One foot on the ground (Part 3)
Here's part 3 of the Cabin Pressure/Sherlock mashup. Again, I don't own these character. I hope that Moffat, Gatiss and Finnemore have a sense of humor about wreaking havoc with their toys.
Proofed and edited by me. Any errors, let me know. Comments are love.
Part 1
Part 2
She didn’t think she’d see him again. After all, the job was finished and there wasn’t a reason for him to contact her again. Besides, he was (supposedly) an airline captain. They were the busy, dashing sort who were probably fully engaged in seducing stewardesses. Molly saw the movie Catch Me if You Can and that gave her a good idea of what to expect with a pilot.
Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, she kept telling herself, like a mantra, as the days passed and she unpacked her things and settled into her new flat, which was starting to feel like home.
Don’t think about him, don’t think about him she told herself as she considered calling him to have him help her move something heavy. Like maybe a case of soup or a box of books. She was staring at his business card, drumming it on her countertop, fingers poised over her phone before she put it down.
Approximately a week of this occurred before Molly’s mind finally let go of the possibility of their paths crossing again. Of course that’s when the fates had to toy with her.
It had been a bad day at work. Sherlock was snappy about not getting his lab results, two coworkers were ill with a mysterious bug and, to top it all off, the report she was working on all day was eaten in a computer crash. Unfortunately, Molly couldn’t recover any of the work and had to start fresh.
As she reached the lobby, the last thing Molly wanted was to interact with people. At that moment, all she wanted was a glass of wine and some time alone with sweet, sweet silence.
Mixed amongst the usual bills and post was a package that looked like a gorilla stomped on it, then proceeded to repackage it with duct tape postmarked from Shanghai. It was thoroughly odd, since she wasn’t expecting anything from anyone.
Molly took the package, along with the other post, and then headed up to her flat. Part of her worried about the contents -- after all Jim was still out there and terrorizing others. But then she noticed the return address and the name:
Martin Crieff.
Upon entrance to her flat, Molly ripped the package open to find a watch with Chairman Mao merrily waving to indicate the seconds and a lighter with the Chairman’s happy chubby face on it. The lighter burned with a tall blue flame that had a threatening whoosh sound to it and both the watch and the lighter played a merry version of Red Easter.
But the sweeter thing was the note -- carefully and precisely hand-written on hotel stationary -- that accompanied the souvenirs:
Saw this while in Shanghai. Thought of you and our conversation. I hope you are well and that you enjoy this. If you need anything, please keep me in mind.
Martin Crieff.
Clutching the letter in her hands, Molly read and re-read it, making sure that it was real. It didn’t matter that Sherlock was an utter prat to her, that her workload had tripled in one day or her computer crashed. Everything now felt like sunshine and lollipops.
~~~
The worst part of having no friends is there’s no one you can talk to when you’re feeling the sting of rejection. There’s no one to have a pint with, to talk about the ills of the world and eventually toddle home tipsy to wake up to a hangover. No, you have to suck up the fact that you’ve been rejected and suffer in silence.
That was Martin’s thoughts in the days following his return from the last MJN jaunt. He hadn’t heard from Molly regarding the package he had sent her -- despite sending it via what he believed was a reputable overnight carrier. True it cost more than the presents themselves, but he wanted to make sure Molly got them.
It was a fit of bravado, he admitted to himself. He wasn’t sure if it would pay off, but one never knows, unless one tries, as Douglas once spouted.
And now, the silence was definitely speaking louder than anything else, he mused. Perhaps he should’ve gotten something else for her -- something with a bit more style and panache. Like one of those designer things from Nanjing Road. But it was the way her eyes lit up when she remembered the watch and the lighter that made it seem like a brilliant idea.
Slumped on his futon, working through another flight simulation, Martin sighed, bemoaning his luck. If it was raining pound coins, inevitably, he’d be the only one with an umbrella, he thought to himself.
Then his mobile chirped. He paused the game and picked it up, curiosity piqued. The number that flashed was unfamiliar -- it wasn’t Carolyn or Douglas, nor was it family members.
“Hello?” he asked, befuddlement coloring his greeting.
“Erm. Hello --” the feminine voice started. “It’s Molly, Molly Hooper. Is Martin available?”
“Yes,” he replied cautiously. Martin could feel his stomach clench slightly and a bit of cold sweat started. He could imagine the next words I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not interested in you in that manner --.
“I wanted to let you know I received your gift,” she began.
“And --” he stammered, bracing for the worst. I’m getting married next week, he could imagine her saying.
“And it was very sweet.”
He’s Prince Harry.
“I was wondering if there was a way I could thank you for it.”
We’re so happy and would you like to come to the wedding?
“Perhaps we could meet for coffee sometime, or dinner, since you’re back in town?”
Martin blinked. This conversation wasn’t going the way he anticipated. “Dinner?” he sat up a bit more.
“Yes,” he could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Unless you’re busy --”
“No, not at all. Dinner would be nice,” he interrupted, cursing the use of the word nice, which was too small of a word, but fan-fucking-tastic seemed a bit vulgar.
There was a relieved giggle on the other end of the line. “Wonderful,” she said. “Yes, wonderful. When would you like to meet?”
Be cool, be cool, he thought to himself, before blurting out. “Tomorrow night?” like an overeager schoolboy.
Another giggle, this time warmer and sweeter. “Yes, that would be good,” was the reply.
Arrangements were made to meet and a restaurant was chosen. By the end of the conversation, both of them sounded flustered and giggly, like two teenagers. When Martin hung up the phone, he felt like he could’ve taken on the world, before the realization that what was coming next was an infinite variety of ways for things to go pear-shaped settled in his head like a portent of doom.
Part 4
Proofed and edited by me. Any errors, let me know. Comments are love.
Part 1
Part 2
She didn’t think she’d see him again. After all, the job was finished and there wasn’t a reason for him to contact her again. Besides, he was (supposedly) an airline captain. They were the busy, dashing sort who were probably fully engaged in seducing stewardesses. Molly saw the movie Catch Me if You Can and that gave her a good idea of what to expect with a pilot.
Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, she kept telling herself, like a mantra, as the days passed and she unpacked her things and settled into her new flat, which was starting to feel like home.
Don’t think about him, don’t think about him she told herself as she considered calling him to have him help her move something heavy. Like maybe a case of soup or a box of books. She was staring at his business card, drumming it on her countertop, fingers poised over her phone before she put it down.
Approximately a week of this occurred before Molly’s mind finally let go of the possibility of their paths crossing again. Of course that’s when the fates had to toy with her.
It had been a bad day at work. Sherlock was snappy about not getting his lab results, two coworkers were ill with a mysterious bug and, to top it all off, the report she was working on all day was eaten in a computer crash. Unfortunately, Molly couldn’t recover any of the work and had to start fresh.
As she reached the lobby, the last thing Molly wanted was to interact with people. At that moment, all she wanted was a glass of wine and some time alone with sweet, sweet silence.
Mixed amongst the usual bills and post was a package that looked like a gorilla stomped on it, then proceeded to repackage it with duct tape postmarked from Shanghai. It was thoroughly odd, since she wasn’t expecting anything from anyone.
Molly took the package, along with the other post, and then headed up to her flat. Part of her worried about the contents -- after all Jim was still out there and terrorizing others. But then she noticed the return address and the name:
Martin Crieff.
Upon entrance to her flat, Molly ripped the package open to find a watch with Chairman Mao merrily waving to indicate the seconds and a lighter with the Chairman’s happy chubby face on it. The lighter burned with a tall blue flame that had a threatening whoosh sound to it and both the watch and the lighter played a merry version of Red Easter.
But the sweeter thing was the note -- carefully and precisely hand-written on hotel stationary -- that accompanied the souvenirs:
Saw this while in Shanghai. Thought of you and our conversation. I hope you are well and that you enjoy this. If you need anything, please keep me in mind.
Martin Crieff.
Clutching the letter in her hands, Molly read and re-read it, making sure that it was real. It didn’t matter that Sherlock was an utter prat to her, that her workload had tripled in one day or her computer crashed. Everything now felt like sunshine and lollipops.
~~~
The worst part of having no friends is there’s no one you can talk to when you’re feeling the sting of rejection. There’s no one to have a pint with, to talk about the ills of the world and eventually toddle home tipsy to wake up to a hangover. No, you have to suck up the fact that you’ve been rejected and suffer in silence.
That was Martin’s thoughts in the days following his return from the last MJN jaunt. He hadn’t heard from Molly regarding the package he had sent her -- despite sending it via what he believed was a reputable overnight carrier. True it cost more than the presents themselves, but he wanted to make sure Molly got them.
It was a fit of bravado, he admitted to himself. He wasn’t sure if it would pay off, but one never knows, unless one tries, as Douglas once spouted.
And now, the silence was definitely speaking louder than anything else, he mused. Perhaps he should’ve gotten something else for her -- something with a bit more style and panache. Like one of those designer things from Nanjing Road. But it was the way her eyes lit up when she remembered the watch and the lighter that made it seem like a brilliant idea.
Slumped on his futon, working through another flight simulation, Martin sighed, bemoaning his luck. If it was raining pound coins, inevitably, he’d be the only one with an umbrella, he thought to himself.
Then his mobile chirped. He paused the game and picked it up, curiosity piqued. The number that flashed was unfamiliar -- it wasn’t Carolyn or Douglas, nor was it family members.
“Hello?” he asked, befuddlement coloring his greeting.
“Erm. Hello --” the feminine voice started. “It’s Molly, Molly Hooper. Is Martin available?”
“Yes,” he replied cautiously. Martin could feel his stomach clench slightly and a bit of cold sweat started. He could imagine the next words I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not interested in you in that manner --.
“I wanted to let you know I received your gift,” she began.
“And --” he stammered, bracing for the worst. I’m getting married next week, he could imagine her saying.
“And it was very sweet.”
He’s Prince Harry.
“I was wondering if there was a way I could thank you for it.”
We’re so happy and would you like to come to the wedding?
“Perhaps we could meet for coffee sometime, or dinner, since you’re back in town?”
Martin blinked. This conversation wasn’t going the way he anticipated. “Dinner?” he sat up a bit more.
“Yes,” he could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Unless you’re busy --”
“No, not at all. Dinner would be nice,” he interrupted, cursing the use of the word nice, which was too small of a word, but fan-fucking-tastic seemed a bit vulgar.
There was a relieved giggle on the other end of the line. “Wonderful,” she said. “Yes, wonderful. When would you like to meet?”
Be cool, be cool, he thought to himself, before blurting out. “Tomorrow night?” like an overeager schoolboy.
Another giggle, this time warmer and sweeter. “Yes, that would be good,” was the reply.
Arrangements were made to meet and a restaurant was chosen. By the end of the conversation, both of them sounded flustered and giggly, like two teenagers. When Martin hung up the phone, he felt like he could’ve taken on the world, before the realization that what was coming next was an infinite variety of ways for things to go pear-shaped settled in his head like a portent of doom.
Part 4