molly mothball


The text came in around nine, nine-thirty. Molly sighed, removing her half-zippered coat. Her shift had just ended and she was looking forward to going home and getting sleep. She hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s graveyard shift.


“Molly. Mothballs think I’m punk.”

She choked back a laugh at Sherlock’s autocorrect. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes. Quite slam dunk.”

“You and John started off at The White Horse, right? Where have you gone since?”

“Here, there, and eveythere.”

“Do you need me to get you?”

“No, no, we’re fineJohn says we’re in the Frying Dutchman. It is loud.”

She blinked. They had been around in the past two hours.

“How is John?”

“Much more sober I think he slippered me something.”

He probably had. Sherlock was nearly twice his size, he’d need to drink more to keep on par with John. “You’ll be fine, promise.”

“I texted you for a research I remember. 


Molly, I think I dove you.”

“…you dove me.”

“Yes this is a very serial matter! I think Ive fallen in club with you.”

“You’re juggling?”


She smiled at the text, making a mental note to hold it over him later. “I should hope so.”

“You knew? You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“Of course I knew. We’re getting married in two weeks. Please don’t throw up all over the carpet when you get home.”

“Will you hold my hair?”

“As always.”

“That means we’re engaged, doesn’t it? Hold on, Molly. I have to tell John I’m getting married.”