Hot night winds are blowing
Blame this:
Click to viewFor this (Molly/Martin, unabashed fluff, Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. HAVE NOTHING. DO NOT SEND THE LAWYERS OF WAR ON MY ASS PLEASE MR. FINNEMORE, MR. MOFFATT AND MR. GATISS):
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Three days. Molly thinks to herself. And I am officially over Sherlock Holmes.
Maybe it was the fact that he had no where else to turn to post-peusdocide -- Sherlock told her that his older brother was not an option because of the possibility of surveillance. Maybe it was that she was too kind-hearted for her own good. Maybe she thought that having him living with her would open his eyes and make him see how worthy she was of him. That he had to fall in love with her for everything she had done for him.
That was then. This is now.
After three days, Molly's ready to throttle him. She always knew he was blunt, rude and arrogant, but she didn't know he'd also be a terrible guest. He leaves wet towels everywhere, talks all the time to himself and on several occasions Molly has had to tell him Toby is strictly off-limits for experiments.
He also fidgets, snaps at her and has begun smoking in her flat -- despite the fact that she's told him not to. If this continues, she will turn the fire extinguisher on him.
And then there's his brother Mycroft. Who's just plain weird with his three-piece tailored suits, pinched expression and umbrella. He reminds her of a persnickety Mary Poppins He's found traipsing in and out of her flat without warning. The one time she came out of the shower clad only in a towel, to find him sitting in the living area drinking tea caused her to scream in terror. Then the two of them began deducing what body she had recently performed an autopsy on. That's before Sherlock told her that Mycroft likes using CCTV to monitor him and, as a result, her.
Molly can't help but shudder when she sees those cameras now.
Molly Hooper used to be kind and meek. Living with Sherlock Holmes cured her of that.
Thankfully, he's leaving today -- off to take care of unsettled business, he mutters.
"Can you drive me to Fitton?" he asks her. It wasn't really a question, the way he phrased it. "I need you to get me to the airfield."
"Can't your brother help you?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "Too obvious."
"And I'm not?"
"Molly Hooper," he levels his gaze at her -- a gaze Molly would've once swooned at, but now finds patronizing and irritating. "The genius aspect of you is that no one notices you -- you can flit in and out of life without even disturbing someone's conscious. Why do you think I asked you to help me?"
"I feel like I've gotten a back-handed compliment," she sighs. "But I'll do this for you."
Sherlock smiles a sweet, genuine smile. It's not fair of her. She knows he's stressed, but this has also been a rough patch for her with him living with her and the ever-present fear of someone following her, with nefarious deeds in mind.
"Thank you."
That night she finds herself driving Sherlock out two hours to Fitton. A tiny little country town with an agricultural college, there's not much there. The airfield is located just out of town.
It's a tiny airfield, Molly notes, as she pulls the car over. During the entire ride, Sherlock was silent, which was actually welcome for once. It's a hot summer night and the anemic air conditioning is working overtime. As a result, by the time they get to the airfield, Molly's hair is plastered with sweat and she's sure that the back of her shirt is drenched. Sherlock, for some reason, still looks cool and poised.
Damn him.
Pulling over to a tiny office, Sherlock and Molly enter. Inside is a sour-faced older woman, who has plastered on a facsimile of a smile.
"Mr. Waterston?" she nods.
Sherlock nods back. Molly has enough sense to bite her tongue and not say a word about the different name. Three days of living with Sherlock will do that to a person.
The woman nods at Molly.
"Is this Mrs. --"
Molly shakes her head. "I'm his sister," she says with an ease that surprises both her and Sherlock, judging by the quick raise of his eyebrows.
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says smoothly. "My half-sister."
Negotiations are made regarding the price of the flight and Sherlock produces a wallet full of cash. The woman's eyebrows raise slightly, but she says nothing as she counts the money and pockets it.
Then the pilot enters. One is a near-spitting image of Sherlock -- blue eyes, same lanky build. The only difference is his hair is a bit redder and not that Byronic mess of curls.
"Carolyn," the pilot says. "Sorry to interrupt, but we're almost ready --"
Before he can say more, Sherlock leaps up and stalks over to the pilot. Nose to nose, Sherlock inspects him, almost sniffing him and he looks the pilot up and down.
"Er --" the pilot starts.
"Give me your clothes," Sherlock growls softly.
"I can't! I mean, this is my only uniform --"
"I'll give you an extra thousand quid for them."
"I --" the pilot turns an awful shade of red. Molly feels a pang of sympathy for him.
"Martin," the woman now known as Carolyn snaps. "Give him your clothing."
"I don't have anything else!" Martin shrieks.
"Two thousand."
"STRIP MARTIN," Carolyn barks out. "Give the man your clothing. For two thousand pounds, I'll get you a uniform perfectly tailored to you."
"I --"
"Three thousand," Molly pipes up and offers a winsome smile. "Please?"
Sherlock glares at her, but says nothing.
Martin gulps and nods, before heading off to the restroom with Sherlock.
Five minutes later, the two men come out. Martin's clad in ripped jeans and a stretched out t-shirt and his feet are bare. Sherlock looks like he was born to be a pilot.
"Right," Martin says. "Are we now ready?"
Sherlock nods.
For some reason, Molly can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Martin. He's just gotten sucked up into the Sherlock Holmes Experience and the poor man looks like he's gotten hit with a wet mackerel.
"If you please, I need a few words with the CEO," Sherlock says.
Carolyn puffs up a bit at those words, then nods. "Right," she says, "The two of you outside."
Molly and Martin head outside. It's still muggy and hot, but there's a slight wind. Unfortunately, it's a hot summer wind, which makes both of them a bit redder and more sweaty.
"Your brother --" Martin begins. "Is he always like this?"
Molly nods. "I'm really sorry. He's really wanted to be a pilot, ever since he was a child," she's amazed at how she can lie to him. It's smooth and easy. Is this what happens when people are around Sherlock long enough?
"I understand that," Martin puffs up, "I always wanted to be a pilot too."
Their conversation continues for awhile, with some odd fits and starts, but nothing so awful that it doesn't prevent Molly from smiling at Martin. There's something easy about him. Uncomplicated and simple. He does stammer and get red a bit when she talks about working at St. Barts, but that's nothing new.
If pressed, Molly would say she finds Martin kind of cute.
In too short of a time, Carolyn and Sherlock pop out of the office and the four of them head off to the airplane -- a tiny little jet that looks a little ramshackle, but Molly finds it kind of adorable. It reminds her of Budgie the Little Helicopter, but only in plane form.
"That's GERTI," Martin says to her.
"She's adorable," Molly replies. "Well, if a plane could be adorable."
Carolyn snorts.
Inside the plane, Molly can see another pilot, this one much older and with a self-satisfied air about him. Carolyn bounds up the steps, no doubt to brief the other pilot on their eccentric customer.
"Well, I'm off Molly," Sherlock says, holding out his hand. "Thank you for everything."
Molly nods, then surprises the both of them by hugging him. "Take care of yourself," she whispers into his ear.
He pulls away and nods stiffly. Sherlock Holmes never did do emotions well, Molly thinks to herself.
Martin holds out his hand. "It was a pleasure talking to you," he says to Molly.
What happens next surprises even Molly. Instead of taking his hand, Molly finds herself reaching into her purse and pulling out a pen. Then she takes his hand in hers and writes her number on his arm.
"I know this is crazy and normally I never do this," she begins. The words come out muffled, because she's got the pen cover in her mouth. She caps her pen and the words come tumbling out of her mouth, "I just met you, but call me? I had so much fun with our conversation, that I'd hate to have it cut short. So call me? Maybe?"
There's no time for an answer. Sherlock grabs him by the collar and hauls him up the steps.
Molly watches as the plane putters down the taxi, then takes off from the runway. Before she knows it, her mobile pings.
Martin asked me to tell you that you're not crazy and he will call you when he lands --SH
Molly practically cartwheels back to her car. Sometimes the Sherlock Holmes experience pays off in spades.