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It was just like the other days.
Molly woke up, sat around, examining corpses left and right, took a break for coffee, and then kept examining corpses.
Riveting.
She had just finished feeding Toby, and then headed off to Bart's, as she usually did. Sighing once or twice on her way there, dreading the dead bodies she'd have to lay her eyes on; but not completely repulsed by the concept of being there.
Never completely.
Her job wasn't exactly the most entertaining or fun thing in the world, but she made do. It's what anyone her age would... should strive for.
Much less someone as obsessed as she.
Molly mostly went to work nowadays with a hint of positivity because of this man she met. 28 January, the day my life changed, she'd think to herself.
He was tall and pale, with a lithe figure, piercing blue eyes, and dark curls bouncing about whenever he jumped to solve a case the police needed him for.
His fingers were long, as was most of him — Molly stopped herself before she imagined something more... obscene, when paired with that word — and he was all edge, no doubt. Even his cheekbones were prominent as hell.
It was as if God created him for the sole purpose of bringing people to heaven.
Actually, that'd be contradictory. Demons were the attractive ones, and Molly likened him to those sometimes; devastatingly handsome, with his charm and that damn voice, using his deduction skills to take her defences down.
She saw him often, too. That made it worse. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't avoid him. His job practically required him to stare at dead bodies, get hints and clues from them, then run off again to catch whoever was responsible for the body's death in the first place.
Molly shook her head as she walked into the building, absolutely certain she'd keep herself in check this time.
Like she did yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.
He hates repetition. Molly had to make sure she'd keep unnecessary stuff away from her mouth.
Except maybe Sherlock's—
"Miss Hooper! Hello!" the receptionist greeted, glowing as ever. Her blonde hair shone in the light nicely, and Molly smiled at the sight of her.
"Hi, Tina," she beamed. "Anything good happen today?"
"Oh, not really." Tina dismissed her with a flick of her wrist, then grinned devilishly. "Just took my dog out for a walk, feeling pretty alright. And you? Where's the mystery man?"
Molly might've blushed. She hoped she hadn't. "Oh, I don't know... he's probably out solving crimes again."
She hated it.
How weak Sherlock made her feel.
One word from him, or one glance thrown at her, was more than enough for her to do as he said. She hated how vulnerable she felt, but couldn't help it.
She was in love with him. Rather hopelessly, too.
Sherlock was enough of an arsehole to take advantage of her interest in him blatantly. She hadn't forgotten the entire 'Banker Situation', as she called it — she only barely remembered stuff she had read from John's blog — but she was still willing to give him what he wanted.
Because he made her feel seen.
It was embarrassing.
Tina's reply got her out of her trance. "Ooh, I see," she teased, as if they were teenagers with their first crushes. "Do you think he'll drop by today, too?"
Molly had an epiphany. That's what she felt like.
Like a teenager with her first crush. On the first boy who paid attention to her. She couldn't tell if the sensation excited or frightened her.
Well, they're the same thing to me, she'd say.
Wait, this was Tina. She can't do that.
Molly giggled awkwardly. "Maybe. I don't know, he's not on cases that often."
Tina nodded, still smiling. "OK, then. I have to make a call, I'll see you later!"
"Yeah, I'll catch you later," Molly stammered, feeling a bit more in control once the chat ended.
She kept walking down the corridor, passing by one door after another, each of which smelled like a different kind of poison.
Naturally, Sherlock popped up in her head again.
She really needed to stop letting him do that. He was enough of a prick as is, making everything around her serve his interests. She didn't need him messing with her thoughts too.
She couldn't resist, though—she never could. How could she? His gorgeous hair; those pink lips; the shirts he'd always wear that hugged his chest a tad too tightly; not to mention his trousers, which made him look taller and somehow even more deadly. And the mystery of his personality, waiting to be unraveled by a person daring enough to date him.
Molly also acknowledged the existence of John Watson, a man Sherlock met just a day after he met her for the first time.
She didn't really know much about him, nor was she as desperate to know things about him as she was for Sherlock, but she liked him. He seemed nice. And he liked her too, so there's that.
Sherlock and John were attached to the hip, from what Molly surmised. They solved cases together, went out for dinner together, apparently even went to the supermarket together.
Molly wasn't an envious person. She really wasn't.
But the feeling of being aware someone else is doing things with Sherlock, things she wanted to do with him, wasn't exactly pleasant.
God knows what they did at home.
Molly sighed audibly, shaking her head, about to head into the lab until she sees the door's already slightly ajar.
And then she hears it.
That voice.
She could recognise it anywhere. Still, her conversation with Tina mere minutes earlier had her reeling a bit; she hoped she just hadn't noticed him and wasn't actively lying in Molly's face. She inched closer, just to make sure she wasn't imagining it.
"...that you actually managed it this time? I'm proud of you, John."
Oh God.
It was Sherlock, sat on the stupid stool he always sat on. Of bloody course it was. He was all Molly saw, all Molly heard, all Molly knew. He was talking to John. On the phone, no less. Sherlock usually hated calls.
He seemed eager to make John the exception, judging by how casually his hand was propped against the counter. John was constantly the exception to all of Sherlock's rules, wasn't he?
She kept listening to him. "You finally learned how to use a credit card. They really do grow up so fast..."
OK, so John had likely gone shopping. Didn't use credit cards until recently. Until he met Sherlock, maybe? What card did he use? His own or—
No, no. He's rubbing off on you.
Obviously, at this distance, she couldn't hear John's voice on the other end. Sherlock sounded amused when he replied either way, even leaning forward and tucking his free hand into the crease of his elbow. "Really? Well, aren't you special?"
The sarcasm was heavy on that sentence, yet his low tone sent a shiver down Molly's spine. John would be insane if he didn't react in the same way.
She leaned in a bit further; not much, Sherlock hadn't seen her yet (probably, unless he was neglecting her on purpose), just so his face was visible now.
He looked so much better with a smile. Not a condescending sneer, not a satanic grin. A real, genuine smile. With his eyes creasing and everything.
Sherlock's laugh was the most melodious sound Molly had ever heard. "It's the standard, John, you should know that."
She had never seen him happier.
Molly blushed again. She could feel her knees shaking, trying to hold the rest of her body steady, praying Sherlock wouldn't notice her and think this entire situation is weird.
"Well, yes, no one pays with cash at Tesco anymore," Sherlock replied, but he got retaliation faster this time. He giggled. "I'm not posh, you're just old-fashioned."
Molly's heart swam and sunk at the same time.
With a soft smile, she stood frozen. She wished it was her. She wanted to have silly conversations with Sherlock over the phone more than anything, to come out of her shell around him, to be affectionate more openly.
Deep down, she had this urge to walk up to Sherlock right now and confess her feelings for him, right in John's face. She really wanted to just tell him.
She was never sure if Sherlock and John were actually dating, much like the others in their circle. Lestrade, for example. He didn't know for certain either, but he very well enjoyed making jokes about it constantly.
Molly's laughs at those were always awkward and tentative.
She shook her head again, cursed under her breath — rare behaviour for her, supposedly the 'Little Miss Perfect' of the mortuary — and berated herself for missing part of the conversation via sinking in her own thoughts. Her grip on her clipboard tightened. Her knuckles had turned white with the strength of her gesture.
Sherlock's giggles were priceless. Molly was sure she'd never heard his voice go so high before. She couldn't tell which tone she found more appealing.
He sighed afterwards, as if he just had the time of his life laughing with John on the phone, and began fiddling with lab equipment for the sake of occupying his free hand. Specifically, he picked up a pipette and squeezed its tip every few seconds.
He was listening to whatever John was saying very intently, nodding along and humming. They didn't sound like the hums he threw in Molly's way at all. Dismissive and irritated, as if he can't stand talking to you, her mind kindly added. She couldn't stop the wave of sadness that washed over her.
She elected to ignore it regardless. If it meant making this moment last longer, hearing Sherlock in pure joy, she'd ignore her own feelings for the rest of her time on this planet.
Sherlock let out another huff of laughter, one he had the dignity to cut off. Molly, personally, saw it as rather cruel. Listening to him laugh was addicting, and she'd only witnessed an interval or two just now.
She couldn't believe a single man could be so magical.
Ooh, he'd berate her for that metaphor, but Molly didn't care. She couldn't care. Not right now.
"Molly Hooper? What about her?" Sherlock asked, taken aback by something John said. Molly herself nearly shrieked at the mention of her name, then suppressed a sigh of relief when she saw he hadn't looked at her a single time so far.
She hadn't expected John to mention her. To Sherlock, no less. Sherlock appeared to avoid any conversation related to her whenever he could, which left Molly feeling sour most of the time. She never admitted that, of course. Sherlock was always the priority.
"No, I haven't seen her," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. His face had 'curiosity' written all over it. "She's not here yet, I'm pretty sure. I might say hi if I see her on my way out."
Molly's heart fluttered, though she couldn't tell if it was pain or affection that caused it. Sherlock did have an ounce, a small semblance of humanity, and did genuinely care about her. She hoped.
His image of caring for others was pretty slanted, Molly thought that for the longest time. The longer she stared at him through his conversation with John, however, the more she doubted herself.
Did Sherlock have feelings? On top of that, was he truly capable of romantic attraction? And then, the question she dreaded asking herself the most.
Was Sherlock in love with John?
If anything, it'd be more surprising if he wasn't. Sherlock was the most secluded person Molly had ever met, refraining from things as simple as phone calls and physical closeness at all costs.
Like with many other things related to Sherlock, John was the outlier.
Despite running all over London on a daily basis, solving the most difficult of cases, John's place beside him remained constant. Sherlock expected John to be right behind, no matter what, and John delivered on that promise very efficiently.
Sherlock stood a tad too close when it was John's body beside his, his touches lingered a tad too long on his shoulders, his words were a tad too soft next to his ear.
And then people had the audacity to ask if Molly was friends with Sherlock? For God's sake, she'd give a kidney away for this kind of close proximity to Sherlock if she could have it all the time. John was luckier than he could ever realise.
Sherlock's voice lowered again, and he smiled suggestively. "Oh, I see. You're jealous."
What?
What?
Had Sherlock seen Molly? Had he heard a breath of hers or something? Had he noticed the door was pushed by a centimetre completely accidentally, blowing her cover and leaving her humiliated, all the while Sherlock lists out every single reason why he never liked her to begin with?—
"Don't worry about that, John," Sherlock mused, somehow with an even more attractive lilt than earlier, "you don't have to be jealous of anyone. Molly might... like like me, as you so intelligently put it, but I'm sure she'd understand if I told her I'm gay."
Oh.
Sherlock's... oh.
Molly should've known. This was obvious from the start, if anything.
She couldn't hold back a startled gasp. She silently slapped her hand over her mouth, praying to every God out there that Sherlock did not hear that. Her other hand might as well break the clipboard with the death grip she's got on it.
It was clear as day. Should've been, anyway. The pristine attire, the level of self-care... not really a feature found exclusively in homosexual men, but Sherlock in particular should've been evident as hell in hindsight.
"Besides, it'd do her good to fall for someone else. More... normal," Sherlock continued. His voice was mellow now. He stared off into the dark corner of the lab.
Molly frowned. Sure, Sherlock wasn't what your average Briton would call 'normal'. He was still the most brilliant, most handsome, and most intelligent man this country—no, this world had to offer. Anyone who denied his affections must truly be an idiot.
Molly almost pushed the door to the side, ready to feign innocence and lead their chat into whispering sweet nothings to Sherlock in an effort to make him feel better (and perhaps give her the feeling of comforting him, of having an intimate conversation with him, of being the exception for once) about himself.
What Molly heard and saw next grabbed that idea and smashed it into a million pieces, not unlike what had just been done to her heart moments before.
"I'm sure you prefer me this way, John. The same goes for you, too." Sherlock fidgeted with his fingers, looking down at them with... wait, was he blushing?
No. Sherlock Holmes didn't blush. He never sodding blushed. He was a recluse, an enigma waiting to be discovered, a person who had long distanced himself from human beings and their mess of a reality.
Sherlock paused in his tracks for a bit, and Molly's heart reached her throat again, before putting his phone on the counter and turning on speaker mode.
She didn't bother asking herself why he did that.
Whatever. John was mid-sentence there, so Molly didn't hear the entire thing.
"...either way. Well, being less of a smart-arse is a good start, but I said this in the beginning too: you don't have to change anything about yourself just because we're dating now."
The last few words seemed to echo in her head.
"Because we're dating now."
Molly predicted the familiar feeling's resurgence. She was beginning to tear up.
Motherfucking hell.
Sherlock shouldn't have this much influence over her, she didn't wish for him to. He's dating John, so what? Molly's not surprised, but she's still disappointed. Why? Why the hell is the universe so hellbent on punishing her for feeling things? Why did Sherlock have to make everything more difficult by being so OUT OF REACH—
Molly's vision was a bit blurry. She blinked the tears away carelessly.
She desperately needed to revel in Sherlock having feelings, in Sherlock having a relationship. She wanted, she ached, she needed to see it.
She only desired to know how it'd feel, how it'd be like, if she was in John's place. Just this once. If she had been the lucky one.
Sherlock's blush hadn't subsided just yet, and he just nodded meekly at what John said; even if he couldn't see the motion. "I-I remember that," he replied, and Molly couldn't believe how much of everything she was doubting right now. "You don't have to repeat yourself."
Sherlock laughing sincerely, Sherlock blushing, Sherlock being in a relationship, and now Sherlock bloody stuttering—what kind of timeline had she ended up in?
And how the hell does she head to the one where she was fortunate enough to have her feelings reciprocated?
John let out a short laugh, a carefree sound. As if being in a relationship with Sherlock is something simple, something as basic as breathing. "Good, then." His voice was plagued by the audio quality. Molly saw that as a blessing; she wouldn't want to hear how intimate their whispers would be if they were both here right now. Much less if they started holding each other, cutting off each other's gasps, or if John leaned in to steal Sherlock's breath with a soft kiss—
Molly turned away from the door, leaning against the wall right next to it. She was careful not to make any noise with the contact, but barely held back another choked sob.
She shouldn't feel like this. She's aware of that.
She wishes she could control her emotions as easily as Sherlock did at that moment.
Sherlock is a gay man. Above that, he is also taken. She feels thankful she hadn't tried asking him out again since the coffee thing. At last, something she did correctly.
"I have to go now, Sherlock," John spoke after a few minutes of white noise, his voice accompanied by the rustling of plastic bags. "I can't hold the groceries and my phone to my ear at the same time, I'm not a magician."
Sherlock seemed reluctant to even end the call, but he complied regardless. He looked empty in his response. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'll see you at home."
"See you later," John replied, and Molly could hear the smile in his voice. Sherlock could too, apparently, as he instantly looked more relaxed at that. "Love you."
Molly's knees finally gave in and she slid down the wall. She only barely remembered to keep the clipboard in her hands instead of letting it fall and clatter on the floor.
Love. They weren't just dating, they were in love.
Molly's stomach fluttered. She felt lightheaded. Neither of which were of the good kind.
Sherlock let out a chuckle, unaware of the carnage just outside the door, and brought the phone next to his lips. "Love you too." His voice sounded shaky, as if he wasn't used to saying the words yet.
The call ended, and Sherlock sighed softly. He tucked his phone in his coat jacket pocket, redid his scarf and got up from the stool in a way most would call graceful.
Molly didn't get to see it.
Her back was against the wall, and she was sitting on the floor now. She resisted the temptation to cry her eyes out as much as she could, now clutching the damned clipboard to her chest.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She was foolish for thinking she had even a sliver of a chance. She knew from the very start Sherlock had the opposite of romantic interest in her. It ached nevertheless.
She couldn't understand why.
The door swung open next to her, quite suddenly at that, and Sherlock blessed the entire hallway with his presence. He looked even taller when Molly was sitting, and—shit, right, Molly was on the floor. She struggled to get up the moment she saw the door move, and only barely managed to stand once Sherlock became visible.
"Oh, hello," Sherlock spoke lightly, his eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know you were here."
Bullshit, you've probably known this whole time, Molly wanted to say, but she was aware she'd not once let herself speak so crassly to Sherlock. "Hi," she said meekly. She brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
When she actually did stare at Sherlock, she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing.
He was perfect. Well, she couldn't say that out loud either. Sherlock was... composed. Nothing like his shy, reddened appearance less than a minute earlier.
She temporarily wondered if any positive emotions Sherlock's ever shown her were real. She then answered her own question by telling herself she knows they weren't.
Because she's seen Sherlock's true happiness now, and there's no way he'd be faking the thrill he feels around John. Not when they're already so close.
They glanced at each other blankly, neither of them really discussing... anything. Much less the conversation Molly not-so-accidentally overheard.
Sherlock hummed vacantly as he pulled out his phone. "Any updates?"
Molly swallowed hard. "Regarding?"
"Anything," Sherlock replied. His tone was feigning tenderness, as if he was dealing with a child. Pathetic.
His gaze met hers for a few moments, and Molly definitely short-circuited. She stuttered for a bit before getting a proper sentence out, and even that was filled to the brim with pauses. "No... not really. I... Toby and I are doing... well. Toby's... my, uh, my cat, if you... recall. We're, uh... doing just fine."
Sherlock's smile was strained; forced. Molly could tell the difference more clearly now. "I see."
Not even "I'm glad." Just "I see."
Molly wanted a hole to open beneath her feet and consume her wholly.
Not that the feeling would be foreign to her.
Sherlock was texting now. As if Molly needed any more indicators of Sherlock's rampant disinterest in her. Molly didn't have to wonder who he was talking to. It was either Lestrade popping in with a case, his landlady asking about dinner, his brother being cumbersome, or...
"I'm just here for a quick experiment, won't be long," Sherlock continued with his eyes glued to the screen, and he didn't even sound phased. Molly felt like shit for caring about this man, much less falling in love with him.
Molly glanced at the phone as he typed and her heart sank at the contents of the message; much less now that she knows who it's directed to, and what Sherlock's relationship with him really is.
I was right. She was listening in on our conversation. She also wasn't here for the indecent bits at the start, don't worry.
-SH
Molly can't remember if she started crying in front of him or not.