Chapter Text
Love hurts.
And in the end, all of that pain is never worth it.
Molly Hooper realized this as soon as she met Sherlock, when they were both young adults still struggling to make their mark on the world. She had been an intern in the morgue, a placement she had gotten quite easily because really, who wants to spend their day around dead people? She had been working alone one day, finishing up some paper works since her supervisor had to leave early (because of some family issues) when a young man, tall with dark, curly hair barged into the morgue and began to examine a recent admission. (Admission being the nice word for "corpse". Because people would much rather say "admission" than "corpse".) He was measuring some things and chopping off others when another man came in as well, yelling at the man. Molly sat quietly at her desk in the far corner of the room, waiting patiently for the two men's argument to be resolved. The younger man, who she had discovered by the other's ranting, was named Sherlock, and apparently he caused trouble a lot. The older one, the brother, was Mycroft, and he apparently worked in the government. Molly had never met either of them before, although she could've sworn that Mycroft looked familiar. She whacked her head. She usually never had a problem with faces, but she just couldn't seem to figure out where she had seen him from before.
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare say that to me again!" Mycroft was yelling. Molly's eyes widened. Mycroft Holmes? The Mycroft Holmes? She stifled a gasp, but apparently not well enough, because both men turned to look at her. Mycroft immediately pursed his lips, frowning slightly. "Apologies, Miss. Do excuse us." He reached for Sherlock's arm, who growled.
"Don't touch me." the curly haired man hissed, yanking his arm away from his brother. He had a deep voice, one that Molly felt that she could almost touch. She blushed at the thought. Molly, what on earth are you thinking? He's a man arguing with his brother because he was poking at dead bodies! Besides, he just cut off some of the poor man's fingers- you should be angry! She thought to herself. But then the man smiled, a small, gentle smile, and he looked at her, and suddenly all of her anger went away.
"I apologize for any inconvenience I may have been. I can assure you that it will not happen again." He was watching her, intense blue eyes careful and calculating, and the thought occurred to her that he was just saying that, that he was using her so that she wouldn't tell her manager, but she just didn't care. Maybe it was his smile, maybe it was his voice, maybe it was his eyes, or maybe it was just that sense of emptiness about him that Molly wanted so desperately to fill, but she decided that the manager didn't need to know about any of it. She smiled back at him, small and tentative, and he gave Mycroft a small smirk.
"We'll be going now." Mycroft grumbled, pulling on Sherlock's arm and leading him out to the hallway. She could hear their yells as she left, voices echoing around the hallways, but she was too busy already dreaming about the tall, lean figure with his deep voice and lulling blue eyes. And if anyone said that she fell asleep in the middle of work, and drooling, too, then that was probably just their imagination.
***
Sherlock turned the dial on the side of the microscope, brows furrowed in concentration as he glanced at the object before him. It was just a piece of mold, but in seconds, the consulting detective had already figured out the location it had come from, how old it was, and the material of the surrounding area that it had come from. Sherlock was muttering down his notes, although Molly still hadn't figured out why he would do that (if she ever muttered anything, it was so she could remember it, but he remembered everything, so why bother?). That was when she saw him glance up, eyes meeting John's in a silent plea of approval. John just gave a small nod; the detective had worked quickly and patiently, and also managed to do so without insulting anyone. Yet.
Sherlock had refused to let any of the police come with him to the morque, or anyone else, for that matter- just himself, John, and Molly. She liked to think that she was special- that she wasn't really needed there, after all, but John and Greg were, and that Sherlock wanted her there for companionship alone. Then she realized that they had gotten some new equipment in the labs that Sherlock hadn't quite figured out where it was, so yeah, maybe she was only there so Sherlock could use her. But she was there nonetheless, and that was what mattered.
A loud "deet-deet-de-deet" erupted the silence, and Sherlock muttered "phone". He continued to glance down at the bacteria, still not moving from his spot by the microscope. John sighed, reaching into his friend's pockets as he tried to locate the said item. Molly frowned. Friends didn't go and put their hands in their friends' pockets. She remembered how Jim had used to do that to her, they'd be sitting down, watching a movie, and whenever he felt like it, he'd just put his hands in her pockets (even though she thought it was quite an odd thing to do) and smile at her. Then he had turned around and used her, taking her already broken heart and tearing it into a million pieces. Molly flinched at the memory of her old boyfriend before turning to glance back at Sherlock and John. John was still fumbling around with Sherlock's pockets, who was just sitting on his stool, quiet, patient, and refusing to move, as it would make John's task more difficult.
Molly paused. Why was Sherlock treating John like Jim had treated her?
Jim liked her, but Sherlock didn't like John like that...
Right?
***
Molly was finishing up some paperwork for a poor girl who had recently been admitted; she had been in a car crash with her family and hadn't made it. Molly sighed. Some people never get the chance to ever do what they want or be able to accomplish any of those dreams, because everything you do is a risk. But if you refuse to take any of those risks, even if it's just leaving the house, you're not really living, and then what's the point of all of those dreams if you're not even alive?
"Molly." Sherlock greeted, wide doors bursting open as he came in, coat flapping and all. She looked up and smiled, surprised that John wasn't there as well.
"Sherlock." She grinned, her voice slightly squeaky. She blushed. If he noticed, he said nothing of it, which was quite a change. If he noticed anything, he'd say it, regardless of the person's feelings. "Where's John?" Sherlock had already made his way over to the girl's body, and Molly scooted her chair back to give the detective some more room.
"Finishing drinking some coffee." Sherlock answered simply. Molly sighed. Of course. It seemed as though someone was always getting Sherlock coffee, although it seemed as though Molly was the only one with the intentions of actually getting it with Sherlock, but nobody else had been complaining, so...
Molly paused from her work, pencil stopping midair. Of course Sherlock noticed, and he looked up at her in alarm, probably wondering if there was a burgular or criminal behind him, or if she just realized a vital piece of information. Truth be told, she had.
John liked Sherlock.
And the worst part of it wasn't that Sherlock liked John, too.
It was that neither even of them noticed how broken their love had made her.