Title: The Great Pretender

Author: Emmyjean

Rating: T

Summary: Sherlock Holmes has fancied Molly Hooper since the day they met. His initial reaction to her, and his rejection of it, have dictated his behavior towards her ever since. But from that day on, he constantly struggles with his feelings, and she has never quite gotten over the promise of their chemistry on that first day.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my car and that was only after I made payments for years. I definitely don't own anything related to Sherlock.

Author's Note: Just an idea that wouldn't leave my head – the idea that Sherlock has secretly carried a torch for Molly all along. Basically because when Sherlock insults Molly, his jabs usually have to do with either her physical appearance and/or her love live. Seems a bit like a particular fixation to me. Plus, if there was anyone that would be turned on by a woman in a lab coat, it would be him.

Sherlock Holmes hated change with a passion. It threw off the inner workings of his mind and forced him to readjust to a new situation, which was a waste of time and energy that he didn't want to expend. It usually left him frustrated and annoyed.

He glanced away from his microscope to peek at St. Bart's newest pathologist for the tenth time in thirty minutes and found he couldn't muster either one of those feelings. In their absence was a strange void that left him floundering a bit, unsure how to proceed.

He'd only just met her today. It was a moment he'd been dreading ever since Mike mentioned that Mitchell was finally retiring. Sherlock didn't particularly like Frank Mitchell. He didn't have to like him, it wasn't necessary. All he asked was that Frank do his job competently and stay out of his way – tasks which Frank was more than happy to tackle. They rarely spoke and, for Sherlock, that was ideal.

He didn't go to Bart's to socialize.

Nevertheless, as he sat there staring into the eyepiece without really looking at anything, his fingers resting absentmindedly on the coarse adjustment knobs, he found himself wishing she would speak to him. He might only reward her with a curt response if she did, but it would at least show him that she wasn't totally oblivious to his presence.

He certainly wasn't oblivious to hers.

To say he'd been surprised when he'd finally been introduced to her that afternoon would be an understatement. Not only had he not been expecting a woman, but her youth had thrown him completely off kilter. Mike had explained proudly that she was the youngest pathologist the hospital had ever hired, and Sherlock had been more than disconcerted when this bit of knowledge had produced a feeling in him that came dangerously close to admiration.

As he'd been struggling with that uncharacteristic flash of approbation toward someone he'd known for mere seconds, she'd turned to him and smiled.

He'd gone through most of his adolescence and adult life effectively immune to the feebleness that men usually displayed when confronted with a beautiful face or a well-developed body. At first it was because he was too odd – too freakish, as one had put it - to be of much interest to the opposite sex. After that it was because he'd simply learned to live without it. It wasn't a part of him the way it was to everyone else. There were times when he'd been confronted with interest from that direction, and he'd either coldly ignored it or scathingly rejected it. He didn't have time for it. It was boring.

This woman wasn't exactly beautiful, with her thin lips and plain coloring. She wasn't well-developed, either. Slight build, short and slim. Her clothes hung unflatteringly on her frame, effectively obscuring any elements of a figure she might possess. She seemed to either not know how to dress herself, or else she was frugal to the point of not caring that it was glaringly clear she bought her entire wardrobe at a thrift shop or got it secondhand.

In spite of all this, there was something about her that flustered him.

He furtively watched her as she worked. She was performing a chemical analysis of some scrapings gathered, he assumed, from a shoe. He watched as she concentrated intently on what she was doing, her tongue between her teeth as she focused. She put some solution on a piece of litmus paper, then straightened and set her pipet down while she waited for the result.

Then she sneezed, and Sherlock didn't have time to check himself before words came flying out of his mouth.

"You're allergic to the cat."

Surprised at his address, she looked up at him and blinked, "Sorry?"

Nodding in her direction, he decided that he'd already opened the door and there was nothing to do but to continue the conversation. The decision, calculated though it was, didn't help him repress the flush that he was sure was appearing on his face as she finally paid him some attention.

"The cat currently residing in your flat. You're allergic."

Her brow furrowed, but her lips curved up in the beginnings of a friendly smile as she asked, "How did you know I have a cat at home?"

"Your jumper," he explained, "There's hair on it. Obviously not yours, not human for that matter. Not a dog – the hours required for this position are long and unpredictable. You're obviously responsible enough to have acquired this job in the first place in spite of your youth and the assumed disadvantage you would have in terms of your experience when compared with other candidates, so you'd never do something as impractical as to agree to sit for a dog when you wouldn't be able to care for it properly. So, a cat. And yes, I said sit – it can't be your cat or else you would already be taking medication for your allergy, so obviously you're watching it for a friend. Perhaps a boyfriend who is out of town, although if that is the case, I'd suggest rethinking the relationship if he doesn't have a problem leaving you with a cat who is going to make you miserable."

She laughed quietly, sniffling a bit, and replied, "Well, there is a cat in my flat at the moment but you're right, she's not really mine."

He raised his head from the microscope and looked at her properly. She hadn't made any comment on his deduction. People always made comment, either to express annoyance or awe. She didn't sound annoyed, which he supposed was good. It meant his last comment hadn't angered her, which it would have if she'd actually had a boyfriend.

He frowned at his own train of thought. What the hell was the matter with him?

"So I was right?" he asked nonchalantly, pushing his musings aside, "A friend?"

"Not exactly," she explained, "My neighbor. She's not really...not that she's senile or anything, she's just very forgetful. Her memory is going. It's her cat, and he basically...well, he comes over to mine for food because she forgets to feed him."

Sherlock stared at her, scanning her face. "You stock your kitchen with food for a cat that isn't even your own?"

Shrugging, she nodded a bit bashfully and added, "It's worse than that. I'm supposed to take him to the vet in the morning. I think he hurt himself when he fell off of my bookcase the other day."

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth turn up in spite of himself. "I thought cats were supposed to land on their feet."

"You've obviously never had a cat. Or, at least, not a fat one."

He leaned back, unable to resist teasing her a bit, and said, "Perhaps you should regulate how much you're feeding this cat you don't own."

"Well, I would have paid more attention if I'd known I was going to be responsible for his medical care as well. That's new."

He didn't respond, choosing instead to simply go back to what he was trying to accomplish with his slides. She went back to her work as well, and they didn't speak again for close to half an hour, at which point she was the one who broke the silence.

"Coffee?"

He looked up and found her pulling her hair tie out, sending her hair cascading over her shoulders. Swallowing, he replied gruffly,

"Sorry?"

She was already working on tying it back up as she clarified, "I'm going to get some coffee, did you want any?"

A beat passed before he managed, "Please."

"How do you take it?"

"Black, two sugars."

She turned and left to fetch it, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. He stood up and checked his phone for messages from Lestrade, half-hoping there would be something there that would call him away. Finding nothing except a notification that the payment on his mobile plan had been deducted from his account, he pressed his lips together in exasperation and stuffed it back in his pocket.

He leaned on the lab table, propped on his hands, and dropped his head as he randomly began pondering his days at uni. He remembered there being quite a few girls who were singularly attractive, but they were still boring. All of them. Boring. He'd never really stopped to think about what would pique his interest in a woman, if such a thing were to ever happen.

He thought back to a couple of hours ago, to the first glimpse he'd gotten of her. Standing over an Erlenmeyer flask and a Bunsen burner, with her safety goggles and rubber gloves. Not exactly what normal men would deem particularly stimulating.

If he were the type of man who fantasized about his ideal, he supposed it wasn't a complete stretch to assume that a white lab coat and safety goggles might come into the picture somehow.

He wasn't exactly normal, after all.

Not to mention the fact that, when she'd pulled off the goggles to greet them properly, he'd realized that behind them was a pair of otherwise unremarkable brown eyes that shone with intelligence.

She was not particularly exciting in a standard sense. But she was exciting him.

When she came back with the coffee, she brought it over to where he was sitting and afforded him a sniff of her perfume...no, not perfume. Fresh and clean. Just soap.

"What are you working on?" she asked conversationally before taking a sip from her mug.

He didn't want this. Conversation. He never really did. Still, he found himself responding.

"I'm trying to determine the source of a sample of pollen that was taken off the trousers of a murder victim. Might end up being a clue as to where she was before she was killed."

"Who was the victim?"

"Female, early thirties. Strangled."

"Where was she found?"

"Under the Blackfriars Bridge, but she wasn't killed there. She was killed somewhere else and then her body was dumped there."

"A burglary gone wrong?"

"There was nothing taken, she still had her wallet, keys and jewelry."

She thought for a second, then said, "So it was personal."

"Obviously. Unfortunately no one seems to have seen her in the area that night, so now we have the whole City of London to scour for leads unless I can narrow it down."

"Well, I'll bet she had dinner at that restaurant in Soho. The one that specializes in ceviche."

He froze, then slowly looked up at her. "Sorry, what?"

She was glancing over the report as she replied, "Her stomach contents. I didn't do the autopsy but it's listed here. Seafood, high levels of citric acid and alcohol. I mean, I'm just guessing, but it's a place to start."

He actually found himself at a loss for a moment before he finally found his voice and asked sharply, "How can you be sure it's that particular place? I'm sure plenty of restaurants in London serve that dish."

Now she glanced up at him, obviously taken aback by his tone, and said, "Well...I mean, I can't be sure, but I don't think it's really very common. Not to mention the fact that it wasn't just one type of seafood in her stomach – there's all kinds. Shellfish, whitefish, some others. That place serves a lot of variations as small plates, so you can try some of everything."

"How do you know this?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes at her.

"I...don't know, I..." she stammered, suddenly shrinking a bit under his scrutiny, "I went there recently, so it's just a detail that popped into my head, I suppose."

Sherlock stared at her for so long that her cheeks began to flush in embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said quietly, "I didn't mean to interrupt..."

He stood up suddenly, glaring at her, and walked over to where she was leaning against the lab table. He wasn't angry – he was shaken. He wanted to unnerve her as well, to put them back on what he felt would be somewhat even ground again. To her credit, she didn't back away as he towered over her and asked brusquely,

"Why pathology?"

"What?"

"Forensic pathology. Why did you choose this field?"

She shrugged a bit nervously and replied, "I mean...there were a few reasons, I guess..."

"Because working with corpses isn't normally a profession most people associate with a young doctor displaying promising potential," he interrupted, "Bit of a dead end, wouldn't you say? If you'll forgive the pun."

Now she straightened, lifting her chin a notch as she answered, "I'm not looking for prestige. Not everyone does that. I chose it because...it was interesting."

"Interesting."

"Yes, you know...it intrigued me. Everyone wants to be a surgeon or a..."

"No, I mean, that's interesting. You are interesting."

This stopped her short, and she blushed more, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she lifted her hand to fidget with the thick brown hair from her ponytail that was now pulled across her shoulder.

He felt lightheaded.

"Oh," she finally managed, "Um...thanks."

His voice was lower than he intended as he continued, "Not only that, you've provided a lead in the case."

She shook her head and laughed lightly. "I don't know if I'd call it a solid lead. It might not turn out to be anything."

"I didn't say it was a solid lead, but it is something. Which is more than I had before."

Looking back up at him, she seemed to ponder him for a moment before starting, "You...Mike said that you were..."

She trailed off, and Sherlock felt his hackles go up. "That I was...what?"

"Well, brilliant, basically," she finished, surprising him, "But he said you don't like to work with people."

He didn't know why, but he hated the idea that Mike had spoken to her about him. That he had, in essence, warned her about him. As though he was some sort of workplace hazard that came with the position.

It infuriated him more than it should have, considering that he normally didn't care what people said about him.

"I don't like to work with idiots," he replied, his tone cutting.

It seemed to startle her, and the fact that it did made him fully realize how uncharacteristically mild he'd been with her all day. In spite of the fact that his logic was telling him it would be better to just walk away from her and leave it at that, he added,

"Luckily, from what I've observed so far, you are not an idiot."

At this relatively distasteful compliment, she graced him with the brightest smile he'd seen from her all day and her brown eyes sparkled up at him. In that moment, he was sure he could see a flash in her expression...a small echo of the impulses and urges that he had been struggling with since he'd walked into the lab and met her all those hours ago.

"That's good, then, I guess?"

"That's...more than good," he confirmed, his voice so raspy that he barely recognized it himself.

He was standing unnecessarily close to her. She noticed and cast her eyes downward, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She wasn't being coy, exactly, but suddenly the tone of their interaction had shifted. There was a charge in the room, something between them, that made the air around them practically crackle with suppressed energy.

The entire experience was wholly new to Sherlock, and he felt disoriented. He'd never felt like this over a woman before, this heady mix of excitement and nervousness. Somehow his resolve teetered on the brink as he stood there looking at her. All because of a lab coat that struck him as being weirdly seductive, a flash of unbelievable perspicacity on her part with regards to his case...and a pair of captivating brown eyes.

"Molly Hooper...I wonder if..." he began, recognizing too late that he didn't know how he was going to end the sentence. When he stalled, she looked tentatively – even hopefully – up at him and prompted eagerly,

"Yes?"

Sherlock swallowed as he looked down at her. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then shot back up to meet her eyes.

He opened his mouth again, seconds away from asking her...something. Asking her any number of inane, pedantic questions - if she was seeing anyone, if she fancied a coffee somewhere, if she wanted to have dinner with him at Angelo's. Anything.

He was interested. God, he was interested. He wanted to know more about her, to know how her mind worked. To know more about the path she'd taken that had led her here, and where she'd come from. He wanted to sit with her over pasta and wine and discuss things that no one ever wanted to discuss with him, but he somehow knew that she would. Things that other people would think were repulsive or boring. The rate that a gangrene infection could spread in hot temperatures, the merits of a good microscope...or how childhood could be lonely when no one else shared your interests.

How hard it was to find a kindred spirit.

He'd never asked a woman to dinner in his life, and the idea that he was about to do it now only served to illustrate with resounding conviction how out of control he'd allowed himself to become in a mere matter of hours. How he'd been caught off-guard and hadn't handled the situation properly, hadn't been able to get a reign in on his mind.

As he gazed down at her, an unfavorable comparison suddenly assaulted him – he thought that it was similar to the feeling a person got the first time they allowed their brain to become altered by a substance. First time drunk, first time high...he didn't allow himself to become corrupted by such things anymore. He'd put it all behind him in the interest of the work.

He felt his resolve harden, his momentary destabilization fading to the background. He couldn't allow himself to become addicted to – or dependent on – something else.

Straightening and taking a step back, he carefully modulated his voice so that it now lacked the husky quality it had taken on over the course of their conversation as he said formally,

"I hope you will continue to demonstrate that you aren't an idiot. At least, not as idiotic as some of the other staff here."

Her face fell. "Oh...I..."

He turned and strode to the coat tree to gather his things. Throwing on his coat and tying his scarf despite the fact that he felt very hot, he added, "I like silence when I'm on a case. Conversation interferes with brainwork. Better that you know this now – it'll avoid a great many awkward conversations in the future."

She was regarding him as though he was suffering from some sort of split personality disorder. "Okay..."

"Got to dash. I won't be here again until next week. Don't move anything around, I hate wasting time looking for supplies. Goodnight."

With that, he breezed past her and walked out the door as quickly as his legs would carry him. He had to get away from her, to clear his head.

Somehow he knew that it would take much more than fresh air to purge the memory of Molly Hooper and how she'd made him feel that afternoon.

A/N – hope you enjoyed! Not sure yet if this is a one shot, or if I'm going to be really ambitious and do a little vignette around each of the key Molly/Sherlock scenes from his POV with this conceit in mind (that he is secretly smitten). It's fun stuff.