Minutia, chapter 1
Rating: G
Spoilers/Season: 2.01 Scandal in Belgravia
Disclaimer: Not mine

Minutiae

mɪˈnjuːʃɪiː,mʌɪˈnjuːʃɪiː,mɪˈnjuːʃɪʌɪ,mʌɪˈnjuːʃɪʌɪ/

noun

plural noun: minutia

the small, precise, or trivial details of something.

She's changed her hair, and the dress is gone. Her heels have been exchanged for flats, and this, this is the Molly he knows. Gone is the biting lip, the unease. She is in her element in this lab, and for the first time all day does he feel somewhat normal. It's only when she says everyone else was busy with Christmas does he see her true loneliness, and this, this is when the shame really hits.

And then he has to identify a naked woman, and the shame he feels only increases by her stare. Because there is the expected curiosity and slight judgement there, but also resignation. He doesn't know which one he feels more acutely, but coming from her, from the one person he has been able to rely on, no questions asked… he doesn't know how to process that. He has to get out of the room, has to leave. It's too much.

He makes his way to the entrance of the hospital, the taste of the low tar cigarette still on his tongue. He's waiting on a cab; nothing but nothing will see him getting a lift back home with his brother, when he sees her out of the corner of his eye.

She is shivering, the coat she is wearing doing nothing for the snow which has begun to fall around them once more, and he gives a soft sigh. For someone so intelligent, her inability to dress normally is truly astounding. Slipping his coat from his shoulders, he steps close to her, sliding it around her with a soft, "Here."

She jumps, obviously not having heard his approach, and this close he can see the redness of her eyes.

She's been crying.

It hits him like a physical blow, and he gasps. "Molly."

"Who was she?"

She bites her lip, and he can read her shock at asking the question aloud. But of all the people he knows, after the way he has behaved tonight, he knows she is the one person with a clean slate to ask whatever she wants.

"She was… a person of interest in a case I'm working. That's all."

Molly blinks, long and slow, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and he feels a need to clarify further. "That's all it was. I promise."

She nods, acceptance in her gaze now, and not for the first time he wonders at her continuing presence in his world. His heart feels lighter, and since when has anyone had this… this sway over him? He has no idea what it means.

She gives another shiver despite the way his coat is smothering her, and he sighs. Stepping closer, he uses his body to shield her slightly from the biting wind. When she looks up, he can see the shock in her eyes.

Defensive, he goes on the attack. "You're cold. Despite the added layers you're still shivering. Possibly due to the quick shower you had before coming in. Your hair is still damp, the cold air making your head cold. Really, Molly, have you not considered investing in a hat? Not to mention…"

"Shut up." Her voice is quiet, but he hears it as she had shouted. You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always. And here he goes again.

"I…"

But she interrupts him before he can finish the thought. Her hand comes up, almost touching him cheek, only to fall away at the last moment. "You have an amazing gift, Sherlock. Really. The way your mind works… it's unlike anything I have ever seen." She ducks her head, and he can hear her swallow, like she's building up to something. After a breath, she raises her head to his, a faint glint in her gaze. "That being said…"

He sighs, bitter remorse at his actions still weighing him down. Regret is not an emotion his is familiar with, but she makes him feel it more than most. "Molly…"

"That being said," she says again, eyebrow raised, the faint glint now a fire in her eyes daring him to interrupt her. When he remains silent, she continues. Softer now, she sighs. "That being said, if you ever, and I do mean ever, deduce me again, in front of others or not, I will not hesitate to throw you out of my lab. You being here, my helping you, it's a privilege, not a right, and I will have you escorted from the building if I have to. Is that clear?"

Sherlock swallows. It's not often he's stood up to, and this is the first time in years Molly has done so. "I…"

Her voice is firm. Strong. "Is. That. Clear?"

"Yes." He nods his head for good measure.

"Good." Suddenly, the strong woman is gone, the soft portrayal he's much more used to back in place. This time, when her hand comes up, it does make contact with his cheek, but only for a moment. She sighs. "Y'know, sometime I wish I had a mind like yours."

He blinks, honestly shocked by her confession. "You do?"

"Hmmm." Molly nods. Eyes sad now, holding a truth he wishes he could read, she adds, "But then, sometimes, I couldn't think of anything worse."

It feels like a punch to the solar plexus. "Oh."

Her hand is on his arm, stopping him from the retreat his body is aching for. "Wait. Wait. That came out…" She stops. Sighs loudly. Hand still holding him still, she manages to catch his gaze with hers. "I didn't mean that."

He still can't quite catch his breath. The sensation is new. Startling. Searching for a truth he can't read (hasn't he just promised not to deduce her?), he manages to ask, "Then what did you mean?"

Her hand leaves, and he misses its warmth instantly. Before he can ask for it back, she's answering him. "I just meant… sometimes, it seems like you see every tiny detail, you miss the big picture."

He rolls his eyes. He can't help it. "Don't be dense, Molly. You are far too intelligent for that. Seeing each detail… It is the big picture."

She shakes her head, defiantly. "No Sherlock. It really isn't."

He's confused. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind."

Before he can insist further, a cab finally pulls up, and his ingrained manners makes him motion for her to take it. But Molly is already shrugging out of his coat, shaking her head as she does so. Handing it back to him, she nods her head in the direction of the cab. "Go ahead. I'll catch the next one."

He opens his mouth, intending to argue, but she only shakes her head. "Go on." She gives him another soft sad smile, so filled with a multitude of meanings, and he can't detect a single one. He wonders when Molly Hooper, plain old Molly Hooper, became such an enigma to him as to be able to tell every last detail about her appearance one minute, but unable to determine a single thing about her the next.

The only other person who has managed to vex him so is for all intents and purposes lying dead on a slab, and just the mere idea of comparing the two women is so abhorrent he stops himself before even starting.

Molly Hooper is suddenly more of a puzzle than any case, even a 10, and he has no idea what that means. It haunts him all the way home, so much so the thought of shooting up doesn't even cross his mind.

TBC