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helsinkibabyFic: A Brilliance of Burgundy
Author: helsinkibaby
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Molly/Lestrade
Word Count: 1393
Spoilers: Small for A Scandal in Belgravia and The Hounds of Baskerville.
Rating : PG
Notes: For the prompt "colour" on my cotton candy bingo card.
Molly's never been a big fan of New Year's Eve, hating the crowds of people everywhere she went, the sense of forced frivolity, the idea that if you weren't having a good time, you were some sort of loser. It's one of the reasons that she's never actually minded working on New Year's Eve; after all, when you're surrounded by corpses and grieving families, it makes it that bit easier to count your blessings.
Today, she finds that especially true, having been down in the dumps ever since that ghastly Christmas party in 221B Baker Street, those cruel and horrible words of Sherlock's ringing in her ears. Going to work, having something to else to focus on was almost a relief.
She goes on thinking that right up until the moment that someone walks in who was witness to her humiliation, who'd been humiliated himself in turn. "DI Lestrade," she says, too shocked at his sudden appearance to call him by his first name. "What are you doing here?"
"First of all, it's Greg," he tells her, not for the first time, and as he speaks he's pulling a burgundy scarf from his neck, shaking snowflakes out of it before he uses it to wipe his shoulders of more. "Second of all, have you seen the snow coming down out there? This is the first time this place has actually felt warm to me, you know that?"
The words surprise a giggle out of her and she's heading for the coffee machine, pouring him a steaming cup before he's finished speaking. "Here you go," she says as she hands it to him. "Hate for you to catch frostbite."
"You're an angel," he tells her after the first sip, holding the cup in his two hands. "I'm here for the results on Rachel Mortimer...she's one of mine."
Molly nods; that was the first post mortem she'd completed that night. Reaching for the file, she hands it to him, saying, "I thought you'd still be in Dorset?"
"Yeah... that..." Greg shrugs, looks down at his shoes. "We never actually made it that far, to be honest. Well, she did. We had a bit of a bust-up that night after the party."
Molly closes her eyes briefly, knowing where this is going. "He was right?" She makes it a question, hopes she's wrong, but when she opens her eyes in time to see the devastated look on his face, she knows.
"Yeah. The bloody PE teacher." Greg shakes his head, takes a gulp of coffee. "She went to Dorset the next morning as planned. I went flathunting. Which, let me tell you, during the worst snow we've seen in years, and at Christmas? Not as easy as you might think."
Molly arranges her features into an expression of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Greg," she says quietly. "That's really awful."
Greg shrugs again. "Yeah," he sighs. "Yeah, it is." He's silent for a moment, then forces a smile to his face. It looks awful. "But, life goes on, eh...well, not for some." He holds the file up but doesn't open it. "Want to give me the lowlights?"
Nodding, she begins to talk.
*
A few days later, Molly has the day off, spends it pounding the High Street, braving what's left of the New Year Sales. She could do with a new winter coat, not to mention a pair of new boots - her old reliables have been reheeled so often that she's not sure there's much left that can be done to them. She's not a great fan of the sales but finds what she's looking for and is on her way home when something catches the corner of her eye. Turning, she sees a jumper in a rich shade of burgundy, soft and wonderfully warm to the touch. It's loose enough that she can put layers under it - she works in a morgue; layers are her best friend - but fitted enough to be flattering. The price tag, even in the sales, makes her draw in her breath sharply but once she tries it on, that's it, she's in love and she buys it with hardly a second thought.
The second thought comes later, the first time that she wears it into the morgue, the first time that Greg sees her in it. "Hey," he says, pointing to her jumper, then to his scarf, the same one he'd been wearing on New Year's Eve. "We match."
"Yes, we do," Molly manages, blinking in surprise. "What a coincidence."
She tries to convince herself that's all it is.
Sometimes she even succeeds.
*
She doesn't succeed too often though, and as winter gives way to spring, as she and Greg spend more and more time talking, and not just about cases, she stops trying. When he asks her out for a drink, she says yes without having to think twice, smiles when he orders her a glass of red wine without asking what she wanted. "You remembered," she says quietly, for once, the memory of Sherlock's Christmas party not making her want to cry.
Greg shrugs, has the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Well, you did look rather lovely that night," he tells her. "You made quite the impression."
Molly wants to say something smart and witty but the words die in her throat when she looks into his eyes. She settles for, "Thank you," cringing internally at how that sounds but when Greg smiles at her, she feels herself start to relax again.
"Believe me," he says, "The pleasure was all mine."
*
They fall into seeing one another remarkably quickly, remarkably easily. They catch lunch together when they can; he picks her up at the morgue when she's on days, she brings him breakfast when she's on nights. It's after a particularly grueling round of nights that Greg surprises her, presenting her with two aeroplane tickets and accommodation details for a week in the South of France. Molly protests initially but quickly stops when he points out that there are bodies in the morgue with more colour on their cheeks than she has, because she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her fireplace and realises that he's right.
She kisses him in gratitude, one thing leading to another and the next morning she's on the High Street looking for bikinis. When she finds one in a familiar shade, a devilish smile spreads across her lips and she's on her way to the changing room in seconds.
*
The bikini is a hit, but not for long. Greg gets a call from Mycroft Holmes that has him on the next plane home, Molly at his side. He's pissed off, she's equally so but determined to make the best of things. She finds a B&B in the next village, spends her days curled up with a Kindle filled with the books she hasn't had time to read, spends her nights with Greg and despite his sadness that the bikini is consigned to the bottom of her suitcase, Molly makes sure he's not upset for long.
A burgundy silk negligee does wonders for his mood, even if it doesn't stay on for long.
*
Their holiday is a wonderful break from their lives and on their first day back to work, to real life, for the first time in her life she doesn't want to go to work. They make plans for lunch, and halfway through the morning, the biggest bunch of deep red roses Molly has ever seen is delivered to the morgue.
The card is written in his handwriting, the words making her blush and she sends him a text message that she hopes will do the same.
If the look on his face when he walks into the morgue that night is any indication, it does.
*
Two years after that first drink, he waits for her as she walks down the aisle. In her hands, there is a bouquet of red roses that matches the burgundy of the bridesmaids' dresses, the sash on her flowergirl niece's waist.
Every year on their anniversary, on her birthday, she gets that same arrangement, and Greg wears that burgundy scarf until it literally falls apart.
Molly scours the January Sales that year to find him a new one.
For once, she doesn't mind a bit.
Author: helsinkibaby
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Molly/Lestrade
Word Count: 1393
Spoilers: Small for A Scandal in Belgravia and The Hounds of Baskerville.
Rating : PG
Notes: For the prompt "colour" on my cotton candy bingo card.
Molly's never been a big fan of New Year's Eve, hating the crowds of people everywhere she went, the sense of forced frivolity, the idea that if you weren't having a good time, you were some sort of loser. It's one of the reasons that she's never actually minded working on New Year's Eve; after all, when you're surrounded by corpses and grieving families, it makes it that bit easier to count your blessings.
Today, she finds that especially true, having been down in the dumps ever since that ghastly Christmas party in 221B Baker Street, those cruel and horrible words of Sherlock's ringing in her ears. Going to work, having something to else to focus on was almost a relief.
She goes on thinking that right up until the moment that someone walks in who was witness to her humiliation, who'd been humiliated himself in turn. "DI Lestrade," she says, too shocked at his sudden appearance to call him by his first name. "What are you doing here?"
"First of all, it's Greg," he tells her, not for the first time, and as he speaks he's pulling a burgundy scarf from his neck, shaking snowflakes out of it before he uses it to wipe his shoulders of more. "Second of all, have you seen the snow coming down out there? This is the first time this place has actually felt warm to me, you know that?"
The words surprise a giggle out of her and she's heading for the coffee machine, pouring him a steaming cup before he's finished speaking. "Here you go," she says as she hands it to him. "Hate for you to catch frostbite."
"You're an angel," he tells her after the first sip, holding the cup in his two hands. "I'm here for the results on Rachel Mortimer...she's one of mine."
Molly nods; that was the first post mortem she'd completed that night. Reaching for the file, she hands it to him, saying, "I thought you'd still be in Dorset?"
"Yeah... that..." Greg shrugs, looks down at his shoes. "We never actually made it that far, to be honest. Well, she did. We had a bit of a bust-up that night after the party."
Molly closes her eyes briefly, knowing where this is going. "He was right?" She makes it a question, hopes she's wrong, but when she opens her eyes in time to see the devastated look on his face, she knows.
"Yeah. The bloody PE teacher." Greg shakes his head, takes a gulp of coffee. "She went to Dorset the next morning as planned. I went flathunting. Which, let me tell you, during the worst snow we've seen in years, and at Christmas? Not as easy as you might think."
Molly arranges her features into an expression of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Greg," she says quietly. "That's really awful."
Greg shrugs again. "Yeah," he sighs. "Yeah, it is." He's silent for a moment, then forces a smile to his face. It looks awful. "But, life goes on, eh...well, not for some." He holds the file up but doesn't open it. "Want to give me the lowlights?"
Nodding, she begins to talk.
*
A few days later, Molly has the day off, spends it pounding the High Street, braving what's left of the New Year Sales. She could do with a new winter coat, not to mention a pair of new boots - her old reliables have been reheeled so often that she's not sure there's much left that can be done to them. She's not a great fan of the sales but finds what she's looking for and is on her way home when something catches the corner of her eye. Turning, she sees a jumper in a rich shade of burgundy, soft and wonderfully warm to the touch. It's loose enough that she can put layers under it - she works in a morgue; layers are her best friend - but fitted enough to be flattering. The price tag, even in the sales, makes her draw in her breath sharply but once she tries it on, that's it, she's in love and she buys it with hardly a second thought.
The second thought comes later, the first time that she wears it into the morgue, the first time that Greg sees her in it. "Hey," he says, pointing to her jumper, then to his scarf, the same one he'd been wearing on New Year's Eve. "We match."
"Yes, we do," Molly manages, blinking in surprise. "What a coincidence."
She tries to convince herself that's all it is.
Sometimes she even succeeds.
*
She doesn't succeed too often though, and as winter gives way to spring, as she and Greg spend more and more time talking, and not just about cases, she stops trying. When he asks her out for a drink, she says yes without having to think twice, smiles when he orders her a glass of red wine without asking what she wanted. "You remembered," she says quietly, for once, the memory of Sherlock's Christmas party not making her want to cry.
Greg shrugs, has the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Well, you did look rather lovely that night," he tells her. "You made quite the impression."
Molly wants to say something smart and witty but the words die in her throat when she looks into his eyes. She settles for, "Thank you," cringing internally at how that sounds but when Greg smiles at her, she feels herself start to relax again.
"Believe me," he says, "The pleasure was all mine."
*
They fall into seeing one another remarkably quickly, remarkably easily. They catch lunch together when they can; he picks her up at the morgue when she's on days, she brings him breakfast when she's on nights. It's after a particularly grueling round of nights that Greg surprises her, presenting her with two aeroplane tickets and accommodation details for a week in the South of France. Molly protests initially but quickly stops when he points out that there are bodies in the morgue with more colour on their cheeks than she has, because she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her fireplace and realises that he's right.
She kisses him in gratitude, one thing leading to another and the next morning she's on the High Street looking for bikinis. When she finds one in a familiar shade, a devilish smile spreads across her lips and she's on her way to the changing room in seconds.
*
The bikini is a hit, but not for long. Greg gets a call from Mycroft Holmes that has him on the next plane home, Molly at his side. He's pissed off, she's equally so but determined to make the best of things. She finds a B&B in the next village, spends her days curled up with a Kindle filled with the books she hasn't had time to read, spends her nights with Greg and despite his sadness that the bikini is consigned to the bottom of her suitcase, Molly makes sure he's not upset for long.
A burgundy silk negligee does wonders for his mood, even if it doesn't stay on for long.
*
Their holiday is a wonderful break from their lives and on their first day back to work, to real life, for the first time in her life she doesn't want to go to work. They make plans for lunch, and halfway through the morning, the biggest bunch of deep red roses Molly has ever seen is delivered to the morgue.
The card is written in his handwriting, the words making her blush and she sends him a text message that she hopes will do the same.
If the look on his face when he walks into the morgue that night is any indication, it does.
*
Two years after that first drink, he waits for her as she walks down the aisle. In her hands, there is a bouquet of red roses that matches the burgundy of the bridesmaids' dresses, the sash on her flowergirl niece's waist.
Every year on their anniversary, on her birthday, she gets that same arrangement, and Greg wears that burgundy scarf until it literally falls apart.
Molly scours the January Sales that year to find him a new one.
For once, she doesn't mind a bit.
