Chapter Text
Molly Hooper has been working with The Baker Street Boys for almost three years.
Well, with might be a bit of an overstatement. Working for . She’s been working for The Baker Street Boys for almost three years. She got the job right after graduation, because they just wanted someone to sweep the stage and run for coffees, and she’s worked her way up to being the second-in-command of all things backstage.
“Wiggins! The lights !” she snaps. As a former fresh-out-of-school recruit who cried more nights than not in her first few weeks, Molly always makes an effort to be gentle and nonthreatening when she’s instructing newbies. Wiggins , though…
“Does he even care about his job?” she moans to Mary, who is the number one backstage manager. (Technically second-in-command isn’t a thing, but no one told Mary that. She made Molly a badge and everything. It’s gathering dust in her glove compartment, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless.)
“No,” says Mary, “but that’s because you’ve been too kind to him.”
Molly splutters, because she doesn’t like admitting that she’s a tender-hearted individual that would rather lose her job herself than fire someone else, but she can’t really deny it.
“Don’t worry,” says Mary, wrapping an arm around Molly’s shoulders, “I’ll speak to him and clear everything up. Either he shapes up, or he goes away.”
Molly shudders at the thought of being on the receiving end of that speech. Mary can be terrifying when she wants to be.
“Better you than me,” she says, and then prods at the arm still draped around her shoulders. “You seem happy.” Mary gets physically affectionate when she’s in a good mood. It was something to get used to. “What’s going on?”
Mary just grins at her, retracts her arm, and stalks off to shout at the sound guy. Molly shakes her head and tries not to laugh.
*
They have a show that night, and it’s chaotic and stressful and invigorating.
None of this is out of the ordinary. Molly loves how alive she feels, scrambling around backstage, working the soundboard, and she loves how reliable the thrill is. What is out of the ordinary, what makes Molly nearly swallow her tongue, is watching John Watson, one half of The Baker Street Boys, come jogging off the stage and run straight into Mary’s arms. Molly, whose own arms are full of cords and wires and a faulty microphone, feels her jaw drop, and then feels an uncontrollable grin creep onto her face as she goes on with her post-show duties.
She feels someone watching her and glances over her shoulder.
Sherlock Holmes , the other half of The Baker Street Boys, is watching her.
Her heart skips a beat.
She’s had a crush on him since before she even started working for him. Matter of fact, she’s had so much of a crush on him that Mary likes to inform that she’s teetering on the edge of ‘infatuated’ and nearing ‘obsessed.’ But, really, is it Molly’s fault that he’s so handsome? That his eyes all but sparkle when he’s excited about something? That he’s tall and thin and beautiful? No! It’s not! And if she’s in his presence on a more or less regular basis…
It’s not her fault. She refuses to feel guilty. She’s only human, and everyone human is susceptible to Sherlock Holmes. Plus, she has some strong suspicions that Sherlock couldn’t care less about her, so she’s not hurting anyone but herself.
She tries to pretend she can’t feel his eyes on her and snaps at Wiggins to sweep up.
*
“Since when ?” Molly demands, bursting into Mary’s hotel room.
Mary, who is sprawled across her bed and curled into the chest of one John Watson, raises a glass of champagne in Molly’s direction.
“Since very recently. Help yourself.”
“Oh,” says Molly, covering her eyes and stumbling backwards. “Oh, no. I can’t - I didn’t - I can’t - I’m so sorry.”
She whacks her head on a lamp and stubs her toe on what she assumes is something of Mary’s, but she can’t risk opening her eyes to find out. John sounds like he’s choking and Mary sounds like she’s giggling hysterically and Molly just wants out .
“Sorry!” she says again, flailing blindly for the doorknob. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She finds it, and with one last, “I’m really sorry,” she turns it and falls gratefully into the corridor.
Except that she ends up colliding into someone with an ‘oomf.’ Stumbling backwards and trying to recover herself, she looks up with a thousand apologies on the tip of her tongue.
Unfortunately, all of them dry up, because it is Sherlock Holme’s bright eyes looking back at her.
This is really not her night.
“You okay?” he asks, steadying her with an arm, and she’s surprised, like she always is, at how shy he is in real life as opposed to his boisterous and bold stage persona. Silly, because over the years she’s seen more of him behind the scenes than she’s seen him on the stage, but there it is.
“Yeah,” she blurts belatedly, brain only just remembering that it’s supposed to respond. “Just, uh, walked into something that I’d rather not have.”
She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it’s definitely not for him to break into a giant grin.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “John’s been talking about her since before she started working for us. I’m honestly surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”
“Wh - how - ” Molly struggles to phrase her question, so shocked is she.
“How long?” Sherlock guesses, still grinning like a maniac. “A long time.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell me about it?” Molly asks, feeling baffled.
Sherlock goes red, and it’s his turn to stammer.
“Er - well - ”
Molly smiles in what she hopes is an encouraging manner.
“It’s okay,” she says. “The question was more rhetorical than anything.”
“Oh,” says Sherlock, looking relieved. “Of course.”
They stand in the hallway in silence for a moment, and it’s awkward but he’s so close . Molly can smell him. He must have showered since the show, because there’s no hint of sweat or makeup, just eucalyptus and a little bit of mint. She’s just musing on how nice it is to be able to see him look more relaxed and natural when he frowns suddenly.
“Is your head okay?” he asks, stepping forward and reaching for her forehead. Her breath catches in her throat and he snatches his hand back. “It’s just, you’ve got - ” he gestures at his own face.
“Oh,” Molly says, understanding. “That’s from when I fled Mary’s room with my eyes closed in a panic and hit my head on a light fixture.”
He stares at her for a moment and then starts giggling. She stares at him for a moment (his eyes are all crinkly, and his teeth are so white) and then joins in.
“Bit silly, isn’t it?” she says.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘silly,’” says Sherlock. “Hitting your head? Not silly. Happens to the best of us. Barging into your friend’s room when the last time you saw her she was snogging John silly? A bit.”
“Eurgh,” says Molly, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I can’t believe - ”
“I know,” he says, mouth tipping up on one side. Molly hates how fluttery it makes her feel to see him smiling at her. “Guess we’ll have to get used to it, though.”
“Guess so,” Molly agrees, and then they lapse into silence again.
“I was on my way downstairs just now,” says Sherlock slowly, “was planning on getting a snack of some sort. If you - would you care to join me?”
“I’d love to,” says Molly, ignoring the fact that the fluttering is intensifying.
Maybe this
is
her night, after all.