Molly, Only Molly (Sherlolly)

Chapter Ten

The hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up, and I turn around quickly, afraid that someone holding a long steel blade will be right behind me. The fact that the murderer could be mere feet away scares me.

Sherlock looks over at me. "Are you- shaking?" He asks.

"Yes. Yes I am. Because I could be murdered right now, too. So could you."

"Relax, Molly. Do you think someone could sneak up on me? Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective that ever lived!" He watches my reaction closely.

I raise my eyebrows, and he starts chuckling. Then- is he laughing? He catches my incredulous look and laughs even harder. "It was a joke!" He crows, and I smile awkwardly.

"Ha, ha, ha..." My fake laughing trails off and we stand there in silence. "So," I say. "About that guy who was just stabbed to death... Shouldn't we be doing something about that. You know, the mystery?"

"What? Oh, um... Probably. Yes we should." He bends down and starts examining the body.

I sigh in exasperation. "I do this at my boring job every single day, Sherlock! I want to find somebody and question him, maybe have a blade held to my throat!"

He stands up. "I didn't think you had suicidal tendencies, or wanted your life to end. That wasn't the impression I got. Mind you, you're good at hiding your feelings, even from me. Maybe it was there the whole time, and I didn't notice. Lestrade didn't either, and he thinks you're almost as wonderful as I am. Congratulations, Molly! You've concealed your thoughts from me!"

I stare at him in astonishment. "What? No!" I shake my head violently. "I meant I wanted adventure and cliffhangers, things like that. I don't want to- to die!"

"Oh good!" Sherlock smiles his strange little smile, the overly bright one, but it reaches his eyes this time. He reaches out and pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sure the morgue wouldn't be able to find another employee like you, Molly."

I blush. This sounds almost like a compliment. But no, it couldn't be. He probably means it as an insult- but that seems like he's praising me at my work skills? Keep on dreaming.

He starts walking briskly down the shoreline, and I almost have to run to keep up with his long strides. "So... Looking for someone with a knife?"

"More like looking for footprints leading away from the body, pieces of clothing that might have torn off, hairs on tree branches, things like that."

"Oh of course!" I hadn't thought of any of this. I'd expected my job would have prepared me for this, but I was dead wrong. No pun intended.

A breeze picks up, and blows my hair around my face. Sherlock's curls are messier than usual, and the ends of his blue scarf blow up into his mouth numerous times, with him spitting it out over and over again.

His eyes are determined, and every once in a while he kneels down to examine a footprint. "I'm going to call Lestrade," he says. "He might actually be able to help me this time."

He pulls out his mobile phone and quickly dials a number. "It's Sherlock. I'm on the east bank of the Thames. We need your help." And then he hangs up without waiting for a reply.

He puts his fingers together into a tent shape, then mutters under his breath. "Would that make sense? Yes... No." On and on he goes.

I've barely noticed anything on our walk, besides footprints. But those would be hard to miss. Sherlock is going on like he's found part of the murderer's DNA strand, just lying there in plain sight.

He finally looks up. "There you are. I was beginning to think you had forgotten."

"How could I forget about the urgent needs of Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asks, huffing and gasping. He must have run most of the way down the bank. A slight sheen of sweat is on his forehead. "Yes, I ran," he says, answering my unspoken question. "Why I did, ask that bloody good-for-nothing standing right there."

Sherlock grins, then rolls his eyes. "You're out of shape, Gabriel," he says, shaking his head.

Lestrade winks at me. "And you still can't get my name right," he replies. I laugh softly. They're not quite friends, but they're more than acquaintances.

Lestrade straightens up. "Anyway, what did you want me here for?"

"There's been a murder," Sherlock says gleefully.

Lestrade claps his hands. "There always is with you around, isn't there?"

"If there was, I wouldn't be bored at all. It would be heaven on earth! But the spaced out deaths and murders give me small glimpses, just the same."

The man is morbid. He enjoys death! I don't really mourn for the bodies at work, but I don't laugh in their waxy faces either. But I have to remind myself that if I want to get closer to Sherlock, I have to get closer to understanding his twisted mind, too.

"So what do you have for me so far?" Lestrade asks.

"It was done by stabbing. A woman, most likely, or a man with extremely small feet."

"It could have been a child," I offer, feeling disgusted and unnerved at the thought.

They both shoot me a glance. "Maybe," Sherlock says. "That would be interesting! I've never met a child criminal before."

"That would be sick and twisted," Lestrade says, "But it's still a good suggestion nonetheless."

"Imagine having a child like that in your classes at school," I say uncomfortably. "Imagine them sitting behind you, poking the back of your neck with a pencil. And then, one day it's a knife."

"Sherlock was that kid," Lestrade says matter-of-factly.

"I never killed anyone!" Sherlock protests, his eyes still on the ground.

"But you were the psychopath of the class."

"How many times do I have to tell you this? I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He stalks off.

Lestrade shrugs. "It's practically his life motto. I'm sure you've heard him say it before. And I'm also sure it won't be the last time you hear it."