Human Error Chapter 1: The Exception, a sherlock fanfic

The Exception

He's an idiot. The words flashed through Sherlock's head for the briefest second before he continued with his Best Man Speech. An idiot who held a startling resemblance to himself, perhaps, but that was his only redeeming quality as far as he was concerned.

That, and his preference with romantic partners. Much to his annoyance.

It was a few hours later, after the speech was done and the initial commotion had died down, that Sherlock had pulled out his phone and texted her. Really, there was nothing for it, Molly could do better than Mr. Tom "Meat Dagger" anyway.

You're breaking up with him. Not tonight, though. Do it tomorrow.

What? Why would you say that?

Molly glanced at Sherlock across the room, holding her phone away from Tom's view. The man was too engrossed in his conversation with Mrs. Hudson to notice, but Molly was fidgeting with her hair, her eyes darting from the screen of her mobile to the people sitting beside her. She was paranoid. Sherlock raised a brow and shifted his eyes back to his phone.

He's an idiot, and he dresses like me. Attempts to, anyway.

He doesn't dress like you.

But you don't deny he's an idiot.

Sherlock looked up at her. She was ignoring him, but the flush on her cheeks had spread down to her neck. He smirked.

Molly.

Don't ignore my texts.

I'll just go over there and tell you in person.

That caught her attention, and her eyes widened in alarm as she scrambled to text him back. Good. He didn't like being ignored any more than he liked not knowing things.

Don't.

Meet me in front of the coat room.

For what?

I'm tired of texting when we could just talk. Don't bring Tom.

And what do I tell him?

Who cares? You're leaving him tomorrow.

"Why do you think I'm leaving him?" Molly approached him, arms crossed over her chest, hands curling around her forearms. Sherlock looked her over, noting the details now that she was close enough and unaccompanied.

Lines of tension framed her mouth, set into a grim line. Small creases divided her brow.

So, he'd been right. Obviously. The deduction gave him very little satisfaction.

"Hardly a difficult deduction, and then you stabbed him with a fork." Sherlock smirked, his expression softening as he looked at her. Odd, to say the least, but nevertheless an instinctive reaction come about shortly after his proverbial fall. He didn't speculate as to the significance of it. "Are you alright?"

"No." Molly shook her head, uncrossing her arms and fidgeting with the large yellow bow pinned to her hair. "Of course not."

"You'll be fine." Sherlock said at length, hands finding each other behind his back. "You deserve better, Molly Hooper."

The reaction was immediate and Sherlock could read it in the sharp lift of her brows, the slow opening of her lips, and the quiet intake of breath. She was surprised. He didn't know why, it was a fact. Undeniably so. Molly was not an idiot, anybody who knew her for more than a day could confirm it. Himself included.

He certainly wouldn't have trusted her the way he had if he thought she was anything less than brilliant.

Not as brilliant as he was, but nobody was perfect.

"I should get back."

She stammered it. Naturally. Sherlock smiled a closed lip smile and nodded once before she turned and left.

His name was announced, and his violin laid waiting in the other room. Right then. Into battle.

He fixed his suit coat and made his way to the stage.

Molly sat up in bed and blearily searched her bedside table for her phone. She wasn't drowsy, she was drunk. And angry. And confused. A dangerous combination, not that she cared. Finally spotting her phone, not on the table but on the floor, she glanced over at Tom's sleeping form before she turned on her side and typed out a text.

You gave her the flower.

Who? What flower?

Sherlock blinked at his screen, wondering vaguely if Molly was still inebriated or if she was fully conscious about texting him. He glanced at the time, three in the morning. She was likely in bed with Tom, as well. Definitely inebriated. He shifted to his side, and fixed the pillow beneath his head.

Janine! The flower!

Oh, right, that. So?

Molly?

Molly.

He frowned, debating whether or not he should tell her. He hadn't planned on telling anybody, not even John. Trust wasn't the issue, he knew he could trust John. And Molly for that matter, especially since she wouldn't be directly involved with the case. No, the problem, the real problem, was that he'd be telling her for strictly sentimental reasons. That, quite simply, wasn't something he did. He grimaced, thumbs hesitating over the screen of his phone. After all she'd done for him, he could make an exception, couldn't he?

It's for a case.

Really?

Yes. Don't tell anyone.

Why?

Obviously nobody's supposed to know.

Molly tried to shake away the fuzziness caused by the alcohol, and the bed shook with her. Tom stirred and she froze, briefly looking over her shoulder, mobile to her chest. His back was to her, and his breathing had resumed its previous rhythm. She turned her attention back to her phone.

Why are you telling me?

Go to sleep, Molly.

Goodnight.

Sweet dreams, Molly Hooper.

Molly clutched the phone to her chest and curled into the bed, knees to her chest and eyes pinched closed. An arm found its way around her middle and pulled her closer.

There could be no more of that.

She promised herself she'd end it the very next day and ignored the guilty feeling that settled into the pit of her stomach.

"I can't believe you got yourself shot." Molly threw her coat into one of the hospital chairs and walked up close. Sherlock frowned, studying her features for a clue. It didn't take long. She was angry. He'd been hurt and she was angry.

"Yes, I'd think that's obvious."

"If you weren't already stretched on a bed in a hospital I'd slap you!" Her voice shook. Sherlock raised his brows. This was a side of Molly Hooper he hadn't seen yet. She'd slapped him before, yes, but this was something else.

What was it?

"Do calm down, I'm fine." There was an edge to his voice, though not as cutting as it would've been had his health been in a better state. "Sit. You look about ready to faint."

"Oh, you're fine?" Molly tensed, leaning forward as if she was about to rethink what she'd said and slap him, but se didn't. He watched her as she took a deep breath and opened her purse. Several newspapers were pulled out and unceremoniously thrown on his lap.

"And this?" She met his eyes and withdrew from the bed a few steps. "All for the case?"

"Yes." He frowned, picking up one of the newspapers and glancing at the cover. Janine had really gone overboard with the stories, but he couldn't blame her. They were even, he supposed. "I believe I told you about that before."

"I didn't know how far you'd take it." Molly sniffed, picking up her things and getting ready to leave. He narrowed his eyes at her, attempting to read the subtext. Hard to do when so many emotions were crowded into the small space of his hospital room.

"Are you jealous?" There was an unintended sneer to his voice.

"I have no reason to be."

"Quite right." Sherlock bit out. "Especially since I recall you were having quite a lot of sex with Tom not too long ago."

She flinched as if he'd hit her, and immediately there was guilt gnawing at his insides. She didn't deserve that. He didn't know what had possessed him to say so in the first place. It had just come out, unbidden, as his mind tried to work through the undercurrent of their conversation.

"I should leave." Molly said finally. The sharp edge of her teeth bit down on her lower lip, keeping it in place. She was ready to go, bag in hand, coat thrown haphazardly over her arm. The newspapers were still strewn about the bed.

He sighed, and fell back against the pillow.

"Okay." There was one last look, one flashing moment of hope. She didn't want to leave.

Sherlock didn't want her to go. He scrambled to find a reason that would justify her stay.

"I'm sorry, Molly." He called out as she was about to go out the door. Her hand was already on the metal handle, fingers just beginning to close around the cool surface. "That was uncalled for and out of line. I shouldn't have said it."

She nodded once, but still didn't turn around. His heart rate went up. He couldn't let her leave. He fought through the morphine, searching for something else.

"Nothing happened with Janine." Pause. "Well, not nothing, obviously, but we didn't have sex."

Molly turned, teary eyes going over him with curiosity, perhaps even speculation. He sighed. The hopeful look on her face giving him a momentary, if slightly unexpected, high.

"Really?"

"Really." Sherlock closed his eyes. This, all of this, was out of character, even for him, who prided himself in his ability to surprise. He breathed in and out. "Will you stay?"

"Alright." Molly hesitated by the door only for a second, eventually throwing her things back onto one of the chairs before taking a seat in the other. They didn't say anything else, but when Molly slipped her hand into his after a few minutes, Sherlock gripped it tighter instead of pulling away.

Sherlock walked up to Molly Hooper's door and knocked. It was late, far too late for any kind of visit, civilized or otherwise, but he was leaving in a few hours and likely never coming back.

Mycroft had told him six months.

Mycroft was never wrong.

What he was doing, illogical as it was, insane as it felt, was justified.

It was justified because there would be no more of it. There would be no more John. No more Mrs. Hudson. Certainly no more Molly, and like the junkie that he was he needed one last fix before he could leave it altogether.

Molly opened the door in her housecoat, her hair a rumpled mess as it hung around her shoulders. This time, he didn't try to hold back the surge of feelings she provoked in him. He was past that now. There was no need for it. He wasn't staying.

He strode into her flat, and she stepped back.

He stalked her, like a predator, until he was standing mere inches away from her.

Molly widened her eyes. "What are you doing?"

He must've been a sight to see, if he went by the look on her face. He didn't care. Not at that moment. "I'm spending the night." He slid his arms around her waist and lifted against his chest. "Problem?"

She shook her head and licked her lips. "What do you need?"

Thin arms circled his neck, breathing quickened, brown eyes locked with blue. He could read her.

Heartbeat elevated. Pupils dilated.

He smiled. "You."

I'm coming back.

You were gone for two hours.

Four minutes, to be exact.

What happens now?

What do you mean? Nothing, I'm back. I'm taking the case.

I meant about last night.

Are you having second thoughts now that I'll be around?

No! Of course not! I'm just wondering what to make of it.

We had sex, Molly. There's nothing to make of it.

Molly?

That probably came out wrong.

I'll try again.

Molly, would you like to have dinner with me?

Dinner?

Yes. Dinner. With me.

Like a date?

Yes, like a date. Do keep up.

I realize we're doing this backwards, but under the circumstances I think it's appropriate.

I'd love to.

Good. I also need a severed arm.

I'll get right on that.