Sherlock and Molly
Molly could see he was trying to figure her emotions out, with that stare of his, most times she was sure he didn’t even know he was doing it because he was concentrating. She was surprised he hadn’t blurted anything out yet, that was usually part of their morning meetings. She looked down once again to the sheet, glancing over the page that contained the information on the first hand.
“It was just displaced, do you want that one too?” she asked but after the words left her mouth she knew he would probably reply with naturally or of course molly think next time. That is what the replies were normally when she asked questions, yet she asked them anyway, she always told herself to move on but never took her own advice. She put the folder down on the table, its use exhausted, she already knew where they were. Someone passed the glass window that stood to their right, she glanced over but they were already gone.
Her co-workers wouldn’t arrive for quite sometime, they knew she would be there early as always so they normally slept in. She didn’t mind, she liked the quiet that came with working alone, she was used to it. Molly absent mindedly picked off the few cat hairs that clung to her shirt. Her cat Toby was one of the only things that liked being around her, and she loved him, as much as anyone can love a animal. She wondered what Sherlock thought of animals but seeing his aversion to most people she thought it would be better not to ask him.
He paused for a moment, as to think about it, then shook his head.
"Actually, no. One should be enough." He paused again. "For now."
She put the sheet down as something distracted her outside - a man, mid thirties, blond hair - but she didn’t linger and nor did he. Sherlock deleted the information as soon as he’d acquired it.
There was a short silence as Molly didn’t instantly run off to get him the hand, but rather stopped for a moment and picked a few stray cat hairs off her shirt - either she’d been hugging the cat before getting to work, or the shirt was on it’s second day of use. Sherlock didn’t much care for animals, though he could occasionally see their purpose. He supposed he was more of a dog person, though he’d once at university been described as feline.
Social custom dictated he was supposed to participate in some form of small talk, and since he’d been assured of his hand he figured he could play along if it meant this all went quicker.
"Was your weekend, eh, nice?"
The tone was uncharacteristically unsure, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether it made sense to ask the question, and whether he actually wanted to know.
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