Chapter Text
The first time Sherlock meets her, he’s surprised by how much he likes the look of her.
The perpetually unrealistic peppiness of baristas always irritates him, but hers doesn’t.
Although perhaps this is because she isn’t peppy . She is friendly , and warm , and it was genuine , and he is intrigued. She seems truly glad to be taking people’s orders, asking them how their day is going, handing them a pastry.
And she has pretty eyes.
He’s so impressed by her that he tries to reciprocate some of her kindness - something he’s never done before in his life . He returns her smile, and if his is a little stiff that’s because he never uses it. He tells her his name, and she scribbles something on a cup, and he’s so distracted by the way her ponytail swishes when she turns to call out to her coworker that he completely misses the fact that she messed it up.
That is, until she hands him his paper cup, and he looks at it after taking a sip.
Shrock , she’s written. Shrock .
He’s had his name mangled by coffee shop employees before, of course. Multiple times. Sherlock is a somewhat strange name, after all. No, the mistake isn’t new.
What is new was his reaction to it.
Instead of the normal irritation, the kind that crawls up your throat and is hot and itchy, he feels amusement. Understanding. Fondness . (And isn’t that odd? He doesn’t even know her.)
Instead of contemplating the uselessness of half-deaf baristas, he spends his walk to work reflecting on how understandable it is that she misheard him. The cafe was bustling and noisy and he wasn’t speaking loudly. (He will deny it until the end of time, but the smile she sent him made his throat go dry.)
For some strange, inexplicable reason, he feels happy. All day.
*
He goes back.
Of course he goes back. How could he not, when he knows that she has hair and eyes and a smile?
He goes back, and he manages to focus enough to take a surreptitious glance at her nametag. Molly . Isn’t that fitting, he thinks, when the name warm and soft and gentle in his mouth - thank you, Molly - and matches the warm and delighted grin she wears.
You’re welcome, Shrock , she says, beaming, so proud of herself for remembering his name, and Sherlock cannot find it in himself to correct her. He wants to, of course, but then he considers the fact that she might be embarrassed, that the smile might dissolve and be replaced with something hot and burning and ashamed, and he decides that he can wait. Shrock is very far away from the worst thing he’s been called.
*
He keeps going back, and his decision to tell her that his name is not, in fact, Shrock, dissolves. He keeps coming up with new excuses, and none of them make sense. What they really boil down to is that he wants to have the you’ve had my name wrong the entire time we’ve known each other conversation outside of the coffee shop, somewhere where they have time and privacy, and he doesn’t want to be the one to say let’s spend time together outside of the coffee shop.
It’s silly, and if he thought about it he’d realize this, but why would he think about it when he can think about Molly instead?
(And think he does. He thinks about her truly awful jumpers and the way they make her face glow and how horrified anyone with a lick of fashion sense would be to be seen in them and how oblivious Molly is of their hideousness. His tummy flutters when he thinks about the way she always lights up when she sees him, and then he gets gloomy when he thinks about the way she lights up when she sees anyone . A true lover of people, his Molly.
No, no, not his Molly. Of course not his Molly. She doesn’t even know his actual name, after all.)
So he just goes to the cafe and smiles when she calls him Shrock and nurtures secret, silly fantasies that will never come to pass because he is a coward.
Which is fine.
*
One day, he’s sitting in Baker Street with John, talking a mile a minute about their latest class and what a bore the professor is, and John throws his head back against the couch.
“I want coffee,” he announces, “even though it’s too late for it.”
Sherlock, without thinking, says “I know a good place.”
John raises an eyebrow and Sherlock tries to backtrack but it’s too late. So he puts on his coat and he grabs his wallet and he wishes very much that he’d kept his mouth shut.
Images of John bursting out laughing when Molly calls him ‘Shrock’ flash before his eyes. He thinks about how humiliated she’ll be. He thinks about how this is exactly what he didn’t want to happen.
He wants to scream, but it’s too late now.
*
Molly beams when she sees him, like she always does, and Sherlock feels his heart flop around in his chest, like it always does.
The cafe is quiet, because it’s almost eleven in the evening on a weeknight. This is exactly what he was dreading. If it was busy there’d be a chance that John would mishear.
Now it’s a sure thing.
“Hello!” says Molly, with the enthusiasm that makes her such an excellent barista. “What can I get for you tonight?”
John places his order, looking at Sherlock with bemusement and a musement and something else Sherlock doesn’t care to put a name to, and Sherlock gives her his.
“We’ll have those for you in just a moment,” says Molly, smiling, and when she goes to assist her coworker John turns to Sherlock with his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline.
“Who is she?” he whisper-says in as sing-songy a tone as he can manage while whispering.
“Molly,” says Sherlock, “obviously. Did you not read her name tag?”
“No, I did,” says John, “I just wanted to see if your voice sounded any different when you were talking about her.”
“Oh,” says Sherlock, and then, “did it?”
“It did,” says John. “It was soft and fond and very strange. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Sherlock feels a lot of feelings at that but can’t think of a way to express them before Molly comes back with their drinks.
“A latte for John,” she says, handing it over, “and a grande coffee frappuccino with an extra shot of espresso for Shrock.”
John spits out the sip he’d taken and starts laughing.
“ Shrock !” he says, laughing. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
“It sounds like my name,” says Sherlock, frowning and trying not to be cross because it’s really not John’s fault.
“What?” says Molly at the same time.
Sherlock and John turn to look at her. She’s bright red, and there’s a glassy layer of tears over her eyes, and she looks more upset than she did the time that customer shouted at her for getting his order wrong.
(Sherlock hadn’t physically assaulted the man, but it had been a close call. He had escorted the man off the premises and threatened him with the wrath of the British government if he ever came back.)
“I meant to tell you - ” Sherlock begins.
“I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I,” says John, looking apologetic.
“No, no, it’s fine,” says Molly, who is clearly not fine. “I just - I’m so sorry, Sh - I don’t even know your name. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe - all this time - I’m so incredibly sorry. I couldn’t begin to tell you how mortified I am.”
“Don’t be,” says John, “he’s a prick.”
She offers a halfhearted smile, and picks up a pen and a gift card. (They write on their gift cards here. It’s a very small and quirky coffee shop.)
“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “We’ll make it up to you.” She scrawls a number on the card and then says, flushing red again (it was beginning to wear off), “What - could I have your name, sir? Again?”
“Sherlock,” says Sherlock, and he’s never felt so awful for having a unique name. “I’m truly sorry, Molly. I never meant - this is precisely the sort of situation I was trying to avoid.”
“I understand,” says Molly, sniffling a little. “I understand completely. This whole thing is on me - ”
“It’s really not,” interrupts Sherlock.
“ - and I’m handling it much worse than I would normally. I got some bad news today and - well. It was all just a bit much.”
She takes a deep breath and gives them a wobbly but genuine smile before handing Sherlock his gift card.
“This really isn’t necessary,” he says.
“Please take it,” she says. “For me.”
He resists the silly urge to say something like I’d do anything for you and tucks the card into his pocket instead, to prove it with his actions.
“Well,” she says, laughing a little. “This day has not gone at all the way I thought it would when I woke up this morning.”
“Happens to the best of us,” says John. “Anything we can do to help?”
“Anything,” Sherlock adds, because he doesn’t like how easily John is interacting with her. It’s not fair.
“Be an expert in physical chemistry?” says Molly, laughing ruefully.
John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at John.
“As it happens,” says John, “Sherlock is very, very good at chemistry - physical and otherwise.”
He’s smirking to himself, and Molly is blushing, and Sherlock feels like he’s missed something but he’s distracted by Molly’s eyelashes.
“Would you - ” she winces. “I hate to ask - especially since I’ve had your name wrong this entire time - but would you mind helping - maybe - sorry, you’re probably busy, I shouldn’t - ”
“I’d love to help,” says Sherlock, and then feels himself blushing. “If that’s all right.”
“More than all right!” says Molly quickly.
They smile at each other for a moment.
“Well,” says John, “I should go. Final papers, you know.”
“Of course,” says Molly. “Thank you for stopping by! And I apologize for, you know, everything.”
“No worries,” says John. “I hope the chemistry sorts itself out.”
And he looks very pleased with himself as he leaves.
“I’m truly happy to help,” says Sherlock, feeling awkward and uncomfortable but not wanting to leave.
“Thanks,” says Molly. She twists her fingers together.
“I’m sorry for - ”
“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”
They blink at each other.
“Why would you be sorry?” asks Molly. “ I’m the one that called you by the wrong name for six months.”
“I have coffee,” says Sherlock.
They blink at each other some more.
“I meant coffee with me,” says Molly at length, and she’s bright red again but her eyes look much less miserable and much more cautiously hopeful. “As - well, whatever you want it to be as.”
Sherlock is both stunned and incredibly delighted.
“I would like that,” he says. “I would like that very much.”
“Well, good,” she says.
“Yes,” he says.
Another moment passes.
“I really should go,” he says. “I have to get back and do… something.”
“Me, too,” agrees Molly. “Floors to be mopped, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” says Sherlock.
“Yes,” says Molly.
“See you,” he says, and leaves.
He’s halfway home before he remembers that you need to have someone’s contact information in order to contact them.
He catches Molly just as she’s leaving the cafe, oversized bag slung over her shoulder and very puffy coat zipped up.
“Mobile number,” he gasps. (Running all the way back was quite unnecessarily dramatic, in hindsight.)
“What?” she asks, sounding both amused and glad to see him again. It makes him feel warm.
“I need your mobile number,” he says. “So we can decide when to have coffee.”
“Oh!” she says, and pulls her phone out. “What’s yours?” she asks. “I’ll send you a text.”
He rattles it off, and she programs it into her phone. His buzzes in his pocket.
“Got it,” he says.
“Great!” she says.
They look at each other. He thinks about how much he’d like to kiss her, and then he thinks about how little she really knows him. Better to wait.
“Can I walk you home?” he asks instead.
“Yes,” she says, blushing again.
He walks her home, and says goodnight, and goes home and sends her a text.
Sherlock
When should we have coffee?
Seen, 12:03AM
Molly
didn’t save your number in my phone, whoops, but
this is Sherlock, right?
Seen, 12:06AM
Sherlock
Yes, but you can call me Shrock.