#sherlock: *strolls into the lab* molly...

[the-sapphiresky]

AN: I have not written a word in five years, but I felt like giving this little You've Got Mail ficlet a proper ending as best I could. Enjoy my darlings and have a lovely Autumn!

Part 1

Molly's Got Mail

"So he could be married, an geriatric pensioner, a serial killer..."

Molly cut him off with a laugh, noting his eyes flicker with interest at the last option. "He is not a serial killer, Sherlock!"

He eyed her dubiously. "I think we have established your track record with men is highly questionable and this man, if he is in fact a 'he'-"

"Would you shut up?" She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee with a smile, enjoying the warm spice that juxtaposed the cool fall breeze that wrapped around them.

Sometime over the past few months, there had been a ceasefire between her and Sherlock. She wasn't sure what exactly had caused the Consulting Detective to stop warring with her over the smallest of issues in her own lab, but she would never look that gift horse in the mouth.

And suddenly, their work together flourished and she found herself in an unlikely friendship with the very man she once swore to hate for all eternity (she may have been a little plastered when making that vow so she didn't feel guilty breaking it).

Had anyone told her when she first butted heads with the man that she would one day stroll through the park with him and bare out her relationship troubles, she would have laughed and told them to get their head examined well.

Yet here she was, sharing coffee with him, and elbowing him teasingly when he huffed at her.

"Have you even asked him if he is in a relationship?"

"Of course, Will said he is unattached."

"'Unattached' is ambiguous, he could be in a dozen other online relationships wherein he has not met the other party and so considers himself unattached."

Molly tilted her head and furrowed her brow at him. "He wouldn't do that, I know him."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Do you? He stood you up, did he not?"

"He apologized!"

"A month later," Sherlock tsked. "Doesn't speak highly of his integrity or punctuality."

The sting of that night hadn't faded as much as Molly had hoped. To be stood up was insulting enough. Then to run into your sworn enemy, at your most vulnerable emotionally, was the cherry on top.

Sherlock had immediately deduced the entire affair, from being stood up by an online suitor, her "desperation" to be loved, the overdone makeup, to the damn the lingerie that wasn't quite tucked beneath her dress strap. Humiliated, Molly had lashed out with words she still regretted. The stricken look on Sherlock's face was enough to penetrate her anger with immediate regret.

He swept from the coffee house that night and she saw not one glimpse of him for nearly six weeks.

"Sounds like someone else I know," she mumbled around another sip. The sudden rush of eye blinks as he processed what she said made her smile softly. "But he apologized and that is what counts...not when he did it."

"Indeed," he agreed. "Nevertheless, I think I should stay with you until he arrives. I will be able to tell instantly if he has lied about anything."

Molly vehemently shook her head. "Absolutely not! The only reason you know about this is because you read my emails, which I have yet to decide your punishment for."

She laughed when he looked guilty for just a moment, then immediately took on an air of indifference.

"Don't worry," she nudged him slyly. "I won't be mean, but you might be out of body parts for experiments for a couple days."

--

He swallowed hard. They were almost there, in a matter of minutes, everything would be out in the open.

Molly quickly finished her coffee. He took her empty cup and tossed it with his in a nearby bin.

"Almost time," Molly said, checking her phone. "This is where you leave."

Sherlock ignored her and took out his own phone, feeling the full force of her glare.

"Sherlock," she warned. He would never tell her, but when she growled at him and stomped her foot, she was adorable.

He felt a tug on his sleeve and pulled out her grasp.

"I will call Mycroft!"

"That wouldn't do anything for the situation," he drawled. His brother was well aware, the great big fat bloody spy, of what was occurring between Sherlock and his pathologist. In fact, he was fairly confident this entire park was being recorded and, good or bad, the outcome would be on the cloud for all eternity.

He hoped for a good outcome...it would be a lovely home video to share with their children.

Then again, a bad outcome would be blackmail material against him for a lifetime.

She was getting impatient now, he glanced at her, that furrow between her brows begging for a kiss. Though he did not think she would appreciate that at this moment.

"I let you walk with me here, with the understanding you would leave before he gets here!" She hissed.

"I never agreed to that," he couldn't help poking the bear. "I am a citizen of this nation, freely enjoying the beauty of this lovely park."

"I'd believe that if you didn't have your nose in your phone and if you didn't regularly complain about the weather, people, and parks."

She crossed her arms, fingers tapping anxiously.

He made a show of turning slowly and pointing at a nearby bench. "I shall simply wait over here to ensure you are not mauled by a serial killer or a geriatric pensioner."

As he sat, a couple walking by gave him and his wide smile a generous berth. Molly huffed and continued frowning but seemed to accept he was not going to leave entirely.

He glanced at his phone. Three minutes.

Molly was nervously wringing her hands and looking around. The park was fairly busy for late afternoon. Couples taking advantage of the cool weather and clear sky were meandering about, a few runners, some kids calling out as they chased each other around.

He admired how the sun illuminated her hair, shining red and gold amongst her usual brown tresses. Her lips were redder than normal, she'd been biting them. And though her complexion was pale, the hot coffee had warmed her up and there was a slight red blush on her cheeks.

Neither of them spoke as the minutes ticked by. For the first time in his life, Sherlock was uncertain as to the outcome of a situation. But he had one last chance and he wasn't going to screw it up. Not again.

"He's not coming again, is he?"

He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared over at her. She looked forlornly at her phone, which proclaimed fifteen minutes past the allotted meeting time. With no message.

She opened her email, her thumbs aimlessly hovering, as she tried to decide what she should say, if anything.

"Molly?"

"Don't say it, Sherlock," she turned away from him, no doubt to hide her face.

He couldn't have that.

Standing, he strode over to her and gently turned her back to him.

'Why do I keep doing this, falling for a guy who lets me down? Jim, Tom, Will, yo-" she cut herself off, flushing madly and averting her eyes. "Maybe I should take your advice, stop dating entirely and give up on a relationship."

"Molly, stop, I was wrong. That night at the cafe, I was in a terrible mood and I took it out on you," he desperately wanted to wipe the resignation from her eyes.

"But you had a point," she said. She looked down at her phone, the email thread with Will staring back at them. Under her breath, he heard her say, "I should give up."

He took her phone from her and pocketed it, grabbing something else from his coat and holding it tight. She opened her mouth, no doubt to demand he give her phone back, but he cut her off.

"If we had started off our professional relationship on a better note, if I had treated you as an equal intellect from the start...would we be more than we are now?"

She had to lick her lips to speak through a suddenly dry mouth. "What do you mean, more than we are now...more than friends?"

He nodded.

"Romantically?"

He nodded again.

"But Sherlock, you don't see me like that. If this is about what I just said, in no way was I trying to get you to -"

"You're wrong," he smiled. "I do see you like that."

She blinked. "What, romantically?"

"You're an intelligent woman, you understood my implication."

Ah, there was the frown he loved. "As a note, Holmes," she poked his chest. "Insulting a woman you suddenly claim to be romantically interested in...not a good thing."

"Noted," he quipped. "Now, back to the issue at hand. Were this online man, who has stood you up twice now, not in the picture, would you want to be with me?"

Her eyes twinkled. "Are you the only other option?"

With a pout, he rolled his eyes and sighed. "Molly Hooper..."

"Just checking, after all, this is all very sudden." Her levity faded as she looked around, though he knew the only man that fit the description of the man she was looking for was standing right in front of her. Her gaze drifted back to him and he watched the interplay of emotions run across her face. "You're a dear friend now, and I do like you, but until today, I didn't think you saw me as anything more."

But Will had told her otherwise. And it was time to reconcile him with Sherlock.

"Oh, Hooper. I've thought of you as so much more for quite some time."

He opened his hand to show the silver hair bow laying in his palm. She stared at it in shock, knowing he had to have followed her that night from the cafe after their fight and watched her yank it from her hair and throw it to the ground. And he picked it up and kept it. When she raised her eyes to his, he was startled to see tears.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, at your service."

"You?" She whispered. "Will was you, all along?"

Sherlock smiled softly. "I'm sorry I am late."

With a tearful cry, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Immediately, he hauled her close and lifted her higher in his arms. She giggled and broke the kiss, to his disgruntlement, only to rain kisses all around his face.

"You," kiss "absolute" kiss "sodding" kiss "idiot!" kiss "I will" kiss "never" kiss "forgive" kiss "you" kiss for "this!"

Before she could continue her attack of pecks and threats, he covered her mouth with his and proceeded to snog her until he was sure she had forgotten all about his duplicity.

And if she hadn't...well, he had a lifetime to try.

[caramelminx]

*the crime scene*

Sherlock: *examining the corpse*

Greg: *approaching* You got anything?

Sherlock: *tucks away his magnifying glass* Several ideas. I'll know more at Bart's.

Greg: *nods* Right *gestures at his partner* Detective Sergeant Masters, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Stuart Masters. He'll be joining me on this case.

Masters: *wide-eyed* Sherlock Holmes? *excited* The detective?

Sherlock: *sighs* I'm busy-

Masters: Are you really married to Molly Hooper?

Sherlock: ...

Sherlock: *smiles* Yes.

Masters: *ecstatic* Oh my God, I'm such a huge fan. I've read all her research papers, been to all her lectures. She's fascinating. What's she like?

Greg: *uncomfortable* Um, Stu, maybe we should-

Sherlock: *texting* We'll take a cab. I'll introduce you *heading to the cab*

Masters: *following; thrilled* Really? This is the best day of my life. I'm like her biggest fan ever.

Sherlock: *chuckles* I'm afraid that's not possible.

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

The Governess and the Doctor’s Hunt for the Copper Beeches 1/4 | Sherlock x Reader

Prompt: Eight

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Words: 1836

A/N: Just an idea that popped into my head years ago since BBC Sherlock hadn’t introduced Violet Hunter from the Copper Beeches story, so I wanted to write my own version. Also, I wanted a story with Molly more involved in a dynamic with the reader similar to Sherlock and John’s.

Edit: I’m reposting this since tumblr still hasn’t sorted itself out about the tagging system because apparently it wasn’t showing under any of the tags

-

It had been eight hours since John’s last text. He had been nervous taking up cases with Sherlock again, even with a new babysitter looking after Rosie. You didn’t mind his frequent check-ins. Rosie had been a well-behaved baby, only crying when she needed changing or needed food. Other than that, it was pretty smooth sailing.

Eight hours was too long, though, even for a case like this. Another black market trail had been found and Sherlock was asked to look into it. You brought up your concerns with Mrs. Hudson, but she dismissed it, saying that this happened a lot and they always come back.

That night, you tucked Rosie in after her dinner, read her a story, and stayed in 221B. Thankfully, after weeks of working as Rosie’s babysitter, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that it would be easier if you lived close by, preferably in the vacant apartment room in the building. Sherlock reminded her what had happened in that room a couple of years prior, but the rent was cheap, a rarity in London, so you took the offer.

They did not come back the next day. You called Lestrade, who had not heard from them as well. You even asked Mycroft and he was firstly bewildered on how you managed to obtain his private number before saying that he had not heard from his little brother since the day he spoke of the case.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Molly assured you as she adjusted the microscope.

You sat on a metal stool across from her, chin resting in the palm of your hand as you sighed. You had Mrs. Hudson watched Rosie for a while, which she had not minded at all, before you went to see the one person that Sherlock confided in the most.

“Yeah?” you muttered.

“Yeah,” she said without confidence. She cleared her throat and continued to look through the lens. “They always manage to find their way out of dangerous situations. You know how they are. Sherlock would make things complicated, John would try to organize his thoughts, then Sherlock would have an epiphany. Then they come back with the case solved, Sherlock gloats at his brother, then they return to 221B, drinking tea with biscuits given by Mrs. Hudson.”

You hummed. “Okay. I’m just worried when Rosie realizes that her dad hasn't come home yet.”

Molly leaned away from the microscope and gave you a reassuring smile. “If you want, I can come over and help a bit.”

“Aren’t you busy?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s fine. Really.”

_

It had been eight days since the boys went missing. Rosie started to cry more frequently after not seeing her dad and uncle in a week. Molly had been helping you and Mrs. Hudson whenever she could and offered to ask Lestrade if he should look into their case. You declined her offer, knowing that Lestrade would consider doing it, but you didn’t want to use their resources. Instead, you looked through John’s notes. While Sherlock occasionally commented on John writing down their cases and adventures, you knew that he enjoyed it a bit.  It helped them get more attention and cases after all.

The black market had ties with many of London’s rich art collectors and none of them were going to risk being exposed. You brought your findings to Molly, listing off your theories as she worked. You had asked once if your visits ever bothered her, but she never minded. She liked the company, since it was only her in the lab with human parts.

After almost two weeks of the boys being missing, Lestrade had spared a small team to look into it and offered any more help he could. As you were walking back to Baker Street with Rosie in a stroller, a small boy in grubby clothes bumped into you, stumbling slightly and waved over his shoulder in apology. You grimaced, then quickly checked your pockets. All of your things were still there, but… there was a folded piece of paper that wasn’t there before. You looked around before hurrying inside, making Rosie a bottle of milk before setting her down in her crib.

With a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson in front of you, you sat down on the desk that you were able to organize now that the boys were gone, and took out the note. The top edge of the paper was unevenly ripped, possibly from a notepad. The writing was in pen, the grooves deep with a few punctures through the paper at the end of some of the letters. The surface that the person was writing on was not solid, not suitable for writing. Hastily written as well, so they were rushing.

You frowned, sorting through John’s papers and dragged out one from the stack with a decent amount of his handwriting. The slant and the cross of the T were similar, as was the angle of the As. how he dotted the Is. Those small details were what made you believe that the note was most likely from John.

You took out another piece of paper and placed them side by side. The words were passages paired by numbers. Sherlock must’ve been the one telling John what to write. Luckily, he allowed you free reign of his messy book collections, so you were familiar with most of the passages or at least had an idea of which book they were from. You scanned each passage and quickly scrambled to grab the books, plonking them onto the table.

The boys were trying to tell you something and Sherlock knew that you’d be able to figure it out.

“Clever girl,” he’d say before awkwardly patting you on the head.

People outside of your circle saw your friendship with the consulting detective as odd, mainly because even after all this time, they still thought that he was odd. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes meant that you were free to express your interests in crime and mystery, in science and random bits of trivia, and were able to exchange knowledge, especially on things that Sherlock had deleted from his mind palace. You two grew close, and you’d be lying if you said that you did not harbor a crush on him. You had to lie, though. Your best friend was in love with him before and you had a feeling she still does.

After decoding the message, you found that it was an address followed by the word “Start”. You leaned back in your chair, raking your brain to figure out what that meant. After a quick google search, you found the address to be in Birmingham, almost two hours by train. You had a bad feeling that it wasn’t going to be that easy. First of all, you would need to get there, then find out where exactly they are, if they are even there. It was unlikely that the case would be solved by the time you’ve found them, so you would have to help wrap that up before taking the boys back to Baker Street. You didn’t want to be away from Rosie too long and bother Mrs. Hudson, but you don’t want to waste Lestrade’s resources. You knew Sally gets irritated when Sherlock would call for help on the simplest of things during the times where he doesn’t feel all that bothered to do it himself. Plus, what would a nanny like you know where to start…

“Start”... of course, you thought, there must be a trail of clues. Maybe something to help trace back to the boys. You couldn’t do this alone and you knew, if the person was free and willing, just the right person to call.

“Morning, dear Molly,” you said, strolling through the lab door with the papers in your hand.

Molly looked up through goggles from a dish with a brain in it. “Uh oh, sounds like you’re up to something,” she teased before going back to your work.

“When are you free?” you asked, leaning against the counter across from her.

“Well, when I’m done with this examination, I should be free for a couple of days. Why?”

You hummed. “Perfect.”

“Why?” she asked again, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing,” you said nonchalantly, placing the papers onto the counter. You folded your hands in front of you and smiled innocently at her.

Molly rolled her eyes. “You know, you’re hanging around Sherlock too much. He does that when he needs something but wants the other person to bring it up. What’s that?” She nodded over to the papers.

“A message…,” you said, “That I believe are from our boys.”

She paused her movements. “Are you sure?”

“It matches John’s handwriting and the words used could only come from Sherlock, I just know it,” you said.

“Why aren’t you going to Lestrade for this?”

You sighed. “Because… Lestrade’s busy and I don’t want to waste his time on something like this.” Molly shot you a worried look. “It’s fine. If things get serious, we can always call him. Besides, I believe that there are more than one message.”

Molly frowned. “I don’t know… I’ll see once I’m done with this,” she said.

“Okay,” you said, leaving the papers on the counter, “I’ll see you later, then. Text me first if you’re going to stop by. I’m planning to go to the shops later today.”

She nodded. “Alright, see you.”

You walked out of the lab and sighed. You would have to check this one out by yourself. No better way to prove a theory. That would also mean that you would have to leave Rosie.

“Oh, don’t worry, dearie, I’ve got it,” Mrs. Hudson said once you told her you had to take a trip. You didn’t tell her what it was for. Nothing was confirmed yet.

You packed lightly and got a train ticket to Birmingham. It had been years since you’d rode the train and you’d never done it alone before. How do you know you’re getting onto the right one? What if you’re late? You must’ve driven the station attendants mad that morning with your questions.

They kindly steered you towards the right train, notifying you when it was boarding. You stood at the platform, watching the tracks rattle as the train neared. There was momentary chaos as people boarded the train and you managed to find a seat by the window.

You busied yourself with looking up the address and the fastest route from the station to your destination. You hoped that the boys weren’t in a dire situation where time was of the essence. You didn’t have a developed mind palace like Sherlock had, you were still working on it. That would mean that with each clue, you’d have to go back and reference every book that you could think of that was in Sherlock’s messy bookshelves.

As London faded from view, you sighed, slumping back in your seat. What did the boys get into this time?

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘The Adventure of Philip Anderson’ Chapter 2: Busted

Sneaky texts, angst, a dash of romance, and...more eavesdropping??

I'm not sure if I feel super satisfied with how this chapter turned out, but I hope y'all enjoy anyways!

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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They had been avoiding each other. It had already been two weeks since Molly had last spoken to Sherlock, breaking his heart. She had taken every shift she could get to take her mind off the fact she was an emotional train wreck. For the first couple of days after what was now deemed the ‘Sherrinford Incident,’ Sherlock had texted and called her numerous times, but Molly couldn’t bring herself to answer him. As a last resort, he had even tried to visit at her flat, but instead of welcoming him inside, she remained as quiet as possible until he left. He had given up on contacting her after that.

After what felt like hours spent sorting through the stacks of paperwork in her office, Anderson rushed in. “This has gone on long enough.”

Molly’s face twisted in confusion. “What has?”

“This!” Anderson gestured to her. “You avoiding Sherlock. What happened? Why did you lie to him?”

With a heavy sigh, Molly replied, “I don’t really know. It’s rather complicated.”

“Well, then un-complicate it,” he told her. “I know, you’re probably wondering why I even care, but—“

Molly giggled. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your theory on how Sherlock survived, would it?” Anderson made a face at her. “Look, it’s sweet that you care, really. It all comes down to the fact that what I once thought would never happen is now happening, and it scares the hell out of me.” Molly took a steadying breath. “I just—I’m not ready. I thought I was and I wasn’t.” She couldn’t understand why she was confiding in, of all people, Philip Anderson.

Just then, Stamford poked his head through the doorway. “Molly, could you come take a quick look at something for me?”

She nodded, giving Anderson a sad smile as she left.

“Guess I’ll have to do it the hard way, then,” he muttered under his breath, spotting Molly’s cellphone on her desk. Taking it in his hands, he opened up to the lock screen. A four digit pin was needed to gain access. “It could be her birthday…” he mused. “No, wait…Sherlock’s birthday.” He typed in 0601 which then unlocked the device. It was time to send a message.

.

.

               “Wasn’t this originally on the mantle?” John asked, prying the knife out of the wall. He studied his friend who had remained in his chair, unmoving. “Sherlock?”

               “Hm?” he sounded. Zeroing in on the knife, he realised what John must have asked him. “Oh, it was.”

               “Right,” John replied. “And, uh, maybe I should get Mrs. Hudson to dust in here; I know she’d like to.”

               “If she’d like,” Sherlock sighed.

               This had gone on long enough. Sherlock definitely hadn’t been himself lately. It was common knowledge that Molly harbored feelings for him, so why did he believe such an obvious lie?

               “Alright, Sherlock, talk to me.” John pulled up his chair. When Sherlock didn’t answer, he attempted a different approach. “Molly does love you.”

               Sherlock gave in. “You don’t think I know that?”

               “Then why—“

               He ran his hands angrily through his curls. “John, it’s obvious she believes me unworthy of her heart. This is a woman that obviously wishes she didn’t feel anything for me.”

               “Don’t do that,” John warned him. “Do not try to disconnect yourself from Molly by referring to her as ‘this woman.’” If Sherlock was going to make any headway, he needed to get out of this state of mind. “For what it’s worth, there is no way in hell that Molly finds you unworthy.”

               Sherlock scoffed. “Yes, well, she—“ His mobile rang and he picked it up see who was bothering him now. His eyes lit up. “—She texted.”

John’s eyebrows shot up.

Sherlock, please come by the lab so we can talk. –Molly

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.

Anderson made sure to delete the text after sending it. Hopefully being in the same room wouldn’t kill them. When Molly did return to her office, she asked Anderson if he’d like to help run some tests on the current murder victim in the morgue. He agreed in hopes of seeing what would transpire when Sherlock arrived. They had only been in the lab for fifteen minutes when the detective strolled through the doors, a small paper bag in hand.

“Sherlock,” Molly exclaimed with surprise. Her eyes shifted to the bag he carried. “What’s that?”

“Cinnamon apple scones; your favourite,” he smiled. “I thought you might need some sustenance.”

Molly’s heart was in a state, beating rapidly in her chest. He seemed cheerful despite everything, which only left her wondering why he suddenly decided to see her at work where she really couldn’t run from him. “That’s…very thoughtful of you,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

Sherlock looked at her as if she was his favourite person in the whole world. And truth be told, she was. “You wanted to talk, so here I am. I am here to listen.”

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “I never—“

Anderson coughed…loudly. It almost sounded like he said “talk to him.”

Sherlock turned toward him, a look of annoyance on his face. Anderson took the cue to leave the lab, but he remained just outside the open door.

“You love me,” Sherlock stated simply.

Molly’s eyes widened. “What?” He clearly didn’t believe the lie that escaped her lips two weeks ago.

Taking her hands in his, Sherlock looked into her warm brown eyes. “I know you lied to me, Molly, but what I don’t know is why.”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t understand. If you knew I lied to you, then why did it hurt you if you knew the truth?”

He sighed. “It wasn’t what you lied about, Molly; it was the fact that you lied at all.” Sherlock released her hands. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be friends with; I know I’ve hurt you in the past, but the one thing I take pride in is that I have never lied to you.”

Molly felt tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m sorry that I lied. Sherlock, I just—I love you…but I don’t want to.“

Her words, though truthful, cut him like a dull knife. Sherlock felt he knew exactly why. “Because I’m unworthy.”

“What? No! That’s not—“ Molly tried to get a grip on the situation. “I’m scared, Sherlock. I was content loving you from afar because I never expected you to return my affections. Now that I have it within my reach, it scares the hell out of me. I trust you with my life, but I can’t trust you with my heart.”

It all made sense to him. Sherlock had to admit that he had never given her reason to trust him with something as precious as her heart. She knew he would always protect her life…but in what ways could he protect her heart? He knew nothing of romantic entanglements. It was easy to play along with Janine, but this was so much different. This was a love that ran so deep, they could drown in it. The seriousness of the situation dawned on him.

“I understand,” he spoke softly.

Molly perked up just a bit. “You do?”

Sherlock nodded. He took one of her hands in both of his, and pressed his lips softly against the back of it. Molly nearly forgot how to breathe. How could such a simple kiss to the hand wreck her like that? Then there was what he told her as he lifted his head to meet her eyes. “I hope I can gain your trust, Molly. I won’t be giving up so easily.”

Her eyes followed him as he left the room, her jaw dropping ever so slightly.

Anderson was just as shocked as she was. He had successfully cleared the hallway, nearly making a clean getaway until Sherlock’s voice halted him. “Not so fast, Philip.”

Attempting to play it cool, Anderson smiled. “Sherlock. What can I do for you?”

               “You texted me from Molly’s phone,” he stated. “Why do you feel the need to interfere in our lives?”

               Anderson paled. “Despite our differences in the past, I would actually like to see you happy for once.” He paused to consider his words. “And I’d like to see Molly happy too. Preferably, I’d like to see the both of you happy…together.”

               Sherlock looked unamused. “Well, I appreciate your…help. It did get me this far, but for the sake of what’s left of my sanity, stay out of it.” He breezed right past him, but stopped short, turning to face him once more. “And stop pushing Molly into talking to me; I don’t want her to feel obligated to do so. She needs time.” As he stalked off, he added, “I think I do too.”

[barpurplewrites]

Femur Fuss

There is something wrong with one of St Barts skeletons.

-x-x-x-

Molly didn't often come up to the lecture halls any more. The classes she supervised required were practical and needed either the lab or the morgue. She'd forgotten how different this floor smelt to the morgue. This was the floor of faint chemicals, books and a hint of student panic. The memories of her own studies here had been supplanted by the Day of the Fall. Why did Mike want to meet her up here?

She found Stamford in the main lecture hall. He was staring at the Eddy the Deady. Not that the new crop of students called the skeleton in the corner that; he was back to being Yorick again; they were a serious and sombre bunch this year, and that always worried Molly. The serious and sombre ones tended to burn-out fast.

“What's up Mike?”

He gave her a small smile, but his eyes flicked back to Eddy quickly; “Molly am I going crazy, or does Chris look different?”

“Chris?”

“Yeah, after Christopher Lee, although half my year insisted on calling him Bela. John Watson included, pfft.”

Molly grinned, the Hammer versus Universal debate always split the year group when general consensus named the skeleton for one of the classic horror greats. Personally, she liked both, which put her in a minority that confused people.

“My year called him Eddy the Deady,” - she stepped closer and frowned, something wasn't right here, - “can I?”

Mike shifted out of the way so Molly could get a better look at Eddy's right femur. Ah, so there hadn't been a mix-up putting his thigh bones back last time he'd been taken out for a jolly.

“I don't think you're going crazy, Mike. These are not Eddy's femurs. Erm, can you help me lift him down? We need to check his ID numbers.”

-o0o-

Sherlock strolled into the morgue and tilted his head at the remains laid out on a trolley.

“This is McCoy from the main lecture hall.”

Molly stretched and smothered a yawn with her hand; “It is now. Been on a bit of an adventure. Always knew you were a Star Trek fan.”

The frown on his face wasn't convincing in the slightest, and he clearly knew it because he didn't try to fib about the reason behind the name.

“What adventure did the students take him on this time?”

“Wasn't the students, for a change. Turns out the orthopaedics department has been making a stop-motion film of Eddy and their skeleton Hector. It's pretty good, but they got a few of the bones mixed up after their stars fell apart during a difficult scene.”

“They didn't think to check the serial numbers?” - all display skeletons in St Barts had each bone marked with a four digit number, it saved a lot of time when bits went missing, hard for even the slowest member of the Met not to notice and realise that this wasn't a murder case, All the staff would know about the numbers, so why the error, oh, - “Of course they didn't, because they were more than a little drunk at the time.”

Molly just laughed; “Yep, every good story involving Eddy the Deady has alcohol in there somewhere.”

Sherlock gently tapped his finger against the clean break in the skeleton's left femur. Posthumous, very posthumous; neatly repaired with a metal pin; not by a surgeon, by someone used to handling dead bones; ah...

“How much alcohol had you had when this happened?”

Molly gave the repair a sad smile; “I was stone cold sober when I made the repair, and when I threw the text book that caused the break.”

He waited, he knew that tone, this had something to do with the Fall. He didn't even try to deduce the reason Molly had been angry enough to hurl a textbook, and she must have been very angry to cause this sort of damage. Damn it, stop deducing, get an apology ready. Why? Stupid question, this is about the Fall, therefore you are the cause of whatever caused her upset.

Molly patted his hand; “It was the anniversary. I'd gone upstairs for, well, sentiment, and a Kitty Riley wannabe cornered me, asking all the usual rubbish about you and John, and your cases. I just lost it, started chucking textbooks at them until they made a run for it. The reporter tried to press charges, but Mycroft did his thing.”

“He didn't tell me.”

“Why would he? It wasn't important.”

Sherlock's throat felt thick, he tried to turn his hand under Molly's to hold her and tell her of course she was important, but she'd already moved away.

“Come on help me get Eddy back in place and then I'll show you the interesting intestines of Mr Saunders.”

A delighted smile came quickly to his face, and he moved to the foot of the trolley to kick the wheel locks off; “Is this the sort of interesting that would put your colleagues off red meat for a week?”

“Nope.”

Together they started moping the trolley, Molly pushing and steering, while Sherlock pulled.

“A parasite?”

“Nope.”

“Give me some data about Mr Saunders.”

“Nope.”

“Molly!”

Stamford watched Molly and Sherlock make their way up to the lecture hall, Chris grinned from his trolley between them, as they bickered and bantered. Mr Moholkar, head of orthopaedics, peered over his shoulder and huffed.

“When will those two realise they are married in all but name?”

Mike shook his head; “No idea. So, about this film your lot have been making...”

[mxsinistir]

Valentine’s Day (Sherlock x Gender Neutral! Reader)

Requested by sovereignoblivious

A/N) I was gonna publish this on Valentine’s Day but there was a school party and I ended up hanging out at my best friend’s house and I didn’t have my laptop so yeah. It’s here now though, so I hope you enjoy!

Request: a romantic and sensual Valentine’s Day one-shot of Sherlock x Gender Neutral! Reader (who are in an established relationship for like 3 years) where Sherlock and Reader have gone on a romantic date (Sherlock gives a bouquet of red roses given to Reader, Reader and Sherlock are dressed nicely to go to a fancy restaurant for their dinner date) and Sherlock has proposed to Reader and after they get back to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock tells Reader what I had put in my Valentine card and then they are kissing and touching each other.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Sherl!” You called out casually, strolling into the morgue with your hands stuffed into the pockets of your lab coat.

“Hmm?” Your boyfriend said, glancing up as you walked to stand next to Molly and Lestrade with a cheeky smile. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I called you to help me on a case.”

“Flowers?”

“What are you on about?”

“Candy, perhaps?”

“For some reason, Anderson gave a box of chocolate to Donavan this morning, so he has them, evidently.” He said obliviously, “Certainly Mycroft has sweets lying around; you could always ask him.”

You bit back a sigh, “You’re hopeless, babe.” You huffed, blocking out the apologetic looks that Lestrade and Molly were casting you from behind your back. You sat next to Sherlock, watching as he analyzed a sample beneath the microscope, hyper-focused on whatever his latest case entailed.

You weren't sure what you expected. In the three years that you had dated the younger Holmes brother, you had never once been praised like every other significant other on valentines day. Honestly, you felt absolutely single on February fourteenth. Part of you must have just assumed that this year would be different now that John Watson had come into Sherlock’s life.

Maybe part of you had expected some of that emotion to carry into Valentine’s day.

“I told Lestrade it was the backpacker, of course, he didn’t believe me,” Sherlock grumbled over the phone. You just rolled your eyes, murmuring some answer. On the other side of the line, Sherlock sighed. “Are you mad that I didn’t go all out or whatever for this idiotic holiday?” “It’s not just the holiday; it’s like you hardly care about me.” You tried not to sniffle. “Every day of the year,”

“Valentine’s Day is a marketing scheme,”

“It’s a day where you’re supposed to show your affection like a proper boyfriend. Or at the very least, lie about it.” You scoffed. “I’ll see you back at the flat. Molly asked me out to dinner. At least she had the decency to.” You hung up the phone, fuming, despite your better judgement.

You usually didn’t demand his attention. Usually, you were fine with supporting him from the background, even when he became focused on a case and forgot you or anybody else even existed. But for one day, he could remember that you did. Was that too much to ask.

It’s Sherlock Holmes, what do you expect? You told yourself, walking up towards the restaurant while wondering if he’d sent chocolate to Jim Moriarty. You strutted towards the front counter as you slipped through the door.

Molly had texted you earlier, apologizing for Sherlock’s behaviour and begging you to come to dinner for a girl’s night. She was single anyway, she told you. You agreed without putting up much of a fight, and she told you the name of the restaurant (packed with couples acting much happier than you) at which she had already claimed reservations.

“Reservation for Hooper?” You asked, and with some typing, the waiter pointed towards a candlelit table twelve.

And in the soft flame, you made eye contact with a tall brunet; seated and nervously texting somebody, looking around frantically until you walked in. He smiled, reaching under the table.

You had not expected Sherlock Holmes to be the kind of man to bring red roses to date, but you were over the moon.

“What, you didn’t think I’d come through for you?” He asked, handing you the bouquet as you took your seat.

“I don’t know if this is John Watson’s influence making you emotional,” You giggled, taking the flowers, “Of James Moriarty making you dramatic.”

“Both,” He decided, waving down one of the waitresses for wine and an order of fish. You asked for [Favourite Food].

“This place has got to be expensive,” You said quietly, still awestruck as you observed the facility, “Did you prove the innocence of the owner or something? That’s usually how you get discounts at all the other places you take me to eat-“

“No, but it’s not my problem. It’s all going on Mycroft’s card.” He said with disinterest, “I couldn’t give you much this morning because I needed to go to to the parliament building to run into him. He’s always been easy to pickpocket.”

“Nope, you’ve been at morgue all morning.” You called him out with a grin, “Try again,”

“Well, since my attempt to impress you has failed,” The younger Holmes sighed, “Anthea originally got the reservation for her and Mycroft - it’s never hard for her to pull strings, she can get in anywhere. Anyway, there was trouble with the NATO board, and so he’s busy. I asked for the favour, and then used one of Mycroft’s credit cards that I stole a while ago. He has so many that I doubt he even knows it’s missing.”

You laughed fully, making a mental note to thank Mycroft’s assistant later. You and Sherlock continued to make conversation through the evening until your stomachs and hearts will full.

After receiving the check and offering a generous tip to attack Mycroft’s credit celebrate Valentine’s Day, you walked back to 221b, hand in hand.

You ran your thumb over his calloused fingers with a ghost of a smile, looking up at him every now and then to see that he was already looking at you with though sparkling blue eyes and an adorable smile that you wished you saw more.

“Your eyes are dilated,” He noticed. Classic, romantic, Sherlock; you thought as his fingers left the embrace of yours, moving up to your wrist. “Would you like me to take your pulse, too, Valentine?” You giggled.

“Do you think Irene’s expecting candy from you?” “Well, I only do gestures for my favourite person.” He smiled, pecking you on the lips to get a soft giggle from you as you both kept walking.

“You know, John is out with his girlfriend, and Mrs. Hudson has gone out for the weekend,” Sherlock informed you as he closed the door to the flat,

“Good for them,” You said, walking over the kitchen counter to fill a vase of water for your new roses. You turned around to find your consulting detective right behind you, his arms snaking around your waist.

“I’m implying that we have the flat to ourselves,”

“Does it really take a genius to find that out?”  You said with a smirk, pushing up onto your toes and running your hands through his hair as your lips collided, bruising the calloused skin.

“You really are such a romantic, Sherlock Holmes,” You said, pulling away just for air as your arms lazily fell around his shoulders. Without any warning but a mischievous smile, he darted to hook his arms underneath your thighs, never stopping to look anywhere but your bright, smiling eyes.

“Well,” He remarked, “I try,”

[ithinkthereforiamfandom]

The 29th of January

(@kitten-kin Thank you for Your help, I hope this lives up to it. 2K)

It was the 29th of January and a Tuesday, John Hated Tuesdays. There was a camaraderie to Miserable Mondays, Wednesday was the midpoint, the point of no return on route to the weekend, Thursday had the weekend within sight and none of Friday’s get-me-out-of-here anxiety, who didn’t like Fridays! Tuesday’s only saving grace was that it wasn’t Monday. John’s mind rambled horribly since he'd got back so he took it for regular walks letting the monotony of his new step, step-thump, step, step-thump cadence calm his mind. Two more days... Thursday, he’d always liked a Thursday and he could start an early weekend as a dead man.

Day 29, he would be getting a pointless 30day chip tomorrow at his NA meeting which he would have to attend or Mycroft would cut him off again and Mummy would be notified. He had confirmed his attendance with his brother, so much for anonymous, and was headed to Bart’s where Molly had some tests he was permitted to assist with. The set up would be long and tedious but he would swing past the morgue before he hit the lab and run his posthumous hematoma experiment first.

John was almost out of the park, he’d done two laps today hoping it would help but now he just wanted to be home. “John" He heard a voice say his name but it was a common enough name. “John Watson” Definitely calling him now so he halted and turned to see a man approaching. Civilian, out of shape, familiar. “Mike, Mike Stamford" Yes, Mike from “We were at Bart's together" Mike from Bart's, he should be happy to see Mike from Bart’s but he just couldn’t be. The conversation drizzled onto coffee and he zoned out for a while remembering when he had a future in medicine, when he had a future but then Mike brought him back from his growled responses with “You’re the second person to say that to me today”... Was there someone else in London like him?

Sherlock was on fire, definitely having an up day as he ran the last of slides under the microscope and definitely green pigment, Molly would bring him coffee shortly and he had just cracked that cold case though the morgue results would be needed to confirm. He grabbed a pipette as the door opened because people were less inclined to question his presence when he was busy but it was just Mike who strolled in with some dull friend of his from the good old days. Mike might have a phone though so he can text Lestrade and avoid going all the way to the Yard.

John had an unobtrusive look around as someone was busy in the lab while Mike gave him a tour. It all looked so different now and he would have had to catch up on so many new things, field medicine was archaic but there was comfort in its simplicity. This was the other him apparently and John didn’t look twice until the man spoke and asked Mike for his phone. The voice was deep and cultured but long lines in a tailored suit impressed him as he handed over his phone. Mike really thought this man would share a flat with him.

Sherlock was caught off guard when the man, John, offered his mobile. Sherlock observed this new person and information flooded his mind as he took the phone. Stance, Tan, Grooming, Stick but standing. He gave the device in his hands a quick once over. Clearly the invalided war hero disagreed with his addict brother, but this might work well as John would motivate his sobriety and a doctor could be handy though the flatness in his eyes... He would need to keep John alive if he was going to help Sherlock with the work. Just had to confirm his deductions first, then get moved in! Mrs Hudson couldn’t complain about a doctor And an army veteran as his flatmate! John was perfect.

He was a nightmare, what was Mike thinking... John had been floored by Sherlock’s deductions and stood stumped as Sherlock whirled out the lab in a flurry of information, riding crops, and finally an address... did he just wink?! Shifting his weight John followed Mike out again and headed home; to his dull bedsit, his breakfast apple for dinner, his laptop, and his gun. He looked around the boring beige walls and realised he was smiling, Sherlock was not dull. A bit not good as his mum would say but definitely not dull. John decided he would grab this coincidental lifeline, Baker street, tomorrow. If it all went horribly he could always change his mind.

The damn chip weighed a ton in his pocket, John didn’t know he was in NA and he had no idea how he would react. The taxi pulled up just in time and Mrs Hudson was there to greet them, the woman was a saint and John seemed pleased with everything except, A Mess, yes by military standards the place was a mess and if he wanted a military man to cohabitate he would have to adjust. John settled into the wingback with his back to the entrances... He was either already very comfortable here or his self-preservation and combat instincts were history. A case came up so John would have time to get himself settled. Then again the limp, John didn't run anymore so maybe that’s what he needed, for his body to override his mind and that would be one less thing plaguing him.

Trouble, John could do trouble. He thought that the bullet had taken that away and while it might not be the army or a foreign country trouble at home was the same so he raced through dark side streets after an insane man to catch a murderer. After his very polite rebuff and his walking stick in storage the days blurred at Sherlock’s side until it was almost all over, Again. John had witnessed men die, as their medic and their captain he had held it as his duty to stay with his men if they were dying but his gun was in his hand before he knew it. He would not loose another man, not tonight and not Sherlock who had saved him; cured him, given him purpose, and his life back! He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and squeezed on the exhale.

Sherlock sat on the tail of the ambulance and ignored his shaking hands, the bullet must have passed within inches from him but Lestrade still wanted answers. He explained who the shooter was and scanned the darkness for suspects until his eyes found John standing at ease between two cars and everything lit up in his mind. He could see John, the military crack shot who had put a bullet passed his shoulder and into a man’s heart without a twitch... or Sherlock himself would be injured or dead. John, who he had to protect now so he brushed Lestrade off and breezed past his brother before they made their escape, his extraordinary John.

*12 months later*

The damn bloodhound was only good at finding the trouble John growled to himself as he stitched, he'd managed to catch most of the trouble himself but Sherlock still had a concussion and now John was a Veterinarian as he stitched up a thin slice in the dog's side. He still remembers the day Sherlock brought him home. “Calcutta. Wait, you liked The Perishers so you’re naming your tracker after a dog with no sense of smell.” They had both laughing and the dog seemed to join in but now the dog just whined slightly as John stitched up shaved skin. “Poor beast, we'll have you back to himself soon, almost done boy" The dog was enormously loyal to Sherlock and John was grateful but he had eight stitches himself and didn’t want to consider what may have happened had he not been there.

*6 months later*

Sherlock came come from a week in Belarus where an idiot had killed his girlfriend and would shortly be hanged, never to pass on his unfortunate genetics. He found two sleeping veterans in his lounge as John lay on the couch and a gorgeous German Shepard lay on the floor beside him. He set about making tea loudly enough to wake John, as he filled the kettle he remembered the discussion of a few months ago. “I can take care of myself and what if he bullies Calcutta?!” Sherlock hadn’t liked the idea of some aggressive beast harrying his faithful hound. “He will not bully Calcutta, they are all team players and Pax was attached to my unit for a while. You need protection Sherlock, someone there when I can’t be" Captain Watson had been very firm about it and Pax, silly name for war dog, was clearly settled in. Calcutta watched him from the lounge but Pax now stood in the door way actively observing the way John did all the time too. “I see I have another Veteran in the house now” Sherlock quipped to John as Pax's tail brushed his legs, his escort saw him safely to the couch then curled at John’s feet while John yawned and scrubbed his face. “I’ve trained him to your scent my LovelyLove if I’m not around he’ll stick to you like glue.

*On the next 29th of January”

“I thought Pax was retired” Sherlock was brushing distinctive guard hairs off his beloved Belstaff for the thousandth time. “Pax has retired Sherlock, into your employ just like me" John kissed his sulking sweetie. “My employees never listen to me!” Sherlock had taken to carrying a clothes brush in his coat and had been frustrated but very impressed when John had barked a command and Pax had bolted Sherlock’s side and taken their assailant to the ground in seconds. John had explained that Pax knew Sherlock was to be protected but the orders came from John. When the doorbell rang Sherlock started up from absentmindly scratching Pax's scarred ears. “That'll be Brom" John smirked, he would never buy Sherlock’s claim that his “badger hound" could investigate small spaces for them. “Dushunds are very cute Love!” John called after rapid footsteps. “Anton Chekhov would agree with you" Sherlock quipped back “But Brom will work just as hard and Pax or Callie" The dushund snoozed in Sherlock’s arms and John had to smile at the smitten look on Sherlock’s face, working or not Brom was clearly home to stay.

*6 months later*

John and Sherlock sat in the lounge with their small pack, Mrs Hudson had come up for tea and her enormous black poodle had stayed with the mob all piled together before the fire. “Sherlock” John sounded stunned and Sherlock's eyes snapped to his. “The Queen has a pregnant Corgi and we’ve been offered a pup from the litter” Sherlock rose to study the message. “John, can we? A Pembroke Welsh Corgi is much more interesting than a Knighthood!” John looked into sparking eyes. “I didn’t think we could refuse and I would never refuse you Love. We'll send our acceptance and our thanks, the litter is due in a few months, quite an honour I’m sure"

*The next 29th of January *

The corgi was an adorable creature which they had almost lost to Mrs Hudson on first sight. The little one slept on Calcutta most evenings and Royal gifts come with health plans so they need never worry about medical expenses for the pup, Rose, so named for her reddish patches was quickly a feature on everyone’s laps and when they took the pack for a walk though the park in the evenings she rode in Sherlock’s pocket until she couldn’t fit anymore. They made a sight, John felt, the mix match of dogs only emphasised the mismatch of himself and Sherlock but his family was perfect, all four legs and fur.

[thorne93]

Curious Conundrum (Part 5 - Repost)

Prompt: You’re John Watson’s sister. One day you decide to visit your brother for lunch, only to meet the infamous Mr. Holmes…

Word Count: 1094

Warnings: language, flirtation, sexual innuendos (maybe? idfk), murder/crime/case related stuff, angst, jealousy…

Notes: Another repost - keep reading isnt/wasn’t working

Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong Not only did she beta, but I literally couldn’t have written half these scenes without her help. She contributed majorly, even wrote some parts of scenes. I am forever in her debt.

Also, this starts AFTER Season 2, episode 1. I don’t follow all the episodes, but it does follow the timeline and hit some major events : )

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days had passed, which meant three puzzles, which meant three nights with just you and Sherlock. The puzzles got harder each time, the second being a Caesar cipher, and only harder after that. It wasn’t just the puzzles that excited you though. It as the quality of time spent with your new friend.  But now, the real world had gotten in the way of your fun. Or rather, it was a different kind of fun.

A case had arrived for Sherlock and John, and of course, Sherlock asked for your eyes to be fresh on the scene with him. The three of you strolled up to the crime scene. All of you examined different things on the body, the clothing, the positioning, the possible cause of death, any key indicators who could’ve done this poor soul in. Story was, he got in cab twenty minutes away, asked to be dropped off at this abandoned warehouse parking lot, and no one had seen or heard from him in over a day’s time.

Problem was, there were no real clues on this man, at least not to your eyes. Sure, his clothing, his hair, his stature, it told all about him. But the events in what lead up to his death were still a mystery to you.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked when he wandered up, nodding to you briefly.

“Six theories so far,” Sherlock mused. He went on to decode every tiny detail that you knew about the dead man, all of them lending themselves to a theory of his. Finally, he came down to two possible solutions, to which Lestrade sent his team off to go investigate. The entire time, though, you couldn’t help but feel…aroused. Every time Sherlock exercised his brain power around you, it reinforced those schoolgirl-like feelings for him.

“We’ll need to take his saliva to Molly, of course, for me to test theory number two,” Sherlock stated to Lestrade, who conceded.

“My god, this is fun, isn’t it?” you asked, trying to hide your thrill.

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, just wait until we get to mass murders.”

“For God’s sakes, you two. A man is dead,” John chastised angrily.

“And us not talking about him will bring him back?” you questioned with narrowed eyes at your brother.

This statement seemed to make Sherlock grin widely, something you wanted to make happen more, and often.

The three of you gathered the physical evidence you needed and went over to St. Bart’s hospital. John had mentioned the place a lot, even a few people who worked here, just as he had for his residency when he became a doctor. You hadn’t been here in ages though it seemed.

“Molly, I need you to run a test on this,” Sherlock requested as soon as he got in the lab with you in tow. He didn’t even bother saying hello to this girl.

“Right. Uh, what test?” she asked as she took the little bottle with the cotton swab.

Sherlock began listing them and she nodded.

“And uh, who’s this?” she questioned, almost as if she were nervous.

You smiled and extended your hand. “Sorry, I’m Y/N, John’s sister. I’m just…observing this case,” you informed.

“Nonsense, you’re assisting,” Sherlock insisted with a smile that Molly seemed to notice.

She stared at the two of you smiling at each other for a long time before Sherlock turned his attention back to her and said, “Molly? The tests?”

“Oh, right.”

With that, she turned and began her work, while Sherlock began tinkering with the other chemicals in the lab.

“What are you doing now?” you asked as you stood next to him, so close that his body heat was radiating off of him.

“I pulled some of the dirt from under his nails,” he informed slowly as he worked. “I’m going to see what was under them.”

“Oh, what are we testing for?” you asked excitedly.

“Glad you asked, John never seems to care,” he noted with a look towards your brother.

“That’s because you’re going to tell me anyway, you show off,” John retorted.

A small giggle came from you as Sherlock echoed the action, much softer. “There, see how the chloride reacted?”

“It fizzed,” you said. “But what does that mean?”

As Sherlock went on to tell you, Molly ran all of her tests. Meanwhile, you and Sherlock were laughing, smiling, and joking about grim humor, as you always did. Finally, when Molly’s tests were done, she showed the three of you the results. This left Sherlock to conclude his deductions and he began working things out in his head trying to piece things together. He realized he needed to run a couple more tests.

Just as he started to run the test though, Molly suddenly blurted out, “Why her?”

The three of you were taken aback by her sudden question and you turned to face her.

“What…what makes her so special?” Molly asked, a sort of…desperate plea in her tone.

Sherlock frowned though, he wasn’t sure what she meant.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, lost at what she was saying.

“You chose her…over me…why?” Molly demanded. Your cheeks began to blaze as you realized she’d caught on to the chemistry between you and Sherlock. She even decided to bring it to light … in front of your older brother.

Again though, Sherlock simply frowned. “On this case? I chose her help because she’s insightful, brilliant, quick, and helpful. She doesn’t prattle on unnecessarily. She doesn’t talk to me when I’m trying to focus. She isn’t as transparent as you in many ways.”

The room filled with an uncomfortable tension as Molly stared at you, a look of disbelief and hurt in her eyes, and shame and guilt in yours. It wasn’t your intention to embarrass this girl, you had no idea she had feelings for Sherlock. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have flirted with him right in front of her.

“Right…I see. I’ll just be going out then,” she said before she quickly walked over to the door.

“I’m sorry, what was all that about?” John questioned as he looked at you two. Sherlock went back to his work while you cleared your throat.

“I think she meant, why am I, an amateur on this case,” you lied, trying to cover up what she had just nearly exposed.

John’s eyebrows shot up in agreement as he nodded. “Ah, yeah.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you hoped that bullet had been dodged… at least for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[ukthxbye]

Matching set

The lab at St. Bart’s was empty and quiet much to Molly’s benefit. Molly Hooper was tardy because of oversleeping and she didn’t need any lab techs to trip over while trying to play catch up. She only had time to throw her hair in a messy ponytail and didn’t even glance in a mirror before running out of her flat.

She had just finished up one minor note on a process when John Watson came ambling in. She looked up at him,  sighed, but then smiled, knowing someone else wasn’t going to be far behind.

John matched her smile, “Morning Molly. Sherlock will be around soon, made a stop at the morgue.

“Morning. You don’t mind if I don’t engage in small talk, I was a bit late this morning and I am behind,” she asked absently.

“Sure thing. Work away,” John said assuredly.

As Molly turned her head back to the laptop, John saw a large mark like a bruise on her neck near the back, behind her ear a bit. He went into Doctor mode without really thinking and moved quickly to her side.

Molly, physically taken aback at John rushing to her side, looks directly at him like he has lost his mind.

“Molly! What happened to you? May I look at it?”

As he said that Molly turned her head forward, and her cheeks went scarlett.

Her mind flashed back to the night before and she wished had checked the mirror before running out the door. She could have worn her hair down. She gave a sheepish grin as he approached her.

Once John was close to her he realizes what he is looking at on her neck. Fortuitously, Sherlock Holmes strolled into the lab.

“John I think we need to go to victim’s flat, and YES I am messaging George about access, See? I can learn,” he said looking at his mobile, and then up with smile at John and Molly.

John shot him an exasperated look and Sherlock’s face fell.  Sherlock glanced at Molly sitting there, all red cheeked. Sherlock then spied his handiwork on her neck.

He shifted past John and to the other side of Molly.

“Sorry I made you late. Well, mostly,” with a devilish grin as he leans down to kiss one of her blushed cheeks.

John pulled a deep breath through his nose, “Sherlock, love bites, really? You two aren’t teenagers.”

Molly watched between John and Sherlock, still not able to speak.

“John, really. Sometimes I do feel pity for Mary,” he answered with a smirk and continues.”But you are right, we are adults.”

John gave a suspicious look.

Sherlock turned his attention to Molly, and placed a hand on her hip. He caught her glancing at him and held her gaze.

“Adults always leave a matching set,” he said with conviction, leaned down quickly, and latched his lips and teeth gently on Molly’s neck, opposite of his previous work. This caused an immediate whimper from her and cursing from John as he runs out the lab door fast as he could.

[the-sapphiresky]

She didn't know she had a thing for silver foxes.

Oh, Greg was dishy, but in that best friend, teasing kind of way. She had never quite thought of him romantically.

She had always been attracted to tall, dark, and brooding. That was just her type.

Until the day Sherlock strolled in to her lab and she realised her type was simply Sherlock.

He had been gone on a case for several weeks and apparently either had ten years of his life scared off of him or he regularly dyed his hair and it had simply grown out (she filed that away for later to tell John).

She favoured the latter. It was the only logical explanation why his dark curls were now embellished with the most stunning silver. Streaks of silvery-white on the sides of his head shimmered in the poor light of the lab.

Molly's knees went weak, and not just their usual melt-at-the-sight-of-him, but honest to goodness, I-need-to-sit-down.

He rounded the counter and leaned down to kiss her hello. She couldn't help it, her hands went right to his curls and she turned his brief peck into an all-out snog, letting him hold her up when her legs gave in.

He finally broke the kiss, if just to breathe, and stared down at her in wonder.

"Had I known this would be the reaction, I would have stopped dying my hair years ago."

She smiled and twirled his curls around her fingers, tugging her silver fox back down for another toe-curling kiss.

[toyboy-molloy]

*the lab*

Molly: *working*

Sherlock: *strolls in* Ah, Molly, I need-

Molly: *looks up; wearing her glasses*

Sherlock: *blinking* -ah, I need, um...the, the thingie... *shakes his head* I need...it, the-

Molly: *confused* Mrs. Stephens' results?

Sherlock: *nods* Yes.

Molly: *hands him the papers*

Sherlock: *clears his throat* Thank you *reading the file; glancing at her occasionally*

Molly: *leans forward; smiling* Well? Were you right? *pushes up her glasses*

Sherlock: *swallows* God, yes.

Molly: ...

Sherlock: *nods* Err, yes. Mr. Baxter was definitely poisoned.

Molly: *frowns* Mrs. Stephens.

Sherlock: Yes *pauses* I have to go *runs away*

Molly: *blinks* Okay. Bye, then *sighs*

-a few minutes later-

Sherlock: *outside the door; mumbling*

Molly: *puzzled* Sorry?

Sherlock: *opens the door a crack* Would you have dinner with me tonight?

Molly: *stunned* Oh, well...yes, that would be lovely.

Sherlock: Good *pauses* Molly?

Molly: Yeah?

Sherlock: Could you leave the glasses? I'd rather like to talk to you tonight.

Molly: *blushes* Y-yeah, I will.

Sherlock: Right, thank you. I'll text you *leaves*

Molly: *smiles*

[writingwife-83]

Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Day 3- First Kiss

Thanks for the feedback a couple months ago! Seemed that a number of you liked the idea of me covering this day’s theme, so I went for it. Hope you enjoy it! ;)

First Things First

Sherlock shoved the lift button aggressively.

“Alright, relax,” John counseled. “The button didn’t pull Molly into an unexpected meeting.”

“It could have worked today, John! I could have done it!” Sherlock complained as the doors finally opened and they got in the lift. “It’s been almost three weeks now and I can’t understand why this is so difficult!”

“Maybe you’re making a bit more of this than you need to.” After receiving a glare, John put his hands up defensively and clarified. “No no, look, I’m not saying that asking Molly out isn’t a big deal. I’m just saying that maybe you need to put a bit less pressure on yourself to do it perfectly.”

“But I have a speech, John!”

“Right, yeah, I know.” John did his best not to laugh aloud. “But I think that you could possibly save a bit of the speech for another time. The actual invitation can be pretty concise.”

“There are things that need to be said, things she needs to know,” Sherlock insisted.

“Mate, I’m pretty sure the important bits were said in that phone call.” He laughed and shook his head. “You’ve got plenty of time to say lots of other things. Maybe on that date, if you’d just get her there!”

“Yes, but isn’t a question like this supposed to be…” He gestured inarticulately. “Special or something? I can’t very well just walk up to her and say, ‘Molly, will you have dinner with me?’”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Dinner?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, do grow up, Watson.”

John smirked in response. “Look, the rest of the world really does just come out and ask, but leave it to you to assume the norm isn’t good enough.”

“Yes, but that’s just it. Molly and I are not the norm, John! How many people confess their love over a phone call that was rigged by their brilliant psychopath of a sister simply for the purpose of playing a mind game? And now we’ve barely spoken of it in the weeks following!” Sherlock let out a little growl as they left the hospital. “I shouldn’t have let it go this long!”

“Yeah I have to agree with you there. Which is why you need to just come out with it, one way or another, and stop letting time fly by.”

“Right, fine,” Sherlock agreed with a sigh. “Maybe I’ll go back and edit what I’m going to say again. I might be able to shave off a few minutes.”

“Wow, a whole few minutes, eh?” John’s sarcasm was lost by Sherlock as he hailed a cab.

Ten minutes later he heard a ping on his mobile and saw a text. Not too surprisingly, it was Molly.

HI, JOHN. LOOK, I HATE TO PUT YOU IN THE AWKWARD MIDDLE HERE, BUT PLEASE JUST TELL ME…IS HE GOING TO DO IT SOON?? -MH

John had to pretend to look out the cab window for fear of revealing his barely contained laughter while answering the understandably impatient pathologist.

HE’S MAKING PROGRESS, SLOWLY BUT SURELY. DOING MY BEST TO SPEED THINGS ALONG! -JW

HOPING HE SPEAKS UP BEFORE I COMPLETELY SNAP…THANKS, JOHN. ;) -MH

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked while looking intently at his phone screen. “Should I include the simile that compares the comfort of her flat to an oasis in a waterless region?”

John pressed his lips together for a moment before whispering to himself, “Yep, she’s gonna snap.”

Sherlock smiled to himself as Molly came back into the lab with the results he was looking for. He was sure he’d be able to manage a few minutes alone with her today. John was ready and waiting to take a walk on his signal, and there was only one other employee there at the moment and they were working on the other side of the room.

“Here you go,” Molly said with a sweet smile as she handed the papers to Sherlock.

“Thank you.” He made sure to graze her hand with his while taking them.

John conspicuously cleared his throat nearby.

This was probably a good moment, and Sherlock was seconds from telling John that “their work was nearly done for the day.” That was the previously agreed upon signal. Unfortunately, that was when Mike Stamford popped his head in.

“Oh, well hello there! Gosh, it’s been an age, hasn’t it?”

“Hey, Mike, how are you?” John asked warmly, though Sherlock caught the nervous glance from his friend who was very well aware that a wrench had just been thrown in the works.

“Good! And how are you? Been meaning to phone you since…everything.” His clapped a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t think I’ve seen you since the funeral.”

“Well, y’know, things got a bit…mad for a while there. But it’s, um, not too bad now. You should see Rosie, she’s getting pretty big. Actually I’ve got some pictures on my phone-”

“John,” Sherlock interjected, using his friend’s name as a means of pleading for help as he observed the way that Molly stood by nervously chewing her lip.

John got the hint. “Right, um, actually I was just about to take a walk. Maybe if you’re going that way you could come along and I’ll show you the pictures.”

“Sure, in just a minute. I was actually coming to discuss something with Molly, so when I’m done here we could take a walk and catch up,” he said with a friendly smile while walking past him to where Molly stood.

John gave Sherlock an apologetic “I tried” look.

It took a full fifteen minutes for Mike to finish his lengthy discussion with Molly about having her join in one of his class demonstrations. She seemed to be doing her best to speed the conversation along, agreeing to every idea and confirming her availability instantly. In fact, Sherlock was becoming more and more convinced that she might have some clue as to the fact that he was trying to manage a few minutes alone.

Finally, Mike began to slowly take his leave. “Glad to see you as well, Sherlock!”

“Mm, yes, you too,” Sherlock fired back with a quick smile, hoping not to spark any more conversation with the man.

“So why don’t we take that walk now. I’d really like a cuppa at the canteen right about now,” John said, following Mike to the door.

Sherlock glanced over slowly and he caught Molly’s eyes as the two men were moments from taking their leave. Their hope was rather quickly crushed though. The lab door swung open and Greg Lestrade came strolling in.

“Hey, Sherlock, I thought I might find you here!”

Sherlock was sure he heard a little huff come out of Molly’s mouth as she set a dish down rather forcefully.

“Greg, hello…bit busy at the moment.”

“Oh this won’t take long,” he said casually, walking over and taking a file out of his jacket. “Good you’re all here. I can tell you about the new case! Double homicide, looks like. I’m having the bodies brought here now.”

“Actually, Greg,” John attempted to jump in, still standing near the door with Mike. “Mike and I were just about to get some coffee. Want to come along and then we can all go over the case then?”

“Well we’re all here now, aren’t we?” Greg laughed while opening the file. “So these are some of the photos from the crime scene. And the two bodies…”

Sherlock clenched his teeth and gripped the edge of the table firmly as he half listened to what seemed like at most a level five case. Perhaps he could deal with this quickly. Get briefed about the case, send Greg away happy with John and Mike, and then finally be able to-

“My God, I can’t take it anymore!” Molly suddenly yelled, making all eyes snap to her. She turned to Greg who was staring at her wide eyed. “Are these people going to be any more dead than they already are if we go over these details after they’ve been brought in?”

Greg stammered a moment. “I, uh, well…no.”

“Right, good,” Molly stated as she reached over and closed his file and handed it back to him. “So you can meet us down in the morgue in a half hour once those poor people have arrived. And for now you can take a little stroll with John and Mike and enjoy hearing the latest about little Rosie while you all get coffee. And nobody is to come back here looking for Sherlock and I because we need a few minutes alone so he can bloody ask me out!”

None of the men in the room could manage to pick their jaws up off the ground. The lab tech across the room actually raised his hand nervously.

“Yes, what?” Molly snapped at him.

“Sh-should I go too then?”

“Yes, please! Everybody out!”

John came to his senses first and assisted in herding the rest of them out the door. He lastly gave Sherlock a wide eyed and amused smile before stepping out and closing the door behind them. Sherlock cleared his throat before finally turning to Molly again and she smiled with an accompanying blush.

“Sorry, I just…thought I’d help a bit.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips ticked up a bit and he realized that this was his chance now. Here they were, alone at last, and he could finally say what he so desperately needed to. In fact, she was waiting for it now. He cleared his throat again.

“Molly…er, there’s quite a bit that I’d like to…say.”

She gazed up at him with eager eyes, giving him a little nod of encouragement.

“I’ve given this significant thought, you see,” he went on, anxiety mounting as he slowly came to the realization that everything he’d given a lot of thought to was suddenly in a big fat jumble in his brain. “And I want to make sure to express things…just right.”

“Ok,” she breathed out, stepping a bit closer.

“Right, so, the general idea…” Good God, her eyes were distracting. “Or rather, the key points would be…um…” Say something, say something!

But he wasn’t given the opportunity to make a further attempt. Molly grasped the lapels of his jacket to give him a bit of a downward tug, and then caught his lips with hers.

The initial jolt of the unexpected kiss made him startle, but Molly didn’t back down. She anchored her arms around the back of his neck and slid her fingers into his hair while easily coaxing his lips apart. He sunk into their kiss after that, feeling a warm rush flood through him as his arms instinctively began to participate, encircling her and holding her tight.

By the time she slowly pulled back and looked into his eyes, he felt like a pile of mush and could barely remember what it was that he was about to say a few moments ago. He could only really manage to make a few simple words to tumble from his tingling lips.

“Have dinner with me, Molly,” he murmured breathlessly.

Molly’s pink lips spread in a grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He had a moment of added mental clarity and spoke again. “Th-there really is quite a bit more to say though. Lots that I’d like to explain and-”

“Mm, me too. But why don’t we save that for now? We can spend lots of time talking at dinner, maybe tonight?” She curled her fingers tighter in his hair and lifted herself up a bit on her toes. “Let’s just do this first…”

[ebaeschnbliah]

SAVING  JOHN  WATSON

________________________________________________________________

ONCE AGAIN PLAYING WITH MIRRORS ON THE BASIS OF SYMBOLISM

GOING TO DINNER TO CATCH A KILLER

PILOT: Sherlock already knows 'what' the killer is. A cabbie.

SHERLOCK: There are cars that pass like ghosts, unseen, unremembered. There are people we trust, always, when we’re alone, when we’re lost, when we’re drunk. We never see their faces, but every day we disappear into their cars and let the trap close around us.

And when a black cab pulls up at the other side of the steet Sherlock knows exactly what's going on.

SHERLOCK: I give you the perfect murder weapon of the modern age, the invisible car. The London cab.

Sherlock reacts immediately. With a little help of Angelo (code word 'headless nun') he acts like a drunk and approaches the taxi. The plan goes wrong though. Serial killer Jeff Hope is able to drug Sherlock. After bundling the half conscious man into his cab, where he quickly passes out, Hope drives away. John notices that something isn't right and starts running after the cab .... without his cane.

__________________________________________________

ASIP: Sherlock hasn't the 'faintest idea' who would be hunting in the middle of a crowd.

A black cab parks at the side of the road across Angelo's which raises Sherock's suspicion.

SHERLOCK: Look across the street. Taxi. SHERLOCK: Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. SHERLOCK: Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever

On the off chance that the serial killer could be inside the cab Sherlock and John (without his cane) chase the taxi through the streets of London . Sherlock is right and wrong at the same time. He suspects the passenger to be the murderer when in fact - as it turns out a little later -  it is the cabbie. Sherlock and John return to 221b without having achieved what they set out for. After a while the cabbie arrives here as well and lures Sherlock into his car with the promise to explain how he was able to talk people into suicide.

________________________________________________________________

THE MAIN-DIFFERENCES BETWEEN THESE SCENES:

PILOT:  It is Sherlock who phones and approaches Jeff Hope

Sherlock knows already the cabbie is the murderer. John and Angelo are in on the plan and observe from afar. Sherlock gets druged, abducted and is then completely helpless at the mercy of the serial  killer. John chases the taxi on foot back to Baker Street (a five minute walk between 221b and Angelo's) 

________________________________________________________________

ASIP:  It is Jeff Hope who phones and approaches Sherlock

Sherlock follows him willingly and with full knowledge that this is the murderer. Sherlock doesn't tell anyone about it. He gets never druged in this version. John is able to trace Sherlock to Roland-Kerr Further Education College because the serial killer neglected to get rid of the treacherous pink phone.

__________________________________________________

HOW DOES THIS STORY START ?

John Watson the soldier, the doctor, comes invalided back from the war - unable to work in his job anymore. He doesn't get on with his sister Harry. Because John can't afford London on his army pension he is looking for a flatshare. His therapist tells John that writing down in a blog everything that happens to him would be very helpful. Problem is ... nothing happens to him.  And John keeps a gun in his nightstand.

THINGS THAT HAPPEN BOTH IN THE PILOT & ASIP

John (with his cane) meets Sherlock at 221b.

Sherlock reacts enthusiastically when he finally gets summoned by DI Lestrade on the case of the serial suicide murders. 'Oh, it's Christmas!' Sherlock exclaims and full of excitement he rushes out of the door.

A frustrated John stays behind who damns his bad leg, his disability, for being the reason he has lost a life full of action, adventure and meaning.

Unexpectedly Sherlock comes back to invite John on the case.

After having investigated the crime scene Sherlock rushes off again, leaving John behind a second time.

Unexpectedly Sherlock calls John back to Baker Street to discuss the case. Then he invites him on the hunt for the serial killer and ... to dinner.

AND WHAT HAPPENS AT THE BEGINNING OF TLD

Faith Smith (with a cane) comes to Baker Street seeking the help of Sherlock Holmes.

It's about murder. Later it turns out that a serial killer is involved.

Sherlock notices certain things about Faith. Her isolation, her limited funds, that she left her job.

But he isn't interested in her case and sends her away.

Unexpectedly Sherlock calls her back because suddenly he realizes somthing very important:  Faith is on the verge of killing herself.

Sherlock invites her to dinner and takes her case.

In these scenes Faith Smith serves as a mirror for John Watson. For one second Sherlock even sees John in his mind ...  walking with his cane down a dimly lit street (ASIP). There is the memory of a damp coat (lady in pink) and there is a handbag too.

PILOT & ASIP - a smallish suitcase without the weight of a pink phone  

TLD - a handbag with the revealing weight of a heavy gun

Sherlock reads the symptoms of depression and suicidal tendencies correctlly and is aware of the dangerous condition Faith is in.

SHERLOCK: It’s too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you’re going out into the night with no plan on how you’re getting home ... and a gun.

And Sherlock reacts really sweet. He invites Faith on a stroll through the nightly streets of London and later to dinner with fish and chips. He explains patiently and in great detail how he deduces certain things and how he draws his conclusions from them. They walk and talk the whole night. When the new morning dawns Sherlock demands Faith's gun as payment for taking her case and throws it into the Thames.

SHERLOCK: “Taking your own life.” Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Oh, once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it. SHERLOCK: Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. SHERLOCK: Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.

John's gun gets thrown into the Thames as well. It happens at the end of the PILOT.

SHERLOCK: Where is it? JOHN: Where’s what? SHERLOCK: Don’t. Just don’t. What did you do with the gun? JOHN: Oh, er, bottom of the Thames.

________________________________________________________________

AND WHO WOULD BE THE VICTIM OF A SERIAL KILLER ?

SHERLOCK: He wants to kill anyone. He’s a serial killer! SMITH: Anyone.

FAITH’s VOICE: Anyone. MOLLY’s VOICE: Anyone. MARY’s VOICE: Anyone

SMITH (multiple times): Anyone

(In total 'anyone' is mentioned by different characters 28 times in TLD)

_______________________________________________________________

SERIAL KILLER JEFF HOPE FROM THE PILOT:

CABBIE: Anyone who didn’t know where they were going, ’cause they were drunk or lost or new in town. CABBIE: Anyone I could walk through the wrong door

__________________________________________________

Interestingly the term 'anyone' is at no time uttered by serial killer Jeff Hope in ASIP.

-  SAVING  JOHN  WATSON  -

In the PILOT as well as in ASIP Sherlock deduces a lot of things about John which he tells him right away - first in Bart's lab and on the next day during the taxi ride to the crime scene. But Sherlock is not the only one who notices certain things. The audience gets included in the deduction process as well. We are the ones who are able to watch an isolated and depressed John Watson in his sparsely furnished flat. His nightmares are the very first thing the story starts with. It is clear from the beginning that this man is in a really bad condition. This is a man who has lost his joy for life ... who has lost his meaning of life. The way John looks and moves when he is alone in his dim little room ... how he eyes the gun he's keeping in his nightstand ... tells that he is very near the mark of using it on himself.

But what the audience doesn't see is, if Sherlock Holmes notices the same things as well. Does he deduce about John in the PILOT and in ASIP what he deduces about Faith in TLD? 

Looking at  John ... does Sherlock see 'suicidal, alone, strapped for cash, good cook  and isolation' ?

Does he notice that John is in great danger? That he is in dire need to be saved? If so ... how does Sherlock react? Well, he invites John on the case and to dinner ... very similar to how he reacts with Faith. Therefore Sherlock might very well have deduced the same things about Joh Watson. Just Sherlock's reaction isn't shown to the audience. Or ist it?

________________________________________________________________

AND ONCE AGAIN THE LYING DETECTIVE

This episode is woven of several story threads (in fact, the whole show is). If I had to name the two main threads in TLD  I would call them:

'THE EVOLUTION OF SHERLOCK: CHAPTER 'DRUG ADDICTION'

'SAVE JOHN WATSON: CHAPTER 'GET THE HELL ON WITH IT'  

Actually, the second title could be used for the whole of S4 (or more?):

'Save John Watson' - The first episode TST - ends with this request

The whole second episode TLD - is about this request.

The third episode TFP - seems to bring the story in the perfect position for achieving this request.

Hopefully S5 will present the successfull outcome of this request.

((As mentioned in several previous posts (X X X X X X) I think that Mary isn't a real person but a character 'casted' (invented) by Sherlock to serve as an avatar for himself on his 'Mind Stage'. 'It's for an experiment'.  Additional information regarding this idea can be found here and here and also in 'Why Mary?' by @loveismyrevolution. In that case  the 'insturction' how to save John Watson actually comes from Sherlock himself - it is the result of his own deductions.))

THERE IS A CASE SHERLOCK ..... YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ..... SAVE JOHN WATSON ..... SAVE HIM SHERLOCK ..... SAVE HIM

This is how TST ends. And TLD starts with a case that mirrors the PILOT as well as ASIP in a lot of things. Probably to drive home the point as clear as possible -  right after Faith 'vanishes' mysteriously by daybreak near the Thames and Sherlock starts wandering aimlessly through the streets -  the audience as well as Sherlock is reminded of the main purpose of this episode again:

Don’t think anyone else is going to save John, because there isn’t anyone

And then later, near the climax of this story, the audience gets in detail Sherlock's instructions from the DVD which has already been given to him in the prior episode (TST).  What he has to do to achieve the very important task of saving John Watson:

Don’t think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn’t anyone. It’s up to you. Save him. But I do think you’re gonna need a little bit of help with that, because you’re not exactly good with people, so here’s a few things you need to know about the man we both love – and more importantly what you’re going to need to do to save him.

You can’t save John because he won’t let you. He won’t allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John ... is to make him save you. Go to Hell, Sherlock. Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it.

Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm’s way. If he thinks you need him, I swear ... he will be there.

And exactly this is what Sherlock is doing in 'The Lying Detective'. He picks a fight with a really bad guy. He puts himself into mortal danger. He bets his own life by playing an insanely risky game. Druged and completely helpless Sherlock submerges himself to be at the mercy of a extremely dangerous  serial killer. And John starts running to help him. Well .... he starts driving .....

Oh .... but hasn't all this happened before?  It's on the tip of my tongue .....

ONCE AGAIN - BACK TO THE BEGINNING - TO THE PILOT

Sherlock invites John on their fist case. He invites him to dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock picks a fight with a bad guy (and he doesn't inform the police ... really nothing new under the sun).

Sherlock puts himself into harm's way. He gets druged, bundled into a cab and is kidnapped by a serial killer.

JOHN: Something’s gone wrong. ANGELO: No, no, no. All part of the plan. ANGELO: Sherlock always has a plan. JOHN: Yes, and it’s gone wrong.

And John Watson immediately starts running .... chasing the cab ... attempting to save Sherlock Holmes. First part of the plan achieved?  It seems ....

 THE FINAL PROBLEM MIGHT BE A THREE PATCH PART PROBLEM

GOING TO HELL

AVOIDING SAMARRA

STAYING ALIVE

Hoping John arives in time. Because the only way to save John ... is to make him save Sherlock. Either they both survive or neither of them. Because #Sherlock Holmes lives means #John Watson lives. This show runs in circles!

Right from the beginning of the story? It almost seems so ....

-

Using the same filmset for PILOT and TLD  X

.   

I leave you to your own deduchtions.  Thank you for the scripts @callie-ariane

@gosherlocked @isitandwonder @monikakrasnorada @tjlcisthenewsexy @longsnowsmoon5 @yan-yae @the-7-percent-solution @tendergingergirl @may-shepard @moffat-rocks @sarahthecoat @marchinaugusta @impatient14 @camillo1978 @shylockgnomes

[howterrifying]

+sherlolly because...a matter of days

I couldn't resist. I should have been in bed three hours ago but when Sherlolly feels flood your soul - what is sleep?! Here's my contribution to the 14th of February, 2017. Happy Sherlolly Valentine's, darlings. x

:: CONTAINS SERIES FOUR SPOILERS ::

Today  ( also on FF.net and AO3 ) The quiet of midnight never ceased to provide the perfect calm after a bad work day. Today had been particularly hectic for Molly; a colleague had come down with measles and their whole morgue roster had to be reshuffled, causing everyone’s daily workload to nearly triple. “Ah, my neck,” she whispered to herself as she gratefully turned the keys to the door of her flat. 

A few streaks of streetlight stole in through the window, illuminating Molly’s sitting room just enough for her not to have to turn the lights on. She sank into her sofa and sighed quietly in relief. From her pocket, she took out her mobile phone and began mindlessly going through it, swiping aimlessly from application to application. She smirked at a few specific reminders she saw in her calendar, smiling to herself in the dark. Give SH correct thumbs for Case #03-0916 Babysitting at 221B (Rosie, not SH) Review report from Mycroft’s lab (rem. to attach error report) The perusing of her calendar was stopped when the lights in the sitting room suddenly came on, startling her. “Why didn’t you tell me to get you from Bart’s?” came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, as he emerged from her bedroom in his robe. “Because you don’t have to. And also because Mycroft already sent a car,” said Molly, “His way of thanking me for looking through that report of hi—” “It’s high time he fired his team and had you run it,” Sherlock interrupted, his tone a mix of annoyance at his brother and pride at Molly’s competence. Sherlock strolled over to where Molly was seated and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. When he sat down beside her on the sofa, Molly turned to lean against his chest, relishing the warm comfort of his body. “A parcel came for you today,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Oh?” she replied, “Where is it?” “Here,” said Sherlock as he handed it to her. It was a rectangular box, no bigger than a tissue box and was wrapped in ordinary, brown parcel paper. “When I received it, I gave it a little shake, seeing as it wasn’t fragile. And it looks to me that it’s either a—” “Sherlock.” “Ah. Sorry.” “Stop deducing my parcels, or my letters, or my anything unless you’ve been asked,” chuckled Molly. “No, sorry,” he said, kissing her once more in apology. Molly sat up and began tearing the corners of the parcel, pulling out a plain, black-coloured box from underneath the paper. She lifted the lid of the box and in it was a single rose, intricately carved from ebony. The dark wood had a most beautiful sheen to it, lending a softness to the otherwise hard and unmoving petals. “Well, this is rather beautiful,” Molly said in awe, admiring the rose in her fingers. “But who would give this to me?” Sherlock peered carefully into the box that had contained the rose and spied a piece of paper folded and tucked neatly inside it. He pulled it out carefully and handed it to Molly. Curiously, she unfolded it and began to read its contents. My dearest Molly, This is in case my brother forgets — Happy Valentine’s Day. x E “It’s from your sister,” Molly said, somewhat perplexed. She took her phone out and glanced at the date on the screen. “But we don’t do Valentine’s,” remarked Molly, amused. “And besides, it’s not even February. Why would she send me a valentine?” Sherlock took the rose and the note from Molly’s hands and examined them, contemplating all the evidence around him. It took a moment, but Sherlock soon found the answer to Molly’s question. “Because it was today,” said Sherlock, ever so quietly. His tone startled Molly, causing her to turn to face him. He seemed crestfallen almost, and it puzzled her. “Sherlock?” He did not answer, but merely took Molly’s hand in his and looked at it, smiling pensively. Gently, he took her index finger and ran it over a row of jagged scars along the side of his palm. When she felt the familiar bumps against her own flesh, Molly gasped quietly, finding the answer to her own question too. “It was today,” she echoed softly, now taking his hand in hers. Sherlock merely nodded and smiled, his eyes awash with emotion. It had been so long ago that he had smashed a coffin - Molly’s coffin - with his bare hands and yet, that same heartache struck his chest as though it had been just yesterday. “Well, I suppose she’s redefined it for us then,” said Molly, smiling as her eyes glistened. She leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on the side of his face as she drew him in to kiss him softly. “Happy Valentine’s,” she whispered, smiling against his lips. Sherlock smiled in return and ran his thumb gently over her cheekbone. “I guess I should say it like I mean it, eh?” he whispered back. “Happy Valentine’s?” asked Molly, amused. Soft laughter escaped the both of them as they remained where they were, foreheads touching and hands intertwined. “I love you,” said Sherlock, grateful that all those years ago today, he had uttered those very same words to the only one who ever mattered.

END

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘Repeating History’ Chapter 3: It’s All There, in Your Head

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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1894

               It was late—nearly midnight—and Sherlock looked out his window at the foggy city. It was so chilling outside, he could practically see the cold front moving in. There were few people who came out at such an hour; most being criminals, junkies, or secret lovers. That is why it piqued his curiosity when he noticed a young woman approach the outside door to 221B. What would possess her to arrive here at such an hour, especially walking alone at night with a murderer on the loose? Mrs. Hudson’s voice cut through his thoughts.

               “Mister Holmes? You have a client,” she informed him.

               “Let her in, Mrs. Hudson, thank you,” he replied. Whatever he imagined this client to be after, he was not prepared for it. In walked Molly Hooper, clutching her bag, her eyes full of determination. “Miss Hooper.”

               Molly returned his greeting with a small curtsy. “I am sorry for the late hour, Mister Holmes, but I know you are the only person who can help me.”

               Sherlock gestured for her to sit in the client chair set between where he and Watson normally rested. “What is it that you need, Miss Hooper?” He observed her body language, noting that she was nervous about whatever his answer may be to her request.

               “As you know, my best friend has been brutally murdered,” she spoke softly, her voice breaking. “I wish to know who is behind this as much as you do.” Sherlock nodded in encouragement for her to go on. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I know that Doctor Watson is your partner in crime solving, but I do know he is married and that his wife is with child, close to giving birth very soon.”

               Sherlock looked at her with the curiosity of a cat. “I see you’ve done your research, Miss Hooper. Impressive.”

               “Well, actually, Mister Holmes, I have met Mrs. Watson, as her usual doctor had not been in for quite a while. Nobody knows where he’s gone off to,” Molly explained. “What I’m asking is if I can help you to bring Meena’s murderer to justice?”

               Sherlock pondered this idea for so long that when thirty minutes had passed, Molly took matters into her own hands. She lightly shook his shoulder with her gloved hand, hoping he would snap out of it. Sherlock jumped when he finally came to, looking up at the most brilliant woman he had ever met. “I am sorry, Miss Hooper, I must have thought I answered you already.”

               She giggled; a sweet melodic sound to his ears. “It is quite alright, Mister Holmes. What do you say?”

               “As you are correct about Doctor Watson being quite busy at the moment, I say that you are welcome to investigate with me,” Sherlock told her, a genuine smile on his face. “I must warn you though, I can be a bit—“

               “Abrasive?” Molly provided. “I have been forewarned about your behaviours, Mister Holmes.”

               “And you aren’t…shocked?” He wondered if she knew about the seven percent solution he’d sometimes use.

               “It takes more than your seven percent solution to shock me,” she remarked.

               Sherlock was taken aback. This woman knew very much about him. He stood up from his chair, facing her, only a few inches between them. “And what if we run into the murderer, Miss Hooper? What then? I cannot have a damsel in distress to worry about on a case such as this.” His harsh tone did nothing to repel her. This told him that she could handle his worst attitudes.

Molly Hooper stood her ground, unwavering. “I am a woman of intellect and resilience, as you may have already deduced. I am not a fine piece of delicate china, Mister Holmes. I will not be shattered so easily.”

The tension was thick, but Sherlock was more than satisfied with Molly’s comeback at his attempt to deter her. They stood in such close proximity that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would touch hers. Her deep brown eyes held a fierce determination as she bore her gaze into his ocean eyes. Neither of them realised that Doctor Watson had been a witness to the last minute of their conversation…at least, not until the man cleared his throat.

“Doctor Watson.” Molly snapped out of her fixation on Sherlock. “I must be going. Thank you again, Mister Holmes.”

Before she could leave, Sherlock spoke up. “There is a guest room upstairs. I’ll not have you walking the streets alone at this time of night, Miss Hooper.” He watched as she paused to think about it, eventually nodding her head in thanks before disappearing upstairs.

“Oh, Holmes, you do fancy her,” Watson remarked.

“What? No I don’t,” Holmes argued. “I do not bother with fanciful romantic entanglements, Watson, you know that.”

“You may find yourself in love with her one day,” Watson continued. Holmes was not taking it well.

As the two men continued to argue, their voice rose higher. Molly was attempting to sleep when she heard the baritone of Sherlock’s unmistakable voice.

“She means nothing to me!” he had shouted. “Miss Hooper is merely a client, and nothing more, Watson!”

The cold truth sliced through her like a scalpel. These past few weeks, she was sure they had a lovely friendship blooming, but perhaps it was all a charade after all. Tears silently fell down her cheeks, as she waited for sleep to succumb her. She would not allow this to deter her from her duty to find this killer. Not one man should dare to get in her away, let alone Sherlock Holmes.

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2016

“She means nothing to me!” That was the last thing Sherlock could remember from his strange dream last night. His head throbbed with pain as if he had imbibed too much alcohol. Everyone he knew and loved was there, but in a Victorian setting. The dream had been so vivid, he could’ve sworn that this happened to him in his lifetime. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mary’s asked, “But which lifetime?” It was balderdash; there were no such things as past lives.  

Every morning since the family dinner, Sherlock found that he had to continue reminding himself that Molly wanted a break from him; at least, romantically. It had hurt him, but he wanted her to be happy, even if it was without him in the picture. It hurt more that he hadn’t even heard from her since. In the meantime, there were a few appointments he needed to make, but they’d have to wait until later. Greg Lestrade rushed into 221B, urgency written across his face.

“There’s been two more murders,” he informed him. “I need you to come with me, Sherlock.”

Fear flooded through him, an icy feeling prickling his skin. “Is it Molly?” He felt panic rising within him.

“God, no, Sherlock, I’m sorry for worrying you like that. We need you because there’s a note for you. It’s typed, but maybe you can get something from it,” Greg explained. Sherlock nodded, and slipped on his coat. The game was on, and he knew that the further this went, the more dangerous it would become.

Upon his arrival at the crime scene, Sherlock was immediately graced by Sally Donovan’s presence. Delightful. He was far from being in the mood for whatever tirade she was sure to go on.

“Freak,” she greeted him. “Heard about you and Hooper; sounds like she finally got in her right mind.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “And what,” he huffed, “is that supposed to mean?”

A derisive smile graced Donovan’s face. “It means that the girl has finally realised that she’s too good for you, and it only took a month of dating you.”

For the first time, her words affected him. He and Molly were only on a break, but maybe it was because she had truly realised that he was no good for her.

“Sherlock!” Greg called to him. He motioned for the detective to follow him.

Glad for a reason to leave Donovan’s presence, Sherlock followed Lestrade, immediately kneeling between the two bodies to read the bloodstained note.

I am the Hunter

But you’re not the prey

Your heart will be torn asunder

Think of your family

It will pave the way

Does the Devil live within me?

You wonder

               “It’s a riddle,” Sherlock stated. “Why is Hunter capitalized?”

               “I’m not sure,” Greg confessed. “Haven’t been able to make heads or tails of it, but I was sure it was meant for you.”

               After snapping a photo of the note, Sherlock placed it in an evidence bag. He planned to do nothing but comb through the words until something clicked. Hunter was capitalized, he had to think of his family; how did it all connect? There were no Hunters in his family, not surname or first name. That’s when he heard a car door slam, and looked up to see Molly smiling at him.

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“Wow, you look like you rose from the dead,” Mary remarked as she strolled into the lab with lunch for her and Molly. The pathologist’s hair was tied back into the limpest ponytail; her eyes looked red and puffy from lack of sleep or perhaps having cried herself to sleep. The cheerfulness that Molly usually exuded was no longer there, as if a star had gone out. She didn’t even laugh at the awful joke Mary had just made.

“Long night,” was all Molly said as she began to examine a specimen of bacteria with the microscope.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked, wondering what had gone wrong. “I haven’t heard anything since your dinner with Sherlock and his family last week. Did everything go well, love?”

Molly lifted her head from the microscope to look at her friend. “It was all very”—she shoved her notebook aside—“lovely.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “Then what’s wrong, poppet?”

Molly took a deep, shaky breath, planning to get straight to the point, but went off on a rant. “It’s funny, because this is everything I’ve always wanted, regardless of the fact I never expected it to happen. I want this—I do—but I haven’t had time to breathe since Sherlock’s almost-exile.” Mary approached the lab table, setting down the takeaway bags. “Mary, I called things off with him just to get some space. It was one of the most difficult things I had to do.” She laughed in disbelief. “Helping him fake his death was so much easier.” Molly didn’t dare divulge about her strange dream last night. It was Victorian times, and she had been listening to Sherlock and John arguing from the upstairs bedroom of 221B. They were arguing about her. The last thing she could remember was Sherlock’s voice, cold and cruel, claiming that she meant nothing to him.

Just when Mary was about to offer some advice, Molly’s mobile went off, notifying her of a text from Lestrade. “It’s Greg; he needs me at the crime scene where two women were slain. Anderson has called in sick. Of course.”

“Molly, love, before you go, just listen to what I have to say,” Mary told her. “I understand why you had to distance yourself, and whilst it was hard for you, I’m proud that you’re putting your wellbeing first.” She took Molly’s hand as a gesture of motherly comfort. “Just make sure that this is what you want. If you feel you need to take things slow with Sherlock—and it looks to be that way—let him know when you’re ready for him.”

“You know, I wondered all night if it was a break I needed, or if I just need us to focus on our friendship first,” Molly confessed. “I don’t want him cut out of my life whilst I deal with this. He’s—“ she took a breath—“he’s my person.”

“Your person?” Mary repeated amusingly. “Re-watching Grey’s Anatomy I see.”

 “Shut up,” Molly laughed whilst gathering her things. She waved goodbye to Mary as she exited through the doors. She and Sherlock would be working together today, and she used the time it took for her cab ride to try and get herself together. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest when she spotted Sherlock through the backseat window. He was in deep concentration as he examined the bodies, his brows furrowed as if something wasn’t adding up. Molly paid the driver, and exited the vehicle, taking a deep breath. His eyes locked with hers immediately as if he could sense her presence. Perhaps he can. They shared a smile before getting to work.

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1894

               Her heart beat in time with the pounding in her head. Sleep had been scarce after all she had heard last night. Molly sat up quickly, the room spinning much too fast. Her hand went to grasp the bedding, only she heard the crinkling of paper. After the dizziness subsided, she took a deep breath before reading the contents of the letter.

               To whomever it may concern,

               I reside in Sherrinford.

               Having problems with ol’ Jack?

               Don’t forget about Reichenbach.

               If it is answers you want discovered,

               I suggest visiting your dear, old brother.

               “How curious,” Molly muttered aloud. It was a riddle, and clearly meant for Sherlock. She could hardly imagine how awful it would feel to face him, but she had the advantage in that he does not know she heard him last night. This note was important, but the question was who wrote it? Also, who delivered it? Chills ran up her spine at the thought of a stranger—possibly a murderer—had snuck into her temporary room.  

               Deciding that Sherlock’s immediate attention be given to this letter, Molly flew down the stairs in only her chemise, uncaring of what was proper in a situation such as this.

               Upon spotting the detective standing by the fire, lost in his thoughts, Molly rushed right to his side. “Mister Holmes, I found this letter in the bed I was sleeping in, and I think it is imperative to our case.”

               Sherlock spared a quick glance before taking the letter from her hands, but looked back at her, noticing her state of…undress. The firelight was illuminating the fabric, making it noticeably transparent. He averted his eyes quickly, swallowing the lump that began to form in his throat, and began scanning the letter. “Impossible.”

               “What?” Molly asked, her hand grasping his arm gently. “What is it?”

               “It appears I must have a word with my dear brother,” Sherlock huffed. “Make sure you are properly dressed by the time I return, Miss Hooper…I shall not be returning alone.”

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               Sherlock Holmes was practically fuming. How could this be? Apparently, his brother knew the answer.

               “Sherlock,” Mycroft Holmes greeted his brother. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He bit into a pastry, unaware of his brother’s anger.

               “Moriarty’s alive, isn’t he?” Sherlock felt it best to get straight to the point. He stared down his brother until, finally, he spoke.

               “What does it matter now? He’s locked up in Sherrinford,” Mycroft told him. No explanation as to how Moriarty survived, no concern that he may be puppeteering the murders.

               “How!?” Sherlock shouted. “How is he alive?”

               “Don’t be arrogant, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “You’re not the only person who can survive a fall.” He looked his little brother dead in the eye. “We found him unconscious not long after, and I suggested he be locked up, seeing as he did not, in fact, perish.”

               “I need you to come to Baker Street. Now,” Sherlock urged his brother. “Lives may be at stake if you do not cooperate.”

               Mycroft sighed with resignation. “Very well, then.”

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               Molly was only half-dressed by the time she heard Sherlock come back. She wondered if he had brought his brother back with him to help them decipher the riddle. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she quickly finished tying the laces on her boots, not wanting his brother to see her in such a state. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered being in only her chemise earlier. Now, if only she could get these damn corset laces tightened and tied. The knock on the door caused her to nearly jump out of her skin.  

               “Miss Hooper?” Sherlock called to her. “I’d like you to come downstairs. If you are to be on this case, you must talk with my brother post-haste.” He jumped back slightly when Molly opened the door only wide enough for him to see her face poke through.

               “Do you think you could help me first? I cannot seem to get these laces tied for the life of me,” she told him.

               “Yes, of course,” he replied, opening her door the rest of the way. He swallowed hard as he tightened her laces, each tug increasing the soft swell of her breasts. Being so close to her, he could smell honeysuckle on her skin. How could he possibly work this case with her if she drove him wild with desire every time he stood near her? This was a problem. He’d have to be careful.

               “Thank you,” she smiled at him after he had finished. “Shall we go see your brother?” Sherlock only gave a curt nod in response before walking ahead of her, expecting her to follow behind. She did so, and was greeted by the dumbfounded look on the eldest Holmes’s face.

               “You’re not Doctor Watson,” Mycroft so obviously pointed out. “Sherlock, who is she?”

               “This is Miss Hooper, Mycroft. She is an accomplished pathologist at St. Bartholomew’s,” Sherlock explained. “Seeing as Watson is busy with his wife and unborn child, she offered her services to help with the case.”

               Molly fidgeted as Mycroft Holmes scrutinized her. “Yes, well, let us hope that is the only service she is offering to you, brother mine.”

               “Mycroft!” Sherlock roared. “You will not speak so unkindly of Miss Hooper! I will not tolerate it!” His eyes flickered toward Molly, noting she was not visibly upset, but her eyes held a fierceness he had not yet seen. Her strength was admirable.

               Mycroft, realising he had struck a nerve, immediately asked for the note, looking it over. “Moriarty wants you to pay him a visit at Sherrinford, it seems. He has answers about your medical murderer. It seems that Jack the Ripper is still roaming the streets after all.”

               “Sherrinford?” Molly asked, looking at Sherlock. “What is it, and when are we going?”

               “It is a place,” Mycroft began, “for the criminally insane.”

               “She’ll not be going,” Sherlock firmly stated.

               “You said I could assist you!” It was not proper for a lady to raise her voice, but in this moment, Molly didn’t give a damn. “You cannot stop me from going. I will find a way.”

               “And I said no, Molly, that’s final.” He did not shout back, but rather, growled out the words.

               “I do not have to listen to you,” she told him. “You are neither my husband nor my father, so I will do as I please.” For once, Sherlock could say nothing. He knew she was right; she didn’t have to listen to him, and she could find her way to Sherrinford through Mycroft if she had to. Lord knows his brother enjoyed getting under his skin. “I am doing this to seek justice for my best friend’s murder. How dare you try to keep me from any of it after you had agreed I could assist you.”

               All was silent in the room with the exception of Molly’s heeled boots storming up the stairs, finishing with a slamming door and a burning regret in Sherlock’s heart.

               “Headstrong, isn’t she?” Mycroft remarked, clearly amused. Sherlock, however, was not.

[barpurplewrites]

My Favourite Colour

A Sherlolly fic that has only come into existence because of @darnedchild ‘s

Hi (HERE) and the follow up Hello (HERE).

If you haven’t read these wonderful fics I suggest you click on those links before you read further. With kind and generous permission of @darnedchild I offer you my suggestion of what happened after Hi and Hello.

-x-x-x-

Molly strolled along the aisle slower than she normally would. She was more of a ninja shopper, expert at being in and out of a shop in mere moments, her purchase made with the minimum of fuss, thanks to strategic planning. Thanks to Sherlock – consulting pain in the arse – Holmes she was taking her time today.

Of all the texts she'd sent him THAT one was the one he chose to comment on. Seriously? She'd sat staring at the door he'd swanned out of for a good thirty seconds before the mortification tried to sink in. That had been firmly quashed. Yes, he'd told her his favourite colour in front of Greg and John, but neither of them knew the circumstance of her asking him that question. If either of them gave it any thought, (not much chance of that while they were on a case), then they'd probably think she'd asked him 'What's your favourite colour?' while they were examining the nail varnish of a body, or looking at bacteria in the lab. Sherlock and her had talked about stranger things during autopsies and the like.

No, she wasn't worried that Greg or John would realise that the conversation revolved around her need to buy new knickers. They had both married women, probably been dragged around the lingerie section a time or two, far too worldly to be shocked by the idea that, as a woman, she needed to shop for delicates on occasion. Okay, they might raise an eyebrow as to why she was discussing that with Sherlock of all people. Oh sod it, if in the highly unlikely event either of them asked her, then she'd nick Sherlock's go-to-fib and claim it was for a case. They would probably believe her, 'Molly, I need you to discuss purchasing under garments with me' wouldn't even make it into the top fifty of weirdest things Sherlock had asked her to do for a case. Hell, it wouldn't even make the top ten of weird things she'd agreed to do for him in the name of a case!

It was his answer that had her perusing the racks of bikini, hi-cuts and boy shorts with care. Cherry red. She might not have his deductive skills, but she wasn't blind. Sherlock ripped the piss out of almost all of her clothes, with varying degrees of nastiness, but the only thing he'd ever say about her cherry print stuff was, 'It's alright, I suppose'. Long ago she'd worked out Sherlock was a bit like a teenager, when he really liked something, (other than murder, science, or bees), he played indifferent. Using that logic 'alright' translated to, 'Wow, I really like that!'. She also knew that he knew she didn't have any knickers in cherry red. He might be the great Hat Detective, but she knew when someone had been in her underwear drawer, and since most blokes she'd dated treated that drawer like some sort of hell's gate, it had to be him.

As she considered a pair of hi-cuts in red, she wondered if Sherlock's liking for cherries stemmed from the same place as hers? (Ha ha – stemmed.) As a teenager she'd had what her Grandma called 'a bit of a pash' for Bettie Paige. In her mind Bettie was linked with rockabilly and with that came cherries. She'd had a few not-so-successful tries at nailing the Bettie's signature pin-up look and decided that bullet bras were never going to look good on her, but cherries she could wear with confidence.

The red hi-cuts weren't the right shade and had more scratchy lace than she was happy with. She was about ready to head to the next shop, when she spotted them. The perfect pair of cherry red knickers. Boy shorts, made from bamboo, so deliciously silky under her fingers, and even better on the left hip a simple embroidered outline of a pair of cherries. Perfect.

Now she just had to be brave enough to let Sherlock know about her purchase.

It only took her half a glass of wine after a nice long shower to slip her new knickers on and take a selfie. She chosen to stand in front of her mirror, hips angled slightly to showcase the cherries on her hip. The picture she chose looked good, no more suggestive than a page for a catalogue. Although most for most men she knew lingerie catalogues had been their first furtive wank fodder. Nope. She did not want to think about teenager Sherlock that way. With quick fingers she type the message and send the photo.

Molly's text alert sounded just as he and John were waiting to cross the road. Sherlock opened it just as the green man lit up and he started across.

Hi. Thoughts?

He stopped dead in the middle of the road and stared at the attached picture. John had to grab his arm and drag him to the pavement.

“Earth to Sherlock. What's happened?”

He blinked at John and shook his head to try and kick start his brain. It took a supreme force of will to stow his phone in his pocket without taking another look at  Molly's message.

“Something's come up. I have to go. Now.”

John watched as Sherlock summoned a cab and barked an address at the cabbie. Molly's address in fact. And that had been Molly's text alert. John wasn't as unobservant as Sherlock liked to claim. Dopey git probably didn't even know he had a Molly smile. He rocked on his heels and smiled to himself. About bloody time.

Molly wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock used his key and burst into her flat. He was out of breath, although he'd come by cab, (she'd heard it pull up), and his hair looked like he'd been raking his fingers through it. He stood in the middle of her lounge, panting and staring at her. She slipped a an old envelope between the pages of her book and set it aside.

“Sherlock?”

“I have thoughts. I need more data.”

She was stretched out on her sofa, her back against the arm. She keep her eyes on him as she inched her dressing gown up her thigh to reveal the tiniest flash of cherry red.

“About these?”

Sherlock moaned and dropped to his knees by her side. His hands shook as he reached for her.

Molly caught them in her own and whispered; “Hi.”

He gave her a honest smile; “Hello.”