for mollymatters or anyone who just needs an abrupt pick me up in the harsh January weather with its gloomy gusts of wind and sullen looking inhabitants (depending on your location, if you're somewhere sunny; you complete bastard, here's to you anyway).
"Does he come round often then?" said Greg leaning against the counter, while Molly scuttled around the lab looking at him with mild surprise. She'd handed him the blood samples he needed for the Richardsen case, but he wasn't budging despite the files rolled up in his hand (typical Greg - manhandling her paperwork, then again he probably didn't personally go through it, as she could easily imagine Sally doing the dirty work).
"Yeah. Why?" she said stopping in her track, still carrying around the bowl with her spleen, or well, not her spleen.
"No. No. Just wondering-,"
"Okay," she said with a raised brow, but she continued her tidying without much thought, putting away the bowl on the counter.
"It's just, you know, it almost seems like he's in love with you."
The way it was said was so casual, at first she'd just nodded for a few seconds in silence smiling, before everything froze.
"Oh - would you look at the-," he began, hurriedly looking at his wristwatch, which she knew was a load of piss.
"Greg!" she snapped heatedly.
He blanched, holding his hands up. "Okay, just - - don't slap me," he said with a laugh. "I know how you dealt with Sherlock after all."
She frowned at him.
"..Sorry - okay, so, a couple of days ago - after I'd come round just to say hello to you - I was cornered," he said.
"Cornered?"
"By Sherlock - who was a bit unhappy about the state of things - kept going on about how illogical it would be if we got together, despite my divorce coming through, as I am technically a commitment phobic, and you need someone who's secure for once."
"He - he said that?"
"Yes, actual words said by Sherlock bloody Holmes - and - I'm not an idiot - whatever he says - so I'm wondering is something actually going on between you two?"
"Umm, no, I don't think-,"
The door to the lab banged open - a blur of darkness stormed inside.
"Lestrade," said Sherlock, nose up, expression dour. "You're wasting quite a lot of time on delivering blood samples, aren't you?"
Greg raised a brow at her with a knowing look on his face. "Yeah - I was just on my way out, actually," he said grinning slightly, while she just gaped at Sherlock who looked as if he was contemplating drilling a hole through Greg's chest. "See you later, Molly," said the DI with a wave of his hand.
She was then left with a consulting detective who looked less on the verge of murder all of a sudden. "Interesting spleen?" he said with a mild look of curiosity, as she just continued gaping at him.
Sherlock had managed to remove his coat and scarf - even slipped on a pair of plastic gloves - clearly about to dig into her current project - the spleen - when she finally managed to say. "Sorry - what was that?"
"Hmm?" he said spleen in his hand. "Well, depending on the weight it could be-,"
"No - I'm not - not - that - I mean - why - - - are you jealous?"
"Jealous?" he said with furrowed brows. "...Well from time to time I do find myself jealous, but you'll always be better than me when it comes to your work."He then returned his focus to the bowl.
Now she was really confused. "No - I - thanks...? But I mean if you thought that Greg and I were dating?"
"But you're not," he said easily.
"I know we're not."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
Molly sighed, rolling her eyes with a laugh. She was being mad. Greg was obviously going off on some wild chase, as usual. There was a reason Sherlock helped the man after all, besides his own amusement. "Oh - - sorry, I must really be tired. I listened to Greg about - oh - never mind."
"About what?" he murmured.
"He said you were in love with me," she said with a shrug.
"And?"
She stared. "And?" she repeated. "That's - that's all you're going to say?"
"Was I supposed to say anything else?" he said with slightly narrowed eyes.
" - - I don't know - how about no?"
"That would be pointless, Molly."
She must be hearing wrong, she had to be hearing wrong, or thinking of it in the wrong way. Sherlock didn't mean love love. Maybe he did love her. He probably did, but it was his way. "Oh, well... that's nice."
"I like to think so, so, spleen?"
It took her almost thirty-four 'not-dates' to realize that he did mean it, in his very own way, the only way he could really.
