FIC : 'Stockholmes Syndrome' (Sherlock)
This is something I started on the train, based on a conversation valmont_god and I had after we watched the finale over the weekend. This was easier to translate into a short fic than our other spinoff idea, 'Lestrade Doesn't Solve Anything'.
Title: Stockholmes Syndrome
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Characters: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes
Word Count: 701
Rating: G
Spoilers: End of S2 ("The Reichenbach Fall").
Warnings: This has not been britpicked.
Disclaimer: No one mentioned belongs to me.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is terrible to live with.
Stockholmes Syndrome
Actually, Sherlock was not the worst flatmate Molly had ever had. That would be Bettina, right after university, in a tragic little hovel, with an endless circus of feral cats. Molly's allergies had grown more severe as a result, she'd nearly contracted rabies, her best friend was considered she was in an abusive relationship because she was constantly covered in scratches and bruises, and she had developed as a result to all of this an unconquerable fear of cats in all shapes and sizes.
At least Sherlock didn't have cats.
She was beginning to suspect his handsomeness and sad eyes were not enough to outweigh the rest of his terrible behavior, however. He didn't pay rent or ever go buy food, though he certainly ate enough of it. Molly was becoming quite close with the checkout girl. He did contribute occasionally to household chores, but only when they suited his experimental needs. There was an odd mold forming in her bath that she was not allowed to touch. There were two dead rats in the icebox. On and on it went, little bits of him in every nook and cranny of the flat.
Molly couldn't escape from him at work, either. He texted her mobile, all day, every day. While once upon a time she found it flattering, she quickly realized that being Sherlock Holmes's only confidante meant she had an enormous phone bill and no groceries.
One Saturday night, early on in his stay, Molly spent three and a half hours getting ready for a date. Simon, a nice man she'd met in queue at the bank. She'd shaved her legs, fixed her hair, applied her makeup so slowly and laboriously she felt like it was her wedding day. She'd bought a new dress for the occasion and was feeling remarkably good about herself.
Of course, she'd been foolish to count her eggs before they'd hatched. No sooner had her date come to the door than Sherlock, exercising remarkable stupidity, sidled up beside her and launched into an impressive tirade about everything from Simon's curly hair to his surname to his choice in footwear. It was even more rapid-fire and incomprehensible than usual. He was so excited for the opportunity to demonstrate his ability that the words were just pushing past each other to be the first out of his mouth. Or he was concerned Simon might recognize him and was in a hurry to finish. Probably both.
Simon --confused, insulted, and possibly thinking Sherlock was her boyfriend or a stray homeless man she'd adopted-- walked away, never to be heard from again. "As long as you're up," Sherlock said, bored again, "could you got out and get some cheese? Edam, I think." He flounced back to the chair he'd adopted as his own. "And some cigarettes."
"You said you're not supposed to be smoking," Molly said, smoothing her skirt over her thighs anxiously. But she went anyway.
Molly would never turn him out, of course. He'd come to her begging for assistance and she would have been foolish to turn him away, especially considering the scandal that followed. He needed her help. Just her. She could give him something no one else could. For a moment, only just a moment, she wondered if everything in the papers was true, if he was a fraud, if he'd used his genius only for promoting his own genius. But then there were those moments, the ones where he wasn't frantically trying to busy himself with the hundred thousand little things he liked to keep his mind 'fresh', where he'd stare out the window or at an empty chair, something profound etched into the lines of his face. A deep sadness, a deep loss.
She developed a twitch every time her mobile beeped or buzzed. She grew to hate the sound of the violin. It wasn't nearly as bad as the cat thing, but Molly couldn't help wondering if perhaps it was her fault, for letting the behavior of others affect her so dramatically. And then Sherlock would yell at her for arranging the contents of her own cupboards, because he was working on something.
But she let him stay. She still believed.
This fic and more can be found at my AO3 archive!
Title: Stockholmes Syndrome
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Characters: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes
Word Count: 701
Rating: G
Spoilers: End of S2 ("The Reichenbach Fall").
Warnings: This has not been britpicked.
Disclaimer: No one mentioned belongs to me.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is terrible to live with.
Stockholmes Syndrome
Actually, Sherlock was not the worst flatmate Molly had ever had. That would be Bettina, right after university, in a tragic little hovel, with an endless circus of feral cats. Molly's allergies had grown more severe as a result, she'd nearly contracted rabies, her best friend was considered she was in an abusive relationship because she was constantly covered in scratches and bruises, and she had developed as a result to all of this an unconquerable fear of cats in all shapes and sizes.
At least Sherlock didn't have cats.
She was beginning to suspect his handsomeness and sad eyes were not enough to outweigh the rest of his terrible behavior, however. He didn't pay rent or ever go buy food, though he certainly ate enough of it. Molly was becoming quite close with the checkout girl. He did contribute occasionally to household chores, but only when they suited his experimental needs. There was an odd mold forming in her bath that she was not allowed to touch. There were two dead rats in the icebox. On and on it went, little bits of him in every nook and cranny of the flat.
Molly couldn't escape from him at work, either. He texted her mobile, all day, every day. While once upon a time she found it flattering, she quickly realized that being Sherlock Holmes's only confidante meant she had an enormous phone bill and no groceries.
One Saturday night, early on in his stay, Molly spent three and a half hours getting ready for a date. Simon, a nice man she'd met in queue at the bank. She'd shaved her legs, fixed her hair, applied her makeup so slowly and laboriously she felt like it was her wedding day. She'd bought a new dress for the occasion and was feeling remarkably good about herself.
Of course, she'd been foolish to count her eggs before they'd hatched. No sooner had her date come to the door than Sherlock, exercising remarkable stupidity, sidled up beside her and launched into an impressive tirade about everything from Simon's curly hair to his surname to his choice in footwear. It was even more rapid-fire and incomprehensible than usual. He was so excited for the opportunity to demonstrate his ability that the words were just pushing past each other to be the first out of his mouth. Or he was concerned Simon might recognize him and was in a hurry to finish. Probably both.
Simon --confused, insulted, and possibly thinking Sherlock was her boyfriend or a stray homeless man she'd adopted-- walked away, never to be heard from again. "As long as you're up," Sherlock said, bored again, "could you got out and get some cheese? Edam, I think." He flounced back to the chair he'd adopted as his own. "And some cigarettes."
"You said you're not supposed to be smoking," Molly said, smoothing her skirt over her thighs anxiously. But she went anyway.
Molly would never turn him out, of course. He'd come to her begging for assistance and she would have been foolish to turn him away, especially considering the scandal that followed. He needed her help. Just her. She could give him something no one else could. For a moment, only just a moment, she wondered if everything in the papers was true, if he was a fraud, if he'd used his genius only for promoting his own genius. But then there were those moments, the ones where he wasn't frantically trying to busy himself with the hundred thousand little things he liked to keep his mind 'fresh', where he'd stare out the window or at an empty chair, something profound etched into the lines of his face. A deep sadness, a deep loss.
She developed a twitch every time her mobile beeped or buzzed. She grew to hate the sound of the violin. It wasn't nearly as bad as the cat thing, but Molly couldn't help wondering if perhaps it was her fault, for letting the behavior of others affect her so dramatically. And then Sherlock would yell at her for arranging the contents of her own cupboards, because he was working on something.
But she let him stay. She still believed.
This fic and more can be found at my AO3 archive!