Summary

Sherlock has been a right git. Molly needs a drink.

Story

"Enough!" Molly Hooper jabbed a finger angrily into the chest of the man towering over her. The petite pathologist fairly vibrated with outrage. "Not another word," she hissed just as he tried to reopen his mouth. "Just shut your gob already."

He rolled his eyes, further incensing the already irate woman. "Really, Molly, I don't think..." he started but got no further before Molly quickly interrupted him.

"That's it. Sherlock Holmes, I am revoking both your lab and morgue access," she declared.

"You haven't the authority," came the cool rejoinder. Sherlock leaned back casually against the lab table with a corner of his mouth drawn up disparagingly. Molly was sorely tempted to slap that smirk off his face. She settled for clenching them tightly by her side.

"Haven't I?" she retorted. "My lab, my morgue, my rules. Mike will back me up on this." The tall detective snorted in disbelief, making Molly glower belligerently at him. She was mad as hell and refused to be intimidated by him any longer. The more she gave, the more he demanded of her with nary a thanks or moment of consideration. Well, no more. It was about time she stood up for herself, stopped being a mat, a pushover or whatever as being nice had never gotten her anywhere with this impossible man. Their staring match continued apace, neither giving ground until incredibly, Sherlock's eyes flickered. It would have been imperceptible to the common observer but Molly Hooper was no mere mortal. She let out a triumphant "Ha!"

Sherlock's confident smirk faltered slightly at this but he recovered quickly, What about my work?" he demanded petulantly. Too late he noticed Molly's stormy expression and blinked, quickly deciding to change tack, appealing instead to Molly's overblown conscientiousness over what she saw as duty and responsibility. Pasting on an earnest look, he cajoled, "I'll need to examine the bodies that Lestrade sends in or murderers could go free. You don't want that do you? Their families need closure." He saw her face start to soften but then he put his foot in it, "Besides, I also have ongoing experiments that will be ruined."

Her gaze hardened. "Find another pathologist," she said uncompromisingly.

Sherlock scowled, "No one else will work with me." He looked to the side, tapping his long fingers impatiently on the table, trying to think of a new approach to mollify the small woman,disconcerted that he no longer seemed to be able to emotionally manipulate Molly.

Molly's mouth compressed into a thin line. "Too bad. You should have thought about that before you did what you did and topped it all off by opening your big fat mouth."

"I'm sure I'll be able to talk Mike around," he grinned cheekily at her.

"Maybe, but you still won't be allowed access without a pathologist in attendance and it definitely won't be me," she stated flatly. "Besides, he knows I have a standing invitation from Edinburgh." She left the statement hang, the threat implicit.

Sherlock felt on surer ground now, certain that Molly was bluffing. "Oh, please, like you would ever leave Barts." he scoffed, pushing off the table to encroach onto her personal space. His eyes flickered over her. Leaning down, he smiled knowingly and added, "or me" in a low, seductive voice next to her ear.

Molly paled. He knew! He knew how she felt about him and was trying to use it against her. She felt humiliated. The position in Edinburgh seemed very attractive right now. Perhaps it was time to give it serious consideration. A sea change, that's what she needed, a chance to start afresh, far away from the torment that was Sherlock Holmes. She'd long accepted that she'd be never more to him than his pathologist but also knew that there was never going to a chance for something more with anyone else as long as he remained in close proximity. Look at what happened to Tom. She saw a dismal future of nothing but loneliness, more work and heartache. She swallowed incipient tears and pushed the image to the back of her mind. Gathering herself, she straightened up and looked him in the eye. "Bastard," she whispered fiercely. "Thou art unfit for any place but hell," she quoted.

Taken aback by her vehemence, Sherlock's confidence faltered when he saw in her brown eyes the hurt that he had caused. He had been certain a few moments ago that Molly would never leave Barts or London. More to the point, she would never leave him, or would she? His heart skipped a beat at the thought and he realised belatedly to his dismay that he'd never given her an actual reason to stay. He was selfish in that he wanted her undivided attention. His work demanded it. She was the best and her uncanny ability to anticipate his needs in the lab bordered on the preternatural. Sherlock couldn't comprehend working with anyone else. He set out to monopolise her time. To this end, he'd managed to rid all hopefuls in the romance department in his usual manner and his demands on her time effectively curtailed her social life. As a result, Molly had no boyfriend and few remaining friends. True he'd thrown her a few well timed compliments to keep her sweet but he'd also made it clear that he was unavailable position in Edinburgh was more prestigious with better remuneration. There was nothing to keep her here. Logic dictated that she leave. This conclusion left him with a queer, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like it. Sherlock hesitated, reached for her, "Molly..."

She ignored him, "I am going home. I do not want to see you nor hear from you until you learn to treat me with a modicum of respect. I deserve at least that much." Molly sidestepped him to retrieve her coat and bag from the chair next to him where she had left them.

Frustrated, Sherlock spun around on his heel, clutching his hair wildly. He tried for a modicum of calm but failed spectacularlyhis heart beating a fierce tattoo. "This is ridiculous. Molly, you're overreacting. Stop being so stupid," he spat.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "Not helping your case," she ground out between clenched teeth. She stalked off towards the door of the lab. Just as she reached for it, she stopped and without turning around, asked softly, "Did you even stop to think for one minute how it would make me feel?" She waited. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt but couldn't find the words. She sighed and shook her head sadly. "I guess not so I suppose I don't really matter after all," she said in a pained voice. By the time Sherlock roused himself and started after her, she was already gone.

While all this was playing out, John Watson was standing at the back of the room trying his damnest to be invisible. In the sudden silence after her departure, John Watson looked up from his minute examination of his shoes to find Sherlock standing stock still in the middle of the room. He waited. Very slowly, Sherlock turned towards him. At his friend's lost expression, John sighed inwardly and he unclenched his fists as his urge to punch his former flatmate diminished. He shook his head and tutted, "I make it one minute and twenty five seconds."

"What?" Sherlock looked confused.

"You heard me." John folded his arms and frowned. "That's pretty much a record, even for you."

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. "You've been timing me?"

"I get bored too," John shrugged unrepentantly. "You usually tick people off a lot faster than that," he admitted. "but this is Molly Hooper. Takes a lot to make her angry. Hell, the woman's practically a saint when it comes to you but yet you managed it in under one and a half minutes of stepping foot in here." John pursed his lips. "What you did was more than a bit not good. I did warn you." He shook his head, "Would it kill you to be nice to the woman? She, of all people, deserves better after all that she's done and continues to do for you." He watched interested as a gamut of different emotions played across his ex flat mate's face: confusion, uncertainty, shame, regret, fear, sadness. He felt a small twinge of sympathy, albeit a very small one but still wasn't sure if he didn't want to punch the man.

Sherlock's shoulders deflated as comprehension dawned that he may gone a little too far. He looked at John with worried frown. "I've fucked up, haven't I?" he whispered. At John's curt nod, he begged, "How do I fix this?"

"I suggest you grovel like you've never grovelled before."

/ hiatus is boring / hiatus is boring / hiatus is boring /

A fuming Molly Hooper stepped out of Barts into the cold evening air. Git, arse, arrogant know-it-all, clot, idiot, moron, twat, dolt, berk, blockhead, toad, pillock, bastard, prat, prick, wanker,... She continued in this vein, her language getting saltier with each word until she ran out of invectives. Molly felt somewhat guiltily about the last few. People who knew her would be surprised that she had quite so wide a range of ahem, "adjectives" but oh, he deserved them and more. Molly couldn't wait to get home where she'd settle in on her sofa for cuddle with her cat, Toby and a glass of wine. Make that a very large glass, no, a bottle. She didn't get very far before she felt the first icy cold raindrop on her nose and a gust of frigid wind hit. Perfect, just perfect. In her hurry to leave Bart's, she'd forgotten her umbrella. No way was she going back for it. The ice started sleeting in earnest and within minutes, she was decidedly damp. Winter sucked. London rarely experienced nice fluffy snow, just this misery. She closed her eyes in resignation. Stuff the wine she needed something stronger. She hurried off purposefully towards the nearest Tesco.

/ hiatus is boring / hiatus is boring / hiatus is boring /

Feeling more human again after a hot bath, cocooned in warm, flannel pajamas covered with tumbling kittens and a fluffy bath robe, Molly sank into her comfortable sofa with a sigh, clutching her drink in one hand. She reached over to her side table for her TV remote resolving to tell Mike about Sherlock first thing in the morning. Why bother the poor man now? She was still fumbling with the TV remote in her other hand when her phone rang. Putting the remote down and picking it up, she saw the caller was Mary Watson. She flicked the answer button. "Hi, Mary."

"Hi, yourself," came the cheerful reply. "John told me what happened and I thought I'd see if you needed a shoulder to cry on, rant, vent, whatever."

"God, I don't even know where to start," moaned Molly, bringing her other hand to her forehead and almost spilling her drink in the process.

"Well, you can start by letting me in. I need to sit down. My feet are killing me. Also, I need to pee."

Chuckling, Molly got up to let her pregnant friend in. Opening her front door, Molly found her blonde friend smiling sympathetically at her. Mary raised a bag and said, "Brought drinks. Wine for you. Juice for me. Ice cream for both. Fudge too. Lots of fudge."

"Thanks. Come on in but as you can see, I've already started down the path of inebriation." Molly waved her half empty glass in the air.

Mary stepped into the flat and struggled out of her coat. She then made her way to the kitchen and put her bag down. "Now, if you would kindly excuse me for a minute. I'm busting."

Molly motioned towards her loo, "Sure, go ahead. You know where everything is.' She slugged back the remainder of her drink and was in the middle of preparing a second when Mary re-appeared.

"That looks interesting. What is it?" inquired Mary curiously.

"A spritzer." Molly kept building her drink.

"Is it your own concoction? I'm impressed."

"Don't be. Someone I dated once, created this drink for me. He was a bartender. Said I was special and he wanted me to have a drink like me; something happy and sunny but with hidden depths."

"Sounds nice."

Molly giggled, "The drink or the man?"

"Both?"

Molly dimpled, "This is delicious and so was he. He was irish."

"Ah!" Mary exclaimed knowingly while pouring herself a glass of juice. The two women laughed. Tell me more," she shooed Molly towards the sofa while observing her friend closely, seeking clues as to current emotional state. She saw the tightness in her Molly's eyes and the forced smile. Silently, she berated Sherlock for hurting her friend, again.

Molly sat down on it, curling one leg beneath her and said, "He really was quite sweet. Laughing eyes, dimples, fit, considerate, funny, fit, did I say fit? God, he was gorgeous. Molly smiled reminiscing. Her smile faded, "Pity it didn't work out but he wasn't..."

"Sherlock," finished Mary with an understanding look.

"Yeah," Molly nodded her head ruefully. "Does everyone know?" she asked with sad eyes, not really expecting an answer in the negative. She picked at a cushion on her lap.

"Sorry, yes. It's pretty obvious to anyone who knows you except maybe the great consulting detective himself."

"Believe me, he knows," replied Molly morosely. "And not above using it against me." The forlorn look was back in her eyes.

Damn. "Well, then, proves he's a git," said Mary stoutly.

A long drawn out sigh, "I know." To Mary's amazement, Molly suddenly doubled over laughing, clutching her pillow. Tears streaming down her face, she gasped out, "He really is". She took a few deep breaths. Calming down a bit, she said out of the blue, "I met a man the other day." She paused, sipping her drink.

Mary grinned at her, "And?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Molly waved her free hand in the air dismissively, "Nothing like that, unfortunately. He was a total stranger. He just wore the same cologne Sherlock uses." She continued, "So, froward hussy that I am, I asked him what he was wearing."

"Molly, Molly", teased Mary, shaking her head.

Molly grimaced, "I know. I'm one step away from turning into a stalker but in my defence even you must admit, Sherlock always smells good. Anyhow, he said it was Green Irish Tweed by Creed." Comprehension dawned on Mary's face. " Yep," nodded Molly. "Green Irish Tweed. G.I.T. Git by nature and now we know he smells like one too," choked the pathologist.

At least she's laughing. "Wait till I tell John," chortled Mary. "Wonder if Sherlock even realises".

"Mary, that stuff is £200 a bottle," said Molly in hushed tones. "I dropped by Harrods the other day and checked."

The blonde cocked her head to one side, "That's surprising, how? Look at the way he dresses with his bespoke suits and Belstaff coat. Those things definitely don't come cheap."

"You'd think they'd use more fabric in his shirts for what they probably cost. Those poor buttons. It's all I can do to avoid staring. I keep expecting them to pop at any moment. It's distracting and probably makes me look like a drooling idiot. Damn it. I'm a professional woman, only when he's around, I turn into a stammering mess. He uses me and I let him. God, I'm pathetic," said Molly irritatedly.

"No you're not," said Mary firmly. "John said you actually stood up to him today and gave him a piece of your mind in no uncertain terms," she pointed out. "In fact, he was certain you were going to slap him silly again and was a bit sorry you didn't."

"To tell the truth, those slaps really hurt. My hands stung. They probably ended up hurting me more than him judging from his lack of reaction," Molly confessed. She took a deep breath and burst out, "I've just have had it up to here with his shit. He's been such a bastard lately. It's like he deliberately goes out of his way to upset me." Mary threw her a sympathetic look but didn't interrupt. "He used to treat me like..." she paused, grasping for words, "...like a serf, yes, that pretty much describes it, a lowly serf, there to carry out his every command and he the despotic ruler. And God help me I let him because I fancied him. Anyway, I thought we were past that. I mean since his return, he was nice. But then, he relapsed, got shot and disappeared for weeks. When I read Magnussen had been shot, I knew Sherlock was involved in some way. I just don't know how and no one will tell me anything." She fell silent. Mary patted her hand awkwardly, feeling guilty but still wanting to keep her past a secret for now. Besides, she didn't know how to tell the whole story without revealing Sherlock's role in the whole sorry saga.

Molly rambled on, "The day Moriarty appeared on TV, he exploded into my lab like the bats of hell were after him. Sherlock told me before that he saw Moriarty blow his brains so what was that broadcast all about? I was so scared but he wouldn't answer any of my questions. He just stood there and stared at me for the longest time with this strange look on his face, then turned around and disappeared again. I didn't see him for ages. I was afraid all that time. I didn't sleep. I was a mess."

She closed her eyes and looked away. "I thought he'd forgotten about me," said Molly quietly. She continued, "I worried about him when there was no word. Then, one day, he waltzes in and tells me it's he's solved it. No explanation. Nothing, just that I didn't have to worry anymore. I don't understand it. Normally, Sherlock loves to talk to me about his cases, even if only to rant. I thought maybe it was because it was connected to Moriarty which was why he didn't want to talk about it so I didn't want to press him for details. You know how he can get."

Molly fiddled with her glass a bit and then looked up at her friend, "Do you know he's at Barts all the time now? He runs his experiments but won't talk to me, When he does, he's snippy and rude. I catch him looking at me sometimes with this really odd look like he's constipated or eaten something that disagrees with him but then he gets all huffy and storms off. The thing is I don't know if it's something I did or said... " Molly trailed off, shaking her head, "God, listen to me."

"John said he's been snarky, well more than usual but he won't say what's bothering him. Says Mrs Hudson has been complaining about his behaviour too. Playing the violin at all hours," Mary said slowly.

"What is up with that man?" wondered Molly.

"Who knows what goes on in that funny brain of his? Come on, we'll watch crap telly, drink our sorrows... well, you anyway." Mary scrunched her nose as she looked down at her drink, " I have my juice." She looked back up and smiled brightly, "Later, if you want, we can bitch some more about his royal high and mightiness of Greater Gitania." She sank back into the sofa and gestured towards the TV in the corner. "What's on anyway?"

Molly switched on her telly, "Looks like an old musical, South Pacific. Looks like it's half way through."

"Ooo, I love that number," exclaimed Mary just as a group of women showing a lot of leg came on screen and started singing, "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his way." Molly looked at her wide eyed. She smothered her urge to laugh at Molly's expression. "Got any shampoo? asked Mary wickedly.

Molly's Special Cocktail Recipe (1 shot/jigger/40ml)

Molly's Special

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(cut and paste link above, remove the extra . )

Ingredients:

20ml Vodka citron

20ml Triple Sec

20ml limoncello

20ml lemon juice cordial

20ml orange juice

125 ml sparkling citrus wine (or moscato)

1 tbs Pomegranate seeds

Stalk of mint leaves

6 ice cubes

3 slices lemon

Maraschino cherry garnish

500ml mason jar with straw

Method:

Put ice cubes in jar. Add stalk of mint leaves and lemon slices. Fill with the liqueurs, add juice to deepen colour and top with sparkling wine. Add a tablespoon of pomegranate seeds. This will look like little drops of blood (from Molly's wounded heart of course). Drop in a cherry or two. Serve with a plate of fresh, succulent cherries.

Recipe for limoncello

Limoncello is very easy and cheap to make. Zest 5 unwaxed or organic lemons with a microplane zester, being careful not to get any of the white pith as it is bitter. Add to a sterilised 1 litre mason jar. Add 500ml of cheap vodka. Screw on the lid and put aside out of direct sunlight for a week, shaking the jar daily. You can actually leave it for up to a month. The longer you leave it, the stronger the flavour. At the end of the week dissolve 1 cup of sugar in 1 cup boiling water. You can increase the sugar for a sweeter limoncello or add more water for a milder drink. When cool, add to the vodka/ lemon zest mix. Leave for another week. At the end of the week, strain until the liquid is clear. Bottle. Refrigerate and serve well chilled. Drink within 2 months.

Notes

1. Kudos to anyone who can id Molly's quote.

2. I freeze my unused pomegranate seeds and that is what I use in my drinks. This drink tastes like a light spritz but packs a bit more of a punch. My photo shows strawberries because cherries aren't in season at the moment and I'm not paying $22/kg for imported cherries.

2. Creed's Green Irish Tweed is nice though personally, I prefer Aventus. The closest knockoff at a fraction of the price is Davidoff's Cool Water. Not sure if Sherlock would wear GIT but let's not let that get in the way of a story. It has been alleged that Green Irish Tweed and Cool Water were both created by the same nose, Pierre Bourdan which is why they smell similar.