Sherlock and Molly
Ten minutes after he’d sprinted out of the lab, Molly noticed his phone on the table. She gave it until the end of her shift, but he didn’t come back for it. She managed two whole hours without going through it, though, after the second, her curiosity got the better of her. Sitting beside her locker she fiddled with the phone, playing with the buttons so bright lights flashed on the screen. Surprisingly, she found there was no pass code, just one click of a button and Sherlock Holmes’s life was in her palm. The only photographs on there were of bodies and graffiti on walls. Nothing unusual for him, she thought to herself. As she toyed with it, she wondered what else there could be on it. She wasn’t a particularly nosey woman, just curious. She’d only ever received two text messaged from him in her life; one asking to use the lab, the second sent to her by mistake instead of his brother. Both times she’d almost choked on her own heart when she saw his name unexpectedly flash up on her phone.
The next thing Molly knew she was in his inbox of text messages, desperately searching for her name. She found the folder with their text messages; yes, still two. She should have locked the phone then and there, but instead she scrolled up, past all the boring messages between him, Lestrade and John until her attention stopped upon a contact listed simply as ‘The Woman’. Swallowing she clicked it. Message after message filed onto the screen, each one like a knife to the gut.
I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.
Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let’s have dinner.
John’s blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let’s have dinner.
I like your funny hat.
Oh for god’s sake, let’s have dinner.
You looked sexy on Crimewatch.
Let’s have dinner.
Molly snapped the phone off before she could read any of the current messages and let out a long hot breath. Curiosity had most definitely killed the cat.
It was only as Molly Hooper pulled up to the door of 221B did she ask herself what the hell she was doing. His phone in her lap she thrust some money at the cab driver and jumped out, bracing herself against the bitter cold. She remembered when Sherlock was x-raying someone’s phone, she thought it was his girlfriends phone, he asked why. She had replied that we all do silly things when we are in love, this was another one of those silly things, she thought. Paying a fortune for a cab halfway across London just to deliver his phone. She already knew he wasn’t going to say thank you, but she reasoned he’d need his phone pretty soon. She couldn’t believe he’d left it behind in the first place, although he had been rather engrossed in that woman’s phone at the time. She had contemplated keeping it until the morning, though she didn’t see the point. She didn’t really want to go trawling through it anymore incase she found anymore messages or, god forbid, picture messages which may make her want to eat her own heart.
Mrs Hudson let her in and she gently climbed the steps, pausing outside his flat. She wondered if he was home; knowing Sherlock probably not.
"Are you planning on standing there for much longer, Molly, or do you intend to come in?"
There was no sign of hesitation or questioning in his voice. Nothing to indicate that he was in the slightest bit uncertain that it was Molly Hooper standing outside his door. Some might have thought that strange, she had after all only been to their place on special occasions like Christmas or whenever else John had decided that Sherlock’s friends should join them. Not that John didn’t consider Molly his friend, as far as Sherlock could tell he was quite fond of the girl, though seemingly not romantically interested. The reason for Sherlock’s certainty was simple - he was in fact absolutely sure. Not due to some supernatural sixth sense, though many often thought that had something to do with perfectly reasonable deductions. This one was the result of a lucky look out of the window as he was playing the violin. And since Sherlock secretly loved a good prank, or just plain unnerving people with his intelligence, he’d quickly put down the violin and sat down in a chair and picked up a newspaper. Mrs Hudson had opened the door, something that was practically a habit of hers now, she never expected Sherlock to so in Johns absence she seemed to be on full-duty visitor welcoming.
What he didn’t know was why she was here. As previously mentioned, Molly was hardly somebody to make social calls at the Baker residence. Sherlock hadn’t called her, and there was no result that he was expecting - besides, why on earth would she deliver such a result personally. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what might have brought her here. There were many alternatives, but none of them reasonable or likely - either because they didn’t fit with her personality or because there was no reason for her not to call ahead of arrival. Or call him and ask him to get back to the morgue. I didn’t make any sense. He had that tingling feeling of absolute frustration that one gets when the answer is staring you in the face, yet you still can’t quite see it. Infuriating indeed.
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