FIC but based on stuff that happened in ASIB, so SPOILERS!
Right, so full disclosure (you should know this by now if you've been following my silly little blog. NEEDS MORE CATS)...er, where was I?
Right. Full disclosure. I love me some Molly. I do, I do, I do! And even though most of my fics have been Molly / Sherlock, I really ship her with anybody, everyone. Or as one person on tumblr posted: I ship Molly / Happiness.
So when I watched A Scandal in Belgravia (so many thoughts on this episode but don't have the time to write them all down but one important thing I will say - it is possible to adore something even when you really look at it is spectatularly flawed - sum of its parts, etc etc or as I like to look at it: the way I feel about ASIB is the way Molly feels about Sherlock...okay, I might be losing my mind)...brain, will you please stop losing track of my thoughts? Thanks.
Anyway, so these Molly scenes in the episode...there seemed something off about them to me. Every last shot of Molly in her three scenes were a bit odd. The look on her face, as if she had a secret! The thing is, if they didn't mean anything, why would they put those in there? They are completely unnecessary. But because I'm so used to TPTB trying to be clever and putting clues in places whenever they can, I can't help but think that there is more to this than just pretty shots of Louise Brealey. And she is rather pretty. Corr, she's bloody gorgeous!
So, a bit of me hopes that she turns to be in cahoots with James "staying alive" Moriarty, because that would be awesome. And a bit of me is worried that they are going to pull a Rory and kill her off. Except the one who is really going to do a Rory is Sherlock because we all know he doesn't die! But Molly (my heart can't cope with this thought!) will forever be dead.
Then there's another bit of me that still hopes that Molly turns out to be a little BAMF. But then I had hopes about Irene and well...Moffat happened. Don't get me wrong, I fucking loved Irene and thought she was a BAMFY AS BAMF but Moffat...sorry...on with the thing...
And this thought, together with the odd little shots of Molly and this bit on John's blog:
has inspired this piece below.
M.H.
He finally meets her in person at DI Lestrade’s office. The meeting, of course, is deliberate.
She’s surprised by his introduction and mumbles, “So you’re Mycroft.” He is certain that whatever she’s heard about him could not have been flattering in the least.
He of course knows every important detail of hers. Her life had been reduced to a five-page dossier, neatly presented in a discreet folder. And then there was the CCTV footage.
She looks smaller than he thought she was. Perhaps it was the obvious signs of crying that made her seem more fragile. Otherwise, she looks calm. But then again, shock can mimic composure.
She answers his questions in a quiet, shaky voice. She does remind him of the mouse her blog claims her to be.
She asks if Sherlock and John are okay. She says John’s name carefully, like someone trying to commit something to memory. He briefly ponders this but dismisses it quickly. The answer was irrelevant.
He leaves their meeting reassured that she poses no threat to the nation. He never thought she did.
He understands why it’s so easy for Sherlock to overlook her. He doesn’t understand why she’s still persistently nice to him. After all, they are not related.
His thoughts are interrupted by a call.
“Yes?” he answers. He listens and already his mind sketches the blueprint to a plan.
Two weeks later, the planning is complete. The project has been extensively analysed, researched, studied. Except for the human element, it is perfect.
The human element, well, he tries his best to keep the involvement (and the damage) to a minimum. That is all that one can do. This is all that one can ever do.
It’s the living that pose the greatest problem. They always do.
The idea pops into his head during lunch one day. It finds its way in there only because the person he’s having the meal with is being spectacularly boring.
He questions why he’s never considered the idea before but then realizes because it is rather preposterous. He had other people for these kinds of things.
He spends the rest of the lunch nodding and smiling politely at the M.P., making appropriate comments here and there, while his brain processes all the advantages and pitfalls.
He finds himself drinking a cup of tea in the morgue at Barts that night.
She’s showing him the goods and he can read the questions in her eyes. She doesn’t voice them. Instead, she recites the details that he’s requested from her. She puts in a side commentary here and there. She sounds rather cheerful for someone who does this for a living. He finds this oddly comforting.
Given the criteria he'd presented to her, she’d found the perfect specimens and he leaves feeling slightly conflicted.
He goes over the plan again and includes her as one of the human elements. The conclusion he reaches in the morning is that the results have not changed, despite her inclusion.
The next time they meet, they are in an elegant tea room.
She’s nervous, it’s evident by the shaking of her tea cup as she raises it to take a small sip.
“Is this about Sherlock?” she asks.
He’s questioned his motives for doing this. After all, the inclusion of her is completely unnecessary. But he felt he owed her. He feels he owes her because he is his brother’s keeper. It's the only piece of sentimentality he allows himself. Everything else is strictly business.
“No,” he says and gives her a kind smile. His brother is the cause, but the choice of her is solely by her own merit.
He’s seen her work, knows the competence, appreciates the precise notes (even if written in very girlish handwriting).
Understands that what happens whenever Sherlock is around is an anomaly, that she’s not the Molly that Sherlock sees. That everyone sees when they’re with Sherlock.
He understands this because it’s the same with him. It’s always been that way. It will always be that way.
He gives her all the information she needs, which is not much considering the scope of the project.
She listens, her eyes showing him how much is going on in that mind of hers. This time he answers the questions she doesn’t ask. At first she seems surprised, but then a little smirk forms on her lips.
“Of course,” she says and he know what she means and in that moment he thinks that if he had time for things like that, he would like her. But there is no advantage to that. And honestly, he didn’t have the time.
“Won’t Sherlock know, though?” she asks.
He finds that he can’t quite bring himself to answer. Manners, he supposes, that have been ingrained into him since he was a young child. Manners that Sherlock had never really bothered with.
But it’s her turn to voice that which was in his head.
“What am I asking? He looks right through me. I sometimes think he fails to see every single real thing about me.”
Her voice is a little sad and again he is tempted to care. He really, really does NOT have the time for this but decides that conceding to liking her wouldn’t be much an inconvenience on his schedule.
He gives her two days to consider his proposition and when the deadline comes, she signs all the necessary papers. Her signature is of course girlish but she writes her name without any hesitation.
She’s very good at the task he has given her. He has of course never doubted that.
Though there was no need to, he makes a few visits to Barts. He tells himself that it’s to check on Sherlock. There had been a incident in the lab a few days ago.
She makes him tea and chats about what Sherlock has been up to. Again, it strikes him that her cheeriness seems a complete contrast to the austere settings but somehow it doesn’t jar. She belonged here and he meant that in the best way possible.
She asks what Sherlock was like as a child and he could swear a few weeks ago, she would’ve never dared to ask that question. Strange how a little consideration did wonders to ones confidence.
“The same,” he replies, a bit grumpily.
She smiles, “Difficult, you mean?”
He returns her smile.
It is then and there he decides that liking Molly Hooper is definitely not a waste of his time.
__
I don't know. My mind apparently can see this happening.
Right. Full disclosure. I love me some Molly. I do, I do, I do! And even though most of my fics have been Molly / Sherlock, I really ship her with anybody, everyone. Or as one person on tumblr posted: I ship Molly / Happiness.
So when I watched A Scandal in Belgravia (so many thoughts on this episode but don't have the time to write them all down but one important thing I will say - it is possible to adore something even when you really look at it is spectatularly flawed - sum of its parts, etc etc or as I like to look at it: the way I feel about ASIB is the way Molly feels about Sherlock...okay, I might be losing my mind)...brain, will you please stop losing track of my thoughts? Thanks.
Anyway, so these Molly scenes in the episode...there seemed something off about them to me. Every last shot of Molly in her three scenes were a bit odd. The look on her face, as if she had a secret! The thing is, if they didn't mean anything, why would they put those in there? They are completely unnecessary. But because I'm so used to TPTB trying to be clever and putting clues in places whenever they can, I can't help but think that there is more to this than just pretty shots of Louise Brealey. And she is rather pretty. Corr, she's bloody gorgeous!
So, a bit of me hopes that she turns to be in cahoots with James "staying alive" Moriarty, because that would be awesome. And a bit of me is worried that they are going to pull a Rory and kill her off. Except the one who is really going to do a Rory is Sherlock because we all know he doesn't die! But Molly (my heart can't cope with this thought!) will forever be dead.
Then there's another bit of me that still hopes that Molly turns out to be a little BAMF. But then I had hopes about Irene and well...Moffat happened. Don't get me wrong, I fucking loved Irene and thought she was a BAMFY AS BAMF but Moffat...sorry...on with the thing...
And this thought, together with the odd little shots of Molly and this bit on John's blog:
has inspired this piece below.
M.H.
He finally meets her in person at DI Lestrade’s office. The meeting, of course, is deliberate.
She’s surprised by his introduction and mumbles, “So you’re Mycroft.” He is certain that whatever she’s heard about him could not have been flattering in the least.
He of course knows every important detail of hers. Her life had been reduced to a five-page dossier, neatly presented in a discreet folder. And then there was the CCTV footage.
She looks smaller than he thought she was. Perhaps it was the obvious signs of crying that made her seem more fragile. Otherwise, she looks calm. But then again, shock can mimic composure.
She answers his questions in a quiet, shaky voice. She does remind him of the mouse her blog claims her to be.
She asks if Sherlock and John are okay. She says John’s name carefully, like someone trying to commit something to memory. He briefly ponders this but dismisses it quickly. The answer was irrelevant.
He leaves their meeting reassured that she poses no threat to the nation. He never thought she did.
He understands why it’s so easy for Sherlock to overlook her. He doesn’t understand why she’s still persistently nice to him. After all, they are not related.
His thoughts are interrupted by a call.
“Yes?” he answers. He listens and already his mind sketches the blueprint to a plan.
Two weeks later, the planning is complete. The project has been extensively analysed, researched, studied. Except for the human element, it is perfect.
The human element, well, he tries his best to keep the involvement (and the damage) to a minimum. That is all that one can do. This is all that one can ever do.
It’s the living that pose the greatest problem. They always do.
The idea pops into his head during lunch one day. It finds its way in there only because the person he’s having the meal with is being spectacularly boring.
He questions why he’s never considered the idea before but then realizes because it is rather preposterous. He had other people for these kinds of things.
He spends the rest of the lunch nodding and smiling politely at the M.P., making appropriate comments here and there, while his brain processes all the advantages and pitfalls.
He finds himself drinking a cup of tea in the morgue at Barts that night.
She’s showing him the goods and he can read the questions in her eyes. She doesn’t voice them. Instead, she recites the details that he’s requested from her. She puts in a side commentary here and there. She sounds rather cheerful for someone who does this for a living. He finds this oddly comforting.
Given the criteria he'd presented to her, she’d found the perfect specimens and he leaves feeling slightly conflicted.
He goes over the plan again and includes her as one of the human elements. The conclusion he reaches in the morning is that the results have not changed, despite her inclusion.
The next time they meet, they are in an elegant tea room.
She’s nervous, it’s evident by the shaking of her tea cup as she raises it to take a small sip.
“Is this about Sherlock?” she asks.
He’s questioned his motives for doing this. After all, the inclusion of her is completely unnecessary. But he felt he owed her. He feels he owes her because he is his brother’s keeper. It's the only piece of sentimentality he allows himself. Everything else is strictly business.
“No,” he says and gives her a kind smile. His brother is the cause, but the choice of her is solely by her own merit.
He’s seen her work, knows the competence, appreciates the precise notes (even if written in very girlish handwriting).
Understands that what happens whenever Sherlock is around is an anomaly, that she’s not the Molly that Sherlock sees. That everyone sees when they’re with Sherlock.
He understands this because it’s the same with him. It’s always been that way. It will always be that way.
He gives her all the information she needs, which is not much considering the scope of the project.
She listens, her eyes showing him how much is going on in that mind of hers. This time he answers the questions she doesn’t ask. At first she seems surprised, but then a little smirk forms on her lips.
“Of course,” she says and he know what she means and in that moment he thinks that if he had time for things like that, he would like her. But there is no advantage to that. And honestly, he didn’t have the time.
“Won’t Sherlock know, though?” she asks.
He finds that he can’t quite bring himself to answer. Manners, he supposes, that have been ingrained into him since he was a young child. Manners that Sherlock had never really bothered with.
But it’s her turn to voice that which was in his head.
“What am I asking? He looks right through me. I sometimes think he fails to see every single real thing about me.”
Her voice is a little sad and again he is tempted to care. He really, really does NOT have the time for this but decides that conceding to liking her wouldn’t be much an inconvenience on his schedule.
He gives her two days to consider his proposition and when the deadline comes, she signs all the necessary papers. Her signature is of course girlish but she writes her name without any hesitation.
She’s very good at the task he has given her. He has of course never doubted that.
Though there was no need to, he makes a few visits to Barts. He tells himself that it’s to check on Sherlock. There had been a incident in the lab a few days ago.
She makes him tea and chats about what Sherlock has been up to. Again, it strikes him that her cheeriness seems a complete contrast to the austere settings but somehow it doesn’t jar. She belonged here and he meant that in the best way possible.
She asks what Sherlock was like as a child and he could swear a few weeks ago, she would’ve never dared to ask that question. Strange how a little consideration did wonders to ones confidence.
“The same,” he replies, a bit grumpily.
She smiles, “Difficult, you mean?”
He returns her smile.
It is then and there he decides that liking Molly Hooper is definitely not a waste of his time.
__
I don't know. My mind apparently can see this happening.