Molly Hooper's eyes nearly bulged as it dawned upon her that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing in Harrod's. She never went to fancy stores like these. She never even had a reason to wear expensive dresses or high heels. The last time she had a date was with her first official boyfriend Jim… and since then, Molly, had sworn off dates.
It's not like she had a raging social life either to warrant fancy dresses and shoes that cost more than some people's household bills. Her life was centered around St. Bart's… an even more accurate statement would be that Molly's life for the past 2 years had been encircled around Sherlock Holmes.
The same Sherlock that had crushed her heart into a thousand little pieces when she realized that he had never meant anything at all, he was just manipulating as per usual. This morning was a testament that Molly Hopper would never be anything more to Sherlock Holmes but a dumb little mouse he thought that he could bend like putty. Sherlock, who Molly truly thought might be seeing her the way she saw him, was just playing with her heart as always.
It made her snap. It made her stop feeling sorry for herself. How many times had Molly Hooper felt too ugly for him? How many times had she let tears that he caused be shrugged off because he was different? No matter how many times he broke her apart, Molly found a way to forgive him.
Because… she loved him. Because she saw something in him, something ultimately good, and something worth saving.
But not anymore.
She was going to move on.
After she let Sherlock know just what she thought of him with her eloquently put text of "go to hell" - she had a go of him in the lab too. Her anger once again took over at the lab, the words spewing from her mouth, without her even realizing what was coming out. She was too angry to even think straight.
She didn't stay at St. Bart's too see if he was still in the lab. He didn't chase back after her after he delivered the final blow (if he even cared, as much as it hurt to admit, was very unlikely) that she had a date. Molly clocked out early telling her boss that she had a bad sudden bug.
Her boss, Dr. Percy, didn't even think twice of telling her that she could leave immediately. Molly's vacation days had built up last year - Sherlock always needed her so she had never a chance to take a break.
That was how Molly ended up at Harrod's.
Charlie had asked her in text message if she ever had been to eat at Alain Ducasse, to which she replied no (she had actually read about it in the newspaper before and the prices made her have heart palpitations but she rationalized it as a rare and once in a lifetime treat) but she would love to try it, which was where their date was going to be at tonight. They had a 7 o'clock reservation. He offered to pick her up from her flat but she denied saying she had too many errands to run.
She could barely contain her queasiness about going on a date with an utter stranger let alone driving in a car with one. She may have been more naive than most women of 28, but she wasn't that foolish.
"Can I help you?" A sleek shop assistant with a platinum blonde sharp bob wearing a sleek black dress and leopard printed pumps asked her. The woman had a name plate on her chest that read REBECCA.
"Erm, I'm looking for something to wear to a dinner date… I don't really know what's um, acceptable, you know…" Molly fumbled with her fingers as she watched a woman who looked like a model off of VOGUE march by with 2 large Harrod's bags on each arm. It seemed far too obvious that she didn't fit in here. I could just go home, maybe pick up some fish and chips on the way there, slip into my pajamas and watch "The Titantic"…
"What type of date?"
"A first date… it's at this really expensive restaurant. I don't want anything too flashy. I don't really know too much about these types of things, I'm a forensic pathologist so I spend my days working with corpses and rotting flesh." Did I just really say that?
"I actually have something perfect for you." The woman winked and motioned her to follow her. The sale clerk quickly picked off a black satin dress, a little past mid-thigh length, and handed it to Molly.
"Try this on. It's just your size, I'm certain of it." Molly looked suspiciously at the dress. She was usually the type to go for florals and polka dots or yellows and pinks. She liked bright colors — she thought it made up for all the dreariness she worked with daily. She thought it brightened up her patients even if they were technically dead. It was the thought that counted, after-all. A part of her wanted to say no thanks and decide to just throw something on that she had already owned. She did have a nice dress that she wore to her cousin's wedding, but it was too short and thin for winter.
Stupid English weather.
Before she could argue herself out of it, she took a deep breathe, and nodded her head.
"Where's the dressing room?" The woman motioned for Molly to follow her once more and lead her into a vacant dressing room.
"Here it is. When you're done, come out. If you like it, I'll ring you up." Molly nodded once again at the lady. She felt a little startled as the dress closed with a loud thud.
The dressing room was luxurious. It had a large chaise, a mirror that covered all sides of the room besides the door and was thickly covered with maroon carpet. She quickly slipped off her coat and scarf and threw them across the chaise messily, next unbuttoning her cardigan and oxford shirt, and lastly her trousers.
She normally hated her reflection and tried to avoid it, but the curiosity got the better of it and she looked at herself. She took a sigh as she took in her straight hips, her small breasts and her gangly legs. She was wearing her matching bra and underwear set that she had gotten at a good sale price at Debenham's.
Molly Hooper would never be a VOGUE model that cruised through Harrod's as if she had designed the floor-plan in a previous life, she knew it. She knew her lips were too small, her breasts too small, her arches too high and every other flaw that Sherlock had pinpointed with harsh bluntness… but she couldn't change it.
She was simply made this way. With a sigh of defeat, she broke away her eyes from her body and slipped herself into the dress and took a gasp of shock.
For the first time in a long time, she felt pretty. Yes, Molly Hooper who struggled with low self-esteem and an over tendency to say "erm" felt pretty.
She didn't need Sherlock after-all, did she? But that was thought with uncertainty because for some reason the dress wasn't quite as lovely if he couldn't see her in it… but she preferred to push that truth aside.