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seren_ccdTitle: somewhere hides a well
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Ship: Molly Hooper/DI Lestrade
Word Count: 4,978
Rating: T
Warning: Some bad language.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. Title is from an Antoine de Saint-Exupery quote.
A/N: This is going to be a three-chapter fic and I have most of it already written. I just couldn't seem to help myself.
Summary: "He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg." Post-HLV. Molly Hooper decides that if she's going to have to follow along during the next stage of this particular pantomime, it's going to be on her own terms, darn it. With added Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade UST.
“What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
When Molly was ten, she did a geography report on deserts, primarily because the idea of a place with little to no rain was highly intriguing for any resident of the oftentimes soggy United Kingdom. She especially liked the Atacama, a coastal desert in South America that was supposedly the driest desert on Earth, where the winds were so cold, they could freeze a body in an instant.
As she stared at the shaking image of Moriarty and his voice echoed in the morgue, it felt like very much she’d been dropped right smack in the middle of the Atacama as a fierce cold swept over and through Molly and her hands clenched the mug in her hands so tightly her skin squeaked on the ceramic.
Did you miss me?
No.
No, she had not.
She had the vague idea that staying in the empty morgue was most likely not the best defensive strategy, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry and a frost settled deep in her bones. When her mobile rang, she jumped and tea sloshed out of her mug onto her hand.
Shaking the tea from her hand, Molly pulled her phone from her coat pocket with chilled fingers. She glanced down, saw Greg Lestrade's name, and swiped it on.
"It's not him," she said flatly into the phone.
"Molly," he said sounding grim and slightly out of breath. "Get somewhere public, I'm on my way."
"Greg, it's not him," she repeated. "It can't be him. He's dead."
"I know," he said before shouting at someone, "St. Bart's! Now!"
"He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg."
"I know," he said again. "Are you moving? Please move, Molly. Now."
"It's not him," she said fiercely, her hands gripping her phone tightly while she stared at the telly. "I saw the inside of his skull!"
"Yeah," he said. "Believe me, I know. Go the canteen. Now. Please. We'll figure this out, I promise. After I hang up with you, I'm calling Sherlock. The wanker better still be in the country."
"Yes, Sherlock, great," she said flatly nodding as she left the morgue on autopilot, only halfway twigging onto Greg's comment about Sherlock. 'Did you miss me?' ran on a loop through her head. She stopped halfway out the door which promptly swung into her back and said, "Oh, God."
"What?" he asked alarmed. "What is it? Molly?"
"It's just...Greg. I count now," she said.
There's a pause then Greg replied, in a voice so gentle her eyes actually stung with tears, "Molly. You've always counted. Now, get somewhere safe, yeah?"
"All right," she said quietly. "See you soon."
She hung up and got into the lift. She made it to the canteen without incident and headed straight for the coffee cart.
“Tea,” she ordered dully. “As hot as you can make it.”
The woman behind the cart nodded and said cheerfully, “Wonder what was with the telly earlier? Who was that guy?”
Molly stared at her and felt the urge to laugh at the fact that apparently Jim hadn’t made an impression on quite everyone. However, she was afraid if she started laughing it would just turn hysterical, so she bottled it up.
“I mean, it was a neat trick,” the woman continued, running boiling water into the paper take-away cup, “getting on all the channels like that. Was it some kind of joke?”
If it was, I’m going to hate seeing the punchline, Molly thought.
“Here you are then. That’s £1.50,” the woman said putting a lid on top of Molly’s tea.
Molly dug two pounds out of her coat pocket and reached for the tea. She blinked when she realised she still held her mug from earlier.
“Oh,” she said. She took the new cup of tea anyway.
“Still,” the woman said as she handed fifty pence back to Molly. “That fella looked kinda familiar. Did you recognise him?”
“Yeah,” Molly said before turning away. “I dated him once. He likes Glee.”
She felt the disbelieving eyes of the barista watch her as she walked over to an empty table and sat down. She dropped her half-empty mug on the table and wrapped her hands around the flimsy cardboard cup. The heat eventually warmed her fingers and she took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on the canteen entrance.
She heard Greg's voice before she saw him and when he appeared, she tried to smile, but it probably resembled a grimace more than anything. He headed her way.
"Yeah, she's here and she's fine," he said coming to stand next to her. She leaned back in her seat to maintain eye contact with him. "We'll be there shortly."
He hung up and gave her a smile. "Damned thing interrupted the match."
"Bloody bastard," she commented.
Greg sighed. "You okay?"
"Not really," Molly said shaking her head slowly. "Greg. He's dead. This is some kind of hoax or joke or something. You don't survive that kind of trauma."
"I know," he said nodding. "We'll talk on the way."
"The way where?" she asked getting to her feet, leaving the full mug of tea next to the half-empty one.
"Baker Street," he said. "Looks like Sherlock's been pardoned and he wants to see everyone."
"Pardoned for what?" she asked as they left the canteen.
He glanced at her. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" she asked rolling her eyes.
"Oh, well, he shot Magnussen," he said.
Molly stopped walking. "He did what?"
"Yep," he said as he kept walking. "In full view of MI6 and God knows who else, the daft idiot."
He turned when he realised she wasn't next to him. "Molly?"
"He what?" she repeated.
"He murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen," Greg said simply. "And he's being pardoned."
Molly blinked, attempting to process what he'd just said. "Why?" she asked eventually.
"Which part?" Greg asked. "The pardon or the murder?"
"Either? Both?" she said shrugging.
"Well, the pardon is because Sherlock Holmes has connections and more lives than a bloody cat," he said walking to her side. "The killing, though?" He shrugged. "No one's talking."
"But, you've got a theory, though," she said.
"Well, I am a detective, for whatever that's worth," he said, his lips quirking up into a small smile. "So, yeah, I've got a theory."
"Yeah," she said nodding slowly. "So do I."
After stopping by the morgue to grab Molly's bag and for Greg to look around the room to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary or any surveillance equipment, they got into the waiting patrol car idling in front of the hospital. Greg had a quick word with a uniformed officer, who nodded and headed back into Bart’s, before he opened the passenger door for Molly. She settled into her seat, clutching her bag tightly while he got in the driver’s seat.
"Don’t why I bothered, doubt I'd be able tell the difference between bad surveillance and Mycroft Holmes' surveillance," he said as he pulled smoothly onto the road
"I try not to think about it, to be honest," she said slouching down in her seat. "The entirety of MI6 has probably seen me singing along to Blondie by this point."
"Ah, Debbie Harry," he said grinning. "Very good choice."
Molly surprised herself by snickering and saying, "Taking you back to your wild youth, am I?"
"The things I wanted that woman to teach me, Molly," he said glancing at her.
"You’re terrible," she said still snickering.
“I was, actually,” he said. “Hence why I wanted some guidance.”
Molly laughed so hard she snorted and then she gasped and closed her eyes. She bent over and pressed her forehead to her knees, her bag pressed against her chin.
“Molly,” he said, his voice steady and even. “Molly, love, you need to breathe slowly. It’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t think it is,” she whispered.
“It will be,” he said firmly. “I’ll make sure of it, yeah? We’ll make sure of it.”
She looked at him and he spared a second to look away from the road to glance at her.
“Okay,” she said nodding and slowly raising her head. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed. “Look, we’ve dealt with him before. We can do it again.”
“Right,” she said wishing she had an ounce of his confidence. “You really think so?”
He sighed and laughed. “Not really, but considering the alternative’s too grim to contemplate, I’m going to attempt some optimism. For a change.”
She made a face. “You might have a point.”
“’Course I have a point,” he said. “I’m a clever chap when I put my mind to it.”
Molly smiled and her breathing evened out.
“Better?” he asked glancing over at her.
“A bit,” she said nodding.
“My work here is done, then,” he said throwing her a grin.
They arrived at Baker Street and Molly wasn’t surprised to see a black town car pull away as they pulled up.
Molly sighed. “There are going be men in black hanging around my flat, aren’t there?”
“Can’t say the Holmes’ don’t know how to keep an eye on things,” Greg said. “I think it’s their dysfunctional way of saying they care.”
“I think I’d prefer a nice box of Thornton’s,” Molly said as they got out of the patrol car.
“White or dark?” he asked as he held open the door for her.
“I quite like the truffles, actually,” Molly said as they walked up the stairs. “The dark chocolate ones with the smooth centres.”
“Oh, God,” Mary’s voice came from inside the flat. “Are you talking about truffles?”
Molly smiled as she walked inside. “’Fraid so. Can you eat chocolate again?”
Mary made a face from where she sat on the couch, her hands resting on her stomach. “No, it’s awful and still makes me ill. I just want savoury stuff right now.” She raised her voice. “Sherlock, do you have any pretzels?”
Sherlock lifted his head from his laptop and blinked at Mary from where his perch on his chair.
“Why on earth would I have pretzels?” he asked.
Mary shrugged. “You have three patellas in a milk bottle, you could have pretzels.”
“You still have those patellas?” Molly asked staring at Sherlock. “You were supposed to return those.”
“Will you slap me if I don’t?” he asked rolling his eyes.
“I might,” she replied narrowing hers.
“What do you need patellas for?” Greg asked.
Sherlock sighed and looked around the room. “Forget the patellas! Is no one here concerned about what just happened earlier today?”
“We’re very concerned, Sherlock,” John said emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea that he handed to Mary. “Hullo, Molly, Greg. We’re also attempting to lighten the mood considering that it appears that that bastard isn’t actually dead.”
“I also do really want some pretzels,” Mary said.
“And Mary does really want some pretzels,” John added.
“He’s dead,” Molly said quietly. The room went silent and Sherlock looked at her.
“He can’t be anything else,” Molly said looking at him. “You of all people know this.”
“Yes, I do,” he said slowly, his eyes focussing on a point above her shoulder as he sifted through his memory. “You didn’t perform the autopsy.”
“No,” she said. “But I saw the body. It was definitely him and he was definitely dead.”
“These things have been faked before,” John said, not quite looking at her.
“I know,” she said swallowing hard. “But this was him. There are certain…markings that matched up.”
“Such as?” Mary asked.
“He had a patch of freckles on his, um, hip, that I recognised,” Molly said twisting the strap of her bag in her hands.
“Well, now that that’s sorted,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “It appears we have someone new to deal with.”
“Meaning you missed someone,” Greg said bluntly.
“Yes,” was all Sherlock said.
“Could be that this was all just a big distraction,” Greg continued. “Someone having a laugh while they pull something else off?”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Very astute, Gerald; which is why you should return to the Yard and go over all of the cases that occurred within the last month and find any that might have a connection to Moriarty’s network.”
“Oh, easy-peasey. There’s only a few thousand to look over,” Greg said rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said. “You’ll send the cases to me and John and I will go over them.”
“Cheers, mate,” John said.
“I’ll help,” Mary said cheerfully. “I’m in the mood for some dry reading.”
“You should be resting,” John said looking down at her with such affection Molly felt a little uncomfortable. She wondered just what had happened in the last few days, because she had been under the impression that John and Mary weren’t speaking.
“I’m tired of resting,” Mary said smiling up at John. “Besides, I’m pregnant, not infirm. A little light police report reading is right up my alley.”
“Of course it is,” John said, gently running his hand over her hair. Mary hummed and closed her eyes, still smiling.
Molly looked away and caught Greg’s eyes. He arched an eyebrow at her and she just shrugged and said, “I’d better head off. Make sure my cat’s all right as I assume my flat has just been gone over with a fine-tooth comb?”
She glanced at Sherlock and he said, “You assume correctly.”
“As I’m heading back to the Yard,” Greg said as he glared at Sherlock, “I’ll give you a lift.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I believe I’ve got the British Government trailing my every move.”
“You have,” Sherlock said not looking up from his laptop.
“Do you want them following you?” Greg asked.
“Don’t really think it’s an option at this point,” Molly said.
“It’s not,” Sherlock added.
Greg rolled his eyes.
“I’m just saying, I don’t need an escort,” Molly said. “And I don’t want to put you out.”
“You never put me out,” he said lightly. “And I know you don’t need an escort, but would you like one?”
Molly paused, because she did. She really did. Her hands were still cold and she could still hear Jim’s voice in her head. She scrunched up her face and looked at him with chagrin. He just chuckled.
“Right, then,” he said. “Come on, Doctor Hooper. Let’s get you home.”
“I’ll be seeing those reports within the hour, shall I?” Sherlock asked.
“You’ll be seeing when you see them,” Greg said his voice rising. “You aren’t exactly universally beloved at the mo’.”
Sherlock huffed a little and slouched down in his seat.
“Look at that pout,” Mary said chuckling. “Goodness gracious.”
Molly shook her head and headed towards the stairs, Greg’s hand came to rest on her lower back as he guided her out the door.
“Molly,” Sherlock called.
She turned and peered around Greg. Sherlock raised his head and looked at her.
“Do be careful,” he said. “You will most certainly be known to certain parties now.”
“Lucky me,” she said with a sad, little laugh. She waved her hand awkwardly and then walked down the stairs.
Molly was quiet throughout the majority of the ride to her flat as Greg talked to his team at the Yard. She closed her eyes and just listened to the steady cadence of his voice as he instructed his sergeants. She’d always liked his voice; liked the way it was simultaneously warm yet direct.
He’d always been a regular visitor to the morgue and in the past year, and she’d always felt comfortable in his presence. Despite whatever Sherlock said, DI Greg Lestrade was an extremely good copper and Molly had discovered that he had nearly infinite reserves of patience that came in very handy in their line of work. He wanted things done right and he wanted to make sure he was aware of all the details. There had been many a night when he’d dozed in her office while she completed an autopsy.
The fact that he was bloody attractive just icing on the silver fox-shaped cake.
He finished his last call with a sigh and pressed end on his hands-free. “God. My team’s going to go into overtime again. HR hates that.”
Molly smiled. “HR hates everything.”
Greg chuckled. Molly watched his hands as they easily shifted gears as he drove the car almost effortlessly through the miserable London traffic. She’d seen a lot of hands in her life, and she could often tell a person’s occupation by the state of their hands. She wasn’t as precise as Sherlock was, but she knew hands.
Greg’s hands had faint lines due to age stretched over his wrists but they looked strong and steady. She couldn’t spot a single tremor, nor did they tense up when someone cut in front of their car. They were the hands of a competent person and something inside of Molly tingled.
Naturally, Molly thought dryly. Leave it to you to entertain long-buried lusty thoughts in the middle of a crisis. You are so bent, Molly Hooper.
“Nice to see John and Mary getting along again,” he said, his voice cutting into her thoughts.
“Very nice to see,” she asked. And that was something else. She had a very strong suspicion that whatever had happened with Magnussen had something to do with the Watsons. She frowned. “Do you ever feel like you’re only getting part of the story?”
“All the time,” he said, smoothly shifting the gears in the car. “But then again, they’re only getting parts of our story in return.”
“I wonder,” Molly murmured.
He glanced at her. “Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life, Molly.” He winced. "That sounded patronizing. And I don't mean it that way. I have to remember to not do it, too."
Molly smiled. “It doesn’t help that I’ve got such a tame life.”
“Oh, yes,” he said grinning. “Being a pathologist must be terribly boring. Bringing the odd person back from the dead must get so tedious.”
“Shut it,” she said, turning her head, but still smiling.
They arrived at Molly’s flat and Greg insisted on going inside with her. They passed a man in a suit in the stairwell and the man nodded to them.
“He was around the last time,” Molly murmured when they reached her floor. “Bloody Holmeses.”
“I know you don’t like it, but I feel a bit better about leaving you on your own knowing they’re around,” Greg said as Molly unlocked her door.
She paused and looked at him. “You do?”
“Course, I do,” he said furrowing his brow. “Molly, you’re a good friend and I care about you and if I thought I could get away with telling you to leave the city and go hole up in a cottage on the Isles of Scilly, I would.”
She stared at him for a minute and he just stared back at her. She wondered if she’d missed something somewhere (probably had, knowing her) and what she’d need to do to find it. But she just blinked and said mildly, “Never been to the Isles of Scilly. Aren’t they owned by the Prince?”
“That’s the one,” he said as she pushed her door open.
Molly looked around her flat, spotting her cat, Toby, instantly. “Oh, you poor lad. You’re not going to come down from there until morning, are you?”
Toby gave a little warning growl from his perch on top of her bookcase and huddled further back behind an old anatomy and physiology textbook.
Molly shook her head and looked around her flat. She didn’t spot anything amiss, but let Greg enter to do his own search. She dropped her bag on her kitchen table and took off her coat.
“Tea?” she called out.
“Better not,” he said. “I do need to get to the Yard.”
“Well, thanks for the lift,” she told him as he walked over to her.
“Anytime,” he said. He looked concerned. “And you will call, yeah? If you need anything? Or even if you don’t need anything. Just…call me.”
“I’ll call,” she said smiling.
“Good,” he said. His brow furrowed. “You going to be okay?”
“Oh, sure,” she said trying to sound casual. “I’ve got some pesto in the fridge, I’m home early, so I can get my washing done and oh, hell. This is really, really bad, isn’t it?” She slumped a little. “I mean, really bad. Even if it’s not Jim, which it isn’t, it’s someone who knew him and oh just hell, Greg.”
“Hey, hey,” he said stepping in close and ducking his head to make sure she looked at him. “It’s bad. Not gonna beat about the bush. But you’ve done the impossible before and brought a man back to life. This will be a walk in the park.”
“Still on that optimism lark, are you?” she commented, a corner of mouth quirking up.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how long it lasts.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll make it through this, Molly. Copper’s honour.”
“You just made that up,” she said, fully smiling now.
Greg just grinned at her. Laughing a little, on impulse, Molly rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
He looked so surprised and pleased when she pulled back that she paused and then leaned forward again and this time he met her halfway.
Their mouths slid against one another and Molly fisted the front of his jacket in her hands. His hands cupped her face and gently tilted her head to the side and her lips parted at the slightest brush of his tongue. She pressed in as close as she could to him, soaking up the warmth that just radiated out from his body as he stroked his tongue alongside hers.
It was intense. It was exactly what she needed. It was amazing and overwhelming and it was…completely unfair and oh, God, what was she doing?
Molly pulled away with an, “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t-“
“Whoa, whoa,” he said breathlessly while his hands still cradled her face. “Breathe, it’s okay.”
She breathed in and out and couldn’t stop herself from rubbing her cheek against his palm.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping into a lovely low register. “Are you sorry because you didn’t mean to kiss me at all? Or because you wanted a kiss and any port in a storm will do? Or because you didn’t mind kissing me but you’re not sure what you want out of it?”
Molly thought, then said, “That last option. I definitely don’t mind kissing you and I have no idea what I want.” She paused. “And maybe partially the any port in a storm thing, too. Oh, God, Greg, I’m such a mess.”
He chuckled and pulled her close. She sighed and tucked her arms between her chest and his, pressing her forehead to his sternum.
“Molly, you’re not a mess.” She snorted and he amended his statement. “Okay, you’re a bit of a mess, but not without a good reason. Can I ask you something?”
“Considering you’ve just properly snogged me, you can ask me anything you want,” she said without thinking.
“Hmm, snogging leads to carte blanche question time,” he said and she could feel the smile in his voice. “Good to know. Are you still in love with Sherlock?”
Molly had always suspected Greg was something of a boxer because clearly the man never pulled his punches.
“No,” she said softly shaking her head, her nose brushing against his shirt. “He’s still…compelling and I’ll always help him if he asks, but no. I’m not in love with him.”
“All right, then,” he said pressing his lips to the top of her head.
“Are you still married?” she asked.
“Divorce was finalised two weeks ago,” he said.
She lifted her head and he looked at her. “That’s pretty recent,” she commented.
“It is,” he said, and then he chuckled. “I’m something of a mess, too, you know.”
Molly smiled and good God, but she wanted to kiss him again. “So, what do we do?”
“We go slow?” he said shrugging. “Or we just chalk it up to a bad day and see what happens next.”
“Do you want to chalk it up to a bad day?” she asked, her stomach clenching in preparation of the answer.
“No,” he said slowly shaking his head. “I’m going to chalk it up to something I’ve wanted to do for a while and something I’m glad happened even if we don’t do anything else.”
It was the perfect answer. It took the pressure off of her, yet still left her in charge of any further action.
“Oh, you’re good,” she breathed.
He laughed and she shivered at the lovely vibrations it sent through her body. “I’m out of practice and I’m a decade older than you are, at the very least, and I haven’t actually dated in far too long. The last thing I am is good.”
“I think it’s precisely what you are,” she said seriously. She was delighted to see his cheeks redden slightly and he cleared his throat.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “So, we take this as it comes. All right?”
“All right,” she said nodding.
“Do you…want me to call you later?” he asked looking hesitant for the first time.
“Yes, yes, I do,” she said nodding. “Please.”
He smiled in what appeared to be relief. “My pleasure.”
She saw him off and after she’d closed and locked her door, she pressed the backs of her hands to her warm cheeks and smiled.
So…Greg Lestrade. An actual possibility. Who would have thought?
Anyone with a brain? Molly thought bitterly. You were so blinded by Sherlock and his drama and then Tom and being so fiercely determined to be ‘normal’, you completely forgot to just live your life. And Greg is…
“Really rather lovely,” she said out loud.
Her cat emitted a mournful little meow and she looked up at him. He’d edged out from behind the textbook and peered down at her.
“If I drag a chair all the way over there and attempt to pick you up, am I going to get a scratch on my arm for my troubles?” she asked him.
He warbled a little and she rolled her eyes.
“Right,” she said grabbing her chair.
A quarter of an hour later, Molly glared at her cat, who was now on the floor and calmly eating his dinner, while she applied some anti-bac to a long scratch on the top of her hand.
However, it wasn’t really Toby’s fault that men in black had completely disrupted his daily eighteen hours of dozing.
“Goddamn it, Jim,” she muttered. “You absolute bastard.”
The chill from earlier returned and she marched to her bathroom to take a very hot shower.
She sulked through her shower and through feeding Toby. She glowered at her re-heated leftover pasta and then at her telly she tried to focus on a Lewis re-run.
Molly had really had enough of getting dragged into other people’s dramas and while she wouldn’t have done anything differently, the last thing she wanted to do was get involved in the ongoing vendetta that was Sherlock Holmes versus Jim Moriarty.
Did you miss me?
What was it going to be this time? she wondered. A battle on top of the London Eye? A duel with rapiers drawn at Buckingham Palace? I know I don’t have much of a private life, but I don’t think I’m quite so desperate to participate in this particular pantomime again. I’m not ready to ‘Boo’ and ‘Hiss’ and shout ‘He’s behind you!’ all over again.
Suddenly, Greg’s words overpowered Jim’s.
Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life.
Molly muted the telly.
Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life.
She eyed her laptop. It was probably the most inconvenient time to attempt to have a life, but if she didn’t do it now, when would she? Shouldn’t she try to claim back a little something for herself before the curtain rose again?
Molly grabbed her laptop and typed in London Meet-ups. She scanned the list of groups. Mediation? No. Singing groups? She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Art? Maybe. A figure-drawing class might be interesting. Ramblers? Possibly.
Oh.
Geography lectures. She scanned the group’s description. People picked a region of the world and gave a quick seminar every other Tuesday evening.
Her ten year old self perked up.
It could be utterly boring and she didn’t really have the time to do any extraneous research, right?
But, ten year old Molly said somewhat plaintively, we’ve always wanted to know all the capitals of all the countries. It would be helpful for pub quizzes!
She checked the group’s schedule. The next meeting was next Tuesday. She could just go and see if it was interesting.
Before she knew what she was doing, she registered for the group and a lovely feeling came over her. The topic could end up being a complete bore and she’d most likely be the youngest person in the room but…it was something different. It was something completely hers.
She smiled, sank back into her couch cushions, turned the volume back up on her telly and tried to remember the names of all the deserts.
It also managed to block out Jim’s voice for the rest of the evening.
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Ship: Molly Hooper/DI Lestrade
Word Count: 4,978
Rating: T
Warning: Some bad language.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. Title is from an Antoine de Saint-Exupery quote.
A/N: This is going to be a three-chapter fic and I have most of it already written. I just couldn't seem to help myself.
Summary: "He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg." Post-HLV. Molly Hooper decides that if she's going to have to follow along during the next stage of this particular pantomime, it's going to be on her own terms, darn it. With added Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade UST.
“What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
When Molly was ten, she did a geography report on deserts, primarily because the idea of a place with little to no rain was highly intriguing for any resident of the oftentimes soggy United Kingdom. She especially liked the Atacama, a coastal desert in South America that was supposedly the driest desert on Earth, where the winds were so cold, they could freeze a body in an instant.
As she stared at the shaking image of Moriarty and his voice echoed in the morgue, it felt like very much she’d been dropped right smack in the middle of the Atacama as a fierce cold swept over and through Molly and her hands clenched the mug in her hands so tightly her skin squeaked on the ceramic.
Did you miss me?
No.
No, she had not.
She had the vague idea that staying in the empty morgue was most likely not the best defensive strategy, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry and a frost settled deep in her bones. When her mobile rang, she jumped and tea sloshed out of her mug onto her hand.
Shaking the tea from her hand, Molly pulled her phone from her coat pocket with chilled fingers. She glanced down, saw Greg Lestrade's name, and swiped it on.
"It's not him," she said flatly into the phone.
"Molly," he said sounding grim and slightly out of breath. "Get somewhere public, I'm on my way."
"Greg, it's not him," she repeated. "It can't be him. He's dead."
"I know," he said before shouting at someone, "St. Bart's! Now!"
"He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg."
"I know," he said again. "Are you moving? Please move, Molly. Now."
"It's not him," she said fiercely, her hands gripping her phone tightly while she stared at the telly. "I saw the inside of his skull!"
"Yeah," he said. "Believe me, I know. Go the canteen. Now. Please. We'll figure this out, I promise. After I hang up with you, I'm calling Sherlock. The wanker better still be in the country."
"Yes, Sherlock, great," she said flatly nodding as she left the morgue on autopilot, only halfway twigging onto Greg's comment about Sherlock. 'Did you miss me?' ran on a loop through her head. She stopped halfway out the door which promptly swung into her back and said, "Oh, God."
"What?" he asked alarmed. "What is it? Molly?"
"It's just...Greg. I count now," she said.
There's a pause then Greg replied, in a voice so gentle her eyes actually stung with tears, "Molly. You've always counted. Now, get somewhere safe, yeah?"
"All right," she said quietly. "See you soon."
She hung up and got into the lift. She made it to the canteen without incident and headed straight for the coffee cart.
“Tea,” she ordered dully. “As hot as you can make it.”
The woman behind the cart nodded and said cheerfully, “Wonder what was with the telly earlier? Who was that guy?”
Molly stared at her and felt the urge to laugh at the fact that apparently Jim hadn’t made an impression on quite everyone. However, she was afraid if she started laughing it would just turn hysterical, so she bottled it up.
“I mean, it was a neat trick,” the woman continued, running boiling water into the paper take-away cup, “getting on all the channels like that. Was it some kind of joke?”
If it was, I’m going to hate seeing the punchline, Molly thought.
“Here you are then. That’s £1.50,” the woman said putting a lid on top of Molly’s tea.
Molly dug two pounds out of her coat pocket and reached for the tea. She blinked when she realised she still held her mug from earlier.
“Oh,” she said. She took the new cup of tea anyway.
“Still,” the woman said as she handed fifty pence back to Molly. “That fella looked kinda familiar. Did you recognise him?”
“Yeah,” Molly said before turning away. “I dated him once. He likes Glee.”
She felt the disbelieving eyes of the barista watch her as she walked over to an empty table and sat down. She dropped her half-empty mug on the table and wrapped her hands around the flimsy cardboard cup. The heat eventually warmed her fingers and she took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on the canteen entrance.
She heard Greg's voice before she saw him and when he appeared, she tried to smile, but it probably resembled a grimace more than anything. He headed her way.
"Yeah, she's here and she's fine," he said coming to stand next to her. She leaned back in her seat to maintain eye contact with him. "We'll be there shortly."
He hung up and gave her a smile. "Damned thing interrupted the match."
"Bloody bastard," she commented.
Greg sighed. "You okay?"
"Not really," Molly said shaking her head slowly. "Greg. He's dead. This is some kind of hoax or joke or something. You don't survive that kind of trauma."
"I know," he said nodding. "We'll talk on the way."
"The way where?" she asked getting to her feet, leaving the full mug of tea next to the half-empty one.
"Baker Street," he said. "Looks like Sherlock's been pardoned and he wants to see everyone."
"Pardoned for what?" she asked as they left the canteen.
He glanced at her. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" she asked rolling her eyes.
"Oh, well, he shot Magnussen," he said.
Molly stopped walking. "He did what?"
"Yep," he said as he kept walking. "In full view of MI6 and God knows who else, the daft idiot."
He turned when he realised she wasn't next to him. "Molly?"
"He what?" she repeated.
"He murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen," Greg said simply. "And he's being pardoned."
Molly blinked, attempting to process what he'd just said. "Why?" she asked eventually.
"Which part?" Greg asked. "The pardon or the murder?"
"Either? Both?" she said shrugging.
"Well, the pardon is because Sherlock Holmes has connections and more lives than a bloody cat," he said walking to her side. "The killing, though?" He shrugged. "No one's talking."
"But, you've got a theory, though," she said.
"Well, I am a detective, for whatever that's worth," he said, his lips quirking up into a small smile. "So, yeah, I've got a theory."
"Yeah," she said nodding slowly. "So do I."
After stopping by the morgue to grab Molly's bag and for Greg to look around the room to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary or any surveillance equipment, they got into the waiting patrol car idling in front of the hospital. Greg had a quick word with a uniformed officer, who nodded and headed back into Bart’s, before he opened the passenger door for Molly. She settled into her seat, clutching her bag tightly while he got in the driver’s seat.
"Don’t why I bothered, doubt I'd be able tell the difference between bad surveillance and Mycroft Holmes' surveillance," he said as he pulled smoothly onto the road
"I try not to think about it, to be honest," she said slouching down in her seat. "The entirety of MI6 has probably seen me singing along to Blondie by this point."
"Ah, Debbie Harry," he said grinning. "Very good choice."
Molly surprised herself by snickering and saying, "Taking you back to your wild youth, am I?"
"The things I wanted that woman to teach me, Molly," he said glancing at her.
"You’re terrible," she said still snickering.
“I was, actually,” he said. “Hence why I wanted some guidance.”
Molly laughed so hard she snorted and then she gasped and closed her eyes. She bent over and pressed her forehead to her knees, her bag pressed against her chin.
“Molly,” he said, his voice steady and even. “Molly, love, you need to breathe slowly. It’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t think it is,” she whispered.
“It will be,” he said firmly. “I’ll make sure of it, yeah? We’ll make sure of it.”
She looked at him and he spared a second to look away from the road to glance at her.
“Okay,” she said nodding and slowly raising her head. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed. “Look, we’ve dealt with him before. We can do it again.”
“Right,” she said wishing she had an ounce of his confidence. “You really think so?”
He sighed and laughed. “Not really, but considering the alternative’s too grim to contemplate, I’m going to attempt some optimism. For a change.”
She made a face. “You might have a point.”
“’Course I have a point,” he said. “I’m a clever chap when I put my mind to it.”
Molly smiled and her breathing evened out.
“Better?” he asked glancing over at her.
“A bit,” she said nodding.
“My work here is done, then,” he said throwing her a grin.
They arrived at Baker Street and Molly wasn’t surprised to see a black town car pull away as they pulled up.
Molly sighed. “There are going be men in black hanging around my flat, aren’t there?”
“Can’t say the Holmes’ don’t know how to keep an eye on things,” Greg said. “I think it’s their dysfunctional way of saying they care.”
“I think I’d prefer a nice box of Thornton’s,” Molly said as they got out of the patrol car.
“White or dark?” he asked as he held open the door for her.
“I quite like the truffles, actually,” Molly said as they walked up the stairs. “The dark chocolate ones with the smooth centres.”
“Oh, God,” Mary’s voice came from inside the flat. “Are you talking about truffles?”
Molly smiled as she walked inside. “’Fraid so. Can you eat chocolate again?”
Mary made a face from where she sat on the couch, her hands resting on her stomach. “No, it’s awful and still makes me ill. I just want savoury stuff right now.” She raised her voice. “Sherlock, do you have any pretzels?”
Sherlock lifted his head from his laptop and blinked at Mary from where his perch on his chair.
“Why on earth would I have pretzels?” he asked.
Mary shrugged. “You have three patellas in a milk bottle, you could have pretzels.”
“You still have those patellas?” Molly asked staring at Sherlock. “You were supposed to return those.”
“Will you slap me if I don’t?” he asked rolling his eyes.
“I might,” she replied narrowing hers.
“What do you need patellas for?” Greg asked.
Sherlock sighed and looked around the room. “Forget the patellas! Is no one here concerned about what just happened earlier today?”
“We’re very concerned, Sherlock,” John said emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea that he handed to Mary. “Hullo, Molly, Greg. We’re also attempting to lighten the mood considering that it appears that that bastard isn’t actually dead.”
“I also do really want some pretzels,” Mary said.
“And Mary does really want some pretzels,” John added.
“He’s dead,” Molly said quietly. The room went silent and Sherlock looked at her.
“He can’t be anything else,” Molly said looking at him. “You of all people know this.”
“Yes, I do,” he said slowly, his eyes focussing on a point above her shoulder as he sifted through his memory. “You didn’t perform the autopsy.”
“No,” she said. “But I saw the body. It was definitely him and he was definitely dead.”
“These things have been faked before,” John said, not quite looking at her.
“I know,” she said swallowing hard. “But this was him. There are certain…markings that matched up.”
“Such as?” Mary asked.
“He had a patch of freckles on his, um, hip, that I recognised,” Molly said twisting the strap of her bag in her hands.
“Well, now that that’s sorted,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “It appears we have someone new to deal with.”
“Meaning you missed someone,” Greg said bluntly.
“Yes,” was all Sherlock said.
“Could be that this was all just a big distraction,” Greg continued. “Someone having a laugh while they pull something else off?”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Very astute, Gerald; which is why you should return to the Yard and go over all of the cases that occurred within the last month and find any that might have a connection to Moriarty’s network.”
“Oh, easy-peasey. There’s only a few thousand to look over,” Greg said rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said. “You’ll send the cases to me and John and I will go over them.”
“Cheers, mate,” John said.
“I’ll help,” Mary said cheerfully. “I’m in the mood for some dry reading.”
“You should be resting,” John said looking down at her with such affection Molly felt a little uncomfortable. She wondered just what had happened in the last few days, because she had been under the impression that John and Mary weren’t speaking.
“I’m tired of resting,” Mary said smiling up at John. “Besides, I’m pregnant, not infirm. A little light police report reading is right up my alley.”
“Of course it is,” John said, gently running his hand over her hair. Mary hummed and closed her eyes, still smiling.
Molly looked away and caught Greg’s eyes. He arched an eyebrow at her and she just shrugged and said, “I’d better head off. Make sure my cat’s all right as I assume my flat has just been gone over with a fine-tooth comb?”
She glanced at Sherlock and he said, “You assume correctly.”
“As I’m heading back to the Yard,” Greg said as he glared at Sherlock, “I’ll give you a lift.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I believe I’ve got the British Government trailing my every move.”
“You have,” Sherlock said not looking up from his laptop.
“Do you want them following you?” Greg asked.
“Don’t really think it’s an option at this point,” Molly said.
“It’s not,” Sherlock added.
Greg rolled his eyes.
“I’m just saying, I don’t need an escort,” Molly said. “And I don’t want to put you out.”
“You never put me out,” he said lightly. “And I know you don’t need an escort, but would you like one?”
Molly paused, because she did. She really did. Her hands were still cold and she could still hear Jim’s voice in her head. She scrunched up her face and looked at him with chagrin. He just chuckled.
“Right, then,” he said. “Come on, Doctor Hooper. Let’s get you home.”
“I’ll be seeing those reports within the hour, shall I?” Sherlock asked.
“You’ll be seeing when you see them,” Greg said his voice rising. “You aren’t exactly universally beloved at the mo’.”
Sherlock huffed a little and slouched down in his seat.
“Look at that pout,” Mary said chuckling. “Goodness gracious.”
Molly shook her head and headed towards the stairs, Greg’s hand came to rest on her lower back as he guided her out the door.
“Molly,” Sherlock called.
She turned and peered around Greg. Sherlock raised his head and looked at her.
“Do be careful,” he said. “You will most certainly be known to certain parties now.”
“Lucky me,” she said with a sad, little laugh. She waved her hand awkwardly and then walked down the stairs.
Molly was quiet throughout the majority of the ride to her flat as Greg talked to his team at the Yard. She closed her eyes and just listened to the steady cadence of his voice as he instructed his sergeants. She’d always liked his voice; liked the way it was simultaneously warm yet direct.
He’d always been a regular visitor to the morgue and in the past year, and she’d always felt comfortable in his presence. Despite whatever Sherlock said, DI Greg Lestrade was an extremely good copper and Molly had discovered that he had nearly infinite reserves of patience that came in very handy in their line of work. He wanted things done right and he wanted to make sure he was aware of all the details. There had been many a night when he’d dozed in her office while she completed an autopsy.
The fact that he was bloody attractive just icing on the silver fox-shaped cake.
He finished his last call with a sigh and pressed end on his hands-free. “God. My team’s going to go into overtime again. HR hates that.”
Molly smiled. “HR hates everything.”
Greg chuckled. Molly watched his hands as they easily shifted gears as he drove the car almost effortlessly through the miserable London traffic. She’d seen a lot of hands in her life, and she could often tell a person’s occupation by the state of their hands. She wasn’t as precise as Sherlock was, but she knew hands.
Greg’s hands had faint lines due to age stretched over his wrists but they looked strong and steady. She couldn’t spot a single tremor, nor did they tense up when someone cut in front of their car. They were the hands of a competent person and something inside of Molly tingled.
Naturally, Molly thought dryly. Leave it to you to entertain long-buried lusty thoughts in the middle of a crisis. You are so bent, Molly Hooper.
“Nice to see John and Mary getting along again,” he said, his voice cutting into her thoughts.
“Very nice to see,” she asked. And that was something else. She had a very strong suspicion that whatever had happened with Magnussen had something to do with the Watsons. She frowned. “Do you ever feel like you’re only getting part of the story?”
“All the time,” he said, smoothly shifting the gears in the car. “But then again, they’re only getting parts of our story in return.”
“I wonder,” Molly murmured.
He glanced at her. “Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life, Molly.” He winced. "That sounded patronizing. And I don't mean it that way. I have to remember to not do it, too."
Molly smiled. “It doesn’t help that I’ve got such a tame life.”
“Oh, yes,” he said grinning. “Being a pathologist must be terribly boring. Bringing the odd person back from the dead must get so tedious.”
“Shut it,” she said, turning her head, but still smiling.
They arrived at Molly’s flat and Greg insisted on going inside with her. They passed a man in a suit in the stairwell and the man nodded to them.
“He was around the last time,” Molly murmured when they reached her floor. “Bloody Holmeses.”
“I know you don’t like it, but I feel a bit better about leaving you on your own knowing they’re around,” Greg said as Molly unlocked her door.
She paused and looked at him. “You do?”
“Course, I do,” he said furrowing his brow. “Molly, you’re a good friend and I care about you and if I thought I could get away with telling you to leave the city and go hole up in a cottage on the Isles of Scilly, I would.”
She stared at him for a minute and he just stared back at her. She wondered if she’d missed something somewhere (probably had, knowing her) and what she’d need to do to find it. But she just blinked and said mildly, “Never been to the Isles of Scilly. Aren’t they owned by the Prince?”
“That’s the one,” he said as she pushed her door open.
Molly looked around her flat, spotting her cat, Toby, instantly. “Oh, you poor lad. You’re not going to come down from there until morning, are you?”
Toby gave a little warning growl from his perch on top of her bookcase and huddled further back behind an old anatomy and physiology textbook.
Molly shook her head and looked around her flat. She didn’t spot anything amiss, but let Greg enter to do his own search. She dropped her bag on her kitchen table and took off her coat.
“Tea?” she called out.
“Better not,” he said. “I do need to get to the Yard.”
“Well, thanks for the lift,” she told him as he walked over to her.
“Anytime,” he said. He looked concerned. “And you will call, yeah? If you need anything? Or even if you don’t need anything. Just…call me.”
“I’ll call,” she said smiling.
“Good,” he said. His brow furrowed. “You going to be okay?”
“Oh, sure,” she said trying to sound casual. “I’ve got some pesto in the fridge, I’m home early, so I can get my washing done and oh, hell. This is really, really bad, isn’t it?” She slumped a little. “I mean, really bad. Even if it’s not Jim, which it isn’t, it’s someone who knew him and oh just hell, Greg.”
“Hey, hey,” he said stepping in close and ducking his head to make sure she looked at him. “It’s bad. Not gonna beat about the bush. But you’ve done the impossible before and brought a man back to life. This will be a walk in the park.”
“Still on that optimism lark, are you?” she commented, a corner of mouth quirking up.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how long it lasts.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll make it through this, Molly. Copper’s honour.”
“You just made that up,” she said, fully smiling now.
Greg just grinned at her. Laughing a little, on impulse, Molly rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
He looked so surprised and pleased when she pulled back that she paused and then leaned forward again and this time he met her halfway.
Their mouths slid against one another and Molly fisted the front of his jacket in her hands. His hands cupped her face and gently tilted her head to the side and her lips parted at the slightest brush of his tongue. She pressed in as close as she could to him, soaking up the warmth that just radiated out from his body as he stroked his tongue alongside hers.
It was intense. It was exactly what she needed. It was amazing and overwhelming and it was…completely unfair and oh, God, what was she doing?
Molly pulled away with an, “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t-“
“Whoa, whoa,” he said breathlessly while his hands still cradled her face. “Breathe, it’s okay.”
She breathed in and out and couldn’t stop herself from rubbing her cheek against his palm.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping into a lovely low register. “Are you sorry because you didn’t mean to kiss me at all? Or because you wanted a kiss and any port in a storm will do? Or because you didn’t mind kissing me but you’re not sure what you want out of it?”
Molly thought, then said, “That last option. I definitely don’t mind kissing you and I have no idea what I want.” She paused. “And maybe partially the any port in a storm thing, too. Oh, God, Greg, I’m such a mess.”
He chuckled and pulled her close. She sighed and tucked her arms between her chest and his, pressing her forehead to his sternum.
“Molly, you’re not a mess.” She snorted and he amended his statement. “Okay, you’re a bit of a mess, but not without a good reason. Can I ask you something?”
“Considering you’ve just properly snogged me, you can ask me anything you want,” she said without thinking.
“Hmm, snogging leads to carte blanche question time,” he said and she could feel the smile in his voice. “Good to know. Are you still in love with Sherlock?”
Molly had always suspected Greg was something of a boxer because clearly the man never pulled his punches.
“No,” she said softly shaking her head, her nose brushing against his shirt. “He’s still…compelling and I’ll always help him if he asks, but no. I’m not in love with him.”
“All right, then,” he said pressing his lips to the top of her head.
“Are you still married?” she asked.
“Divorce was finalised two weeks ago,” he said.
She lifted her head and he looked at her. “That’s pretty recent,” she commented.
“It is,” he said, and then he chuckled. “I’m something of a mess, too, you know.”
Molly smiled and good God, but she wanted to kiss him again. “So, what do we do?”
“We go slow?” he said shrugging. “Or we just chalk it up to a bad day and see what happens next.”
“Do you want to chalk it up to a bad day?” she asked, her stomach clenching in preparation of the answer.
“No,” he said slowly shaking his head. “I’m going to chalk it up to something I’ve wanted to do for a while and something I’m glad happened even if we don’t do anything else.”
It was the perfect answer. It took the pressure off of her, yet still left her in charge of any further action.
“Oh, you’re good,” she breathed.
He laughed and she shivered at the lovely vibrations it sent through her body. “I’m out of practice and I’m a decade older than you are, at the very least, and I haven’t actually dated in far too long. The last thing I am is good.”
“I think it’s precisely what you are,” she said seriously. She was delighted to see his cheeks redden slightly and he cleared his throat.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “So, we take this as it comes. All right?”
“All right,” she said nodding.
“Do you…want me to call you later?” he asked looking hesitant for the first time.
“Yes, yes, I do,” she said nodding. “Please.”
He smiled in what appeared to be relief. “My pleasure.”
She saw him off and after she’d closed and locked her door, she pressed the backs of her hands to her warm cheeks and smiled.
So…Greg Lestrade. An actual possibility. Who would have thought?
Anyone with a brain? Molly thought bitterly. You were so blinded by Sherlock and his drama and then Tom and being so fiercely determined to be ‘normal’, you completely forgot to just live your life. And Greg is…
“Really rather lovely,” she said out loud.
Her cat emitted a mournful little meow and she looked up at him. He’d edged out from behind the textbook and peered down at her.
“If I drag a chair all the way over there and attempt to pick you up, am I going to get a scratch on my arm for my troubles?” she asked him.
He warbled a little and she rolled her eyes.
“Right,” she said grabbing her chair.
A quarter of an hour later, Molly glared at her cat, who was now on the floor and calmly eating his dinner, while she applied some anti-bac to a long scratch on the top of her hand.
However, it wasn’t really Toby’s fault that men in black had completely disrupted his daily eighteen hours of dozing.
“Goddamn it, Jim,” she muttered. “You absolute bastard.”
The chill from earlier returned and she marched to her bathroom to take a very hot shower.
She sulked through her shower and through feeding Toby. She glowered at her re-heated leftover pasta and then at her telly she tried to focus on a Lewis re-run.
Molly had really had enough of getting dragged into other people’s dramas and while she wouldn’t have done anything differently, the last thing she wanted to do was get involved in the ongoing vendetta that was Sherlock Holmes versus Jim Moriarty.
Did you miss me?
What was it going to be this time? she wondered. A battle on top of the London Eye? A duel with rapiers drawn at Buckingham Palace? I know I don’t have much of a private life, but I don’t think I’m quite so desperate to participate in this particular pantomime again. I’m not ready to ‘Boo’ and ‘Hiss’ and shout ‘He’s behind you!’ all over again.
Suddenly, Greg’s words overpowered Jim’s.
Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life.
Molly muted the telly.
Don’t let yourself be a bit player in your own life.
She eyed her laptop. It was probably the most inconvenient time to attempt to have a life, but if she didn’t do it now, when would she? Shouldn’t she try to claim back a little something for herself before the curtain rose again?
Molly grabbed her laptop and typed in London Meet-ups. She scanned the list of groups. Mediation? No. Singing groups? She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Art? Maybe. A figure-drawing class might be interesting. Ramblers? Possibly.
Oh.
Geography lectures. She scanned the group’s description. People picked a region of the world and gave a quick seminar every other Tuesday evening.
Her ten year old self perked up.
It could be utterly boring and she didn’t really have the time to do any extraneous research, right?
But, ten year old Molly said somewhat plaintively, we’ve always wanted to know all the capitals of all the countries. It would be helpful for pub quizzes!
She checked the group’s schedule. The next meeting was next Tuesday. She could just go and see if it was interesting.
Before she knew what she was doing, she registered for the group and a lovely feeling came over her. The topic could end up being a complete bore and she’d most likely be the youngest person in the room but…it was something different. It was something completely hers.
She smiled, sank back into her couch cushions, turned the volume back up on her telly and tried to remember the names of all the deserts.
It also managed to block out Jim’s voice for the rest of the evening.
