Chapter Text
Molly Hooper was fed up. She was done with being small and mousey Molly. It was time for a change.
For years, she had felt plain and exchangeable, settling for any man that bat an eye her way. Damn her love life, and damn the men who couldn’t appreciate her for who she was. Yes, her jumpers pay slight homage to the virgins of vintage horror films—something Sherlock was never shy to allude—but she was no virgin.
She’d be damned if one more man waltzed into her life to take advantage of her for her sweet looks. She was a voracious woman, with voracious needs. And to get what she needed she would have to look to a friend for help.
Molly took out her cell phone from her back pocket. She set aside the tub of rocky-road and another of minty-moo onto the table next to her settee, dialing the familiar number. It wasn’t long before the other side answered her call.
“Hello?”
“Mary, I need your help…”
Sherlock was in a particularly grand mood. The game was on! He had solved three sevens and it wasn’t even long past noon. It was glorious! His mind was abundantly clear. Granted, it had been nearly a year since his mission to Eastern Europe was aborted, but now, with his full pardon, everything had returned to a healthy routine. But the game was never over.
That’s not to say he hadn’t had a rather difficult time the past week. His mind could not procure a proper reason as to why. But seeing as he was here now, giddy in success, it would go without saying he didn’t care.
He’d fallen back into his usual habits. Him and John parading the streets of London, sniffing out clues, stopping criminals, using the lab and, working with Molly. He complimented her when he needed a specific test rushed or her expertise on a bone analysis. Mary rooted for the boys from the side-lines, and added her own black-market perspective.
Lestrade provided the in-between fix when the leads became too obscure. Life was splendid, even with Mycroft hovering like a depraved mother, as per usual.
John was happy to see his friend so motivated. He was rather surprised Sherlock was so quick to recover after shooting a man in the head; a very bad man granted, but it was murder nonetheless. Although, the steady normalization of their chaos was not unwelcome. His best friend was home indefinitely. Well, until some other disaster struck. But Sherlock wouldn’t let that happen; not without picking apart every flaw in the ordeal itself.
There was always something.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Sherlock perked up with the unfamiliar sound of stilettos, unfamiliar to these halls at least. It was Wednesday, and upon previous study, at 3 in the afternoon Molly was to start her shift. It was now 2:55 pm and the heels he heard were most certainly not Doctor Hooper’s. In fact, the gait he currently heard was similar, reminding him entirely of a certain woman.
The lab door opened and Sherlock watched in unabashed horror as a female entered the room dressed in a formfitting dress, paired with cobalt blue heels and low but neat chignon. Her lips were painted red and her face’s predisposed assets were heightened by minimalist makeup. The woman was the model of beauty and eloquence. He nearly loosened another button of his shirt.
John cleared his throat. “Molly?”
“Hello.” She hadn’t even bothered to look at either of them, eyes glued to the clipboard in her hands, though she did wave slightly. Her tone suggested an air of disinterest. When she did look up, she simply nodded, pulled on her lab coat, and proceeded with her preliminary duties.
She brushed past behind Sherlock, needing to reach some cultures in cabinets behind him.
She smelled of peaches and musk. Sandalwood, he decided. His mind couldn’t register anything outside of the shock-inspiring woman before him. Not even John’s shameful gawking. A stark contrast to the past hours of unadulterated clarity.
“Sherlock?” John cleared his throat again, “Sherlock.”
The consulting detective shook out of his stupor. “Yes—Molly what on earth has possessed you to wear that?”
“Um, Sherlock,” John said. Watson and Holmes looked to one another, the former shaking his head in disapproval. Not good.
“Hmm?” Molly pulled a headphone from her ear. Sherlock bristled at this, he hadn’t even noticed it.
“Molly, wearing those,” he said with distaste, pointing to her headphones and then her shoes, “will make it very difficult for you to help me with my tests.”
“I have my own work to do, Sherlock. You are highly capable, and John is here to help, should you need it.”
John chuckled, this entire situation was too much for his nerves. He could see Sherlock was not too pleased to have his pathologist radically changed. Not just in regards to her attire.
“Where have you been this past week?”
Molly raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t deduce it? I was on paid leave.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve depleted every pound you were paid.” Sherlock stood, straightened his cuffs and buttoned his blazer. He made his way to her.
Her face scrunched in offense. “Sherlock, are you scrutinizing my outfit?”
“I thought that was fairly obvious, do keep up.”
“But my whereabouts of the past week weren’t fairly obvious? Do keep up, darling.”
Sherlock had, by then, made it to stand only a few inches in front Molly. His stance meant to intimidate, but the flush on Molly’s cheeks was one of adulterated irritation, not bashfulness. She even pat his shoulder. He seemed flustered by that.
“May I ask why you have decided to update your wardrobe?”
“No, Sherlock you may not.”
“I think, as your friend, I may have the right to do so.”
“And I think, as my acquaintance, you’ve hardly ever been a friend. You may not.”
“I am only an acquaintance to you?”
“Sherlock, do not feign ignorance on where we stand with one another. Yes, I helped you fake your death and played a small part in saving lives, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to start going out to the pub and swapping gossip like chums do.”
“I thought I’ve made myself clear about that.”
“You’ve made yourself clear about many things; my hair, my lips, my breasts.”
The pink on her cheeks transferred to Sherlock’s. A detail not at all missed by John, who was standing on the side-lines, head turning back and forth between the two.
“I apologized.”
“You did,” she nodded, “but do you know what you still have yet to do?”
Sherlock was becoming agitated. He was having a lot of trouble figuring out this changed woman. “Molly, now is not the time to play silly games. We have work to do.”
“But it’s time to scrutinize my change in clothes? No, Sherlock, answer the question.” She cocked her hip to one side and placed a hand onto the counter and leaned into it; her heels affording such a height to give her that luxury.
“No, Molly, I do not know. What have I yet to do?”
“You have never paid me a genuine compliment. Not once. Your compliments have come from a place of ulterior motives and making sure you secure my good graces to gain access to this lab. Am I wrong?”
John hummed in agreement. Sherlock’s head whipped his way, the betrayal was silent but evident.
“I think you’d better answer Molly because you’re not getting any backup from me.”
John just raised his eyebrows as he saw Sherlock ruffle his already unruly curls, albeit they were much shorter now. Sherlock tapped his fingers against his thigh, his eyes scanned the room but seemed to be looking elsewhere. After a few moments, Molly could practically see a light-bulb light up above his head, and his eyes turned back to look at her.
“No,” Molly held up a hand before he could speak. “You will not give me an answer under obligation.” She turned to look at John. “Though I do thank you, John. It’s good to know where we stand.”
John beamed, Sherlock huffed, and Molly put her headphones back in her ears.
She checked on cultures, gathered some files, and headed to her office. Leaving behind John with a flabbergasted Sherlock and the echoing click-clacks of her heels.
Sherlock exploded with questions. “How can she say we’re not friends? Those heels are hardly practical, she can’t possibly wear those all day, can she? John, how could you condone such harsh words that was the very definition of ‘not good’? And that dress will get dirty, I hope she reali—“
“Sherlock! Shut up!”
The consulting detective simply blinked. John blushed, but couldn’t be too bothered to feel remorse.
“Sherlock, Molly went away with Mary this past week. You knew that. She is a grown woman, and sometimes women give themselves a change. Not every woman feels as comfortable in their skin as she did. And before you get into a tizzy, just know that I only mention her to make it apparent to you that Miss Adler does not hold rights to attractiveness. In fact, if anyone deserves to be confident, it is Molly Hooper. I’m surprised she hadn’t done this sooner. And she is right, you’re an utter prat, and should pay her a real compliment once in a while.”
“I ask for her expertise all the time!”
“That’s not the same thing. Molly is a woman of affirmation. It needs to be something that may be taken face value. And if you ever hope for true friendship with her, you better wrap your mind around the fact you’re going to have to say nice things. Often. And mean it.”
“John, this is ridiculous. It’s not as if I’m romantically involved with her.”
John held himself up straighter at that, interest piqued, but he decided to ensconce it with a reprimand. “No one said these compliments had to be said for romantic reasons, you dolt. Compliment her work, her helpfulness, her professional importance... Maybe every now and again compliment her appearance, but not for any other reason than to say it for the sake of truthfulness.”
“Well, I had assumed…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off in train of thought. He sipped at a cup of coffee.
“Sherlock, do you want to be romantically involved with Molly?”
The coffee spluttered from his lips and almost dribbled onto his white button-up shirt, “No! Don’t be absurd, John.”
Watson’s surprised expression turned into one of sheer joy. Although he found Molly’s need for self-improvement unnecessary, he completely supported her changes, and it seemed to have galvanized Sherlock’s inner-most affections.
A thought occurred to him.
“Was that even your coffee?”
“Honestly, I’m not quite sure, John.”
John could only chuckle. His friend was most miraculously smitten.