that a certain consulting detective had been using her sofa as a bed since Sunday. On Thursday, at about the same time that she realised that the consulting detective had used up her strawberry scented shower gel, her mobile had chimed with a message from Mike, who was calling in sick. Friday had gone by painfully, what with mountains of paperwork - hers and Mike’s - and three bloody awful autospies to supervise.
At four thirty, on Friday evening, she doesn’t even want to begin to think about the autopsies she’s performed. The drownings, the suicides, that child. It’s been a shite week. All she wants now is to return to an empty flat and to scratch her cat, Toby, behind the ears, before disappearing for a hot strawberry scented bath. But of course, that is not to be.
‘Molly,’ she hears an annoyingly lovely baritone voice summoning her. ‘I need those samples. Now, please.’
She tries to stifle a yawn, before giving up and giving in. Her eyes water slightly.
‘What samples, Sherlock?’ she asks, bleary eyed.
‘The samples in the petri dish behind the black diary in your desk drawer closest to the radiator. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t let me keep it at Baker Street. Don’t worry, I removed your sanitary napkins to another drawer. It’s all quite hygienic,’ he declares, smiling winningly as he sticks his beautiful head into her office.
‘How many times, Sherlock,’ she groans, ‘Have I told you not to touch my things?’
‘I must have… deleted it.’
‘Well, you can sod off today,’ she says with a glare in his general direction as she shoves her books back into place. She shuffles some papers on her desk in an attempt to find her pen.
‘It’s here,’ he smirks, brandishing the pen before her. ‘My samples?’
'Oh just take them, you great git. Take them and go away.'
She turns her back on him, hoping he'll just leave, and busies herself with putting her files in order. She wishes she had a secretary, or even a mildly competent intern who wouldn't mind helping out. She grabs her water bottle and stuffs it into the side pocket of her backpack, muttering uncharitably about the morons she's having to supervise this year. She sticks her packet of chewing gum into another zippered pouch, as she thinks of the unopened jar of Nutella waiting for her at home. Her mouth waters slightly as she pats her trouser pockets for her lip balm, until she remembers that she left it on her bedside table. Screwing up her nose, she makes to leave the room, only to get a facefull of dark, Belstaff coat.
'Sherlock! I thought you'd taken your bloody samples and left. What d'you want? I will not steal toes, or thumbs or eyeballs for you today. No! I will not steal a body. Don't even suggest it. You cannot waltz into my morgue and flash me that grin and look at me soulfully with those stupid eyes of yours. Stop standing there smugly with your cheekbones and collars up trying to look cool! Just stop it.'
She's a bit embarrassed by her outburst, and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Great. That's all she needs, now. For Sherlock to be reminded that his mere physical presence can reduce her to a stuttering fool. But she can't help it, and she won't apologise. She's had a horrible week, and he's responsible for a lot of it. Oooooh... But he's so close, now, and he's not saying anything. And he smells so, so good. And once again, she's silly, foolish Molly Hooper pining after the brilliant man with wild curls.
'Sorry,' she mutters, trying to move back in an attempt to collect herself. 'Sorry, just take um just take whatever you need. I'll just go, then, shall I? Um bye.'
'Molly Hooper,' he says, in a toe-curlingly delicious tone, as she realises that she can't move very far. His hands have her wrists in an iron-grip. ‘Stay right here, Molly Hooper. Stay right here and breathe.’
‘Sherlock-’ she tries, but he silences her with a look.
He leans closer, his breath ghosting over her cheeks. His lips brush against her skin so gently, that she thinks she's imagined it. His voice is at her ear, now. It's deep and soothing and mind-numbingly hot.
"Molly Hooper," he says, "My brilliant pathologist."