Fiction: Hothouse Flower
Title: Hothouse Flower
Rating: G
Pairings: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade
Warnings: None
Word Count: 221
Summary: Greg Lestrade crushes on Molly Hooper. A story written in the 221b format: 221 words, the last word beginning with the letter "b".
Hothouse Flower
Lestrade was early and he used those extra five minutes to have a quick smoke in the car. He'd been looking forward to visiting Molly, but the moment he arrived, Lestrade was beset by a wicked case of butterflies.
"Not about you, old fool."
One last fierce puff, a stub of his cigarette against the dash, and he was off, marching to her door, giving the buzzer a long, decisive poke.
Molly had nice digs for someone making her salary. Family money, Lestrade reasoned, as that fit with his impression of Molly as a "daddy's girl". Even thinking that term made him blush, although Lestrade knew that it wasn't her girlishness that made Molly attractive. Rather it was her warmth, like sunshine that brightened his bleakest days. A shy, clever, and fragile thing, she was like an odd variety of hothouse flower that thrived in the ghoulish sanctuary of Bart's morgue. No wonder she had him walking on eggshells.
Molly answered the door wearing fresh makeup and a weak, heartrending smile. Jim, dead for weeks, had left his psychopath's stamp on those large tear-reddened eyes. Easy to burn someone's heart out when they wear it on their sleeve.
"Please come in Inspector Lestrade."
Yes. Fine. He'd be what she needed. Lestrade; policeman, father figure. Always tomorrow to float another possibility: Greg, adoring boyfriend.