The small, wooden front door of the medium-sized three-bedroom-four-bathroom apartment swung opened and rebounded, after a deafening crash against the back wall, into a young, very petite, very angry woman.
Molly Hooper stomped into her abode with her thick, damp and curling hair plastered against her small, round, furious, tear-streaked face. She flung her red sling bag onto the wide green sofa, immediately heading towards a closed door that led to her cozy but unkempt bedroom, not realizing that she had forgotten to zip it up after rummaging through just minutes before, the compartments immediately emptying out its contents onto the floor with a series of noises, deafening against the otherwise silent apartment.
Inside her light purple bedroom Molly Hooper winced and groaned at the sound of what was probably her phone and a few other items falling to the wooden floor just outside her door. Stubbing her pinky toe against the edge of her double bed caused yet another wave of tears to form at the corners of her eyes. Wiping them away angrily with the back of her sweatered hand she flopped, for lack of a better word, onto the current object of her physical pain. The old springs of the bed creaked under her weight and she lightly smirked at the thought of it feeling the pain it gave her. A taste of its own medicine.
She knew whom she would like to give a whole mouthful of his own bitter medicine.
Just thinking about him made her want to sob into her big blue cottony comforter but her tear ducts, overworked and underpaid as they were, decidedly went on strike, leaving molly to a few dry sobs and heaves; and a few painful minutes of hyperventilating.
The young doctor hated how that man affected her. Around her colleagues Dr. Molly Hooper was known as the cute, mousy pathologist, where she always put up a shy, yet professional and confident front. She admitted a long time ago that she was useless at professional or workplace fashion but out in the casual world she was alright. Among family she was the loving daughter, 'best sister this blasted world had to offer' (a straight quote from an enthusiastic brother) and an amazing, fun aunt.
But could never be any of those in his presence. Looking back, Molly wasn't even sure what it was about the world's only consulting detective that caused her to become so bloody….lovestruck.
Any one had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was really a pleasurable sight to any passing straight woman or gay man With his long limbs, pale alabaster skin, the bloody-annoying-yet-so-well-defined cheekbones that grace his already handsome face, and one could go on and on about his forever colour changing eyes from their greens, blues and greys. And don't get me started with his bloody intellect Molly thought sour, wry smile gracing her soft features as she changed into her pyjamas and wrung out her damp chocolate hair.
She still didn't understand. Even after everything he put her through in terms of ego and self confidence throughout the soon to be eight years she had known the man, it wasn't until today when she had finally snapped and did the unthinkable. It was so horrible that she was sure, no certain that the detective would never be apart of her life again, other than in her dreams. Not that she would admit it. The worst part was that through everything that had happened leading to this moment, she was still in love with the sodding man.
Reluctantly getting out of bed, Molly trudged out to the living room before rolling promptly over the back of the couch and landing with a practiced thump flat in a lying down position on the seat of the furniture. Grabbing the remote that was prodding uncomfortably against her-ahem- arse she flicked on the TV and stopped once she decided on yet another rerun on The Big Bang Theory.
Once again, rolling of the couch and landing on her knees on the floor, Molly began picking up the items scattered on the floor that had once been lying the small space of her sling bag compartments.
A stack of OK! and other gossip magazines for when she was bored were thrown carelessly on the glass coffee table.
A half open powder compact was closed and carefully placed back into the sling
Her small iPod Nano was found after moving the sofa backwards (how on the Lord's Earth had it made its way there?) was thrown onto the sofa when she caught sight of an item she never wanted to see again.
It was picked up with petite fingers, held with a thumb and index at the base of its non-living body as if it was toxic. In a way, the memories that came with it was. Dropping back from her crawling-toddler position to a slightly more comfortable position (well not for her toes) to sit on the heels of her feet, Molly cradled the cursed object in her palms. The one small object that indirectly caused her to metaphorically break in half and perform the ghastly deed (in her books of course) just hours ago. She laughed at the fact that the object was so small, harmless, a necessity to many woman her age. All it was was a gold cuboid tube of bright scarlet lipstick. Sitting there on the floor Molly was betrayed by her own mind as she was brought into a flashback that took place a mere three hours ago.
The cadaver that had gone by the incredibly dull name of David Smith- Molly had heard and performed autopsies an people with the most hilarious names like one Muthukumaresan Subramaniyamalam; that was without the middle names- with the most interesting death from what the autopsy told her, Mr. Smith was not killed by falling down the stirs of his home, but instead by what seemed to be an air embolism, and judging by the miniscule circular hole at the edge of his neck, it was fairly obvious foul play was involved, the weapon being a syringe, but it was not her job to say.
Muttering her findings into a silver recorder whilst taking notes, Molly Hooper was completely oblivious to the tall man, impeccably dressed with a huge cloak waltzing into the pristine white room with flourish, followed by an older, sandy blonde-haired man dressed in much more casual clothes. One could have been half blind and still notice that the taller man, who had shrugged of his cloak and threw carelessly on the body of poor Mr. Smith and seated himself casually at an empty stool, staring intently into a black microscope, that he was dotted, no splattered with dusty brown and mildly damp or wet, dripping dark red splotches that contrasted with his fair skin. The wet drips did have a source on his body; a thin, yet probably deep, by the amount of blood flowing steadily like a river. Some of in trailed down his chin and into his shirt while others were slowly beginning to drip down on the silver metal table he was seated at, forming a small puddle. Sherlock Holmes was never one to care about physical pain anyway.
John Watson on the other hand seemed to be the worried for the detective. His face was a mask of pure concern with maybe a tinge of fear of the prospect of the consultant next to him bleeding to death. Noticing that Molly, her back turned to them was completely oblivious to her surroundings, probably by the earbuds in her ear, he began to move towards the pathologist, when a shrill sound pierced the quiet aura room, stopping him in his tracks.
Molly vaguely heard her phone blare of its annoying ringtone, signaling a call from her family. Confirming her thoughts as she took a quick look at the caller ID she placed her phone to her ear, a loud 'Hey Molls!' greeting her before she could do the same.
'Matt hi. What's going on?'
'Nothing much. How's the goriest girl ever?'
'She's just fine. Now what do you want?'
'Nothing much just one small favour can-'
'Don't be so loud Matt- I'm not deaf'
Sherlock watched with slight interest at the woman. The last case despite its gore was barely a six and the adrenaline was already slowing down so he began deductions.
The caller was obviously a male by the sound of his voice through the speaker on the phone and to the fact the Molly called him Matt. The ringtone was silly and unnecessary so it may have been someone she hated, but someone like that would not be calling Molly for a favour and Molly wasn't the type to do something so immature so obviously it was a joke- one obviously between two or more people close to each other.
Molly had now turned around but was still oblivious to the two men and Sherlock carried on with his deductions.
Molly's words were and sounded harsh through her tone of voice but the small smile on her face made it obvious that it was all a joke. It probably wouldn't be a good joke if the recipient wasn't in on it so Sherlock was quite certain that the caller was very close to the pathologist's life. As an extra Molly's steady tone that went well against her facial expressions made it clear that she was quite the actress. One wouldn't see that at first.
'What about Mum?'
Sherlock snapped out of his daydream as Molly said that but decided that Molly wouldn't refer to her mother as 'Mum' to her friends confirming Sherlock's deductions of her being to the recipient, also adding to the fact that he was obviously her brother.
Molly finally looked up to see a very bloody Sherlock with a long gash along his cheek and her eyes immediately widened.
'Matt I gotta go- I will take care of the boys then-yes yes I have to go-I'm busy that's why-because there is a lot of blood-I'll call later-okay-BYE.'
Hanging up and placing her phone in her pocket Molly immediately got out the First Aid Kit and worked on the gash.
'Are you busy Molly? We will leave if you are.' Asked John, aware that she hung up because of the bloody detective along with the piles of paperwork on her desk.
'No of course n-' Molly began cut of as Sherlock began speaking
'Obviously not-she was about to hang up anyway judging on the amount of paperwork on her desk. Besides her brother had already gotten what he wanted and that was for Molly to take care of his children. Soon, judging by the call.'
Molly was used to this but it was amazing when he did that, but she knew better than to ask how he did it. She carried on cleaning the detectives wound before placing a small plaster against, muttering quiet apologies as he winced at the painful contact.
She noticed Sherlock staring into her red sling bag, wondering what would be so interesting in there. Trying to take no notice she went back to her desk to fill out the remaining bundles of paperwork. The next time she looked up she noticed Sherlock's yes were now on her apparel. The form-fitting red dress that stopped at her knee was what she had picked for her date with a brain surgeon who had taken notice of her three days before. She couldn't wait for the date and honestly couldn't wait for Sherlock to go so that she could lock up and leave.
'Bright red is not your colour Molly'
'Excuse me?' Molly asked startled, wondering what he may be on about
'Your lipstick choice. Bright red makes your lips look smaller and thinner than they already are. It is not going to enhance or give the sexy look I am sure you were going for, judging by the magazines in your bag.' He brazenly answered, giving her a slight glance.
'Come on Molly- it is obvious someone of your looks and personality would be able to pull of such a look and-'
'Sherlock.' Interjected John's soft yet firm and warning tone, as the shorter man placed a hand on Sherlock trying to silence him; his efforts unfortunately in vain.
'What John? I am merely stating what is so plainly obvious. It will merely help her anyway. Besides,' the uncaring man carried on pointing the later part of his speech at the tearing pathologist 'haven't I already said that your choice of men is definitely below par what not with the whole 'Jim from IT' debacle-' once again the detective was interrupted by a loud smack.
He heard the smack before feeling the searing hot pain on his right cheek, where his newly bandaged wound was placed. Mostly out of shock Sherlock's hand flew up to his cheek staring down at the small pathologist whose hand was still at the post slap position her face an expression of shock whilst her eyes held onto furious and sad tears.
'Get out' Molly seethed through gritted teeth 'now, or I will call security.'
Sherlock merely stared with a mixture of confusion and….regret?
No Sherlock Holmes was a self-proclaimed sociopath with no emotion. He felt no regret or remorse.
'Get the fuck out now.' Molly stated calmly which somehow had its effect because John grabbed the detective by his arm and proceeded to shove him out the door
'I am so sorry Molly. Really I am. You look great- don't worry.'
'It's fine John really-it was going to happen one of these days- everyone knew it'
The ex-army doctor merely nodded before following his best friend.
After leaving , Molly immediately broke down, her legs giving way, forcing her into a crouching position against a door. She hurriedly sent a text to her date stating that she simply wasn't feeling well and had a bad temperature.
Sobbing for a few more minutes, Molly packed away her equipment grabbed her bag and left the now silent morgue, preparing herself for a walk home that would include many, many tears and thoughts about the gorgeous detective with the velvet baritone that spoke the harsh thoughts of its owners oh so insightful mind.
Molly was snapped out of her reverie as she saw her phone light up from somewhere underneath the coffee table. Bending low, she grappled around with her hand until her fingers wrapped around the black but green clad gadget. She unlocked the phone and saw the message blinking against the background of her and another man sharing the same nose and eyes as her, with straight, blonde hair covering his scalp. Both were grinning goofily into the phone's built in camera. Molly smiled fondly at the picture. Matthew always made her smile. She looked back at the message that read: FIVE UNREAD MESSAGES
Molly scrolled through her inbox, reading the texts in chronological order:
-Thanks so much for taking care of the kids. Have fun with your blood and gore sis! ;)…Matt
Sent: 03:12 p.m
It is completely fine Molly- get better soon and we'll take a rain check yea?
Sent: 05:37 p.m
Sent: 7:45 p.m
Molly I am so sorry about Sherlock. Don't expect him coming around any time soon. Say the word and he won't be there at all.
Sent: 7:45 p.m
Molly I am sorry. Please forgive my earlier actions.
Molly sighed looking at the last three messages. He had said please. That was something Sherlock would never do. Right? It was obvious that he apologised because of nagging from a certain doctor. But to…beg?
No. There was no way. It was plain that all he wanted was access to the morgue. She wanted to give in she really did, but it was time Molly made a stand against Sherlock; time she stood up for herself and the day that happened was going to start now.
A sudden feeling of fatigue and drowsiness washed over Molly, eventhough it was barely past 8:20. Sending texts back to her brother and Dr. Johnson (a.k.a her failed date) while brushing her teeth proved to be a near impossible task.
Washing of the toothpaste and drool mixture form her phone Molly sent one last text of 'thanks' to John before slipping under the warmth of her blanket. The last thing Molly Hooper thought of that night was a certain consulting detective and how he was going to finally get what he deserved.
So this is my first time writing on fanfiction and I do hope it was an OK first try. Please feel free to comment and review on my work as I really appreciate constructive critism but please tone down on the colourful language and no unnecessary flames because they take up space. Anyway, let me know what you think and if I should carry on with this story!