This is a very late entry for the Sherlolly Valentine's Day ficathon that happened over in Tumblr. To eclecticmuses, I'm sorry that I'm such a terrible Valentine's anon. I've actually started this before S3 aired and lo and behold, we were blessed with Tom and it just breathed new life into this fic. Unfortunately, I'm slow when it comes to CPR so that's why I'm late. Unbetae'd so all mistakes are mine alone.
.
.
.
.
No indentations or tan line. Given that Tom's ring was two sizes too big and was constantly removed for work, it wouldn't have altered any evidence.
Sherlock adjusts a knob on the side of the microscope, moves his head closer to the eyepiece, but turns his attention back to Molly Hooper. Her left hand, to be precise.
If she didn't wear it everyday, it could've been as recent as seven years ago. No, no, of course not. It must be more than seven. Molly Hooper is the kind of woman who-
What do I really bloody know about Molly Hooper, anyway?
He slams his hands on the table and glares down at his sample. From the opposite corner of the lab, he can hear John struggle to get back on the stool he'd been napping on until a few seconds ago.
"Sherlock?" He lifts his eyes to where Molly sits nearby with her paperwork. She turns to him, and whatever she sees on his face leaves her looking surprised. "Are you," she cuts herself off and nods to the microscope instead. "Unexpected results?"
Sherlock smiles thinly. He ignores the wary look on John's face. "Precisely."
.
.
.
.
Yesterday Afternoon
"Mr. Holmes, please-"
"Mr. Hughes," Sherlock bites out so severely that John cringes mid-sip of his tea, "you've told me your case, I said I'm not interested, so do close the door behind you. You'll have more luck with the local police."
"Right, sorry about him." John sighs and stands from his chair. Despite his obvious dislike for this part of the job, his doctor's bedside manner is impeccable. "Especially since you came all the way here from Sussex." Sherlock ignores the glare thrown his way and busies himself with his mobile. "Let me call you a cab to the station."
The redheaded man-non-smoker, non-drinker, and either a drop out from law or medicine before starting a successful business (judging from his wrists, software)-slipped on his coat and smiled, if a little tiredly. "I'd appreciate the cab but there's no need to apologize, Dr. Watson." Mr. Hughes follows to the door. "Molly warned me but I had to at least try-"
Molly?
"Stop." Sherlock crosses the room in three strides before he practically towers over Mr. Hughes again. "Did you mean Molly Hooper?"
"Yes," the other man answers carefully and something flashes in his eyes.
Sherlock tilts his head, his interest finally piqued. "You said that Molly warned you, so you two are more than acquaintances. I would leave it at friends, but no, there's more to it than that. You haven't been around the past five years: no Christmas presents, no birthday wishes, and no dinners." There's a smugness to his voice that surprises the two other occupants of the room.
A beat passes before Sherlock shifts his attention back to Mr. Hughes, and picks up from where he left off. "A childhood friend, then. I'd say sweetheart, but," the consulting detective trails off, opting not to state the obvious. His curiosity sated, Sherlock walks back to his chair.
"You're wrong, Mr. Holmes." Mr. Hughes looks amused when Sherlock whips back and rounds on him a second time. "To be fair, you got most of it right."
"There's always something." Sherlock sniffs. Clapping his hands together, he looks down sharply at the other man."I suppose you're going to tell me that a young Molly Hooper once had a penchant for straightlaced boys, who enjoyed doing their homework together after lectures, the occasional game of football-no, rugby, and going to the pub on weekends." Something other than the image of Tom niggles his mind and it makes his words come out more vicious than usual. "I'll be sure to tell Molly that her ex-boyfriend-"
"Husband. Ex-husband."
John and Sherlock freeze, eyes meeting before they settle on Mr. Hughes smiling face. In the silence that settles over 221B Baker Street, they can hear Mrs. Hudson's radio from her flat below.
.
.
"I don't suppose you can tell me what that was about?" Molly asks John even though her eyes are glued to the still swinging doors. Sherlock is always one for dramatic exits, but it's been years since the last time he abandoned an experiment to rush out of the lab. The doors eventually close and Molly turns back to her paperwork.
"I'm sure he wouldn't want me to say but I'm a bit curious myself. Well, a lot, to be honest."
"Sounds important." Pushing the stack of forms to the side, Molly gestures to the now empty stool beside her. She finally notices the odd look on John's face-somewhere between disbelieving and curious-and starts to worry. "What happened?"
"We met Garrett Hughes yesterday," John says with deliberate casualness.
"Ah. He didn't listen to my advise then." Molly smiles weakly. She looks at her unfinished paperwork for a moment before turning back to John. "Does Sherlock think I've been hiding this from him?"
"Weren't you?"
"I honestly thought Sherlock knew, that he figured it out in his usual way or it came in a folder from that brother of his. I assumed he never brought it up because, well, it's irrelevant, isn't it? Same reason I never said anything." Molly left thumb absentmindedly runs over the base of her left ring finger. "Plus it's been so long and it's not really something I think about."
John nods, carefully avoiding the glass equipment on the table when he rests his elbows on the counter. He looks at the empty slide under Sherlock's microscope, and sighs. "Garrett says you two parted on good terms."
"We did. We met in university and eloped before either of us graduated. It was all very romantic at the time." Molly pauses to share a wry grin with John. "But he had his business and I was about to start my residency here in St. Bart's, and it just didn't last. By then we were smart enough to know what to do."
"You should probably explain that to Sherlock. The news did more than just shock him," John says slowly. "Or, it shocked him into an important realization."
"You're not usually one for cryptic messages," Molly replies, surprised.
"No, I guess not. I'll leave that up to Sherlock. Actually, I should find him." John smiles impishly and gets up from his seat. He hesitates for a moment before he removes Sherlock's empty slide from the microscope, hands it to Molly, and walks out of the lab.
.
.
.
.
The next day, John wisely chooses not to say a word when he steps inside 221B and finds on the mantle the supposedly missing antique jewelry set Garrett Hughes hired them to locate. He also doesn't say a thing (save to Mary, who only grins and shakes her head) when Sherlock insists that Garrett extends his stay in London by three days; apparently, the case requires that the men have thorough meetings to determine how to best locate the (no longer) missing jewelry. If the good doctor realizes that his best friend is, in fact, studying their client, he keeps those thoughts to himself and out of his blog.
.
.
.
.
"Garrett Hughes."
Molly pauses by the door to peer at the consulting detective's silhouette on her bed. Sighing, she flips on the light switch and drops her bag to the side. Molly knows this conversation is inevitable, but does it have to happen after a ten hour shift?
"37 years old, owner of a successful IT company, currently living in a large home in the south of Sussex, and a divorcee." Sherlock pauses as she drops onto the other side of the bed, resting against the headboard. "Your ex-husband."
"Correct. I'm sure you managed to get all the details from Garrett." Molly looks him with mild curiosity. "So why are you here? I hope you're not expecting an apology."
"We've known each other for six years," Sherlock starts again, scowling. He sits up to face her properly.
"And for at least half that time you hardly cared about me except for the fact that I made you coffee and let you run your experiments." Molly sighs again as exhaustion continues to cloud her mind and weigh down her bones. "It's been almost ten years since the divorce, Sherlock. Is any of this still relevant?"
Sherlock tenses at Molly's terse answer though she is too busy trying to stay awake to notice. "Do you...do you regret it?"
"The divorce?" Molly frowns in confusion. She waits for him to explain but Sherlock looks satisfied just waiting for her answer. "No, it was really for the best." Molly tilts her head slightly. "Why would you even think of asking that?"
This time, Molly catches the forced casualness of his shrug and the way it's echoed in his carefully chosen words. "He's not a sociopath?" Sherlock starts pulling at the sleeves of his button up and fiddles with the buttons at the cuffs.
"Not really my type, then."
Sherlock's head snaps up at that. "No?" He asks, looking at her dubiously.
"Not really. Sociopaths are much more interesting." Molly reaches for one of cuffs on Sherlock's shirt and deftly undoes the button. Her fingers brush against the warm skin on the inside of his forearm as she rolls the cloth upwards. "More than a little forgetful when it's their turn to buy dinner or when it comes to calling before taking over someone else's bedroom, but so very far from boring." She makes one last fold before looking back at him with a smile. "Just my type."
Sherlock's shoulders ease back to their normal position as his lips curl into a smile. "Molly, when you agreed to let me use your bedroom as a bolt-hole, it was implied-"
"Don't ruin it, Sherlock," Molly mutters as she starts on his other sleeve.
.
.