Fiction: Angel of Death
Title: Angel of Death
Rating: G
Pairings: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade
Warnings: None
Word Count: 221
Summary: Story written in the 221b format: 221 words, last word beginning with the letter "b". Molly sees herself as the Angel of Death. Greg doesn't.
Angel of Death
Molly hoped that Inspector Lestrade couldn't tell she'd been crying. The last thing the man needed was another burden piled onto those broad shoulders. The recent deaths, violent and personal, had taken their toll. Face furrowed with worry, clothes smelling of cigarettes; the detective was the one needing looking after. Someone to cook him a nice meal, distract him with funny stories, sooth him with a gentle, knowing hand. Molly would, in a heartbeat, but couldn't. Her skill was with the dead, not the living, not even houseplants. Like the ficus and the fern, the last two men in her life were dead.
How could it be that Inspector Lestrade, Greg (dare she call him that?) didn't see her as the Angel of Death? For there he was, standing in her doorway, smiling that lopsided grin, running those strong working-man's fingers through his thick silver thatch.
"I don't want to impose again, so maybe tonight, if you'd like, we could go out and get a bite somewhere?"
Molly was relieved. Last time she'd been so nervous she'd poured out cups of hot water, having forgotten the tea.
Once out the door Greg took her arm, escorting Molly that half block to his car. Strides matched, the vibrant city seemed to pulse around them. The dusky London sky never looked so brilliant.