Day 3: Suturing (BBC Sherlock, Irene Adler/Molly Hooper).
Title: Suturing.
Author: amor_remanet
Prompt #: 02, "the High Priestess."
Prompt table: Q - tarot cards.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock.
Rating: PG-13.
Character/Pairing: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper.
Word count: ~840.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and most recently to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, who are life-ruiners and are also not me. Additionally, the TV series and its canon belongs to the BBC, which is also not me and I'm not a part of it. This is just for fun and there's no money being made, so please don't sue me.
Summary: Molly prefers corpses to living patients, but she makes an exception for Irene.
It really ought to be sexual, Molly thinks, or at least sensual. Or at least kind of sexy. There should be some kind of feeling here, while she's sitting between Irene's legs-not least, like, while Irene's leaning back and at some off angle, moaning and biting on her lip. Not least while she's got her thighs all spread out just so, like Molly should have her lips between them. And that's not saying anything about how close they are, how there's barely space for breath between their bodies…
But there's only one question on Molly's mind right now, as she stares at the cruel red, gnarled gash along Irene's side, the one she got when she went and decided to play rough-and-tumble with Moran and the rest of Jim Moriarty's surviving boys, for Lord only knows whatever reason: "Can't you ever just try to be more careful?"
Pausing her work with the needle, Molly wrinkles her nose and frowns up at Irene, at her pointedly stoic expression-lips pursed (and fading into the rest of her face as she wipes her lipstick off on a wet towel); eyes impassive, might as well be gemstones or something in that ivory face she's got on her. She's doing it again. The same thing she always does when she gets into scrapes like the one they've got on their hands tonight. Acting like she's got ice in her veins and there's not anything that can bother her one way or the other.
"I just mean…" Molly sighs, flinching and feeling her stomach churn as she works on the suture, stitching it through Irene's skin.
She shouldn't even be doing this. Sure, she got all the training that Bart's gives their quote-unquote "real" doctors. Sure, she's technically one of them… but Molly's specialty is corpses-truth told, she only makes an exception for Irene because nobody else will. Generally, she prefers dead bodies to living patients. For one thing, there's no need for bedside manner. Nobody down in the morgue narrows their eyes and scoffs at you for fumbling the pen around or dealing better with kids than their parents or trying too hard to make conversation. Not when they're dead, anyway.
Never mind all those rules about not operating on people you have any sort of emotions over. Family. Friends. Whatever the right word for Irene is, since "lover" is too formal and Irene doesn't like "girlfriend."
(Apparently, calling Molly her girlfriend would be too easy to mix up with the platonic version of being girlfriends, but it's not like there's any compact way to go saying, "Person who makes your insides go wibbly-wobbly and feel like your legs are made of jam and kisses you like she wants to taste your soul and sometimes makes you think you should just ask her to elope, usually about the time she's got you handcuffed and she's brought out the riding crop and started caressing your face with it.")
Not that Molly can go bringing that up, not right at this moment. She sighs like a kettle going off, and snaps, "You're just lucky that it's not deeper or it might've nicked at some organs. You know, those things you might miss if they got hurt… You could've had to go to surgery-and John's been working there, he's on a shift, and… what, you think he'd buy that you're just… Miss Wilhelmina Morstan, my recently single cousin who got mugged?"
As Molly knots up this stitch and cuts the line, a thought occurs to her. A memory of hearing Doctor Watson explain how Sherlock could identify Irene's fake corpse. And just recalling that makes Molly bunch her lips up in a frustrated kiss face. "I mean… he'd recognize you by… not your face."
Irene grins. Snickers. Flicks Molly's forehead with one of her elegant, impeccably manicured fingers. "Oh, darling," she drawls, flashing her smile like a shark going in for the kill. "Once you've gotten me patched up, Doctor Hooper, do remind me to get you jealous more often. It's absolutely precious."
Molly sighs; her face falls and she turns her attention back to her work. Reaching for her bottle of antiseptic (because it's about time to dab at the wound again), she says, "Just so you know, you're always safe when I'm working on you… but if they hadn't made me take the Hippocratic Oath, I would seriously be considering taking advantage of how you don't like painkillers."
She doesn't mean it; it just feels good to say. And luckily, the concerned knot on Irene's brow melts away when Molly smirks up at her, starts threading her needle and starts up suturing again.
Author: amor_remanet
Prompt #: 02, "the High Priestess."
Prompt table: Q - tarot cards.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock.
Rating: PG-13.
Character/Pairing: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper.
Word count: ~840.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and most recently to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, who are life-ruiners and are also not me. Additionally, the TV series and its canon belongs to the BBC, which is also not me and I'm not a part of it. This is just for fun and there's no money being made, so please don't sue me.
Summary: Molly prefers corpses to living patients, but she makes an exception for Irene.
It really ought to be sexual, Molly thinks, or at least sensual. Or at least kind of sexy. There should be some kind of feeling here, while she's sitting between Irene's legs-not least, like, while Irene's leaning back and at some off angle, moaning and biting on her lip. Not least while she's got her thighs all spread out just so, like Molly should have her lips between them. And that's not saying anything about how close they are, how there's barely space for breath between their bodies…
But there's only one question on Molly's mind right now, as she stares at the cruel red, gnarled gash along Irene's side, the one she got when she went and decided to play rough-and-tumble with Moran and the rest of Jim Moriarty's surviving boys, for Lord only knows whatever reason: "Can't you ever just try to be more careful?"
Pausing her work with the needle, Molly wrinkles her nose and frowns up at Irene, at her pointedly stoic expression-lips pursed (and fading into the rest of her face as she wipes her lipstick off on a wet towel); eyes impassive, might as well be gemstones or something in that ivory face she's got on her. She's doing it again. The same thing she always does when she gets into scrapes like the one they've got on their hands tonight. Acting like she's got ice in her veins and there's not anything that can bother her one way or the other.
"I just mean…" Molly sighs, flinching and feeling her stomach churn as she works on the suture, stitching it through Irene's skin.
She shouldn't even be doing this. Sure, she got all the training that Bart's gives their quote-unquote "real" doctors. Sure, she's technically one of them… but Molly's specialty is corpses-truth told, she only makes an exception for Irene because nobody else will. Generally, she prefers dead bodies to living patients. For one thing, there's no need for bedside manner. Nobody down in the morgue narrows their eyes and scoffs at you for fumbling the pen around or dealing better with kids than their parents or trying too hard to make conversation. Not when they're dead, anyway.
Never mind all those rules about not operating on people you have any sort of emotions over. Family. Friends. Whatever the right word for Irene is, since "lover" is too formal and Irene doesn't like "girlfriend."
(Apparently, calling Molly her girlfriend would be too easy to mix up with the platonic version of being girlfriends, but it's not like there's any compact way to go saying, "Person who makes your insides go wibbly-wobbly and feel like your legs are made of jam and kisses you like she wants to taste your soul and sometimes makes you think you should just ask her to elope, usually about the time she's got you handcuffed and she's brought out the riding crop and started caressing your face with it.")
Not that Molly can go bringing that up, not right at this moment. She sighs like a kettle going off, and snaps, "You're just lucky that it's not deeper or it might've nicked at some organs. You know, those things you might miss if they got hurt… You could've had to go to surgery-and John's been working there, he's on a shift, and… what, you think he'd buy that you're just… Miss Wilhelmina Morstan, my recently single cousin who got mugged?"
As Molly knots up this stitch and cuts the line, a thought occurs to her. A memory of hearing Doctor Watson explain how Sherlock could identify Irene's fake corpse. And just recalling that makes Molly bunch her lips up in a frustrated kiss face. "I mean… he'd recognize you by… not your face."
Irene grins. Snickers. Flicks Molly's forehead with one of her elegant, impeccably manicured fingers. "Oh, darling," she drawls, flashing her smile like a shark going in for the kill. "Once you've gotten me patched up, Doctor Hooper, do remind me to get you jealous more often. It's absolutely precious."
Molly sighs; her face falls and she turns her attention back to her work. Reaching for her bottle of antiseptic (because it's about time to dab at the wound again), she says, "Just so you know, you're always safe when I'm working on you… but if they hadn't made me take the Hippocratic Oath, I would seriously be considering taking advantage of how you don't like painkillers."
She doesn't mean it; it just feels good to say. And luckily, the concerned knot on Irene's brow melts away when Molly smirks up at her, starts threading her needle and starts up suturing again.