Just because - Part 2
Sort of fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt Molly/Sherlock One More Night
Part 1 here or here
Thank you to the lovely prompter and the commenters! :D
As mentioned previously, fluff and crack might feature heavily. I found a few files of just dialogue on my computer and I decided to use them in this fic. I had this A to B to C to End outline in my head, but as I kept adding the bits I had and writing more, I found myself wanting to go on and on and on. So at the moment, I do know how it's going to end but no sure how it's going to get there.
Notes about Sherlock: It's my personal headcannon that while he's smooth and suave and slick in situations where he has to play a role and/or lie to get what he wants, he's really awkward and slightly clueless when it comes to human relationships. Hence the probable OOCness.
Anyway, on with the story.
___
It’s just a silly phase I’m going through
At 23:56, he quietly slipped into Molly’s empty flat. As he flicked on the lights, something soft brushed against his legs and he was greeted by a curious meow.
He picked up Toby, who instantly purred in delight. Carrying him in his arms, Sherlock made his way down the hall, stopping by the living room. A DVD case of something called “Jonathan Creek” was lying next to a Sudoku omnibus on the couch table. A pink - what had she called it? - snuggie was crumpled on the couch. Toby wriggled out of his arms and buried himself in it.
He made his way to the kitchen. A few dishes in the sink. She’d probably asked the old lady from downstairs to feed the cat while she was away. He filled the half-empty water bowl. He checked her fridge, noticed that the milk would be off by Monday.
She’d spilled some beige powder in the bathroom sink and she was running low on shampoo. He inhaled, the scent so very familiar, so very her.
There were clothes on her bed, outfits that hadn't made the cut. The sheets were different. Still feminine and floral but a deep purple now and not the pastel pink of last time. He sat down on one side, surveying the room.
Something had happened here that night. Something that had changed her mind about him. Something he didn't know, and worse, didn't understand.
He opened the drawer of the nightstand. She preferred featherlites, something that had secretly thrilled him. There had been three left, by his count. The box was empty now. He shut the drawer.
At 16:12 on Sunday, he clicked on the first newly tagged photo of her. Amateur, could do a bit of work with the lighting, but all in all not bad. That particular shade of hot pink wasn’t her colour, but the cut of the dress suited her. Clear lines that hugged all the right curves. He clicked for the next photo.
Her eyes were round and her mouth open in a big laugh. She was clutching a large bouquet of white flowers. Lilies and freesias. The dress did good things to her cleavage.
She had her leg draped over a man’s shoulder in the next one. His hands where somewhere under her dress. He couldn’t tell if she was blushing, the picture quality too low and the lighting too dark. She was still laughing, though. The look on the man’s face was unmistakable.
The next one was of her with the bride, the man in the background and judging by the eye line checking either of the ladies’ bums.
He looked through more photos. The man was in half of them. There was one of Molly and him smiling at each other on the dance floor. He found himself staring at it longer than necessary.
He checked the tag - Michael Jones - clicked on the link. Nothing, save for the basic information.
“I know we’ve had this conversation before but do you mind not fraping me?” John said, standing right behind him.
“Your fault for making access so easy,” he drawled, “And I haven’t changed anything, just looking at photos.”
“If you want to stalk people on Facebook, get your own account,” John muttered.
“What? And deal with ignoring all the friend requests?”
John snorted, “Your ego, it knows no bounds.”
Sherlock ignored him, clicking to the next photo. It was Molly posing with the other bridesmaids. That colour had most likely been chosen because it flattered none of them.
“Is that Molly?” John asked, leaning down to get a closer look. He wolf-whistled. Sherlock gave him an irritated side glance.
“Do you mind?”
John looked at him, then grinned.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
John shook his head, “Nothing.” He wandered off into the kitchen, to make tea, judging by the time of day.
"I'll have three of the ginger ones, thanks, " he said, opening up a new tab and calling up a special search engine. He entered Michael Jones name.
"There aren't any left," John replied.
"The chocolate ones, then," he said, reading the information on the screen. As far as the database was concerned, Michael Jones was a law abiding citizen.
"There aren't any biscuits left," John said, emphasis on the word 'any'.
Sherlock didn't bother looking up from what he was doing. “Mrs. Hudson will have some.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
"The corner shop's still open. They should have some."
"Sherlock, I'm not going out in the bloody rain to get you some biscuits. If you want some, you get them," John huffed.
He looked up, surprised that it was raining. "When did it start raining?"
"Shortly after noon. Haven’t you noticed?"
"I have been occupied."
"With what? The Whitechapel murders?"
The answer was a no but he said "Yes. And there’s something off."
"Excuse me?"
"I examined the bodies on Friday. There’s something off. "
"Off?"
"Yes," he replied, refining the search criteria on Michael Jones. There had to be something.
"And?"
“Hm?” Hello, what was this? Quickly reading through the profile and the comments left, Sherlock smiled in delight. Oh, and the videos! He clicked play one the first one and the flat filled with theatrical moaning and groaning.
“Sherlock, are you watching porn?”
“No. Better. Am-dram!”
A tinny “Stella!” came through the laptop speakers. Michael Jones was no Marlon Brando.
Suddenly feeling cheered by this, he stood up, got his coat and announced to John, “I’m getting biscuits.”
"You're wearing pyjamas!" John called after him.
By the time he reached the corner shop, half-soaked, he decided that he needed to act quickly if he wanted to get back in with Molly. While he had no doubt that he was vastly superior to any Michael Jones out there, he wasn’t sure he would win a direct competition. He had the uneasy suspicion that he was at an disadvantage. It didn’t sit well with him.
He couldn’t have Molly distracted by anyone else, while he was distracted by her.
He texted John to bring some money for the biscuits.
Part 3
Part 1 here or here
Thank you to the lovely prompter and the commenters! :D
As mentioned previously, fluff and crack might feature heavily. I found a few files of just dialogue on my computer and I decided to use them in this fic. I had this A to B to C to End outline in my head, but as I kept adding the bits I had and writing more, I found myself wanting to go on and on and on. So at the moment, I do know how it's going to end but no sure how it's going to get there.
Notes about Sherlock: It's my personal headcannon that while he's smooth and suave and slick in situations where he has to play a role and/or lie to get what he wants, he's really awkward and slightly clueless when it comes to human relationships. Hence the probable OOCness.
Anyway, on with the story.
___
It’s just a silly phase I’m going through
At 23:56, he quietly slipped into Molly’s empty flat. As he flicked on the lights, something soft brushed against his legs and he was greeted by a curious meow.
He picked up Toby, who instantly purred in delight. Carrying him in his arms, Sherlock made his way down the hall, stopping by the living room. A DVD case of something called “Jonathan Creek” was lying next to a Sudoku omnibus on the couch table. A pink - what had she called it? - snuggie was crumpled on the couch. Toby wriggled out of his arms and buried himself in it.
He made his way to the kitchen. A few dishes in the sink. She’d probably asked the old lady from downstairs to feed the cat while she was away. He filled the half-empty water bowl. He checked her fridge, noticed that the milk would be off by Monday.
She’d spilled some beige powder in the bathroom sink and she was running low on shampoo. He inhaled, the scent so very familiar, so very her.
There were clothes on her bed, outfits that hadn't made the cut. The sheets were different. Still feminine and floral but a deep purple now and not the pastel pink of last time. He sat down on one side, surveying the room.
Something had happened here that night. Something that had changed her mind about him. Something he didn't know, and worse, didn't understand.
He opened the drawer of the nightstand. She preferred featherlites, something that had secretly thrilled him. There had been three left, by his count. The box was empty now. He shut the drawer.
At 16:12 on Sunday, he clicked on the first newly tagged photo of her. Amateur, could do a bit of work with the lighting, but all in all not bad. That particular shade of hot pink wasn’t her colour, but the cut of the dress suited her. Clear lines that hugged all the right curves. He clicked for the next photo.
Her eyes were round and her mouth open in a big laugh. She was clutching a large bouquet of white flowers. Lilies and freesias. The dress did good things to her cleavage.
She had her leg draped over a man’s shoulder in the next one. His hands where somewhere under her dress. He couldn’t tell if she was blushing, the picture quality too low and the lighting too dark. She was still laughing, though. The look on the man’s face was unmistakable.
The next one was of her with the bride, the man in the background and judging by the eye line checking either of the ladies’ bums.
He looked through more photos. The man was in half of them. There was one of Molly and him smiling at each other on the dance floor. He found himself staring at it longer than necessary.
He checked the tag - Michael Jones - clicked on the link. Nothing, save for the basic information.
“I know we’ve had this conversation before but do you mind not fraping me?” John said, standing right behind him.
“Your fault for making access so easy,” he drawled, “And I haven’t changed anything, just looking at photos.”
“If you want to stalk people on Facebook, get your own account,” John muttered.
“What? And deal with ignoring all the friend requests?”
John snorted, “Your ego, it knows no bounds.”
Sherlock ignored him, clicking to the next photo. It was Molly posing with the other bridesmaids. That colour had most likely been chosen because it flattered none of them.
“Is that Molly?” John asked, leaning down to get a closer look. He wolf-whistled. Sherlock gave him an irritated side glance.
“Do you mind?”
John looked at him, then grinned.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
John shook his head, “Nothing.” He wandered off into the kitchen, to make tea, judging by the time of day.
"I'll have three of the ginger ones, thanks, " he said, opening up a new tab and calling up a special search engine. He entered Michael Jones name.
"There aren't any left," John replied.
"The chocolate ones, then," he said, reading the information on the screen. As far as the database was concerned, Michael Jones was a law abiding citizen.
"There aren't any biscuits left," John said, emphasis on the word 'any'.
Sherlock didn't bother looking up from what he was doing. “Mrs. Hudson will have some.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
"The corner shop's still open. They should have some."
"Sherlock, I'm not going out in the bloody rain to get you some biscuits. If you want some, you get them," John huffed.
He looked up, surprised that it was raining. "When did it start raining?"
"Shortly after noon. Haven’t you noticed?"
"I have been occupied."
"With what? The Whitechapel murders?"
The answer was a no but he said "Yes. And there’s something off."
"Excuse me?"
"I examined the bodies on Friday. There’s something off. "
"Off?"
"Yes," he replied, refining the search criteria on Michael Jones. There had to be something.
"And?"
“Hm?” Hello, what was this? Quickly reading through the profile and the comments left, Sherlock smiled in delight. Oh, and the videos! He clicked play one the first one and the flat filled with theatrical moaning and groaning.
“Sherlock, are you watching porn?”
“No. Better. Am-dram!”
A tinny “Stella!” came through the laptop speakers. Michael Jones was no Marlon Brando.
Suddenly feeling cheered by this, he stood up, got his coat and announced to John, “I’m getting biscuits.”
"You're wearing pyjamas!" John called after him.
By the time he reached the corner shop, half-soaked, he decided that he needed to act quickly if he wanted to get back in with Molly. While he had no doubt that he was vastly superior to any Michael Jones out there, he wasn’t sure he would win a direct competition. He had the uneasy suspicion that he was at an disadvantage. It didn’t sit well with him.
He couldn’t have Molly distracted by anyone else, while he was distracted by her.
He texted John to bring some money for the biscuits.
Part 3