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Molly Hooper crouched below a worn table, barley breathing, eyes focused on the small mirror. It reflected the door on her right, along with an armed hairless-ape who stood there, squinting at the darkness.

Her hands clutched the small handgun in a firm grip, eyes trained on the figure. She paused, looked at a small, dainty  digital little watch on her hand, which had a red dot flickering on it's dark screen.

She jumped out of her hiding place, hands quickly hefting up the motionless body before it hit the polished tiles of a otherwise shabby abandoned building. A building surrounded by tall trees and absolutely nothing for yards.

"Santana, I'm done." Molly carefully removed a small, barley as big as a fingernail, chip from the man's breast pocket. A small grin light up her otherwise bored face, as she started to exit the building. She was almost out of the building, when she heard a small shuffle behind her, barley ducking in time as a metal pipe crashed the glass where her head had been a moment ago.

"Stay still!" Her assaulter shrieked, blood dripping from his broken nose (courtesy of her) while she darted around the wildly swung pipe, and tackled the burly man to the ground, both falling down the staircase, and Molly would swear on her barley existing honor later, but she felt her ribs bruise under the full weight of the man above her.

"Give it back you!-"

Molly shot forward, hands precise, as she jabbed the various fragile points on the human body, slammed her forehead in the man's huge bleeding one and he crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back into his head."Fucking Ow. Not a good decision." She winced out, nursing her stinging forehead. "Well, If your done, you might want to get out the building. "Santana's nonchalant voice rang in her ear, devoid of any worry. "What's the rush? It's not like I'm about to be torched."

Molly paused, briefly grimacing.

"You're going to blow this place up, aren't you?" she had already started running by the time she finished her sentence.

"Why is this a surprise?" Santana questioned, watching a brown haired woman with blood on her forehead and her little pink jumper barely managed to use a nearby tree as a shield, as the rundown building became a rundown fiery not-much-of-a-building. "Santana, sometimes I fell like punching you in the face." Molly breathed out, as she coughed up smoke and sulphur, wiping her face with her ruined jumper, making her way to the excavation site.


A dark haired woman, who was typing on a blueberry phone replied, as a limo rolled up in front of them. "What?" she asked, removing her second ugliest jumper and tying her hair back. "It's midnight, a new day. Today my name is Katie." Santa-No, Katie said as a matter of fact.

Molly sighed and questioned her life decisions.

"To the boss then?" Molly noted warily that the limo had stopped at a empty warehouse. After years of working under him, Molly still didn't understand Mycroft Holmes flair for dramatics, despite being the cold man he was. Katie just smiled her bland parody of a smile, as the door opened for her.

She sighed.

Mycroft Holmes was an extremely calculative man, and whenever one of his minions were called it was usually a bad sing. Or a bad, bad sign.Or a very, very, no good, absolutely rotten, bad, bad sign. She sighed yet again and went to meet her handler, or as she like to call him, the boss man.

After all, how bad could it be?






Molly rued the day she met Mycroft Holmes, as she aggressively (But carefully) opened a cadaver. The cause of death was some exotic poison which turned the dead body's stomach into gooey goo. "You idiotic buffoon of a woman, what are you doing!?" A loud angry voice rang in her small, dingy lab. Molly rued the day even harder.

Sherlock Holmes was a highly intelligent man who she was impressed with. Sherlock Holmes was also a highly irritating man who she wanted to strangle, which she would have, god knows the man turned her highly tempered patience into a mess, if he wasn't boss man's little brat of a brother.  

She sighed and looked him dead in his enraged, stupid, beaver eyes. "My job. Unlike someone in here." The infuriating-impressive-incredible man, brushed her aside, taking her cadaver and went on a frenzy about how 'this-woman-needs-a-be-given-a-real-job-and-not-messing-things-up-as-one'. Molly wrangled her loose sweater's sleeves and imagined the soft cotton to be hard human neck.

She had been turned into a glorified babysitter.

A babysitter to a thirty year old genius of a idiot who was too fond of narcotics and drugs.






It wasn't until she rescued him, carrying his bloody form bridal style in her toned, exposed arms, that Little Holmes became Sherlock and Hooper became Molly. Sherlock, who had been just kidnapped by a local mafia.

"You work for him, don't you?" he questioned, still tired and in pain from his sprained ankle. "Boss man did ask me to babysit, yeah." She replied, as a rattled Greg Lestrade took Sherlock from her and went to the hospital."I am not a baby." The baby-man replied, half unconscious, as pain killers ran through his veins, "You sure do act like one." Molly mused, as a frantic Mycroft barged in the hospital, demanding for that insufferable nurse to get away, that's his brother and that Mummy is going to ground us for the rest of our lives.

Molly really couldn't remembered what she smoked when she accepted to work for these brothers.

After he woke up, which was a week later, Sherlock demanded that Molly's his and if he had to have someone spy on him (As if he would admit that he needed a babysitter, he was a consultant detective, dammit!) they should live with him. Molly looked at the man who she saved, his demanding posture, pouty lips and sulky eyes. "You wish, otter-face." She piped in, as she left the room to Sherlock's tantrums.

Molly couldn't deny the small smile that light up her face as she left.

Two months later, Molly's urge to bodily harm the otter-like devil incarnate returned as Greg Lestrade, a fellow empathizer gritted him teeth and patted her back. "If we kill him, his brother would make our live hell, but to be frank, hell's sounding real good right 'bout now." he drawled out, as a relapsed Sherlock was dragged to a rehabilitation center.

"You hide the body and I'll make an alibi?" she chimed back, as a struggling Sherlock tried to wriggle out of her grasp, screeching how she was a bad friend, incompetent goose and he wished that he never met him. Molly won't admit to Greg later, but those words cut her deeper than she would ever admit.

It took long for Sherlock to recover from his relapse into drugs.

A sober and somber Sherlock thanked her and Greg and said that he would like to go home now. (Neither of them acknowledged his little barbs from before, but it was much more cold between them than it ever had been). Weeks into this cold war, Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade lock the two in a room. Sherlock leaves the room with a bloody nose and her eyes are a bit red, but it was warmer than ever between the pair.

Greg had found salt in his coffee, chilies in his donuts and Mycroft was busy establishing peace in a mysteriously collapsed government of a princely state. Also, Sherlock became 'Sherry' and Molly was still Molly because she would punch the life out of Sherlock if he ever called her 'Moll's' ever again.






John 'I am not gay' Watson came into their lives like a whirlpool of sweet and stern doctor-y goodness. The man could drink Greg under the table, had Sherry under the leash, god knows how, brought her coffee, rose to her defense when Sherry decided to act like a teen with mood swings and had a streak of sass a mile high.

They had Thai Thursday's together, gossiped about Sherry's adorable psychopathic tendencies and flirted with each other endlessly.

Sherlock would die before he admitted that he was jealous. They was his first friend (Best friend) and his new friend (Partner in crime?). Hence, came in the detective weekdays where both of his friends? (Important people) came together and appreciated the inflated ego of their I-Am-not-jealous friend. Greg dropped by when he wanted to get drunk and whine about his wife's drama.

Mycroft and My-name-for-this-day-is-Carol usually ended up taking these very professional people back to their beds those days, and left omelets and hangover soup for the next morning. 

Then came the cabbie, and saintly John Watson became not so saintly John Watson and Molly ended up getting free classes for her gun skills. Not that she was complaining.






Jim Moriarty, or as he then called himself Jim form IT, met her when she found him crouched under her table fixing wires, looking up at her from between her desk, sheepishly grinning at her while his eyes were clouded with nonchalance. Molly knew she should have stuttered and played her role, but instead she found herself raising an eyebrow and spitting scathing remark off her tongue.

Those nonchalant eyes lit up with surprise and as they talked for days and days, surprise was replaced by hunger and Molly knew.

That was no ordinary man, but she continued to test her limits anyway. She pushed him and pushed him, frustrating the man, because when he dropped his façade, and he will, she would be there, ready to act. But till then? she was always a curious thing who liked danger more than one should.

Sherlock, to no ones surprise, hated Jim from IT and Jim Moriarty.





She stood still against the harsh winds, Sherlock's surprised face gawking at her as she shot Moriarty right in his head. Before he could say anything about the snipers, she cut in, that "Mycroft took care of 'the rat infestation' for three".

"This was my favorite sweater." Molly sighed, questioning her life decisions.

"Well," Sherlock broke the silence, "Shit happens."