how i feel about olaf

Molly’s Type

Well, I’ve been writing intoxicated!lock so much, I thought Molly deserved a turn.


Sherlock stepped into the pub just as a rousing cheer went up among the patrons. Ignoring them, he glanced around the small seating area of the ignominiously named ‘Fox and Hound’. Not finding the face he was seeking, a frown furrowed his brow with a duel bout of annoyance and concern.

“There you are.”

That was not the voice he’d expected, but it was familiar, and Sherlock looked down into the face of the Indian woman who was Molly’s particular friend. “Ah. Hello, um…”

She huffed. “Meena? We’ve met like eight times, for fuck’s sake. I just texted you.”

“Right. Sorry,” Sherlock said. He really hadn’t read the signature on the text instructing him to come to the pub. “Molly’s in the loo, then?”

“Molly,” Meena said, pointing at the clump of rowdy patrons, “is over there.” She hefted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Right, I’m off. I only stayed to make sure that Molly didn’t go home with Olaf Petersen. She’s just drunk enough to do something that stupid.”

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