Molly Hooper entered the mortuary with a fresh corpse. Behind her a tall man with dark curls and very pale skin paced with his long legs up beside the corpse. As she parked the body with all the other bodies her co-worker zipped the bag open to reveal the face of an elderly man.
„I knew him. Nice man, used to work down in the hardware dealer store on the corner," Molly said a little upset.
Her colleague shot her a penetrating stare and she sealed her lips into a thin line. He retrieved a small magnifying glass from his inner coat pocket and started to analyze the body down to every possible detail. Molly mirrored his behaviour but that only caused him to look doubtful at her and when she met his eyes they were icy. From now on she'd better keep her hands to herself - which actually was quite silly since she worked here and had as much right to examine the body as Sherlock. It was Sherlock she, madly enough, was in love with but the feelings was quite obvious not mutual.
„I wondered..." Molly hesitated hastily stroking a strand behind her ear. „If you want to have coffee?"
Sherlock pulled off his plastic gloves.
„Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs," he offered her a kind smile and vanished upstairs to the laboratory.
It was those brief moments that made Molly love him. Not that it was what she meant by "have coffee", obviously, but that was okay. She got a smile from him and his focus was on her the very short second. Molly scolded herself for letting such a stuck-up prat stomp her down once again but went out humming to make the black coffee with exactly two tea-spoonful of sugar to Sherlock.
As she came into the lab with the two mugs in hand Mike Stamford and some other guy were visiting Sherlock. Sherlock was in the middle of ripping the poor stranger to the bone with his bragging deduction skills.
„Oh, hi Molly," he paused as she came level with the blond guy who stood dumbfounded and clearly awkward as Sherlock walked towards her to retrieve his mug.
„What happened to the lipstick?" He asked as if he couldn't care less and waved his hand as he took a careful sip.
„It didn't work," said Molly uncertainly.
„It worked perfectly for me. Your mouth is... too small now,"
Molly snorted twitchy but worked up a smile anyway. Sherlock returned to his microscope to look at some samples when suddenly something struck him.
„Sorry, gotta dash - I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary," he took his trench coat from the coat tree and walked past them with a whoosh. A deadly silence dominated the laboratory until the fellow started asking questions.
„That's it? We're moving in together and I don't know you - I don't even know your name," he frowned sceptical clearly judging the whole situation as ridiculous. Sherlock stopped in the doorway.
„The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he winked and went off leaving his currently new flat mate and his colleagues exchanging awkward glances.
^^ - APPROXIMATELY 4 MONTHS LATER - ^^
Sherlock and John entered their flat a late Thursday night after a successful time in the lab. John felt exhausted and relieved as he plopped down in his armchair to feel the instant comfort surround him. Sherlock mimicked his behaviour and let out a calm sigh. They had been up late every night in more than a week because of a flood of different cases. This night they had come as close as to say another case was solved.
„It was nice of Molly to stay and help," John mentioned gratefully. Sherlock replied with a hum.
„I mean the fact that she was there all the time helping though it is past midnight - and she even provided us with coffee," John continued and he could feel Sherlock might have blocked him out - put him on mute. Jokingly he continued;
„You do know she thinks you have boyfriend material, right?"
Sherlock shot daggers at him but John just repelled them with light-heatedly laugh.
„It's quite obvious, John - but as I have told you - feelings is a human error,"
John arched an eyebrow and chuckled sarcastically. „Sure,"
He rose from the armchair to make a cup of tea leaving Sherlock in the sitting room.
„You know, Sherlock, sometimes I wonder why you think so," John said thoughtful from the kitchen.
„You know why," Sherlock sighed exasperated and stretched his long body. John stopped in the doorway with the steaming mug in hand to gaze at him. John narrowed his eyes.
„Actually, no... You haven't,"
„Haven't I? I have not. No I mustn't have. Well -" Sherlock weaved his fingers to support his chin. He gazed at John through half-lidded eyes.
„Your bad," he leaned back in the chair, smirking. John rolled his eyes and made himself comfortable in his chair again.
„No matter what you think about the bloody feelings, you still should be more kind to Molly,"
„Why?" Sherlock tapered his eyes leaning forward towards John.
„You know... She actually does a great deal for you without you noticing," John shrugged his shoulders but remained resolute.
„I sure do notice everything of importance," Sherlock said uncomprehending. John rubbed his brow with a sigh.
„Oh boy, I wonder how you got me convinced to be your friend since you keep fending off people who wants to get close to you, Sherlock,"
„You're not "close to me", John," Sherlock said bluntly which made John shut completely.
They sat staring at each other like they were worst enemies for an uncertain amount of time. It felt exactly like first time when Sherlock had showed off in the lab and left John awkwardly speechless. The situation seemed so childishly dispensable but if John opened his mouth to speak now he would just regret but anyway he cleared his throat.
„Definitely should consider being more nice to people in general, though," John murmured as he launched him off the chair. Sherlock's face remained emotionless.
„Where are you going?" Sherlock asked perplexed.
„To bed. I'm tired," John replied short and went up the stairs.
Sherlock tugged his legs up under his chin and stared sulking out in the darkness of the room. This position always had some immature kind of comfort to him. John's words were on replay in his mind but he didn't dwell by them. Feelings are a no good to an analytical brain that needs to take information from the observed and not take involvement in anything else but the pure facts. John should be well aware of this technique by now.
~ o ~
John Watson sat fidgeting in the waiting room outside the ward where Sherlock was taken care of from doctors and nurses. Patients with major injuries were coming and going regularly. John gnawed the flesh inside of his cheek leaving it ragged and with a faint taste of iron. He could be in there helping out his friend but he had to trust his fellow doctors.
Molly Hooper waved tensed to him from a crowd of rushed nurses and patients.
„Sometimes I tend to forget my workplace is actually a hospital," she giggled confused and took a seat beside John who nodded.
„And I seemed to forget that bad injuries also can occur to your friends here," he offered a thin smile. He looked exhausted which made Molly uncertain.
John snorted frustrated. „I received a call from Lestrade that Sherlock had been knocked unconscious pretty badly and that he is now staying at the hospital. It's possibly a concussion."
Molly's eyebrows pulled together in concern;
„I wonder what he was doing." She mumbled mystified.
„No idea. When Greg met me here he told me Sherlock had come to him before - desperate to fend off the boredom," John shook his head but couldn't help smiling because the whole scenario - before the hospital, though - was so Sherlock. He could well imagine Sherlock walking out the door any minute with a great, joking smile on his lips welcoming them all with energetic "jazz-hands". That little, brilliant dickhead.
John waved to Mrs. Hudson. She joined them with a bright smile clearly trying to cheer them up. Molly and her chit-chatted a bit until the doctor came out to confront them and they all gazed questioningly upon him.
„One of you can enter," he said flatly.
Molly and Mrs. Hudson laid their eyes on John.
„I think you should go," Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly as she patted his lap comforting.
John rose from his chair and was led inside by a tap on his back from the doctor.
Sherlock lie on the bed with a bandage around his head and by his left temple a bloodspot had been soaked into the syntethic fabric. A couple of drips were attached to his exposed lower arms which supplied him with fluid. Discolouration was slightly visible across his left cheekbone and eyebrow. His dark curls lie higgledy-piggledy and framed his pale and slender face. John had seen much worse in his life but he had never ever got used it - especially not when it was concerning his friends.
He sat on the bedside running his eyes over Sherlock to keep himself convinced that his flat mate was in good hands.
„He's had a concussion. He mumbled something that reminded of an apology - I'm not sure," he scratched his scalp. But John knew exactly what kind of apology Sherlock had mumbled about. He asked if he could be alone with the patient a couple of minutes if that was okay. The doctor nodded and pointed seriously:
„I'll give you two minutes,"
„I won't need more," John proclaimed as the door closed behind him.
He returned his gaze to the injured yet pretty face of his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. Carefully he stroked a bunch of lively curls away from his face and flattened his palm on his forehead. The heat from beneath the bandage was noticeable. A sudden urge to take Sherlock home to nurse him himself gnawed on John.
„Listen, Sherlock, I know you can hear me whether you're unconscious or just resting," he glanced towards the door but the two minutes hadn't gone yet.
„I just want you to know that no matter if you think you don't have friends, I have no idea what you would call that bunch of people outside who's really concerned about you." John clasped Sherlock's hand.
„Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and I," he squeezed his hand briefly by every name but Sherlock's face remained unchanged. The second there was a rustling by the door, John let go of Sherlock's hand and collected his thoughts.
In the doorway he stole one more glance at Sherlock who seemed to mime something inaudible.