A hard and difficult thing
Notes: I usually don’t like to portray Molly like this, but hey, I’ve been in her shoes and I hope it doesn’t make me an airhead. Inspired by En svår och jobbig grej by Lars Winnerbäck.
Summary: How Molly earned the “married to my work”-speech.
***
Molly watched the door to the morgue close behind Sherlock. The smile she had been wearing in his presence slowly faded and, just as it disappeared completely, she rubbed her eye - too late realising that she had put on mascara today.
Rats!
With a sigh she looked down at the dead woman on the table and couldn’t help wondering if he’d notice her if she died. She zipped up the bag and rolled the body back to the fridge.
This…this was so not the life she had imagine for herself when she’d been a girl; spending more time around dead people than living ones and pining after a man who just saw her when it was convenient for him.
Her naive girlhood dreams had contained the normal fairy tale moments, the Prince Charming, the white meringue-like dress and a red stroller. And unicorns. There had been a lot of unicorns in her dreamt up future back then. Then puberty and reality hit at roughly the same time and the dreams had shifted slightly towards becoming a paediatrician, meeting a handsome and kind man at university maybe, having a couple of kids in the suburbs.
Obviously that hadn’t happened.
She wasn’t unhappy with her life; she was just not content with it at all. By now she was in her 30’s, single, worked odd hours that made socialising hard and tragically hung up on a man that was so obviously not interested it was embarrassing.
With an angry bang she slammed the door shut behind the dead woman. It made her feel a bit better. Silly really, but silly solution to a silly problem. Quite fitting she thought. Not a long-term solution, surely, but she settled for this right now.
***
Just reach out and touch my hand.
She just left it there, her left hand that is, on top of the table, in very close proximity to the microscope; while she finished writing down what he told her.
All he needed to do was reach for it, touch it, take it. He would never. She knew that. Still she left her hand there; hopefully not too obvious, hopefully it looked like at least a semi-natural pose. Hopefully he got the hint though and would actually take it. Or just touch it.
Who was she kidding?
“Did you get that last bit?” he wondered, his voice doing things to her intestines she knew was not physiologically possible.
“I think so, yes,” she answered, feeling a blush she couldn’t fight off, “4.73 g witherite, which would make it…ehm…” - she made a fast estimate in her head while tapping the pen against the notebook - “about 3.5 g barium…but that’s probably a bit high, more likely 3.3 or 3.2. I don’t have a calculator.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time and, even more blushed than earlier, she looked up to see what was going on. His eyes studied her with greater interest than she had ever experienced before.
“You know the molar mass for barium carbonate,” he stated with a hint of surprise.
“Y-yes.”
“How come?” His eyes narrowed as if he suspected why but wasn’t completely sure.
Because then you might notice me.
“Long hours in the morgue you know,” she said with a smile, shrugging as if it was nothing. It was not a lie; she had been studying the periodic table for weeks, knew it almost by heart now. Chemistry had never really been her thing, but she was okay at math, so just thinking about it as equations made it a bit more relatable. Maybe she should have become an engineer instead? Mum would have been happier anyway.
He smiled. He actually smiled. Molly’s knees turned into ice-cream and in a nervous giggle she unscrew the tip of the pen, making the spring jump out and fly away over the table. She hardly noticed. If she could, she would have him smile like that all the time.
“You should try to go out instead,” he informed her, the smile disappearing, “You look pale.”
“I-I-I…mostly work nights,” she stuttered, her smile vanishing instantly. How could he ever tell that she was pale under the alarming shade of red that seemed to follow her around whenever he was present?
“Oh,” he sounded like this was news to him, but he had to know. Right? He knew the times he could come and see her. Not that he ever did unless he wanted something, but he knew, right? “Well, then there’s nothing to keep you from being outside during the day.”
“N-no….” Molly had no idea what to say or how to react, but he was probably right. Except that she needed to sleep.
“That’s it for today Molly,” Sherlock said, almost mechanically, getting dressed without looking at her.
“Anytime,” she said, nodding, smiling insecurely as he reached out and ripped out the paper from her notebook where she had scribbled down his notes. Their fingers met each other for a fraction of a second, sending a tingling through Molly’s body.
Without another word he disappeared from the lab she had let him into without permission, leaving her, as so many other times, just staring at the door.
“I’d settle on a ‘Thank you’,” she told the room.
***
She wasn’t this woman.
Really, she wasn’t.
She had never been one of the most confident people in the world, but once upon a time she’d had an ounce of self-respect.
Now she was standing in front of the mirror in her bathroom, fixing her hair in a way Sherlock had once told her she looked cute. She didn’t even think about doing it at first, but when she did, she tore it up.
“It was like shooting a sitting duck,” she hummed, reaching for the mascara instead of the hairpins, “A little small talk, a smile and baby I was stuck.” Sigh. “I still don't know what you've done with me….A grown-up woman should never fall so easily.”
O no, they really shouldn’t. It was so painfully obvious that he was manipulating her, so obvious that she saw it herself. Still he let him do it. Over and over and over again. Because even if it wasn’t real, at least it made him smile at her, pretend to notice her.
“I feel a kind of fear. When I don't have you near….Unsatisfied, I skip my pride….”
She watched her reflection in the mirror. Telling herself off with a pop song? Maybe she wasn’t allowed to call herself ‘a grown woman’ anymore. This was stupid.
She was better than this.
***
Why did she let him continue to do this? By now this had become more her fault than anyone else’s. Sherlock did what he did because it worked and he would continue to do so until it didn’t.
Unfortunately, her decision to never do Sherlock any favours again just stood until Sherlock came and asked her for a new thing. It was always the same thing; a smile, a compliment and request. Then as soon as she had let him into the morgue (or the lab or the whatever) she seemed to become invisible to him. Or something best ignored…like a mosquito bite.
That’s what she was to him. A mosquito bite! Maybe not a perfect parable.
She hated that she had a crush on Sherlock Holmes.
***
“Evening Molly.”
God. He was standing so close behind her she could actually feel his body heat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath - unintentionally inhaling his scent, making herself dizzy - before turning around with her usual ‘Sherlock-smile’.
“Sherlock! Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?”
Yes. It’s always a bad time.
“No, not at all,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that she still held a needle connected by a thread to the old man she’d almost stitched back together, “Do you need anything?”
He just looked at her, telling her that she should know exactly what he wanted and that the question was stupid. She looked down, trying to remember what she had promised him this time. He had nothing running in the lab - just the culture and it needed at least 36 more hours to grow; he hadn’t asked her for body parts in a long time - which was good, she hated to give that to him; did she know about a body coming in from a murder? No….
She had no idea. God. What had she forgotten this time?
“I don’t know Sherlock. Just tell me,” she said and looked up at him again, feeling beaten and ridiculed under his gaze. Then she reached down into her right lab coat pocket with her left hand, “or even better; take my keys! Not that you seem to need them, but still. Just return them after you copied them.”
Sherlock looked absolutely puzzled and did nothing to take the keys.
“For the love of….” Molly muttered, putting down the needle and reaching for his hand - just like she had wished he should have done so many times - and placed the keys there before pulling her pass card off her coat, slamming it on top of the keys in his hand. “Take this as well. You need it to get into the chem. supply. My code is 77-79-“
“83, I know,” Sherlock finished, still looking confused, “Yours and your sisters’ birth years.”
“Of course you know that,” Molly muttered, “Anything else?”
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, pocketing the keys and the card before leaving.
Once again Molly found herself staring at a door Sherlock had disappeared behind. This time she had a strange feeling of adrenaline pumping in her body though. It felt great to have told him off, finally, but it was wildly disturbing that she had just let him run off with her keys and pass card.
***
There was a slight knock on the doorframe to her office - or the very, very small room in the back of the morgue where she had placed her desk and called her office. When she looked up from her laptop she saw Sherlock standing there, looking a bit disturbed.
“Sherlock! Hi.” A smile worked its way over her lips. Why did that always happen? And why did she always sound so perky when she greeted him?
“Have I offended you Molly?” Sherlock wondered without entering. It was a very confusing question, but that was the rule when it came to Sherlock’s questions.
“No,” she shook her head weary. There was no way she was going to tell him how much he repeatedly hurt her. Honestly, sometimes she thought he didn’t know better.
“Your keys and your card,” Sherlock took the only step needed to reach the desk and placed her belongings in front of the laptop. She wished she could see if he had copied them, if he had, she would probably get in trouble. Wouldn’t have to see him though, so it would probably make her life easier.
“Molly, I….” Sherlock straddled at the door and turned to her again; it could actually be the first time Molly had ever heard him hesitate, “I’m flattered by your interest, I am, but I’m not looking for that kind of relationship. I consider myself more or less married to my work and I’m rather satisfied with the professional relationship we have at the moment. But if you’d find it uncomfortable I can find other arrangements. You should know that I consider you somewhat of a friend and it’s not my intention to upset you.”
“Oh. Oh….Ehm….” Molly felt a complete loss of words. If anything, this made her feel uncomfortable. Of course he knew. The speech felt rehearsed, like he had told someone the same thing before. On the other hand, it was delivered with the same determination as when he had told her she was a middle child with only sisters, liked cats and jogged twice a week the first time they’d met. “You haven’t upset me.”
“I clearly have,” Sherlock said, “I apologise.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Molly smiled again, same smile as always, it almost felt fake. Maybe it was. Right now she was pretty taken; embarrassed that Sherlock knew about her feelings, moved that he considered her a friend and completely crushed to have her hope taken away even if she’d known it would never have been fulfilled.
“Right,” Sherlock give a small nod, “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to count my cells.”
“Okay,” Molly nodded as Sherlock turned and walked away. When the door to the morgue closed she put her forehead on the table top.
She hated her life.
Starting tomorrow, she was going to change it!
Summary: How Molly earned the “married to my work”-speech.
***
Molly watched the door to the morgue close behind Sherlock. The smile she had been wearing in his presence slowly faded and, just as it disappeared completely, she rubbed her eye - too late realising that she had put on mascara today.
Rats!
With a sigh she looked down at the dead woman on the table and couldn’t help wondering if he’d notice her if she died. She zipped up the bag and rolled the body back to the fridge.
This…this was so not the life she had imagine for herself when she’d been a girl; spending more time around dead people than living ones and pining after a man who just saw her when it was convenient for him.
Her naive girlhood dreams had contained the normal fairy tale moments, the Prince Charming, the white meringue-like dress and a red stroller. And unicorns. There had been a lot of unicorns in her dreamt up future back then. Then puberty and reality hit at roughly the same time and the dreams had shifted slightly towards becoming a paediatrician, meeting a handsome and kind man at university maybe, having a couple of kids in the suburbs.
Obviously that hadn’t happened.
She wasn’t unhappy with her life; she was just not content with it at all. By now she was in her 30’s, single, worked odd hours that made socialising hard and tragically hung up on a man that was so obviously not interested it was embarrassing.
With an angry bang she slammed the door shut behind the dead woman. It made her feel a bit better. Silly really, but silly solution to a silly problem. Quite fitting she thought. Not a long-term solution, surely, but she settled for this right now.
***
Just reach out and touch my hand.
She just left it there, her left hand that is, on top of the table, in very close proximity to the microscope; while she finished writing down what he told her.
All he needed to do was reach for it, touch it, take it. He would never. She knew that. Still she left her hand there; hopefully not too obvious, hopefully it looked like at least a semi-natural pose. Hopefully he got the hint though and would actually take it. Or just touch it.
Who was she kidding?
“Did you get that last bit?” he wondered, his voice doing things to her intestines she knew was not physiologically possible.
“I think so, yes,” she answered, feeling a blush she couldn’t fight off, “4.73 g witherite, which would make it…ehm…” - she made a fast estimate in her head while tapping the pen against the notebook - “about 3.5 g barium…but that’s probably a bit high, more likely 3.3 or 3.2. I don’t have a calculator.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time and, even more blushed than earlier, she looked up to see what was going on. His eyes studied her with greater interest than she had ever experienced before.
“You know the molar mass for barium carbonate,” he stated with a hint of surprise.
“Y-yes.”
“How come?” His eyes narrowed as if he suspected why but wasn’t completely sure.
Because then you might notice me.
“Long hours in the morgue you know,” she said with a smile, shrugging as if it was nothing. It was not a lie; she had been studying the periodic table for weeks, knew it almost by heart now. Chemistry had never really been her thing, but she was okay at math, so just thinking about it as equations made it a bit more relatable. Maybe she should have become an engineer instead? Mum would have been happier anyway.
He smiled. He actually smiled. Molly’s knees turned into ice-cream and in a nervous giggle she unscrew the tip of the pen, making the spring jump out and fly away over the table. She hardly noticed. If she could, she would have him smile like that all the time.
“You should try to go out instead,” he informed her, the smile disappearing, “You look pale.”
“I-I-I…mostly work nights,” she stuttered, her smile vanishing instantly. How could he ever tell that she was pale under the alarming shade of red that seemed to follow her around whenever he was present?
“Oh,” he sounded like this was news to him, but he had to know. Right? He knew the times he could come and see her. Not that he ever did unless he wanted something, but he knew, right? “Well, then there’s nothing to keep you from being outside during the day.”
“N-no….” Molly had no idea what to say or how to react, but he was probably right. Except that she needed to sleep.
“That’s it for today Molly,” Sherlock said, almost mechanically, getting dressed without looking at her.
“Anytime,” she said, nodding, smiling insecurely as he reached out and ripped out the paper from her notebook where she had scribbled down his notes. Their fingers met each other for a fraction of a second, sending a tingling through Molly’s body.
Without another word he disappeared from the lab she had let him into without permission, leaving her, as so many other times, just staring at the door.
“I’d settle on a ‘Thank you’,” she told the room.
***
She wasn’t this woman.
Really, she wasn’t.
She had never been one of the most confident people in the world, but once upon a time she’d had an ounce of self-respect.
Now she was standing in front of the mirror in her bathroom, fixing her hair in a way Sherlock had once told her she looked cute. She didn’t even think about doing it at first, but when she did, she tore it up.
“It was like shooting a sitting duck,” she hummed, reaching for the mascara instead of the hairpins, “A little small talk, a smile and baby I was stuck.” Sigh. “I still don't know what you've done with me….A grown-up woman should never fall so easily.”
O no, they really shouldn’t. It was so painfully obvious that he was manipulating her, so obvious that she saw it herself. Still he let him do it. Over and over and over again. Because even if it wasn’t real, at least it made him smile at her, pretend to notice her.
“I feel a kind of fear. When I don't have you near….Unsatisfied, I skip my pride….”
She watched her reflection in the mirror. Telling herself off with a pop song? Maybe she wasn’t allowed to call herself ‘a grown woman’ anymore. This was stupid.
She was better than this.
***
Why did she let him continue to do this? By now this had become more her fault than anyone else’s. Sherlock did what he did because it worked and he would continue to do so until it didn’t.
Unfortunately, her decision to never do Sherlock any favours again just stood until Sherlock came and asked her for a new thing. It was always the same thing; a smile, a compliment and request. Then as soon as she had let him into the morgue (or the lab or the whatever) she seemed to become invisible to him. Or something best ignored…like a mosquito bite.
That’s what she was to him. A mosquito bite! Maybe not a perfect parable.
She hated that she had a crush on Sherlock Holmes.
***
“Evening Molly.”
God. He was standing so close behind her she could actually feel his body heat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath - unintentionally inhaling his scent, making herself dizzy - before turning around with her usual ‘Sherlock-smile’.
“Sherlock! Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?”
Yes. It’s always a bad time.
“No, not at all,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that she still held a needle connected by a thread to the old man she’d almost stitched back together, “Do you need anything?”
He just looked at her, telling her that she should know exactly what he wanted and that the question was stupid. She looked down, trying to remember what she had promised him this time. He had nothing running in the lab - just the culture and it needed at least 36 more hours to grow; he hadn’t asked her for body parts in a long time - which was good, she hated to give that to him; did she know about a body coming in from a murder? No….
She had no idea. God. What had she forgotten this time?
“I don’t know Sherlock. Just tell me,” she said and looked up at him again, feeling beaten and ridiculed under his gaze. Then she reached down into her right lab coat pocket with her left hand, “or even better; take my keys! Not that you seem to need them, but still. Just return them after you copied them.”
Sherlock looked absolutely puzzled and did nothing to take the keys.
“For the love of….” Molly muttered, putting down the needle and reaching for his hand - just like she had wished he should have done so many times - and placed the keys there before pulling her pass card off her coat, slamming it on top of the keys in his hand. “Take this as well. You need it to get into the chem. supply. My code is 77-79-“
“83, I know,” Sherlock finished, still looking confused, “Yours and your sisters’ birth years.”
“Of course you know that,” Molly muttered, “Anything else?”
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, pocketing the keys and the card before leaving.
Once again Molly found herself staring at a door Sherlock had disappeared behind. This time she had a strange feeling of adrenaline pumping in her body though. It felt great to have told him off, finally, but it was wildly disturbing that she had just let him run off with her keys and pass card.
***
There was a slight knock on the doorframe to her office - or the very, very small room in the back of the morgue where she had placed her desk and called her office. When she looked up from her laptop she saw Sherlock standing there, looking a bit disturbed.
“Sherlock! Hi.” A smile worked its way over her lips. Why did that always happen? And why did she always sound so perky when she greeted him?
“Have I offended you Molly?” Sherlock wondered without entering. It was a very confusing question, but that was the rule when it came to Sherlock’s questions.
“No,” she shook her head weary. There was no way she was going to tell him how much he repeatedly hurt her. Honestly, sometimes she thought he didn’t know better.
“Your keys and your card,” Sherlock took the only step needed to reach the desk and placed her belongings in front of the laptop. She wished she could see if he had copied them, if he had, she would probably get in trouble. Wouldn’t have to see him though, so it would probably make her life easier.
“Molly, I….” Sherlock straddled at the door and turned to her again; it could actually be the first time Molly had ever heard him hesitate, “I’m flattered by your interest, I am, but I’m not looking for that kind of relationship. I consider myself more or less married to my work and I’m rather satisfied with the professional relationship we have at the moment. But if you’d find it uncomfortable I can find other arrangements. You should know that I consider you somewhat of a friend and it’s not my intention to upset you.”
“Oh. Oh….Ehm….” Molly felt a complete loss of words. If anything, this made her feel uncomfortable. Of course he knew. The speech felt rehearsed, like he had told someone the same thing before. On the other hand, it was delivered with the same determination as when he had told her she was a middle child with only sisters, liked cats and jogged twice a week the first time they’d met. “You haven’t upset me.”
“I clearly have,” Sherlock said, “I apologise.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Molly smiled again, same smile as always, it almost felt fake. Maybe it was. Right now she was pretty taken; embarrassed that Sherlock knew about her feelings, moved that he considered her a friend and completely crushed to have her hope taken away even if she’d known it would never have been fulfilled.
“Right,” Sherlock give a small nod, “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to count my cells.”
“Okay,” Molly nodded as Sherlock turned and walked away. When the door to the morgue closed she put her forehead on the table top.
She hated her life.
Starting tomorrow, she was going to change it!