holmestice | Fic for eanor: A Sort of Fairytale

Title: A Sort of Fairytale
Recipient:

eanor
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Non-graphic autopsy procedure and minor death. A little dark.
Summary: Some people have sharp edges. Some people have to be carefully kept.

A Sort of Fairytale

Part I.

She picked that theme for her blog because Meena was breathing wine fumes across her shoulder and giggling and egging her on to design the silliest, fluffiest, girliest layout possible on the theory that it would "draw blokes like dead flies," which made sense only through the fog of red zinfandel (the wine had met her two primary criteria: it cost under ten pounds and had a cute label. "Sin Zin" turned out bloody tasty as well). And it had been, well, quite a while since Molly had pulled, shall we say, possibly because she would forget to lie about her work. If she wanted to date outside the hospital, which, yes please, she needed to remember to be a stockbroker or a waitress, and not someone who cut up corpses and ran assays on H1N1. So claimed Meena.

Molly hated lying. The blog was a compromise: her real profession, wrapped in an allusion, shrouded in cerise, and blunted by kitten fur. Besides, she liked kittens. She liked bunnies better, but even Molly had limits.

“Who was the last bloke you dated? Was it Robert?” Meena asked. “Is there more wine? Bottle’s gone all empty.”

“Robert, yeah. Haven’t talked to him in months, mind.” Molly wandered to her kitchen in search of more wine. “Not that I miss him much. He was nice, but. Um.”

“No good in bed,” Meena hissed.

“I wouldn’t know,” Molly said glumly.

“Ouch.”

“He checked for blood under my fingernails one night.”

“Double ouch. Bollocks to Robert.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve met someone who. Well, sort of met. Well, we definitely met but I don’t know if he considered it meeting or just a way to pick up…”

“… a pretty girl?”

“Disarticulated feet. But, Meena, God, was he fit. Tall, and dark, and intense. And fit. And he really seemed to notice everything about me.”

"Stick to essentials," Meena said. "How's his arse?"

"Shrouded in mystery. He wore this huge coat. But indications are positive."

“Does he know about your blog?”

“No, but I’ve read his. I mean, I’m trying not to stalk him through the Internet. But. He’s in the morgue a lot. So he already knows what I do, and he’s in sort of the same line of work. That’s good, right?”

“Certainly can’t hurt. What did he notice about you? That you have big brown eyes, or a cute little nose?”

“No, it was… it was odd stuff, really. He’s a detective. And maybe a pathologist. But he works as a detective now. All these little things about me, like… I took ballet for six years but never learned pointe, and my hand lotion gave me a rash so I stopped using it last month, and I have a younger sister. Just by looking at me, he knew all of this stuff.”

“Hmm.”

“But I’ve started saving eyeballs especially for him. So I know he’ll be back.”

“Tits and eyeballs; sure. No red-blooded man could resist either.”

~~//~~

Another thing to keep in mind regarding Molly Hooper:

She talks to her people. That's how she thinks of them: her people. Not cadavers, or patients, or cases, although she has no problem maintaining a clinical mindset, is quite good at it actually, very meticulous with her checklists and reports, not at all impaired by keeping a running commentary interspersed with encouraging little cries, such as "Oh, lovely liver you had there, must have really watched your alcohol intake! Pity it was a bus after all, eh?"

This is actually not uncommon in her field.

“I talk to my skull,” said a male voice one morning, as Molly was elbow-deep in the remains of Mr Edward Bellamy (76, DOA, cirrhosis) and holding forth a spirited discourse about his spleen. She squeaked and nearly dropped her scalpel somewhere less than extractable.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I meant the skull in my flat, not the skull in my head. Hard to say which one is less likely to listen to me, really. Speaking of skulls, I’m Sherlock Holmes. Doctor Singh had left a head here for me to take to my lab for analysis. Could you possibly fetch it for me? Once you’ve got your scalpel back, I mean?”

Tall, dark, and tousled. The shining, orderly coils of Molly’s ileum and jejunum and duodenum evaporated, leaving behind a bowl of white-hot jelly shot through with glitter. And unicorn hoofprints. And raw lust.

“Er, Doctor Singh retired last week, actually, but I think he. . . Do you have the paperwork for that? Where’s your lab affiliated, then?”

“Oh, I’m freelance now. Doctor Singh kept a human tissue log for me, but we dispensed with the formalities a while back,” he smiled. “Still, it has a copy of my HTA paperwork, if you’d like to assure yourself of the legalities.”

She gave him his head, and was too rattled to even think about making a double entendre out of it.

~~//~~

She found Sherlock Holmes’ file, eventually. It was not actually on the computer. It was an honest-to-God handwritten file shoved in the bottom drawer of Doctor Singh’s (now Molly’s) desk.

It was thick, but erratic. The scrawls got a bit more casual as the dates progressed. Tissue donor L-238, F, 38, spleen and kidneys 2007-10-03, to S. H., HTA lic. 097176 was gradually succeeded by SH - Male, 57, left testicle, Jan. 2009, and then by several pages just labeled “Holmes” and a date.

The final page was blank except for a post-it note. It read,

Oh, I give up. It’s for the greater good anyway. Just let the bastard take whatever he wants. –Dr S.

Mostly, Molly did.

~~//~~

She was embarrassed she’d let it go on that long, even. She should never have -– well.

Her eyes stung. She wouldn’t cry; she would not. She dropped the coral-stained tissue in the bin.

Bollocks to you, Sherlock Holmes, she thought.

And when he cornered her in the cafeteria, fishing for a way to get at those two bodies so he could prove a case, she watched the subroutines and circuits click click click behind those glacial eyes: compliment hair. Compliment intelligence. Imply possibility of coffee later. Crowd her space until she can smell the spicy thick smell of his wool coat, his skin. It didn’t so much work as fascinate her: the whole process by which he attempted to fold, spindle, and mutilate social interactions without any apparent understanding of how they actually worked.

So she pulled the bodies back out. It was more for her own curiosity.

And then he solved a crime. Because Molly gave him the evidence he needed. Which was all the incentive she needed to keep on bending the rules for him.

Part II.

"We’ve got an urgent incoming from GOSH, Molls," Sharon said rapidly. "They can’t process it, they’re overloaded from that wreck on the M-4. The files should be on your desk in thirty minutes -- sorry it can't be sooner; the computer's being a right pain and we can't find the new guy in IT, probably gone and hid in the loo rather than deal with that madhouse..."

There was a brief and horrified pause, which Molly ignored. She’d had months of practice by this point. It didn’t really even hurt any more.

“...anyway, tell Dr. Barrow it's being treated as suspicious, so the coroner ordered a full autopsy.”

"Oh, no. Dr. Barrow's at an inquest all day and Dr. Burkett’s out as well," said Molly. "How soon do they need the results of the post?"

"Yesterday."

“I’ll start it, then, and Dr. Barrow can sign off.”

“Oh, but...I didn’t know you were...” Sharon trailed off.

"Yeah, I passed my paeds boards three months ago. Only they keep me at this pay grade because, well. You know, the budget. But I’m definitely authorised for paeds path.”

“Ta, then. We’ll be down in a tick.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sharon and an orderly delivered the new case. After they left, Molly logged the time. Then she went to the lab door, checked up and down the hall, pulled her head back in, and locked the door behind her.

Just then, of course, her mobile went off with a text from Sherlock.

On my way. Urgent need for

those tongues we discussed.

Have ready.

--S.H.

She texted back:

No. The lab is closed for the next thirty minutes.

Go to cafeteria. Coffee would be nice. Three creams, one sugar.

--M.H.

"Just a moment, then," she told the zipped bag.

She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk where the officially unofficial supplies lived – tampons, teabags, the occasional bar of emergency extra-dark chocolate – and shoved Sherlock's file out of the way. From the back she extracted a manila folder that was stapled roughly around a sheaf of papers like a cheap cover protector. She jammed the folder into one armpit and, two-handed, dragged the heavy lab stool awkwardly behind her to the autopsy table, cursing once when it banged painfully against her heel.

She put on fresh gloves, unzipped the bag, folded the edges down carefully, and seated herself with a little hop on the stool. She started to read the folder’s contents aloud.

After a minute she stopped. "Oops," she muttered, and trotted back to the desk, where she dug out a large specimen bag. The bag contained something shaped vaguely like an American football, only longer. It looked squashy. And floppy. And quite horribly, given its context, brown.

She propped the bagged item up against the channelled lip of the autopsy table, right where it would be in the theoretical sightline of its occupant, were the occupant still capable of sight.

It was a stuffed rabbit. More or less.

It was unspeakably manky. The ears were crusty and the belly was matted in little spikes and the once-white parts were covered with discolorations and stains best left unexamined, which is why she started bagging it a while back; she may be soppy and sentimental, but she was also a scientist.

Molly picked up the folder and seated herself again.

"Where were we?" She flipped the page. "Okay. 'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

" 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

" 'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' “

Afterwards, she dragged the stool back to the office, locked the toy and the disguised book back in the bottom drawer, unlocked the lab door, and picked up her digital recorder, which she promptly dropped with a scream.

Sherlock had been watching her through the lab window the whole time.

She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. She was just… startled. And embarrassed. And a little angry. And he was not holding coffee. She yanked the door open and snapped, “Well? Are you going to spy on me, or are you going to get your tongues out of the drawer? Only I’ve an urgent post to start here.”

He actually stepped back, the fake-affable smile sliding off his face and back into wherever he stored it. Then he stepped into the lab. Molly ignored him, pulling her coveralls and face shield out of the locker.

She heard him open the chiller drawer and remove the soft tissue bags. A soft clink as he shut it. Then: "Does it help?" he asked.

Molly blew out her breath. “Does it help? That was a four-year-old. So, no, and yes. It’s my little ritual, and it helps me do my job. And doing my job well helps him, or at least the people who... But I don’t want to hear... Don’t tell me I’m superstitious or sentimental, all right? I already know that. We’re not all like you, Sherlock. I’m not a, a robot or a computer brain. I’m just a normal person.”

Instead of leaving, Sherlock leaned against the wall. His face was oddly closed off. Molly realized she’d never really seen him without a pre-packaged expression, unless he was so intent on whatever he was doing at the time that he forgot to make his face look like whatever he wanted someone to believe he was feeling.

One corner of his mouth lifted. Softly, with deliberate irony, he quoted, “ ‘Does it hurt?’ ”

Molly's chest tightened and her chin jutted out and her eyes narrowed, braced for retaliation, before she realised that any hint of mockery, if mockery there was, had not been directed at her. Slowly, on a controlled exhale, she nodded.

Sherlock opened the lab door and stooped. He picked up the steaming cup of coffee from the hallway floor and slid it a little ways into the lab. He stood and said, “I’ll be sure never to make that mistake, then. But thanks for the tongues.” He paused. Awkwardly, he added, “Your contributions to my work...they are not unappreciated. I want you to know that.”

Molly nodded again. Sherlock left.

She held her coffee, thinking.

It took a very long time for the warmth to creep up into her hands.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

cathedralcarver.livejournal.com

Oh my. Wow. I don't think I've ever really read a story that examines the complexities of Molly and Sherlock's unique.....er....relationship, and this just nails it, perfectly. I adore Molly, and she really doesn't get enough attention, y'know? Not on screen, not in fic. And the treating the corpses as "her people?" Guh. And ordering Sherlock to bring coffee? Brilliant. And this:

“But I’ve started saving eyeballs especially for him. So I know he’ll be back.”

SO Molly, so perfect, made me laugh, so there. I adore your style :)

From:

because holiday exchanges are fun

Fic for eanor: A Sort of Fairytale

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