Variazoni (Sherlolly II)

Chapter Four

Ice cream. Favorite flavor? SH

Molly stared at her phone in shock. Was he asking her out for ice cream when he returned?

I get the chocolate vanilla swirl. Why?

He didn't reply for a long moment.

Just solved a case using ice cream. Was wondering. SH

She sat down at her desk. Where are you?

Now, now Mols, don't ask questions you know I can't answer. SH

Her heart did a little flip in her chest and heat bloomed on her cheeks. He hadn't called her Mols in years. Then where have you been? It's been a year and a half.

How is he? SH

Fine. Much better. When are you coming back?

He didn't reply. She was just getting started on a new cadaver and sighing in the thought that she shouldn't have asked that when her phone rang. She struggled to answer with her elbow and put it on loudspeaker since her hands were dirty.

"Hello?"

"What are you doing?"

Her stomach clenched and her heart danced again. She smiled at the sound of his voice. It had been too long. "Working. You?"

"Bored. No leads lately. Tell me about the body."

"What?"

"Treat me as your recorder. Tell me what you're working on. It'll keep me entertained at least."

She shrugged and focused. "Forty-five year old male. Cause of death a blow to the back of the head, severe trauma in the brain. Died in the ambulance."

"Blow by what?"

"He fell off the roof of his house."

"Hm..."

***

Sherlock sat back in his dingy flat in Brussels. He'd rented it for the week but he would have to move on in the morning. Hopefully, Mycroft would have gotten back to him with some sort of lead by then. For now though, he relaxed into the questionable sofa and listened as Molly called out her findings on the cadaver. Setting the phone on loudspeaker, he put it to the side. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" His eyes fluttered half open.

"Should I um... Should I stop?"

"Are you finished?" She hummed a no. "Then continue." Wriggling a little to sink further into the cushions, Sherlock closed his eyes again and tried to imagine her working in the morgue.

Her hair was up and probably parted down the middle as usual. He hadn't lied when he told her he liked it to the side but it looked better when she had it down. She worked confidently when she was alone. He remembered watching from the dark once, years ago. He'd gone in to ask her for help with a victim and she hadn't heard him enter. About to make his presence known, he'd stopped and watched curiously.

She played music when she was alone, or assumed she was. That night, it had been blues - something he'd never imagined her listening to. She'd swayed lazily to the soft beat while reports printed. She didn't sing but she hummed and worked with a sort of focused grace unlike anything he'd seen when she knew he was there. He'd left her alone that night, deciding to contemplate his new found knowledge of his pathologist instead. Sitting in the dim, grimy flat, Sherlock imagined that Molly instead of the usual fumbling mess she could make of herself when he was there.