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The bike had been a gift from his brother. A cross between ‘well done for graduating University without murdering any lecturers’ and ‘congratulations on getting clean’. Said brother must have been quite proud indeed for Sherlock found a brand new Harley Davidson waiting outside his flat. Oh, he knew it was more than just a gift…an incentive to remain clean, perhaps, but even he had to admit it was a damn good one. The last thing he wanted was to give Mycroft any sort of satisfaction but it had been a painful year of hard work and detox. He’d earned it, it was only right he should take it out for a spin. For the next few weeks, Sherlock travelled to his favourite place, Bart’s Hospital, on his new ride.
On one occasion he made it to the car park, he found his usual parking space had been taken up by a hideous monstrosity of a car: a classic red Chevrolet. The detective wasn’t at all keen with leaving his bike in the designated motorcycle area and therefore had chosen the spot that had been previously empty. Disembarking his vehicle, Sherlock stormed into the hospital and demanded to borrow a notepad and pen. Five minutes later, he’d scrawled a note and left it on the Chevrolet’s windshield. Satisfied, he strolled into the building, determined not to let the impertinent driver spoil his day.
“So, do you have any questions?” Mike Stamford asked the newbie in front of him, smiling reassuringly. His new pathologist, Doctor Molly Hooper, shook her head shyly and gathered up her many papers.
“No, I just want to get stuck in,” Molly bit her lip at the unfortunate choice of words but Stamford wasn’t taking any notice; he was too busy making the final touches to her staff ID badge.
“Good. Well, welcome to the team. I’ll just show you around…”
He showed her the quiet tidy morgue, stocked with up-to-date technology and every tool she could possibly need for her autopsies; she suddenly felt overwhelmed by the fact she was actually employed at such a brilliant Hospital. They wandered down the corridor, stopping outside the locker room with Mike informing her she’d have her own to store her stuff. Finally, they came to the lab and Mike swiped his ID badge at the access panel, ushering the new pathologist into the impressive room. Molly looked around in awe, empty except for a single gentleman working at a microscope – like the morgue, the lab was packed with the best equipment and technology; she even had her own office at the back of the room. Her new boss followed after her and immediately groaned when he noticed the sole occupant of the lab.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” He exclaimed, approaching the curly-haired man and extending his hand, “I’ve told you to stop nicking my stuff.”
After a moment, the stranger rolled his eyes and handed over the badge, “it was Doctor Martin’s.”
Mike stuffed the badge out of sight, more than a little annoyed, “yeah, well…he left yesterday-”
“Good. He was bloody awful.”
“I replaced him immediately,” he stated proudly, smiling over at Molly, “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“He can hardly do any worse.”
The man’s eyes had returned fervently to his work, engrossed with his studies; he wasn’t wearing a lab coat or any protective gear and Molly couldn’t help but wonder about him. She cleared her throat, stepping forwards eagerly – she hoped she looked more confident than she felt.
“Err, well, I’m fully qualified and very professional. I’ll try not to get on your nerves,” he didn’t look up but his eyes shifted to the corners, observing her intently. Mike cleared his throat.
“Um, Molly Hooper, allow me to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, our resident…corpse aficionado,” the new pathologist raised an eyebrow and Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes yet again. Mike chuckled, “a detective, Dr. Hooper. One that will exploit you to get noticed by Scotland Yard!”
“That happened once,” Sherlock muttered, still very intrigued by his work, “and it worked.”
“Yeah, well…we’d better get on,” Mike said, glancing at his work. He addressed the detective a final time, “maybe don’t leave a mess this time, yeah?”
The two medical professionals left the eccentric detective to his work, the door closing sharply behind him. They travelled back down to the morgue, Mike apologising on Sherlock’s behalf for his flippant attitude. Handing over her own ID badge and lab coat, Mike gave her a smile and a final assurance he was always around should she need anything. Finally alone, Molly immediately donned her lab coat and set to work.
When she finally glanced up at the clock, she realised she’d been working most of the morning – she’d barely seen Sherlock. He’d somehow managed to bypass more security doors to pop down to watch her perform her very first autopsy, watching her intently. It had been rather off-putting, to be honest. Rolling her shoulders, the pathologist rummaged around her locker before sighing, having left her bag in her car. Hurrying upstairs and into the car park, she retrieved her bag and frowned at the note protruding from beneath her windscreen wipers.
Chevrolet,
You’re in my parking space.
Harley Davidson
Molly looked around foolishly, finding said vehicle in the motorcycle section of the car park. Frowning, the pathologist removed her notebook from the pocket of her lab coat and scribbled down her reply. She fastened the paper to the pristine bike and almost stomped back into her comfortable morgue; she’d been having such a lovely day.
Harley Davidson,
I work in this building. Just started today. It’s my spot now.
Chevrolet
Sherlock frowned, looking over to where the Chevrolet had previously been parked and narrowed his eyes; whomever it belonged to was a stubborn sod to say the least. He glanced down at the note, studying the shorthand scrawl - clearly a woman’s handwriting, younger than the car she’s driving would suggest, second hand, perhaps, neat, formal and stern. So, she occupied a high pressure position within the Hospital and her tidy handwriting was necessary for completing paperwork. Still scowling, the detective scrawled another note and attached it to her car before leaving the Hospital.
Chevrolet,
Don’t think I don’t know who you are. I will contact your superior.
Harley Davidson
Molly couldn’t help but smile as she attached her reply to the annoyingly handsome bike belonging to someone she hoped didn’t look as good. Has to be compensating for something, doesn’t he?
Harley Davidson,
Report me for parking in my own space? Go ahead. And you don’t have a damn clue who I am.
Chevrolet
Sherlock angrily screwed up the note with one hand, already retrieving his commandeered notepad from his pocket.
Receptionist,
Your supervisor has been notified.
Harley Davidson
Molly wanted to laugh as she smugly responded to the child-like print; she was beginning to enjoy herself now.
Flash Prick,
Are you quite sure?
Not The Receptionist
Sherlock smirked, unable to deny he’d most likely met his match in the not-receptionist.
Chevrolet,
You work in management
The bike was a gift. I’m not that much of a flash prick really.
I like your car. The seats are
The coffee here is quite good. Maybe we could
“So,” came a voice somewhere above Sherlock’s shoulder, “…who is she?”
With all the grace and sophistication of a six-year-old girl, Sherlock shoved away the papers and shrugged, avoiding looking at his smug flatmate, Victor Trevor.
“It’s for a case, if you must know.”
“Oh,” the newly qualified maths professor grinned, picking up one of the discarded papers, “a manager with a nice car…one you want to get coffee with,” his mouth dropped open comically and he tilted his head towards his friend, his tone mocking, “do I have something to worry about?”
“Shut up,” Sherlock snatched the paper and tossed it in the bin before seizing up his violin. Victor continued to examine the many balled up papers, his interest increasing with each he read.
“Okay…so you don’t know her name?”
“No.”
“Or her job?”
“Nope.”
“Just that she drives a Chevrolet?”
Sherlock sighed, “I’m glad you’re here, Victor. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well…why don’t you just ask for her number?” Victor glanced at his friend, noticing the detective staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. He smirked smugly, “not so useless, now, eh?”
“Oh, hey,” Molly smiled at Sherlock as he entered the lab. She gestured at her clipboard, “I finished the autopsy you were interested in. It’s in my report, if you wanted to have a read…”
The detective smiled gratefully at the pathologist and began flipping through her report, taking mental notes every now and again; it wasn’t until he began a more thorough examination that he realised how familiar Molly Hooper’s writing was to him. His eyes widened humorously and he replaced the clipboard, staring at Molly Hooper, Chevrolet driver and all around annoyance. High pressure job, neat and tidy writing to suit reports, stubborn, small, second hand car, most likely her father’s. Stupid, stupid! Before he could so much as flip up his collar and leave the lab, Molly approached him and gestured at the report.
“So, what do you think?”
He stuffed his hands behind his back to hide his twitching fingers; he narrowed his eyes as he peered down at the lovely- irritating woman, “…Chevrolet.”
Molly blinked, “s-sorry?”
“That is your hideous Chevrolet parked in my spot, is it not?”
Molly’s jaw dropped ever so slightly. Several awkward minutes passed until the pathologist shook her head, a frown appearing at her brow.
“No. That’s my father’s wonderful old classic car that he bequeathed me,” her arms folded defensively, “I-I like it,” her arms unfolded and she jabbed him in the stomach with a finger, “and that is MY spot. You have a stupid bike-”
“It was a gift,” he spat back, incensed by the tiny woman. He stepped closer, looking her in the eye, “and I’m not a flash prick.”
“You’re wearing Armani! In the city morgue!” Molly scoffed, gesturing at his perfectly tailored suit. Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated that he didn’t even hate the woman. Not even close. In fact, he admired her.
“Do you want to get coffee?”
Molly didn’t quite know what to say. They’d been having a heated argument, hadn’t they? Sure, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and had dreamed about this moment in the one week they’d known each other. Their notes had been exciting and she’d found herself looking forwards to finding them on her windscreen. Sherlock was still watching her, waiting for an answer; perhaps he’d enjoyed himself just as much as she. It had given him something to do, something to deduce. A puzzle. Molly smiled.
“I’d love to.”