Don’t let her bait you, she told herself. But of course…
“Molly… poor, sweet, innocent Molly.”
“He’ll never admit it.”
“It’s fascinating, you know, all these complicated little emotions.” Eurus paced around the battered, bloodied woman, a wicked gleam in her eye. “He does love, I believe. He loves drugs, of course, and Mummy. He loves puzzles and John Watson and that landlady of his. He loves being right and showing off. And he may even love you, Sweet Molly. But he’ll never say it. Not out loud.”
Molly refused to cry anymore. She’d cried when the guard - she assumed he was a guard - of the prison had beat her and threatened to rape her. It was the most pain she’d ever experienced and even though she had tried, she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. She was pretty sure she had at least one cracked rib, perhaps two. The man had knocked out two of her teeth and busted her nose. It was still bleeding. But now, two hours later, Molly Hooper was done crying.
“Are you ready, Sweet Molly?” Eurus asked, nodding at the monitor. “You remember the rules, dear. If you want to live…”
Sherlock’s flat appeared from four different angles on the screen as his mobile rang. He was in his kitchen, sitting in front of a microscope. With a huff, he removed his goggles and picked up the device.
Looking confused, he answered, “Molly?”
“Hello, Sherlock,” she said. She couldn’t help but smile; he looked so handsome.
“What do you need? I’m in the middle of an experiment.”
“Nothing really. I just… just wanted to hear your voice,” she explained, fighting back tears.
“I’ve always loved your voice.”
“We should have had coffee.”
“What are you talking about, Molly?”
“One coffee date… it would have been lovely.”
Eurus raised her hand toward the monitor then looked at the other woman. “Careful, you are getting dangerously close.” She made another gesture and focused her attention back on her brother on the screen.
“What’s going on? You sound… what..?” He stood and walked to the front window.
“Nothing’s going on, Sherlock. Sometimes it just nice to talk to a friend. We’re friends, right?”
“I need to tell you something, something you already know. But I need to say it, just once.” She was breaking down, her voice was cracking.
“Well, it’s hard, you see…”
“Why is it hard?”
“Because it’s… because it’s true.”
“If it’s true, Molly and I already know it…”
“No! I need to say it out loud. It’s the most important thing…” Then she broke.
“Hurry, Molly,” Eurus warned.
“Who’s there with you, Molly? Why are you so upset?” Sherlock questioned.
Taking a deep breath, she fortified herself. This was her goodbye, and she had to make it count. “Just a fr-friend, nobody, really,” she said, eyeing the psychopath before turning back to watch the man on the screen. “Ah, so, what I need to say is that I love… I love you. I’ve always loved you, Sherlock. And I don’t regret it.” Heaving a great sob, she added, “I don’t regret it at all.”
On the monitor, Sherlock turned around in a circle and ran a hand through his hair. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you, we’ll have coffee now.”
“No. No coffee for us, I’m afraid.” Tears and mucus were running down her face. She wished one hand was free so she could at least clean herself. But she wasn’t even afforded that dignity. “Please don’t forget that I loved you.”
“Molly…” Eurus edged closer to her, bringing the gun up to her temple. “That ‘ed’ may have just…”
“What do you mean loved, Molly? You’re not running out on me, are you?” Sherlock asked with laughter in his voice.
The women looked at one another then back to the monitor.
“Hey, I love you too, you know that, right?” he said a small smile on his face.
Another sob broke as she tried to speak. “No, Sherlock, I didn’t,” she finally managed.
“Silly woman. Of course I do. I’m just rubbish at showing it. Where are you, Molly?”
“Well done, brother,” Eurus interrupted. “How did you know?”
He walked to the mantle, closing in on one of the cameras. He looked right into it and said, “I didn’t. But, I realised if she was brave enough to say it then what the hell was I waiting for?”
“If you want her, come claim her,” his sister said with disgust. “I’ll be gone by the time you get here.”
“Well then, sister of mine, you better run far and run fast. Because after I do, after I get Molly Hooper back, I’m coming for you.”
“It seems that the game is on,” she said as she disconnected. Turning to the woman bound to the chair, she said, “What an interesting turn of events. I honestly wasn’t expecting that. You weren’t even trying. Willing to die rather than ask him to say the words.” She walked towards the door, but paused and turned back to Molly. “Why? Was it pride?”
“No. It’s something that you’ll never understand.”
“It’s just love,” Molly said as she rested her head on the chair and waited for Sherlock Holmes to rescue her.
Prompt claim number 7 please! My AO3 user is Ethanamide :)
So this fic was originally supposed to be a birthday present for mollyandherjumper but I wasn’t inspired because I’ve never written Swaplock like this before. If anyone knows a way to show it to her, I’d appreciate letting me know!
First Impressions Matter -Sherlock isn’t quite sure exactly what happened in this first meeting with Molly Hooper…but apparently she likes him.
He liked everything to make sense. And for some reason, the woman standing in front of him was throwing his whole routine…no, his whole life…out of whack.
He didn’t like it.
Supposedly Molly Hooper was a genius and billed herself as the world’s only consulting detective. He’d been told no one really liked her because she didn’t like anyone. What few people could stand her were one or two Detectives at Scotland Yard and Stamford, though he was more bullied into letting Mrs. Hooper use a lab than willing. Apparently, having Ms. Hooper on the grounds of Barts had its benefits.
Right now, though, he couldn’t see what they were.
Not that she was being rude to him, which was a surprise. Most people thought he could be run over with their demands and their extra work, but he shouldered it well enough. It got him noticed, at least, and he heard he might be in line for assistant head of the department. His family would be proud that Dr. Sherlock Holmes was actually going up in the world.
As long as he played nice with Ms. Hooper, of course.
She was watching him with a curious look as he continued the autopsy of a victim of DI Donovan’s. He and Donovan got along well enough, he supposed, but he could see the way she looked at Ms. Hooper as if she was waiting for her consultant to bark out orders and deductions any minute now. But Ms. Hooper was staying quiet, tapping her fingers on her crossed arms. It was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, he realized. Not that he would say anything because it just might irritate her.
“It looks as though Mr. Hartwood was poisoned,” he said finally, looking up and pushing up the spectacles he wore when working. He felt rather sloppy compared to how impeccable the two women across from him looked, especially Ms. Hooper, who wore a tailored women’s cut suit with a rather tight purple blouse. The extra button undone on her chest was rather distracting.
“Type?” Ms. Hooper said, snapping the word out.
“I have to run tests, Ms. Hooper,” he replied. “But I think cyanide might be it.”
“I don’t have time for uncertainty,” she said. “What do his internal organs look like?”
“Well, um…” he replied, gesturing to the body. “Typical of cyanide poisoning. But looks can be deceiving.”
“Yes, they can be,” she said, her tone slightly more mollified. “Is there anything distinctive we should be aware of?”
“There’s a pinprick, between his fingers,” Sherlock said.
DI Donovan looked surprised at that. “How can you tell?” she asked.
“Well, he has no other needle marks on his body, and the person who did it did a…” Ms. Hooper came closer and looked at the victim’s hand closely before pulling out a pocket magnifier to inspect it more closely.
“Our murderer did a piss-poor job,” Ms. Hooper said. “We need to check to see if there’s insulin in the blood. The wife is diabetic, and as needles can be a bother to get sometimes she may have reused one of hers.”
“Insulin-dependent?” Sherlock asked. Ms. Hooper looked up with a slight glare on her face. “No! It just…well, it makes sense if you’re looking for an insulin dependent murderer. The needles used are very thin, the same width as the mark between his fingers.”
“And how do you know that?” Ms. Hooper asked.
“My mother is insulin dependent. I’ve had to administer it before and sometimes she bled because I injected into the not so best spot,” Sherlock said, embarrassed. “I mean, you could have a heroin user but–”
“Yes, obviously that’s an option but the wife wants the husband dead,” she snapped. “Life insurance, large payout, so using a needle on hand makes sense.” She dropped the dead man’s hand. “Can you check for insulin in the bloodstream and around the injection site?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I can…I can do that.”
“Then text me the results when you’re done,” she said, snapping off the gloves she had been wearing and walking towards the medical waste depository and tossing them in. “Come along, Donovan. We have work to do.”
Donovan looked at Ms. Hooper and then shook her head, turning to Sherlock. “You know, she must like you,” Donovan said.
“What?” Sherlock asked, surprised.
“She didn’t call you an idiot. Everyone is an idiot compared to her, apparently. Even me.”
“But you know what you’re doing,” Sherlock asked with a frown.
“Not always,” Donovan said, giving him a small smile. “If I did, I wouldn’t need a consultant.” She nodded to the body. “Text me the results as well, alright? Just because Her Highness demanded them doesn’t mean I don’t need them as well.”
Sherlock nodded, pushing up his glasses again. “I will,” he said before Donovan turned and walked away. He adjusted the sleeves of his fluffy bee jumper under his lab coat and then went to get a fresh pair of gloves. Apparently, he passed muster, he supposed. Maybe that meant he would see more of the interesting Ms. Hooper…
I love swaplock where Sherlock is the one with the crush and Molly is oblivious, but everything else is the same. :) May I humbly request?
Sherlock looked up, startled. “What?”
“With the flowers,” John nodded to the bouquet on Molly’s desk. “You bought them, didn’t you?”
Sherlock scowled, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Not according to her.”
“What’s that mean?” John asked, amused.
“Means she didn’t read the card, obviously.”
“Why not take her to lunch or something?”
“Because, John, she’s not that sort of…ugh.” Sherlock stalked off, glowering. He waited until John had caught up with him. “She doesn’t take hints very well.”
“Well, knowing you, you didn’t put the card in the flowers,” John said.
“I…had it written out…”
“Okay, but still missing the point.”
“Well…she should know by now nobody buys her flowers, she could have seen me walk in with them!” Sherlock blustered.
“Okay,” John nodded, humoring him. “How?”
“Well…when…through security feeds!” Sherlock tried.
“Mm, right, and when does she have time to hack the security feeds, on her lunch hour?” John shook his head. “Sherlock, just ask her out.”
“Ask who what?”
Both men turned with a start.
“Uh…” Sherlock flicked a nervous glance to John, then back at Molly.
“Sherlock is taking you to lunch,” John said. “That’s nice of you, Sherlock, well I’m going back home, let me know if anything comes up!” he slapped his friend on the back, waved goodbye to Molly and jogged off.
“So…lunch?” Molly asked, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Sherlock followed the curve of her fingers, distracted. Blinking quickly, he shrugged. “Yes! No…I…had thought dinner…instead.”
“Sounds like fun!” she smiled brightly. “I’ve got loads to do, so lunch wouldn’t have worked out anyway, I’ll see you tonight, seven-ish?”
“Yes, I’ll pick you up-“
“Oh no it’ll be faster if I meet you, what’s the address?”
A plan quickly formulated in his mind. “You know Angelo’s restaurant?”
“I do, love it there.”
“Yes I know,” he murmured.
“I said ‘Oh good’,” he answered quickly, flustered. “Yes. Angelo’s. Seven-fifteen.”
“Right. Okay!” she jotted down the time and place on the notebook she carried.
“See you then!”
Sherlock would have been lying if he said he’d nearly ducked his head to kiss her cheek, but she was past him before he could complete the motion. Well, there would be time for kissing later…he hoped.
Sherlock Holmes was, for lack of a better word, utterly besotted. Molly Hooper, for whatever reason, either had no idea, or no interest. He felt rather sick to his stomach, the idea of her rejecting him, and thus ending their friendship. Perhaps she was oblivious, it was entirely possible, after all, it wasn’t as if he’d been clear from the start how he’d have liked their relationship to go. Well, he could and would clear all that up tonight.
Later that evening, around seven-ish
Molly ran a hand through her still slightly-damp hair. The windy evening had mostly dried it, but she was all-too-aware she looked rather wind-blown as she stepped through the doors to Angelo’s restaurant.
“Sherlock Holmes’ party,” she murmured, breathless, trying to comb down her hair.
“Yes of course Miss Hooper, this way,” she was about to thank the hostess when she looked up, and suddenly wished she’d put on a nicer dress. Not that she was improperly dressed, but it was just an plain black sheath dress, one that allowed her to move freely while she worked.
Looking around the restaurant, Molly couldn’t help but stare.
“Where um…where is everyone?” she asked.
“The restaurant is yours for the evening,” the host pulled aside the curtain to the outer patio. There was a single table, candles and paper lanterns decorated the patio. Wine was being chilled and a bouquet of heady peonies and roses decorated the table. “Enjoy.”
Molly couldn’t speak, still staring at the grand gesture that was spread before her. This was not a friendly dinner to say ‘thank-you’, and she felt quite foolish suddenly, for not having seen Sherlock’s attempted advances before. It all made sense! His spending time in the lab even if he had no cases or experiments, his assistance on her caseloads, the mysterious bouquet of flowers that showed up twice a month…
Sherlock appeared, muttering to himself as he wrestled with a champagne bottle, clearly trying to get the cork out. He was dressed quite nicely in an rich aubergine button-down, and one of his nicer suites (though to be fair, all of his suits were nice).
“Oh…” Molly finally spoke.
The cork finally popped out with a terrific ‘crack!’, just as he realized she was standing there. He cursed under his breath as the champagne foamed over, he grabbed the cloth from the handle of the bucket, wrapping it around the neck.
She couldn’t move, or else she’d have helped him. Rooted to her spot, she again took in the beautiful sight. A lovely reserved restaurant for two, candles and flowers and champagne…and Sherlock, trying his hardest to appear blasé about half a bottle of wine foaming over his hand.
“Molly,” he tried.
“You meant me…” she finally managed, and he met her gaze.
He quirked a smile, nodding. “Yes. All this time I’ve been making rather a poor show of trying to tell you but-“
“No, I’m just dense sometimes, you were lovely, and I’m sorry if I misunderstood,” she shook her head quickly. “I just…I never expected,” she gestured to their surroundings, then to herself. “I never expected anyone to do this for me and I’m…” she blushed, smiling at her feet for a moment. “I’m overwhelmed, if I’m quite honest,” she laughed, nervous, but she dared a step forward.
“So…you’ll stay?” he too, moved nearer.
Shy again, she nodded, pushing her hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry I’m not properly dressed,” she gestured to herself. “If I’d have known I-I’ve got a really beautiful dress at home, it’s dark green and velvet and not just an old work sheath.”
“You look lovely,” he said, quite honestly, and held her chair for her. “I’m just glad you came.”
“I’ll always come when you need me to, Sherlock,” Molly replied. “If I seem surprised it’s because…I guess I never expected someone like you to want someone like me.”
He looked at her as if she had two heads. “I find that hard to believe, considering your brilliance, your fascinating line of work, to say nothing of your physical features,” the waiter stood by the doorway, and Sherlock noticed. “I could go on,” he said. “But there is the waiter with the menu, but I would like to discuss what our future would be, should we continue this relationship on a more intimate level.”
“I’d like that,” she nodded, flushing, eyes shining at him.
Me when I first got into the Sherlolly fandom: I only like to read canon-compliant or at least canon-universe compliant stories, AU’s need not apply. Also I don’t like BDSM stuff at all, let alone sub!sherlock. Nor do I like swaplock in any form, or OT3s or stories involving Sherlock’s drug habits, or super angsty stuff.
A Swaplock take on the Sherlolly Kiss in The Empty Hearse! Because I like Swaplock, and I kinda want a more take-charge attitude in Molly when it comes to kissing Sherlock. I’ve been feeling crappy and I’ve still lots of prompts to go through, so pardon if this isn’t up to standard (Bad Hiyas! No chocolate for you!). But I swear I’ll fix this into a worthy piece for our wonderful ship as soon as I’m done with the rest. -_-;;;
SWAPLOCK >> a gender swapped au starring: rebecca hall as sherlock holmes, rosamund pike as joanna watson, ben whishaw as ollie hooper, anna chancellor as morag holmes, dan stevens as martin morstan, matt bomer as ian adler, nicola walker as greta lestrade, judi dench as camilla magnussen, richard ayoade as sam donovan, darren criss as jason hawkins and lana parilla as jane moriarty.
Finally broke the damn writing slump, thanks to kalonrain on fanfiction.net (because I just read their in-progress fic “Dark Temptation”). I’ve had this idea in the back of my mind for ages now, but finally got it down in written form. Have a sort-of swaplocked Hades & Persephone AU ficlet. Rated T and soon to be posted to AO3 and fanfic.net.
She awakens from a restless night’s sleep, dreams of an unseen lover still clouding her mind, and so it’s hours later before she notices the round, red mark on her right wrist. Frowning, she concentrates, but the mark remains, stubborn and colorful and reminding her of something…of what, she has no idea. It’s simply a teasing thought at the back of her mind, one even the Goddess of Death can’t pluck into the light and examine.
So she decides to wait, to see what happens; when nothing does, she shrugs it off, having far more important matters to see to than a random red dot on her wrist, even if it appeared there without her willing it into existence. Perhaps her sister-goddess, the all-powerful Zeus (whom she still calls Sally, childhood nicknames and rivalries never being laid to rest between them) has decided to visit this upon her. To give her a mystery to dwell on, or to perhaps lure her up to Olympus for a visit.
Hades (whom Sally still calls Molly, because the childhood nicknames and rivalries run both ways) refuses to give in, if that’s the case. There’s no pain, no itching or other malaise, so whatever it is she can safely ignore it. She’s the Goddess of Death, after all; anything not having to do with the care and maintenance of the souls in her realm is of no consequence. She takes her duties seriously - perhaps too seriously, Sally would say, but it’s no light burden she bears. It would be nice, perhaps, to find someone to share that burden with, but she pushes that thought away. Every assignation or attempt at a relationship more permanent than a single night’s pleasure had ended in disaster, whether with another God, Goddess or mortal.
Alone protects her, she tells herself as she prepares for sleep, not for the first time. Alone keeps her safe.
The next morning she looks automatically to her wrist, and curses aloud when she sees a second red mark, identical to the first. If this is Sally’s idea of a joke or a subtle summons, it’s a poor one, and she’s of half a mind to pop up to Olympus just to tell her so. But no, that’s exactly what Sally would want; being Queen of the Gods went to her head long ago, and Molly refuses to play her games.
However, when the third dot appears the next morning, she decides enough is enough. She’s about to send herself to her sister’s throne and give her a piece of her mind when finally the teasing thought she’s been chasing makes itself known. A seed, she thinks. This is an image of a seed.
But what kind of seed? And why three of them on her wrist? Unlike the other gods who dwell in Olympus and in the mortal realm, she’s never bothered to vary her diet; nectar and ambrosia, the food of the Gods, has always been more than enough to sustain her. So she’s not very familiar with things like fruits and nuts, flowers and trees.
But she knows there are many who do know such things; Gods and Goddesses…and mortals. One of them will be able to identify the seed for her, even if they might not know why they’ve appeared on her wrist, and that will perhaps give her insight into the reason this is happening.
She cloaks herself in her darkest, most elegant gown, takes care with her hair and cosmetics, closes her eyes, and wills herself to the side of whoever it might be that can answer her question with the least amount of difficulty - not her sister, anyone but Sally, she thinks before she vanishes from the underworld and finds herself in a small orchard.
The mortal realm, she notes, and a mortal man, who is rising slowly from where he’d been kneeling on the grass, one hand still outstretched to grasp a fallen pear to place into his basket.
He’s rather beautiful, she notices, blinking in surprise at herself; she thought she’d trained that sort of reaction out of herself millennia ago. His head is a tumble of dark curls, his eyes green-blue and slanted in a cat-like manner, his lips full and plush, his cheekbones sharp, his form slim and fit beneath the dark tunic he wears. His sandal-clad feet are large, as are his hands, although his fingers are long and elegant. There’s a lyre resting against the basket, and she’s not at all surprised that he’s something of a musician as well as a gardener. “Do you know who I am?” she asks, not using the full power of her voice on him. After all, if he falls unconscious she’ll have to go through the tedium of waiting for him to awaken and answer her questions.
Ignoring the traitorous thought that watching him sleep would not necessarily be a burden, she keeps her gaze trained on him.
He nods as he finally makes his way to his feet, his outward impassivity matching her own, and impressing her quite a bit. Surprising for a mortal confronted by any Goddess, but especially the Goddess of Death.
“You’re Death, Hades,” he says, his voice a surprisingly deep baritone for so young a mortal - and he is quite young, just beginning his twenty-first year. She senses that automatically, the way she can tell the age of any soul she comes across, mortal or immortal, that innate ability the one that had caused her sister to offer her the realm of Death to rule over a thousand lifetimes ago.
She reaches out, allowing the folds of her dark stole to fall away from her wrist, and his eyes flicker to the three red circles imprinted there. “Tell me what you see.”
“The seeds of the punica granatum,” he says promptly, speaking a language she knows doesn’t exist yet. “The fruit of the dead.” He’s tugging at the leather wrist-guard on his left wrist, lifting the ties to his teeth in order to pull them free of their knots. He’s worn this for a long time, she can tell, and wonders at both his impossible knowledge and his actions.
Once he finally frees the ties, he removes the entire guard, dropping it to the ground and raising his wrist up for her to see. On it are three identical red pomegranate seeds. She sucks in a startled breath, and he smiles. “I’ve had them since birth. A soothsayer told my parents it marked me for Death, and that on my twenty-first birthday, Death would come for me.”
“And so I have,” she says softly, wonderingly, moving closer to him and resting her wrist against his so that the seeds line up together.
There’s a flare of light, a tingle of heat, and she feels some of her immortality seeping into this mortal boy’s blood. The seeds vanish, and understanding floods through her. She raises her head toward the sky, shaking it and smiling, privately vowing that she’ll find a way to pay her sister back for this - or thank her, one way or the other. “Meddling matchmaker,” she mutters, then smiles softly at her new soon-to-be lover. “Come along then,” she says, holding out her hand. “There’s much you have to learn about the underworld…and, I suspect, much you’ll have to teach me as well.”
“Sherlock,” he says with a half-smile curling his delectable lips. “In case you were wondering what my name was.”
“And you, my dear one, can call me Molly.” She kisses him, and he returns the kiss with enthusiasm rather than skill, and she knows that one of the many things she’ll be teaching him is the pleasures of the bedroom.
After all, he’s been saving himself for her all his life; it’s the very least she can do to repay him for his patience.
// Sherlock AU - Dark!Molly: Molly Hooper is actually Jane Moriarty, the brilliant consulting criminal . For Ladies of Sherlock Swaplock.
A figure walked towards Sherlock Holmes.
“Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” a woman’s voice said.
Sherlock brandished the pistol and pointed it at the advancing figure from the shadow.
“Both.” he said.
Molly Hooper emerged from the darkness, but not the self-conscious, plain pathologist. This woman was impeccably dressed, stately and sophisticated. Her sweet smile was laced with a dissonant combination of innocence and venom.
Another Swap!lock piece, though this one should be considered as separate from my previous Swap!lock story. This one is my take on the pool scene from “The Great Game” (because I apparently have a need to rewrite all my favourite scenes with Molly as the consulting detective instead of Sherlock. Blame it on my eternal love for her).
When she entered, the pool was quiet. Unnervingly quiet, but Molly Hooper was not one to give away her feelings easily. Slowly, she stepped forward with her hands behind her back, the missile plans in one hand and a gun in the other. She gazed around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary; a fact which only served to make her all the more alert. There was always something.
“I’ve bought you a little ‘getting to know you’ present,” she said clearly as she held up the missile plans. It pleased her to note that she hadn’t shown any trace of fear in her voice.