A/N- These interludes take place within the body of canonical Season One and Season Two. They're in as close to chronological order as I can make them, so have fun working out which scenes to sandwich them between :)

Not all of them take place literally at Baker Street. They should eventually cover most characters.

They also fit around every other work on my profile, and provide context for my chaptered hiatus and reunion fics, After the Fall and Come Forth, Lazarus, both of which can be accessed from my profile.


She tried to tell herself it was the wrong colour. A new one she'd bought from Boots just last week: Passionate. She'd wanted the one marked Luscious instead, but the name alone had made her blush. She just wasn't a luscious kind of person, and she couldn't imagine Sherlock saying the word either without sneering. After dithering in the cosmetics aisle for nearly twenty minutes she'd worked up enough bravery to ask the pharmacy assistant's advice. The girl had insisted that Passionate was the one for Molly Hooper.

For a few moments, Molly almost believed that pharmacy assistant had just been wrong about the colour. After all, could she expect sophistication and taste from a girl of seventeen who drew her eyebrows on?

But it wasn't the wrong colour, or the wrong lipstick, or the lipstick at all. It was her.

Taking refuge in the disabled toilet, Molly scrubbed at her mouth with a paper towel that she'd dipped under the cold water faucet. What was the use in wearing lipstick, anyway? Waste of money. Sherlock didn't like her when she was wearing lipstick, or not wearing lipstick. He didn't think she looked pretty, because her mouth was too small. Sherlock... Sherlock wouldn't think she was pretty if her mouth was bigger, or if she didn't have a mouth at all.

Guilt nipped at her chest. It was wrong of her to monopolise the disabled toilet when she didn't need it.

At least you have your health, Molly Hooper.

But she couldn't bring herself to use the Ladies. People might see. People might see her as she leaned her forehead against the mirror and felt the hard, clammy kiss of glass against her skin, her breath fogging the reflection of her mouth. Her mouth that was too small, even red and swollen as it was from where the paper towel had run roughshod over it.

She screwed the mushy lump of towel in her palm, just for a second; then threw it in a nearby bin, stood up straight, and practiced her best smile for the benefit of her reflection.

Sherlock wanted a cup of coffee. Black, two sugars. She couldn't make him happy, but she could make him coffee.