The Coffee Shop

Chapter 6 - Wednesday 5th April, Lunchtime

Molly Hooper liked her job. St Bartholomew's was a good place to work, and she brought a certain insight and intelligence to the role. She had worked there for twelve years, tirelessly, and she could say that overall, she was satisfied.

Until Sherlock told her he loved her, and her whole world shattered.

She prided herself for her ability to look deeper into a person's façade. Molly knew she'd never be beautiful enough to star on covers of magazines, but she took care of her long brunette hair and, when she was feeling especially confident, applied black mascara to her eyelashes to open up her eyes. She liked feeling pretty. There was nothing wrong with that, she told herself, and got through the day by putting one foot in front of the other, alone, trying not to seem too vulnerable to anyone at all. She wanted the man with the dark curls and high cheekbones and general gorgeousness, but she told herself that she deserved better, she deserved happiness.

Besides, she still had some self-respect.

Maybe that's why she could tell that something was off.

He was busy with the case of James Grant, and she, with the morgue in St Bartholomew's, but he wasn't acting like his usual confident self. She missed that Sherlock, and she was curious as to what he was doing, right now, conventions be damned.

So she took a deep breath and phoned him up.

The phone rang, unanswered, several times, before she received a text.

Working. SH

"Oh no you don't." Molly said. And so she called again. "Pick up, pick up, pick up..."

"What?" The man asked, rather rudely, Molly thought, but she pursued regardless.

"You're not getting distracted, are you?" She challenged.

"No." Sherlock said. "I just spoke to someone who has a potential lead. Please. Don't ask."

"And does John know this?"

"What's it to you what John knows?"

Molly stopped. Maybe he had a point. Nevertheless, "He's your best friend. You haven't talked to him, have you? What are you afraid of?"

"Who's that?" Another woman's voice could be heard down the line.

Molly went cold.

"You're not with... oh Sherlock, not Irene Adler!"

"Is there a problem, Sherlock?" Her voice was low, but like silk. She was a tigress to Molly.

"Let me speak to her." Molly said. "I want to know what she's doing."

There was some shuffling sounds as Sherlock presumably passed the phone to Irene.

"This is rather odd-"

"You're using him, aren't you?" Molly burst out, furious.

"You seem awfully pent up. I get it – he is a gorgeous man..."

"Leave him alone!"

"I wasn't going to do anything. He called me, you know. I think he just wanted a chat, and if that leads to something more... how could I refuse? The man did save my life, after all."

Molly considered this.

"True... but he's not some... some..."

"Some?" Irene asked.

"Some toy!"

"Why do you care?"

"I don't! You're just using him. He's supposed to be working on a case."

"Molly," She drew a breath, "love; it takes two to tango. Neither of us are to blame - we're all only human at the end of the day."

Molly thought about the implications of what she said, and realised quite suddenly that she was right.

"...Oh." She said. But her morality was inflamed.

"Well." She began. She could hear Irene sigh with irritation, "While you two are getting lost in each other, there is an entire division at Scotland Yard working like dogs and parents all over London worrying their hearts out about whether the boy will be found. Put me on speaker."

"Sherlock, I know you're in pain, but for goodness' sake. Get. Over. It. For the boy's sake. For Lestrade's sake. For John's."

She knew these words would hurt him like a parent who reprimands their child; they were sharp, but sometimes people just needed to be told.

She hung up, gathered her folders together, and left the breakroom. She had a job, and she was damn well going to do it.

A stray tear slid down her cheek.