A/N- This is a series of drabbles of varying lengths, mostly for the purposes of helping along my chronic writer's block.
All of them are interludes that 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.
But it wasn't the wrong colour, or the wrong lipstick, or the lipstick at all. It was her.
Molly Hooper, taking refuge in the disabled toilet, scrubbed at her mouth with a paper towel that she'd run under cold water. What was the use in wearing lipstick, anyway? Waste of money. Because 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... 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; wrong to monopolise the disabled toilet. 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 reflective glass against her skin, her breath fogging the reflection of her mouth. Her mouth that was too small, now, even red and swollen as it was from where the abrasive 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 own reflection.
Sherlock wanted a cup of coffee. Black, two sugars. She couldn't make him happy. But she could make him coffee.