A Proper Detective
It took Sherlock exactly 4.78 seconds to deduce that this so called “psychic detective” was nothing but a fraud with slightly above average observation skills. The American was a mediocre actor amateur level deduction and nothing more. Why Scotland Yard would call him in all the way from California to work on a case Sherlock already had nearly solved was baffling to say the least, and more than a little vexing. Two more days at the most and Sherlock would have it cracked, and yet he had to share this wonderfully gruesome triple murder with some colonist imposter and his bald sidekick who would not stop making eyes at Donovan. ‘Play nice,’ Lestrade had ordered. Sherlock tried to expose the man on the spot, but was laughed off as simply ‘being unhappy to share the limelight.’ The three of them were scheduled to visit the morgue at St. Bart’s to get a better look at the bodies, and though Sherlock was right on time, the American duo were nowhere to be seen.
“So I hear we have some new faces coming in today,” Molly prodded as she started arranging the mutilated corpses for examination.
“An American sham and his witless assistant,” Sherlock huffed, and she threw him an entertained smile.
“Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You don’t consider a psychic detective even slightly interesting?”
He rolled his eyes.
“All psychics are nothing more than body language readers and liars who know how to do their homework. They’re an insult to consulting detectives.”
“I thought you were the only consulting detective.”
“Exactly.”
As soon as the quip left his mouth, the doors to the morgue burst open with a dramatic flourish and the visiting detective strutted in like he owned the place. Sherlock watched as Molly’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. He could tell that the exact words going through her mind were ‘no one told me he would be handsome,’ and he rolled his eyes again. Typical.
“Well cheerio there, lassette,” the man chirped at Molly in the most atrocious cockney accent Sherlock had ever heard, but of course it only made her smile and blush. “I’m Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Burtondict Cucumberbutt. Those blokes at Scotland Yard didn’t warn us about such a cracking mortician.”
His partner punched his arm.
“Shawn, stop embarrassing yourself,” he muttered before turning to Molly. “Ma’am, I apologize for his insensitivity to your culture. I myself an am an avid anglophile. I’ve read all seven Harry Potter books and seen every episode of Doctor Who since William Hartnell.”
Molly looked amused, obviously caught up in the charm of their antics. Sherlock wondered how much sucking up it would take to get Mycroft to deport them. When she finally stopped giggling like a child, Molly extended her hand to shake theirs.
“I’m Dr. Molly Hooper. I’ll be showing you the victims today.”
“Finally,” Sherlock grumbled, practically elbowed his way through them to be first to the mangled cadavers.
“I sense that the non-believer is still bitter about my presence?” he heard Mr. Spencer whisper to Molly from behind him, relievingly back in his normal voice.
“Don’t take it personally. Sherlock doesn’t like anyone,” she responded.
Sherlock sighed in frustration. He wasn’t bitter, just intolerant to charlatans who passed amateur sleuthing as some sort of cosmic trickery. He felt even surer of his convictions when the man pulled an incredibly theatrical and gaudy display of the ‘spirits of the deceased’ possessing his body, which included no less than obscene flailing and clumsily throwing himself around the whole room. There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that all of the senselessness Mr. Spencer was shouting was nothing more than a string of deductions he had made from files stolen from Donovan and the obvious hatchet wounds on the body. It was distasteful, even if he was on the right track. The whole scene made Sherlock want to vomit in disgust, but Molly looked thoroughly entertained by the showmanship, which made it even worse. Yes, he knew she was innocent and gullible, but this was ridiculous. At long last, he finally wrapped up his performance and fixed his out of place shirt.
“Dr. Hooper, we have a few hours before we have to report back to our new friend, Lessy. How about you show us to your favorite pub and I do a private reading for you?” Mr. Spencer asked with an incorrigible grin.
Molly’s cheeks turned the color of a maraschino cherry.
“I’d like that very much, Mr. Spencer. I haven’t taken my lunch break yet.”
Just as Shawn was about to reach for her hand, Sherlock immediately stepped in and grabbed her arm (admittedly more possessively than he had intended).
“No, Molly, I need you to help me with the case today. I’ll have John bring us some crisps and we can have lunch here.”
“Sherlock!” she scolded, backing away. “I have spent all of my lunch hours for the last week and a half stuck in this morgue helping you, and I will gladly do so for the next week and a half as well, but today I want to have a proper meal at a proper pub with a proper detective!”
Sherlock was taken aback, and slowly relinquished his grip on her arm. He knew Molly wasn’t the same mousey pathologist she was before his ‘death.’ He knew she was a stronger woman then he ever would have guessed the moment she first slapped him after his stint undercover. He knew she would never fall prey to his cruel manipulations again, which he was glad for after gaining so much respect for her. But apparently he did not know as much about her behavior as he thought. She turned back to Mr. Spencer.
“Shawn, do you enjoy gin? The Viaduct Tavern is just down the street.”
***
“You’re here early,” Molly commented indifferently as she walked into the morgue, makeup only half done and still holding a nearly full tea tumbler.
Sherlock shifted his shoulders and swallowed his pride.
“That’s because I owe you an apology,” he managed to spit out.
The word apology tasted disgusting and he had no regrets whatsoever about his words yesterday, but he was still remorseful for making her lose her patience. Even if the ‘proper detective’ comment still stung coming from his pathologist.
Molly put her tea down on her desk and sighed, and Sherlock knew he owed her. Usually she was incredibly modest when he issued any sort of ‘sorry’ statement, but right now she looked as if she had been actively expecting one.
“My behavior yesterday was inappropriate. It was not my place to try to keep you from having lunch with Mr. Spencer, even if he is a fraud. I am… sorry, Molly,” he said as sincerely as he could muster, which he realized still came across as cold.
“You’re right, it wasn’t,” Molly answered. “But I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have insinuated that you aren’t a proper detective. That was mean.”
Sherlock cleared his throat to buy him a few seconds of time while he ran through the mundane conversation prompts he had outlined in his head.
“Did you three have fun?”
Molly grinned.
“Lots. But we aren’t getting together if that’s what you mean. He has a lovely girl back in America and Gus is… well, Gus.”