Sherlock had told Molly, once, that it was impossibly to hide anything from him. One look, at he'd know, but no one knew better than Molly that this wasn't entirely true. Of course, he'd been talking about facts: she was thinking of emotions.
He'd rattled it off once and, occasionally, she thought of it to herself each morning as she put on her clothes. Loose fitting garments: she didn't want to be looked at. She liked blending into the woodwork: she was better at listening than talking (as Sherlock had pointed out at the time, that much was perfectly obvious). Large knit sweaters: old but clean. She wanted to be comfortable, to feel enveloped. She was steady, not given to loud bursts or abruptness. She was frugal, both in terms of saving and in other ways, and she was sentimental: hanging on to things that had been given to or made for her years ago. She had good bones, a pretty enough face, but she never did anything with it.
He'd called her a mouse and she'd known he was right. She was efficient, never ostentatious, more concerned with the feelings and needs of others than her own. Her life was pathetic enough, yet she managed a peculiar kind of cheer, awkward and roundabout as it might be. Sherlock took one look and summed it up neatly enough, but Molly never assumed he might not be the only one.
The morgue might be odd, but it suited her. Whatever else might be the case, Molly had an inquiring mind and, besides, in a way she liked sending others off to their rest. It was peaceful there and none of the corpses were ever reproachful.
Molly chewed her lip, anxiously, tapping one of her test tubes as she watched a cacaphony of bubbles rise towards the top. So absorbed was she, she hadn't instantly registered someone else's presence and, with a soft gasp, she started at the sound of his voice.
He had kind eyes she thought, oblivious to how ridiculous that thought truly was, all things considered. Unlike her, he'd also clearly put some thought into his grooming, which Molly respected, and he had a nice voice. Irish, she'd guess. And, in her opinion, was attractive. That was the full extent of Molly's skills of observation and deduction.
A tittering laugh was the next sound she made as Molly raised a hand to her lips. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Umm, hi, Jim. It's nice to meet you. Are you new?" Quickly yanking her hand from her mouth she frowned at her own awkwardness before extending a hand to him. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. I work at the morgue...obviously." With a slightly deeper frown, she turned back towards the computer. "Oh! Yes. I think...I know nothing about computers, to be honest. It's not," she shook her head. "I don't know." Molly tried to laugh. "Err, take a look, shall we?"
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