Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know life has taken a turn for the truly pathetic when your mum starts e-mailing you articles not about how a single woman over thirty has a better chance of getting killed in a terrorist attack than having a baby, but instead, why it’s so hard to find friends in your thirties.

“I just saw this and thought of you,” the e-mail started. “I know you say you’re fine and there’s plenty of family to keep you company, but I still worry about you. Work isn’t the only thing in life.”

Sally Donovan, age 34, sighed and clicked on the link. She knew she had to, for the sake of her sanity. Odds were strong that at the next family dinner, Mum would quiz her about the article and really, a quick scan would help to avoid hurt feelings right?

“No matter how many friends you make, a sense of fatalism can creep in: the period for making B.F.F.’s, the way you did in your teens or early 20s, is pretty much over. It’s time to resign yourself to situational friends: K.O.F.’s (kind of friends) — for now,” Sally read, before furiously backing out of the article.

No. That was too depressing to read, especially before coffee. She’d have to lie to her mother and say she didn’t have time to read the article or the Internet exploded and all connections to American newspapers were cut off permanently. 

Besides, Sally rationalised, it’s just how it is now. Work kept her too busy to socialise and what friends she had scattered off to the four corners after marrying and having babies or moving because of their careers. 

And social media? Facebook? Really, she had nothing to say, so why bother posting or even joining those things? It was just another thing to do that usually ended in a family feud somewhere, according to her cousins, aunts and uncles. And if there was one thing she needed less of, it was family feuds. 

No. This is how life is, Sally thought to herself. And it’s not a bad life at all. A good job with Scotland Yard, fulfilling work and a comfortable house and life. This is part of growing up. The days of sleepovers, talking all night over cocktails were over now. 

Other people had their lives and she had hers. It really wasn’t that big of a deal -- she was a single woman, living in London and doing exactly what she wanted. What could be better? 

~*~

Molly Hooper stared at the flyer at her gym and chewed on her lower lip. Even though part of her wanted to tell the writer that an excessive amount of capslock indicated an unhinged mind and the clipart of a cartoon man wielding oversized boxing gloves was less than reassuring, the majority of her thoughts focused on trying the class.

Ever since the Jim incident, Molly started thinking she needed some form of self-defense in her life. Other people assured her that Jim wasn’t going to hurt her and that she wasn’t his target -- Sherlock Holmes was -- and he had disappeared from sight for the past few months, so the odds were slim that she was a target. 

But it never hurts to be prepared, her father’s voice whispered in her head. One class couldn’t hurt, she thought as she began scribbling down the information. At worst, she’d know never to do that again. At best, she’d learn how to defend herself. What did she have to lose? Other than one morning of sleeping in? 

~*~ 

“Now, your jab -- that’s a quick little punch with your left hand, like this --” Gaz the instructor did a quick punch with his left hand. A tall, muscular black man with a shaved head and affable demeanor, Gaz made the move look simple. “The thing with this is that it keeps your opponent away from you. 

“Your feet will move with a little hop like a tap-tap,” he demonstrated. “Now you try.” 

The class -- a group of about fifteen people -- mirrored his movement. Molly felt absolutely silly. Her feet felt like lead and her hands didn’t feel right up near her face. She snuck some surreptitious glances at the other people in her class and immediately felt like a failure. Everyone else looked like they knew what they were doing. She felt like she was doing a bunny hop dance.

The rest of the class didn’t boost her confidence, especially when he started calling out combinations. She kept forgetting the numbers and what they corresponded to, so her right cross became her left hook. She forgot how to pivot and her stance was just feeling strange and wrong. It didn’t look or feel like the sinewy grace Gaz had. Looking in the mirror, she felt lumpy and weird.

“Don’t worry,” Gaz told the class. “Think of it this way -- you all are at different fitness and coordination levels. Some of you are Superman, some are Lois Lane and some are just Homer Simpson. Don’t compare yourself to others, just worry about your progress.”

Small reassurance, Molly thought grimly. That reassurance diminished when he had people line up to do combos with him one-on-one.

Sweat pouring down her neck and breathing heavily, Molly watched enraptured as a black woman did her combos with Gaz. It was clear that she knew was she was doing. Her hands were up around her face and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, lunging forward with every punch. If Zoe Washburne was real, she would be this woman, Molly thought to herself.

“Good,” Gaz grunted after a particularly quick combo. “Sprint down and back two times, then mountain climbers.”

The woman nodded and took off running, then returned behind Molly to start doing the mountain climbers.

“Bad week at work?” Molly huffed between her mountain climbers. Her back ached and her legs felt like fire, but she would be damned if she was going to show weakness.

The woman breathed out easily, then nodded. “A bit,” she replied.

“You’re pretty good at this. Have you boxed before?”

“A bit.”

Well then, Molly thought, she’s not very chatty. She stopped talking as they finished the class with some stretching. It’s clear that she didn’t really want to talk. Maybe she had stuff on her mind.

Before she left, she felt a hand on her elbow. Turning around, she saw the same woman she was trying to talk to earlier.

“Your punch,” she said. “It’s a bit off.”

“Sorry?”

“Here,” the woman dropped her duffle bag and held out a fist. “Look at my hand -- see how the wrist is straight, knuckles in line with the wrist?”

Molly blinked. “Yeah?”

“Do that,” the woman said. “It’ll keep you from breaking your wrist bones if you punch someone. And keep a tight fist, otherwise your wrist will bend and you’ll end up breaking it.”

“Thanks,” Molly held up her fist. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” the woman smiled -- instantly her demeanor changed. It was a wide, open warm smile that broke through the guarded exterior. “So I’ll see you next week then?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “Have a better week.”

~*~

Looking back, Sally couldn’t even say why she went to that woman and offered her tips on boxing. It wasn’t something that she normally did. Most people didn’t appreciate her butting her nose into their business, so it was better to be quiet than say something.

Besides, she was never a morning person and Gaz asked her to come to the class (“Come on Sal -- I don’t want this class to be a failure. It’d mean a lot if you were there.”). Nevermind the fact that she already knew how to box thanks to her cousins and uncles, but Gaz asked for a favor, so she went.

It was all basic stuff for the first day -- Sally found herself suppressing the urge to yawn and instead found herself checking out the other classmates. Most of them seemed like bored people looking for a vague thrill, something to brag about while going out for lunch with friends. Then they’d get into their first fight and break a wrist.

One of the few people that stood out -- other than the old black man who joked with her about suffering lung cancer in both lungs, but loving the class -- was this mere slip of a girl, who seemed very serious about the class.

Her wide eyes were locked on Gaz and his every movement -- not in a rapacious way, but as an eager student drinking in every detail and attempting to lock it in her brain. While some people were happy to chat between sprints and lunges, she was practicing her punches and attempting to master the footwork.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t very good. Her footwork seemed leaden and her punches looked more likely that she’d hurt herself before defending herself. But that would change, Sally mused to herself. Soon the muscle memory would take over and she’d improve. Hopefully before she hurt herself. 

She could also feel the woman’s eyes on her back, studying her intently as she worked out simplistic combos with Gaz.

After sprinting forward and back, Sally dropped and began doing the mountain climbers next to the woman.

“Bad week at work?” the girl said, attempting a smile and a small giggle, but it got lost in the heavy breathing.

“A bit,” Sally said. She didn’t want to get into her run-in with The Freak and his pet, the fact that she was behind on paperwork thanks to the ever increasing amount of crime in the city and that article her mum e-mailed her. That would just be a little off-putting right out of the gate when talking to someone. 

“You’re pretty good at this. Have you done this before?” 

Despite the supposed ease of her exterior, Sally’s lungs were burning. A stitch was forming in her side and she was mentally cursing the fact that the sports bra she had was not offering the proper support. 

“A bit,” she said. Saying I grew up in boxing gyms watching my uncles teach classes to my cousins and then finally got in the ring after a girl at school threatened to kick my arse, seemed a bit impossible at the moment.

 By the time everyone was stretching, Sally could tell who would come back the next week and who wouldn’t. She could see it on people’s faces -- there were determined expressions on those planning to return, frowns on the people who weren’t planning to come back. A few were indecisive, like that girl who was talking to Sally.

 Her shoulders were slumped and it looked like she was going to drag her messenger bag back to wherever she had come from. She was chewing on her lip and it looked like she wanted to pepper Gaz with a million questions, but because he was surrounded by people, that was impossible.

 Sally thought she’d see if she could help Gaz out. Reaching over, she gently touched the woman on the elbow.

 Her classmate turned around, startled. That’s when Sally noticed that the girl looked harmless, like the baby rabbits she’d see in Hampstead Heath. Her eyes were wide and there was a slight jolt as she turned to face her.

“Your punch,” Sally coughed. “It’s a bit off.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Sorry?” she asked.

That tone was hard for her to read. Sally wasn’t sure if she was overstepping her bounds again or not, but well, she was already there, so why not keep going?

Sally dropped her duffle bag and got into the stance and held out a fist. “Look at my hand -- see how the wrist is straight, knuckles in line with the wrist?”

The woman nodded. “Yeah?”

“Do that,” Sally explained. “It’ll keep you from breaking your wrist bones if you punch someone. And keep a tight fist, otherwise your wrist will bend and you’ll end up breaking it.”

“Thanks,” She held up her fist. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Sally smiled. The girl was catching on, which was a good sign. She’d pick everything up, but it just took time. “So I’ll see you next week then?” 

“Yeah,” The woman replied. “Have a better week.”

“Thanks,” Sally nodded and left.