1895 Sherlock AU where Molly and Sherlock are married, but only as friends. Molly is having secret relatioship with Irene Adler, and Sherlock is in love with John who is married to Mary..
HEY IT’S MY SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND SHE REQUESTED FIC FROM ME
I’M SO HAPPY IT COULD BE MY BIRTHDAY
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BBY. <3
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Pairing: Irene/Molly
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Molly might not be Sherlock—but she can see how Irene could be recognised by not-her-face.
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Irene Adler is a complex individual, but Molly doesn’t know anyone simple. Except for, maybe, herself. (Though Irene tells her differently it’s just—it’s difficult to feel important and educated around Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and Irene Adler and—surely you understand the picture.)
But! To the point, Irene is complex. Not just in her personality, which is of course incredibly interesting and deep and Molly just—she can’t wait to get to know more, and here more stories of her exploits and exploitations—but also in her body as well.
And, as this relationship (if she dares to call it that) progresses, she is beginning to understand how, exactly, Sherlock recognised her by not-her-face.
Irene has a very defined collarbone, attached to thin shoulders. Her skin is pale and the veins of her neck occasionally stand out, especially if she hasn’t been sleeping. The joints of her fingers, from the knuckle to the tip, are slightly swollen and will probably be arthritic later in life, and that can be seen even as she deftly plays with one of the café’s spoons. Molly imagines Irene popping her knuckles and joints for effect when she meets with her—uhm—clients.
Irene’s ternum—what she can see of it in her current dress, at any rate—is normal width, but obvious, and this dress doesn’t emphasise her breasts, particularly, but Molly can tell that they’re low-end Cs, or at least she can guess as much.
Her hips are thin, even in this clothing, and Molly pictures her hipbones protruding slightly, something that would distinguish her corpse from another—unless you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly wonders if she would have been able to tell, had she known Irene then. She likes to think she could.
“Darling,” Irene purrs, placing the spoon on the edge of her bowl of soup, looking at Molly over the rim of a glass of water. “You’re staring.”
“I’m sure you’re used to it,” Molly replies, without thinking. She does that a lot, you know, and can never manage to stop herself. “But—I mean. I was trying to understand how Sherlock identified not-you from not-your-face and. I’ve figured it out. Though I think—well. Nevermind.”
“Tell me. I like to know what you’re thinking. It saves me guesswork. Deduce me like one of you’re French girls.”
Molly laughs, placing her own spoon on the saucer. “I think I might have noticed that the corpse wasn’t yours. Sherlock is—he’s very smart, but if I think back your collarbone is different on the left side—it slopes, well—“ Molly stands, leaning over the table to trace the collarbone to her right (or Irene’s left). “—here, see? And the body didn’t do that.”
Irene’s mouth tilts upward, and her eyes meet Molly’s, keeping her in place—from returning to her seat. “You’re brilliant, Molly. It’s no wonder you get to identify people.”
“Oh—well thank you, I—ha. Thank you.”
“What do you say you come to my place after lunch, hm? I’d like you to tell me more about your talents.”
Molly flushes—her ears feel warm, her neck feels warm—and she nods slowly. “If—I mean.”
“Or we could have another lunch. Without the food. Perhaps.”
“O-oh. Well. Please. Getting to know you more would be—yes please.”
Irene smiles—and Molly mirrors it with enthusiasm.
