This is my first Sherlock fic so it's pretty nerve wracking. I don't own any of the characters.
Set four months after the Fall.
Molly Hooper was discovering that Sherlock Holmes was a terrible flat mate. Well actually, she had discovered this within five minutes of having him in her flat four months ago but she was gathering more and more evidence each day that solidified the fact that Sherlock was impossible to live with.
Like right now for instance. Having just come home from work, Molly was hungry and proceeded to scrounge around in her fridge for something to eat. Or she would have had the severed head not been inside. She squeaked and slammed the door.
"Damn it, Sherlock," she swore, turning around to glare at the detective.
"Experiment," he replied dismissively.
She clamped her lips shut tightly pushing down all the expletives she wanted to call him at this very moment.
Grabbing her purse, she made her way towards the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Sherlock with a frown.
"You're the bloody detective, figure it out," she replied, slamming the door behind her.
Molly ran her finger around the rim of her beer bottle. Her cheeks were flushed, partly because this was her third beer and partly because she could not stop thinking about the events that had happened earlier this evening. In some way, Sherlock hadn't deserved being yelled at. Mind you, in a big way he did deserve it because once again, Sherlock hadn't taken into consideration how she would have felt about having a severed head in her refrigerator.
He was bored; he had told her on multiple occasions. Pretending to be dead really limited ones options in interacting with the world. He would usually don a disguise on but Molly still worried about discovery. He'd scoffed at her worry of course.
A very familiar laugh interrupted her train of thought and she glanced towards the door and gulped. Greg Lestrade and a group of officers from Scotland Yard had just come in. Molly, sitting in a somewhat darkened corner of the pub, hoped he couldn't see her.
She managed to force her lips into a smile "Greg, hi."
"How have you been? Haven't seen you since-"
He looked stricken.
She offered him another smile and said, "I'm okay. How are you and the wife?"
He looked relieved that she didn't break down and said, "We're getting back together."
"Well, that's great. Listen, I didn't realize how late it was and I've got work in the morning so I'm going to head home," she said in a rush.
She interlocked her fingers together.
"Let me call a cab," he offered.
"No," she squeaked, "I'm fine, really."
He looked at her for several seconds but finally nodded.
"Goodbye then. Have a nice night,"
She nodded and made her way to the door, feeling his eyes on her.
When she finally made it outside, she took in a huge gulp of night air.
"Molly," said a deep voice from behind her.
She gasped, her heart beating painfully against her rib cage, and turned around.
"Jesus, Sherlock," she said, gripping her purse tightly.
He merely turned up his coat collar and gestured for her to lead the way to the car.
"How did you find- oh, never mind," she said.
"GPS," he replied.
Oh. Well, that's not what she was expecting to say the least.
"I apologize," he said as he climbed into the car.
Molly froze for a moment before getting into the car herself.
He had apologized to her again and she knew that someone like Sherlock wasn't in the habit of apologizing and yet she had been the recipient of an apology twice. She smiled a bit.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and said, "Maybe I should drive."
"I'm perfectly in disguise," he cut in smoothly.
She looked at him and had to agree. His dark curls had been replaced with a ginger wig (he had complained that it was itchy against his scalp and Molly had sweetly told him that if he wanted to leave her flat then he had better get used to it)
After they switched seats and Sherlock began the drive home, he said, "Lestrade seems happy."
"Oh, well…yes, I suppose he does. He told me that he's getting back together with his wife."
"Well, she's still seeing the P.E. teacher so I wouldn't hold out hope for that to last long."
She rolled her eyes.
"He didn't say anything else?"
Molly knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that what he was really asking was how was John Watson doing.
Molly toyed with the hem of her blouse. "No, I…I didn't ask."
Sherlock didn't say anything, merely stared straight ahead. He pulled up to the curb, turned off the engine and hopped out to open Molly's door, "Don't wait up."
She knew where he was going and she bit her lip. "
"Sherlock, I…goodnight," she said as she made her way to the door.
He nodded and made his way down the street, jamming his hands into the pockets of his coat.
Molly made her way up to her flat. She fed Toby and changed into a pair of pajamas. She curled up on the couch and cried. The look on Sherlock's face broke her heart. She tried so hard not to mention John Watson because she couldn't bear to see the pain that snaked its way across the harsh planes of his face. Once, she had tried telling him that if he hadn't faked his suicide then John would have been dead. He had snapped at her, telling her to leave him be.
After that, they merely stuck to how her day had been (even though he already knew how it had gone just by looking at her) and if they were having take out or if Molly was going to make something.
Molly was determined to wait up for him, to offer him…something. Comfort maybe though she didn't think he would welcome comfort.
She closed her eyes, intending to rest them for a bit.
A low voice infiltrated her sleep and her eyes flew open to see Sherlock's face hovering above her. She squeaked and pushed herself up, forcing him to step back.
"I didn't think you would have wanted to sleep on the couch all night long," he said as he removed his wig and coat.
She shook her head and said, "Thank you."
She looked at him and noticed a slight redness about his eyes. "Sherlock, I…,"
She didn't know how to offer him comfort without the fear of rejection. She wanted him to know though. Wanted him to know that she was here for him. Whatever he needed, he could have her. So she took everything she wanted to say and tried show him in ways that he could understand.
He took in every detail about the way she was looking at him. The compassion in her doe brown eyes, the way she held herself and the way she longed to reach out and comfort him. Oddly enough, he wasn't repulsed at her display of emotion like he usually was. He felt a sense of…gratitude and comfort and he knew that he wasn't so deserving of her compassion after the way he had treated her in the past.
He took a step towards her, watching her eyes widen at his close proximity. He bent his head slightly and pressed his lips against her forehead.
"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said.
I'm hoping to make a series of moments with these two.