Author: NYC Lovers
Category: Original | Oneshot.
Disclaimer: Sherlock (BBC Series 2010 – 2012).
Genres: Romance, Psychology.
Pairing(s): Sherlock/Molly implied.
Author’s note: I wrote this one around 1 a.m. in the morning. I hope you like it. Just the idea of silently loving someone. Well, it’s not exactly a Mary Sue OC since I prefer to see her as the unheard voice of the society (or the one who doesn’t know how to say their thoughts, in a brighter scenario).
It was nothing much. All she had to do was baking a cake for his birthday party, which practically she was not invited. But what could she do? People came in and asked her nicely to do it for him. Well, John did most the talking and persuading but Sarah was also with him and the couple was dangerously convincing. So, the morning after, she went to the supermarket and bought the ingredients, wondering why it had to be her? Why didn’t his girlfriend make one for him? Oh, obviously she would but they wanted her cake, just because she was the finest chef they knew? She was only their landlady, for Christ’s sake! She doubted that he even remembered her first name.
And it was when she saw Molly Hooper. The woman was looking at of stuff in the stores outside the supermarket. Probably she was struggling with what to give him for his birthday, the day which he himself could not even remember. Ah, by the look on her face she was baffling at men’s vests and suits. The woman might not realise that all of his clothes were tailored, not anyone could realise that. But she did. It fit him perfectly. Her father also was a man of tailored clothes, so she knew the differences. And the material, even though he was living in a share flat with cheap rates, his vests were all made form the finest clothe. Oh, no! Molly, not a tie! He never wore a tie and she doubted that he ever had one.
Never mind, it was not her business. So she carried on with her bags and left for her car. She glanced at the clock and it said she had the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon to prepare the cake. According to John, it would start at six–ish. She may have to keep herself occupied at the time, to avoid the party, obviously. They had never talked much, unless he had to. Every time she walked up to his place (only because John asked her nicely and she had no excuse to make), he just ignored her. Sometimes if he was bored, it could have been even worse. He could say anything and every single word of his hurt her to the core. She never responded to his actions because he would only made fun of her, just because, just because she did not have the same brain as him, because she could never be able to know or understand him clearly.
But it always struck her. He fell for Molly, for God knew the reasons but she always found herself jealous of the woman, because she always had chances to talk to him, to work with him. Maybe she was not sincere enough, maybe she did not understand things enough. BUT Molly was a normalhuman being, just like her. Just like her. So what made the different? Oh, that was one of the reason he never enjoyed talking to her. It was because she was so vacant and could never follow his thoughts. But despite all of that, or probably because all of that, she never could take her eyes off him. He and everything about him haunted her now and then. The truth was she had never saw a perfect human being just like him. And she enjoyed observing every single part of his.
And when she realised what she was doing, it was quite late for her to turn back. She was actually in shock the moment she woke up from her thoughts.
She was in love with Sherlock Holmes, her tenant.
One advantages of being young was that she was extremely optimistic. She had told herself a hundred thousand times that she would be over Sherlock quickly. He knew nothing about her. But for her, she knew quite a lot of thing about him. The only thing she did not know about Sherlock Holmes was what actually happened in his funny brain. So, they basically were running in two different universes. For those reasons she always convinced herself that it would be soon over. It took her less than two months to realise that she was bloody wrong. It would never be over, as long as he still lived upstairs, and John’s habit of asking her to make them dinner, (or breakfast, or doing the laundry, or maybe some housekeeping) was still there.
She was there all the time, silently concerned about him.
He was there all the time, loudly criticising things that were out of her control.
No one knew about her feelings. And Sherlock, honestly, was too scary for her to confess. More accurately, she did not have any chance to say it, not even to show it to him. She always imagined the moment she told him she loved him (if she ever could!) was the moment someone shot him all of the sudden. Sherlock barely knew she existed in this world and she was just convinced (by herself, all the time) that telling him her feelings all out of the blue could honestly kill him, or get herself killed (if it could get any worse). It was her fault not telling him how she felt but there were awful lot of things that made it her fault.
So there she was, miserably baking him his birthday cake because John asked her to, and mostly because she loved him and she could not think of anything to give him for this day.
It was when the requests came in. It was Sherlock’s birthday cake but heaps of requests were (figuratively) thrown at her face (in a certain kind of way). Sherlock was out of 221B Baker Street to work on some case early in the morning so everyone gathered around and prepared for the party. When she stepped into the house, it was strangely noisy and filled with laughter. John did a great job gathering everyone around for this day.
‘Ah, there she is, the chef!’ John said happily from upstairs. She just smiled and greeted him with positive attitude. ‘Come up here!’ Crap! It came!
‘I’d rather do the baking in my flat, John. No offense but the your kitchen is like a slaughter house.’ She managed to give him a little joke and he joined her.
‘Decided on the cake?’ John asked and she shook her head gently. ‘I suggest chocolate.’
‘No, strawberry!’ Sarah appeared at the living room entrance. ‘Vitamins.’
‘Lestrade prefers green tea. You know the Japanese has green tea ice cream flavor. They’re good, according to him.’ John announced after he read the text from the detective inspector. Her jaws just dropped but the requests did not seem to stop.
‘Ooh, fruits, love. Fruits are good for your health, especially cherry!’ Mrs Hudson, the lady next door said. She also came by to do some cooking for them.
‘I like something not sweet, like yoghurt mousse.’ Molly appeared at the door. She had finished her shopping. ‘But Sherlock always likes sweet things, don’t you agree?’ The mortician smiled and walked up the stairs. Now she thought she understood why Sherlock and Molly could be together. They were from completely different planet and they just filled each other’s emptiness.
‘Ah, one more text from Mycroft. He thinks tiramisu is the best choice.’ John announced again.
‘Oh, God. Bake yourselves you wicked people!’ She just complained with a smile.
And they left her up to do whatever she thought was the best. Nobody bothered to ask what she liked. It was like she was invisible. It was like she was nothing but a pastry chef to them. Fine. She had been living with her invisibility with Sherlock Holmes for too long. It could not hurt if few more people saw through her.
She decided to make a fruit cake with cream cheese. It was the closest thing to everyone’s requests. All of them were pleased to see the cake. She was kind enough to bought some candles, the exact number of Sherlock’s age. And when she brought it upstairs, she was amazed by the decorations, mostly at the unbelievably clean and tidy state of the living room and the kitchen. She helped them set the table since they did not really count the number of people. So she counted for them. Seven, of course she was wise enough to exclude herself. And they were all busy to realise that she only put seven plates and seven sets of cutleries on the table. No one ever noticed. She did not want to sound miserable but it was the truth. Obviously she could make herself noticeable but she did not like the idea of attending the party that the host did not really welcome (or acknowledge) her.
She looked at the clock and made an excuse to come downstairs. It was a quickie plan she made to get away from the flat for the whole night. She decided to go out for dinner at her favourite restaurant, alone. She could always call some friends for a drink but somehow she just wanted to be alone for today, reflecting about her stupidity and hopelessly hoping that she might get over with this feeling.
She called upstairs that she had an important appointment so she had to leave immediately. Her voice actually sounded like an emergency and she left before anyone could respond, or worse, beg her to stay and have a hellish dinner.
It was kind of cold at night at this time of year. She put her coat on and walked to her car as quickly as she could. But before she got in the car, she saw a tall silhouette approaching 221B Baker Street. It was Sherlock and he clearly looked satisfied. Another case cracked, maybe. She was not sure if he had saw her hurriedly entering the car or not but he did halt for a quick moment that she thought that it was her own imaginary.
But she got into the car anyway, and started the engine. She drove pass him and she saw he was carrying a bag of seven Chinese take away boxes from the restaurant at the end of Baker Street.
She did not count after all.