Sherlock: It's Only a Game

Summary:

AU. In a world where Molly Hooper is set up on a blind date by her friend Mary and she's not quite sure how to feel when she realizes it's Sherlock Holmes. Seeking a means of revenge on their mutual friends so that they wouldn't be set up on another date like this again, they both decide to fake the relationship and make sure they end the relationship disastrously. But when their lines begin to blur, they start having a difficult time figuring out what's real and what's fake.

Author's Note:

Here's my first foray into the Sherlock fandom! Excuse for the typos and I know very little Brit speak so I apologize if I get some things wrong. But, I hope you enjoy reading and thank you for giving this a chance read.

Disclaimer:

Sherlock (TV series) and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright, and trademark of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC Network, and no ownership or claim on the said property, copyright, or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fanfiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to the doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fanfiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.

In other words, I own nothing but the plot.

Chapter One

Molly Hooper is going to kill Mary Morstan. At least, kill her so they could never find her body ever again for a very long time because this is ridiculous. Dressed as nice as Mary has obviously approved with a stylish flair that she wouldn't have picked herself, she adjusts her bag and pulls out her mobile phone. It's just starting to get quite cold out so she knows that the jacket she wears is perfect for such a weather. Still, it doesn't change the fact that she pulls the jacket a little closer to herself and she sighs.

Her phone rings and she's eagerly swiping at her phone when she spots that it's Mary.

"Mary, where are you?" she asks.

"Oh darling, I'm so sorry," she immediately says that Molly feels the color drain from her cheeks and she grits her teeth.

She sighs and places her hand delicately on her cheek. "Don't tell me—you can't make it." She doesn't hide the disappointment since her own friend is basically standing her up, and what's more, making her dress for a special occasion when it seems no longer to be the case. "Oh, Mary, are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine, I just can't make it. I'm so—"

"Good because I'm going to kill you. Mary, we went shopping for this and…"

"I know, I know—I'm so sorry. Something's come up and I honestly won't be able to make it; I swear."

"If you can't make it, I'll just head back then," she grouses, moving to standing as she's ready to depart from the restaurant that she's standing in. Judging from the look of the person standing at the podium, she moves closer to the door and off to the side to continue the conversation to avoid what feels like a pitiful look.

"No, no, he'll be there shortly so don't leave okay? Now, I have to go darling; I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Wait, he?"

"Text me, Molly, and let me know, okay?"

"Mary!"

And the phone goes dead and she resists the urge to throw her phone. Instead, she angrily stuffs it into the bag she's picked just for this occasion. She has half the mind to leave when her phone beeps and with an aggravated sigh, she retrieves her phone to read the incoming text.

The reservation is under Sherlock Holmes.
Mary

Sherlock Holmes? The name rings a bell but she's distracted when a deep baritone speaks to the waiter. "Reservation for Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes flit to a tall man in a long Belstaff coat with broad shoulders. Her eyes widen as she hurries over to stand behind the man and just off to his side.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes, table for two?" the server asks absently with a polite smile that she almost feels bad for what happens next.

He nods his head subtly before pausing and from where Molly stands, she watches as the server flinches under what she could only assume is a glare from Sherlock. "No, it should be a table for three."

The server could only helplessly shrug when Molly taps the stranger on the shoulder and she's knocked breathless by his eyes when he turns to face her. There's a perusal of his eyes that looks her over and much like the server, flinches under his unrelenting and piercing gaze that she feels sees through her jacket and heart. Steeling herself, however, she takes a small breath and says, "Hullo, it's nice to meet you and um, I can explain."

There's a look in his eyes that says something she can't quite decipher but the server seems to take this as a positive thing and even has the gall to cheerfully quips, "Okay, all accounted for—right this way!" They pick up two menus and leads them to the table.

Led to a table that's in a comfortable corner of the restaurant for privacy, they both strip themselves of their jackets and sit. The menus handed to them, their server comes over and introduces themselves as Jane. When asked what to drink, they both answer:

"Ah, tea please."

The server nods when the pair exchanges look but the server seems happy and departs, leaving the pair alone.

Molly takes this time to glance over at the other. Well, at least Mary knows her type, apparently because this man is absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful might even be more accurate with dark curly locks with a wild touch and eyes that—when she takes a closer look—can't seem to settle on blue or green with a pale complexion. He has high cheekbones that make his face angular and yet, Molly can't seem to find any fault in his features. With his jacket and scarf removed, he has a lean body underneath a pressed suit of black with a light grey dress shirt… Hm.

Molly inwardly sighs, however, contemplating if it's a good idea to continue with this dinner at all when he seems otherwise bored to be here, judging by how his gaze seems to look anywhere but her. Plus, he hasn't asked her to explain the situation like she thought he would. He seems disinterested with the whole thing and even appears to be bored.

"You're thinking too loudly," he says, interrupting her flow of thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're thinking too loudly—if you have a question, ask." His eyes finally move away from the people around them to the menu before he closes it and sets it aside. He leans back into his seat, arms on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin.

Even in the dimly lit room that the restaurant provides as atmosphere, Molly finds herself berating herself as she is unable to help but keep admiring the man seated across from her. "Oh, well, I was wondering why you haven't asked for me to explain how… how we got here." Molly wonders if she could sound any more pathetic.

His gaze sharpens, narrowing ever so subtly. "I don't need to—I already know how and why." There's the slight shift of his head when the corner of his mouth quirks up.

Molly blinks. "How do you—" she asks before she could stop herself.

"Oh, would you like me to tell you?" He seems genuinely surprised by her lack of knowing him, at least, by what it sounds in his tone of voice. And yet, she feels that it sounds more smug and confident than anything else.

Vaguely, she recalls stories about a consulting detective that Mary's husband works with and once in awhile, even Greg Lestrade mentioning a Sherlock Holmes. But, she hasn't met him quite yet as she's recently just started working at Bart's. (She counts a week—quite fresh indeed.)

Unfortunately, she's curious by how he knows without her telling him and she nods. She's unprepared for the onslaught of words that she could see is held on the tip of his tongue.

"You're dressed nicely to what would be appropriate for a get-together — dressing to impress but not enough to draw attention to a group of friends. It's not picked by you and it's new — given the crispness of the fabric and how you had frequently tugged to adjust. Not quite yet comfortable wearing something new so recently purchased for the occasion. Your makeup was done prior to the same person you went dress shopping with for the dress — your sense of style itself is eclectic, at best. Your jacket is worn with use compared to the new, barely used bag, shoes, and dress you're wearing and clashes with the whole of the outfit — the horridly colorful scarf you have matches nothing so you're sentimental about it. So a gift — your father.

"Shopping with a friend means that this was for an impressionable first meeting. But you're alone and was expecting to meet someone else — disappointed since they didn't show. You're ignoring your mobile phone despite the off occasion that your screen lights up — probably that very same friend of yours that you were supposed to meet. Instead, you're meeting me and what I would assume is a blind date without either of our permissions or desire for one."

Molly's head spins, amazed by how much he managed to get from her without her uttering a single word. But there were details that threw her. "But how did you know my father gave me my scarf?"

He smiles, "That's easy — you lack style and understanding of fashion since you had to find someone for it — lack of a feminine touch in your life that didn't teach you how to dress and impress the opposite sex so your father."

But his smile disappears and she almost feels there's a sense of pity in his eyes. If she truly did see them, it's gone in an instant when he says, "I am sorry for your loss; was it cancer or an accident?"

She's startled and tries to ignore the grief and heartache of the loss of her father. It's still fresh in some ways, but having a complete stranger just ask out of the blue of her personal life rubs those wounds raw. Her voice is almost without feeling, clinical. "I… uhm, neither. Cardiac arrest, actually. But he went peacefully, without too much pain."

Molly closes her eyes briefly, taking a breath, and reopens them to focus on the man in front of her. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm—"

"Doctor Molly Hooper."

This man never ceases to amaze her that she misses the way he speaks her name—slow and meaningful as a way to remember her. "How did you—"

"John has mentioned his wife was preparing a surprise for me to, as they've put it, 'get out and be normal' two fortnights ago. His wife even seemed proud to know two doctor's and one of them included her husband so I could only assume you were the other." He smiles without humor. "Given your clinical detachment to death at even the mention of your own father's death, I could only assume you were the other doctor."

Well, she's grieving and an emotional detachment is possible since she hasn't really let herself grieve. (It's a lie to herself and with the anniversary of his death nearing, she knows it's inevitable.)

"Am I wrong?" he asks.

"Oh, um, no; you're right." She nods and their server comes back around to serve them tea. After picking out their food items, they depart and the pair is left on their own again. "That's amazing."

"I only observe, Molly Hooper."

She glances in his direction and thoughts swirl in her head. If he knew, possibly (most definitely now) prior to coming here, that this is a blind date, then why didn't he leave? Or better yet, why come at all? With his arrogance and seemingly bored attitude, it just seems as though this is a waste of his time. She wouldn't be surprised if she's been stood up, even by Mary. Though, she amended, Mary would never do so intentionally if she could help it. However, this had been intentional and she's not sure that the date is going as successfully as Mary had hoped. (Or even herself since it became clear that it's a blind date.).

"You're a thinker, aren't you." Again, it's another one of those statements rather than an actual question that Molly is unsure if it's a sense of being talked down to or complimented.

"How do you mean?" she asks, lifting a brow when she partakes in some of the tea.

"You silently ask questions, but stop yourself before you ask them." His eyes are boring right through her that she is unable to stop the shiver that crawls up her spine. There's something about the intensity of his eyes that not only does she not mind his scrutiny, but almost likes it. But the thought quickly dies as quickly as it forms and she feels the shame crawl up her neck. He's a complete stranger, albeit, it seems as though their circle of friends would be almost the same.

Setting down the teacup, she quirks a brow. "Then would you like me to ask the questions?"

Another one of those fleeting smiles. "Oh, yes, please — I'll hope that they aren't dimwitted." And suddenly, she wonders if he's doing that just to humor her or demean her and she feels apprehensive.

"Uhm, well, if you knew that this was a blind date, then why'd you still come?"

"Ah, you've been dying to ask that haven't you?" Her mouth opens to respond, but he waves his hand dismissively and his eyes flicker away back to the people surrounding them at their own respective tables. "I knew that Mary would most likely take John away from me and my work if I were to refuse. Her word on this being a family get together that belies a required social obligation as a premise is irksome, but social niceties are," he pauses briefly, his eyes flashing at what she now guesses as an annoyance, "needed. She knows me well enough that I can't quite refuse since we've been quite busy."

His work? Ah, he's a consulting detective. Tidbits of information begin to surface to the forefront of her mind, remembering conversations that Mary drops about Sherlock that she either finds curious, but never pushing for more or simply interesting that she tucked away for later thinking. However, now that she has a face to put to those stories, she could only imagine the havoc that some of the stories has shared.

"So, much like me, you were forced," she summarizes and sighs. She couldn't believe Mary and her husband, John, would go so far to set the two of them up. If anything, she could see Sherlock's expression almost souring the more they conversed.

Their "free" bread and sauces arrive and they're left alone again.

Relieved to have something to do with her hands rather than fiddle with the cloth napkin in her lap, she cuts herself a slice and silently offers him some. He eyes the bread briefly and shakes his head. After putting some sauce on the bread she's cut, she places it on her plate and takes a small bite, her appetite fading at the aloof nature of the male in front of her. Her stomach sinks and nibbles on the bread.

Oh, she's definitely going to kill Mary.

There's an awkward silence that falls between them that has Sherlock looking at the people around them and Molly having only enough bread to satisfy what little of an appetite she has. Molly glances at Sherlock again and wonders how they came to this at all. Her friends had often stated that she needed a boyfriend and to get out and do something with her life instead of always just staying in to do her work. To think they had taken this into their own hands to set her up on a blind date (and Molly contemplates that the last couple of blind dates all had ended terribly) and with a man that didn't or could care less for being here.

She wants to ask why he's still here if he didn't want to be here. She wants to ask if he'd prefer they end the date now and she'd go home and lie to Mary that the date just didn't work out for them. Although, that wouldn't be a lie when it's as bad as it is now so no lying there. Given how dismissive Sherlock has been for a majority of their time together, she wouldn't put it past him to just leave without warning. Still, why?

"You're thinking too loudly."

Her eyes snap to him, narrowing slightly. "Well, of course, I would be. I'm just here twiddling my thumbs, after all."

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of you, Molly."

"Well, it's not as if this is a splendid evening," she sighs. "You look like you would rather be anywhere else but here."

His eyes turn to her, sharp and narrowed. "I assure you, Molly, that I would rather be here than anywhere else." He rolls his eyes. "More so with Mary and John and how they continuously continue to hold me in contempt that I need to have a date."

His pronounced and sharp enunciation of the word "date" has Molly wince. She sighs, pouring herself more tea. "Have you known John a long time, Sherlock?" She feels the need to ask, if not to get to know the male in front of her better.

"I've known him for four years if you're counting that sort of thing." He takes his teacup and begins to take a sip. There's another furrowing of his brow but he swallows it.

"And this… putting you on blind dates is new…?"

"He's been suggesting one for quite some time if only to get me out of the flat for a few hours," he remarks idly, turning his eyes to her. "I would assume that this is not your first 'blind date' set up by Mary."

Molly vaguely recalls that Sherlock can be, well, very Sherlock when Mary describes him. Something about his attitude makes it difficult for others to understand him when his own mind is racing far more quickly than anyone else's would ever be. She's beginning to understand and finds herself still in a mixture of either thanking or killing Mary. She hasn't quite decided which would be the best course of action yet as she takes another sip of the tea.

The number of blind dates she's been on has been accruing over time that she's a little tired of them if she's, to be honest, with herself. Maybe if she and… Oh, the very idea makes her laugh at her boldness that she doubts Sherlock would even go along with the plan.

"No, not by Mary, per say, but my other friends," she replies softly. Saying it aloud how none of her blind dates has worked out must mean something and she's not quite ready to delve into the meaning.

"But, you have a plan to derail that?"

"I'm sorry, what?" She lifts her gaze from the tea to Sherlock, who's smiling.

"You have a plan to stop our… friends, from setting us up on another one of these dates, do you?"

"How do you—"

He raises a brow, but the smile hasn't changed and she finds herself—she curses herself for feeling flustered and the skipping of her heart—feeling the familiar prickling of heat curl at her neck and cheeks. "O-Oh, I… It's—It's nothing, Sherlock, really."

"Come now, Molly, you've thought of something clever and if it's any fun as what your smile indicates just seconds ago, I would assume I would be participating." But there's something in those his eyes that Molly knows he read more into her than he's letting on. Part of her wonders if she should feel grateful that she gets to say what the plan is rather than he spells it out for her that he seems keen on doing.

She takes another sip of tea and braces herself. There's a part of her that feels this would go down burning in the flames, but what's the harm?

"Well, to get our friends off our backs about dating—" How anyone can force Sherlock to date is amazing in itself but it's a thought for another day. "—how about we try dating?"

His smile disappears and a sort of frozen surprise that wipes away his smile.

"No, no! Not like that! I quite mean that we just… fake date, Sherlock. Ah, um, we pretend to—"

He raises a hand to dismissively to cut her off. "I very well know what you mean." He drops it to steeple it under his chin, his eyes pull away from Molly to stare at something (or someone) at the entrance of the restaurant. Molly is assuming he's just observing everyone that comes and goes and she feels a little disheartened by his dismissive response. She knew it's a terrible idea.

"Having us… together… would most definitely prevent John and Mary from setting either of us another one of these…" He makes a hand gesture to the vague space between the two of them and she couldn't help to wince again. It's a failed date, she understands that much, but one that garners irritation from both of them. Still, she can't help the huff of irritation.

"Sherlock."

He casts her a glance briefly and she tamps down the urge to wince underneath his sharp gaze before his attention returns to what she now understands as his thoughts when he looks distantly at the people around them.

"I can see the appeal. We can very well pretend to be together if it means both John and Mary will stop spewing nonsense about dating. And to force me to date when I have no interest."

"Oh? You don't want to—"

"No. I'm only interested in the Work."

Molly puts two and two together and manages to understand that he talks about his cases as a consulting detective. She nods, wondering if this is a good idea. "Oh, I understand. Then…? You're okay with us pretending to be boy—"

"No." A sharp resounding word cuts through Molly that she winces. Again, it's another rejection and her heart is already struggling to keep up. "We're to be mutually exclusively seeing each other, that much is certain, but not whatever those words are."

Her brows furrowed, confused. "Wait, so—"

"It's enough."

The finality of his words only has Molly sigh when he looks pointedly at her. Forging forward with a breath, she continues, "Then, after we've been together for some time, we can end it rather spectacularly in some terrible way—"

"Oh, yes, that's marvelous." His eyes are gleaming and she can't help but grin at the mischievous idea. Poor John and Mary won't know what will hit them.

He smiles then and she wonders if it's genuine or not. Still, it's nice and—

She mentally shakes her head. No, he may be an absolutely gorgeous man to look at but… she wouldn't ever show up on his radar even if she tried under normal circumstances. But, she allows herself the thought of it aiming at her for another reason that's not to mess with her friends. So far, this man has done nothing but pique her interest.

"And it'll prevent them from doing it again in the future. Very clever."

She nods, pleased that she's met his expectations. "I'd say something close to a year would be enough since, um, I trust you'll be working more than we'd ever see one another."

Sherlocks nods, shifting so that he faces Molly. "I'm glad you understand that."

"Well, of course," she replies easily. "After all, I have my own work I must get to."

Sherlock gives her a long look before he flashes a smile, one she assumes is quite insincere since it feels anything but warm. "Of course."

"So, shall we get to know one another better?"

"I trust we'll get to know one another quite well after this, Molly Hooper—of that, there's no doubt."