How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 4: The New Normal

"I hate your bath." Molly Hooper stalked through the living room wearing nothing but a towel on her way upstairs. Sherlock ignored her. It was the fifth time in as many days that he had heard the pint-sized woman complain about the tub in John's old bathroom. Her bathroom now, he supposed, since neither of them knew exactly how long they would be cohabiting. She had a soaker tub at home and was resenting the downgrade. Sherlock watched her retreating back as she started up the stairs, balancing a can of coke, a package of biscuits and her e-reader while clutching the (not big enough) towel around her.

She had her quirks, just like him. Where Sherlock hid his cigarettes in a Persian slipper, Molly would laze for hours in water hot enough to turn her skin red and read on her e-reader while snacking.

Sherlock discovered her perchance for soaking in the bath that first day. He and John had finally returned from Molly's flat with the majority of Molly's closet in tow (though Sherlock had suggested they burn most of the unflattering and overly cheerful jumpers which earned him a rap on the ear from John,) and a couple boxes of other items. Mycroft was to send a couple men over the following day to box up the rest and put the furniture that didn't fit in her room into storage.

Sherlock and John exchanged looks over the boxes as they carried them up the stairs and set them outside the closed door. They had both been rather embarrassed boxing up her underwear but she couldn't go without it so it was a necessary evil. Sherlock blushed now, remembering some of the lacy bra and panty combinations. (Whatever her frumpy choices in outside clothing, he now knew that what was on the inside was very sexy indeed.) He briefly mused on the whys of that but tore his thoughts away before they could go into dangerous territory.

Anyway, after John and Mary departed, he had gone up to her room and rapped on the door with an offering of chocolate to help soothe her raging temper. There had been no answer and he called out, "Molly, please let me in. John made me buy you some chocolates." There was silence for a moment then he heard a splash come from the bath. He turned to inspect the door to the bathroom and heard a scuffling noise and the sound of a towels being taken from the rack. Abruptly, the door opened and Molly's head poked out. She held out her hand and Sherlock looked down at the bag of chocolates he grasped and walked over to her, holding them out. She snatched the bag and slammed the door in his face. He stood there for a moment, completely confused, and the door reopened.

"Tell John I said thank you." And the door slammed again.

Three hours later without a sound except the occasional running of water (which hadn't happened in a while,) he tapped on the door again. No answer.

"Molly?" Silence again. He began to worry. "Molly, answer me!" He sprinted downstairs and grabbed a lock pick and ran back up, picking the lock in seconds. He burst into the room and skidded to a stop.

The room was steamy, the mirror fogged, and Molly lay in the tub, covered in bubbles, with her feet propped up, candy wrappers all over the floor and her tablet in her hand. She glared up at him.

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" He blushed to the roots of his hair, swiftly looking down at his hands and muttering something about making sure she was okay before backing out of the room as fast as possible.

And every day since then she had disappeared into the bath just like that. Always taking something to eat with her and staying for hours. He asked her what she had been reading when she finally appeared and she had just given him an odd look before replying, "A novel." She didn't elaborate and he didn't press, though he did wonder why he never saw her tablet left out even though she seemed to use it a lot. Oh well, question to answer another day.