I write way too much angst - so here's some fun stuff! Takes place post-TRF; assumes that Sherlock has been hiding out at Molly's flat.
EDIT: I like this little arrangement. There will be more soon!
She bursts through the door of the flat, her face flushed and her eyes wide, in a complete state of panic. "You have to hide!" she exclaims, her eyes locked on the man across the room.
He looks up at her, almost languidly. "What's that, Molly?"
She crosses the room to him and grabs him arm, attempting to tug him up onto his feet. "Sherlock!" she hisses, straining to get him to move. "You can't been seen! You're dead!"
He stares at her for a moment, taking his time, and she wants nothing more than to slap him in his oh-so-handsome face. Finally, he lets her win the tug-of-war over his arm, and gets to his feet. "For what reason would I need to hide?" he asks her, arching an eyebrow as he looks down into her flustered and panicked face.
"My mother is on her way up!" she squeaks, eyes darting back to look at the door. "She always does this, always shows up unannounced… really, you would think she'd tell me when she was on her way, but no, no, every bloody time…" she continues, babbling wildly, the words tumbling from her lips even as she's pushing on Sherlock's back, driving him back towards her bedroom.
He lets himself be directed by her, mostly out of amusement. He'd never seen Molly Hooper behave this way, completely undone. It was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened to him in days (if not weeks), aside from the last paternity test episode of that trashy talk show that he never bothered to remember the name of.
She gives him a final shove as they get to the doorway, and he smiles at her movement, utterly fascinated by her current state. Molly Hooper has never touched him in her life, and here she is, manhandling him as if he was one of her specimens in her lab, something to be directed and controlled. The elder Mrs. Hooper must be a character of her own, to make the normally shy and mousy Ms. Hooper act in this particular way.
"Stay in here and be quiet!" she hisses at him, poking him in the chest with her index finger, her eyes wide with anxiety. "I'll try to get her out of her as fast as I can."
And then the door slams in his face just as he hears the voice of another person echo through the sitting room.
Sometimes, Molly Hooper really dislikes her mother.
To be clear, she loves her, loves her like any daughter loves her mother, especially a daughter who'd lost her father years ago. But Madeleine Hooper was not like every other mother, the little ladies who'd bake cookies and braid their daughters' hair. Madeleine Hooper was the antithesis of Molly Hooper, a confident and proud woman, a woman who'd fought for a life better than the one of a pig farmer's daughter, leaving the West Country behind for London and all the promises the city held.
Where Molly was quiet and unassuming, Madeleine was loud and commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Where Molly was plain and stylistically uncoordinated, her mother had the timeless beauty of a silent film starlet, her clothes always perfectly tailored and in vogue. When they stood side by side, one was hard pressed to find the resemblance between these polar opposites, two sides on a coin.
And now she was here, standing in her flat, looking completely out of place amongst Molly's knick knacks and cheap furniture.
"Really, Molly, you must look into replacing this old sofa, you have the money for it now, use it," the older woman is saying, slipping off her coat and taking a seat in the chair opposite the couch. She looks up at her daughter; head perched to the side slightly, silently expectant. "Put the kettle on, would you?"
Molly grits her teeth and makes a tactical retreat to the kitchen, steeling herself mentally for what awaited her in the sitting room upon her return.
She passes her mother a cup of warm Earl Grey as she comes back, seating herself on her old and apparently outdated sofa across from her visitor. She takes a sip of her tea as her mother continues to blather on, reporting to her the newest happenings in the lives of their shared family, friends, and acquaintances. ("Moira's just gotten engaged to that Littleton fellow, you know, the one you fancied in sixth form, Molly, the dark haired one"). She nods at the appropriate times, grimaces when she's supposed to, all while hoping and praying that she'll be able to hustle them both out of here before Sherlock Holmes gets bored and wanders out to fulfil his own curiosity.
"… you really must start meeting more men, Molly, you're not getting younger," her mother is saying, when she finally tunes back in.
Ah, this again. Molly swallows a sigh. "Ah, well, you know Mum, been really busy at work -"
Her mother raises an eyebrow at her. "Molly, dear, that's no excuse. I met your father while articling – it is certainly possible to balance both. And really, dear, you must let me take you out to the shops again, no man is going to be able to appreciate your figure when you wear such frumpy attire," she says, gesturing to the baggy brown slacks and shapeless beige blouse that Molly had happened to throw on today.
"Well-" Molly starts weakly, but Madeleine cuts her off again.
"Perhaps internet dating? I've heard that it can be a bit awkward, but really Molly, at your age you can't afford to be fussy. You really need to start thinking about settling down, it'll only get harder and harder as the years pass, you're not getting any youn-" she is saying, those dreadful words all women hate to hear, but the sound of door opening cuts her short.
Her mother looks over at her, her look inquisitive. "Do you have another guest, Molly?"
Molly's heart is beating so hard she could swear it was carving a hole in her chest. "I-uh-" she stutters, unable to breathe normally.
And that's when another figure steps into the room. "Good afternoon," he says cheerfully, stepping fully into the sitting room. He strides over to her mother in five quick steps, reaching out his hand in greeting. "I apologize for not greeting you earlier, Mrs. Hooper; night shift at the hospital, just had to catch a few winks," he says, smiling winningly down at the woman before him. "Molly was kind enough to let me sleep," he continues, looking back at Molly with a smile on his face and in his eyes.
Molly gapes at him, completely taken by surprise. He's put some sort of a wig on, a convincing one at that – a closely cropped blond affair, covering up his distinct black locks. He's found a pair of horn-rimmed glasses somewhere, the type you see on those sharply dressed youths, and he's even put on a suit, black pants and jacket complementing his lavender shirt quite expertly. In short – he looks exactly like the type of man her mother has always pushed on her, and she can't quite believe that he's decided to interject himself into this game.
Her mother doesn't notice her daughter's surprise, too caught up in the appearance of this new arrival. "Molly didn't tell me she had… someone over," she says, extending her hand to meet Sherlock's.
"Probably just letting me sleep, the sweetheart" he replies, clasping his other hand over their two joined ones as he shakes it. "I'm Edmund," he tells her, as he lets go of her hand, "Dr. Edmund Mortimer."
Her mother's eyebrows both climb upwards at the mention of his title. "A doctor? Did you meet at work, then?"
Sherlock – Edmund? – takes a seat next to Molly on the sofa, pressed close up against her, and she swears if her heart beat any faster she might explode. "We did, in fact –" he tells her, reaching out to grab one of Molly's hands. "One of those office romances," he finishes, grinning, and Molly knows he's mimicking her own past words when he says them.
"Molly hadn't mentioned any… suitors," Madeleine replies, looking over to her silent daughter, who was trying very hard not to look like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Oh, uh – well-" she starts dumbly, seemingly unable to form words.
Sherlock cuts her off with another of those blazing smiles. "It's still fairly new for us both," he explains, rubbing the back of Molly's hand with his fingers, and it's all Molly can do not to die from a fatal combination of utter embarrassment and selfish pleasure. "We haven't really told anyone yet."
Her mother looks over to Molly, and back to Sherlock again. "I realize I may have interrupted your plans for the day," Madeleine begins, her tone almost questioning.
"Oh, no, not at all, Mrs. Hooper," he answers, "What could be more important than spending time with one's family?"
Molly honestly can't believe how good he is at this, how believable. She always knew that he was a good actor, but this – this truly deserved anAcademy Award for his performance.
Her mother smiled back at the detective. "Please, Edmund, call me Madeleine."
He nods his head in acknowledgement, deferentially. "With pleasure, Madeleine."
They sit quietly for a few moments, the bombshell of this blond-haired, well-dressed doctor having swept both Molly and her mother into silence.
"Well," starts the older woman eventually, making to stand up from her chair. "Perhaps we should let you sleep, Edmund. Molly – lunch at the café? I think we have a few… items to discuss."
Molly shakes herself out of her stupor, pushing herself up to her feet as well, her hand dropping out of Sherlock's grasp. "Y-yes, yes of course."
Madeleine moves to pick up her coat, but Sherlock beats her to it, holding it out for her as she slips her arms into it. "You're welcome to join us, Edmund, if you'd like," she tells him, smiling up at him as he lets go of the coat lapels.
"I appreciate the invite, Madeleine, but I'll let the two of you have your catch-up alone – this time," he replies, his eyes twinkling.
Honestly, how does he do that? Molly thinks to herself, reaching out to grab her jacket as well, but Sherlock, again, is there in an instant, helping her to put it on, the perfect image of a gentleman. Her skin tingles as she feels his body behind her, and she tries in vain to bury those emotions, those tantalizing feelings.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," he is saying, kissing her mother quickly on each cheek. Molly swears she can see the edges of her mother's earlobes flush red at the contact, and she stifles a giggle at her mother's expense.
"You as well, Edmund. I hope to see you again."
Molly looks over to her mother, and sees her staring back at her, somewhat expectant. Oh! Molly thinks, realizing that a normal girlfriend would most likely want to say goodbye.
She turns to Sherlock, uncertain. "S-see you later, Edmund," she says softly, looking up to meet his eyes.
He looks back down at her, and his gaze locks with hers. "Until later, Molly," he replies, and he dips his chin down parallel to hers, his lips moving to meet hers, his mouth connecting with her mouth in a picture-perfect kiss. She closes her eyes at the contact, her breath hitching in her throat as they connect, and she has to stop herself from reaching out for more when he pulls away.
"Have a good time," he says, stepping away, and her legs carry her away mostly on auto-pilot, still too astounded to really think at all.
At lunch, her mother goes on and on about how she should have told her about Edmund, about how nice of a man he was, about how lucky she was to have him, and on and on. But Molly doesn't hear a single word she says, too caught up in her own thoughts, replaying that kiss, that one fleeting kiss over and over in her memory, like the last few moments of a beautiful dream.