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Title: Percussive Therapy.

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairing: None.

Rating: PG - Guts.

Word Count: About 2000?

Summary: Written for this prompt on the kink meme. One day in the lab, Sherlock says something/does something/generally pushes too hard, and Molly loses it, and uses the riding crop to vent her frustrations on Sherlock. Whether or not John witnesses this display is up to you. Totally gen is preferred, crack almost certainly required.

Notes/Warnings: Not much, dead bodies on account of it being set you know, in a morgue.


You could be forgiven for not seeing Molly Hooper. Even John (who would have been embarrassed to admit it) viewed her as a sort of mobile pair of arms, sometimes holding a cup of tea or a helpful bit of paper. Sherlock didn't even see that much, most likely, just a scalpel that appeared when he wanted it. Part of this was her complete acquiescence to anything Sherlock wanted- from a foot to a coffee, she would smile eagerly and blush and rush off to find it. John would have thought her a little pathetic, if he thought about her at all.

Then the whole... Pool Incident happened (and John had to think of it like that, in the same way he thought of the war as his Time Away). Molly was quieter than usual, her usual air of optimism gone, the little bounce in her step flattened. John only noticed it at all because the lab was quieter, and then he felt bad for not noticing. Molly was one of Jim's victims as much as anyone else- it couldn't be nice to discover that your boyfriend was only going out with you to get at someone else, and never even liked you. Just a means to an end. He tried smiling at her more, asking after her cat, but her replies were listless, not the slightly puppy-ish chirp that John hadn't realised he'd come to expect. John wondered, leant against the lab bench watching his flatmate wrist-deep in some bloke's internal organs, whether Sherlock had even noticed.

"Molly, would you stop wool-gathering and bring me that scalpel!"

Perhaps not. In fact, now John came to think, since the Pool Incident, Sherlock had been even shorter and snappier with her, not bothering to keep up his usual mix of compliments, flirting and outright manipulation- they were pretty much down to an imperious wave and a sharp command. And Molly would do it, not sullenly, John didn't think she had a sullen bone in her body (Sherlock, on the other hand...) but apathetic, like she didn't even see the point in refreshing her lipstick, or even asking Sherlock how his day was.

John, as unofficial Sherlock-keeper, (and as much as he tried to deny it, everyone knew it) decided to broach the subject, as he watched Molly drift out, having handed Sherlock the
offending scalpel.

"Do you think Molly's alright?"

"Who?" Sherlock wasn't really listening, he was doing something with a length
of small intestine.

"Molly. You know, cruelly used and then tossed aside by your arch-enemy- which, incidentally I still think is completely mad-"

"Oh. Probably. Why wouldn't she be?"

John considered explaining. Sherlock looked at him over the spatter-goggles he was wearing. John opened his mouth. Sherlock shoved the intestine back into the body with a squelch. John closed his mouth. His phone beeped, and he struggled it out of his pocket. Harry was calling.

"Hello? Fine... What's up?"

"John, must you?" Sherlock looked pained at the thought of someone as mundane as Harry breaking into his thoughts. John shoved through the doors.

"Fine, sorry... What?" It was something complicated about Christmas and Egypt and Clara. John paced the corridor outside, intent on unpicking his sister's questions as she gabbled in his ear. He saw a swirl of white out of the corner of his eye, but as he turned to look, Harry suddenly started talking about real estate in Cairo and all his attention focused on her voice.

He looked up at the tinkle of broken glass, and a noise curiously like a wet mop hitting lino. He saw Sherlock, fuzzed by the frosted glass into a semi-solid silhouette, sort of... Was he hopping?

"Harry... I'll have to call you back..." He hung up and pushed back into the lab. Molly rushed past him wielding... Sherlock's riding crop. (God knows why it was still in the lab.) John blinked. Very definitely Sherlock's riding crop. And every now and again she would swat it down onto Sherlock, who was frantically dodging in front of her. When it landed on his jacket with a rather satisfying thwap, Sherlock would give a little
skip and run harder.

"No- ouch- stop, please, Molly- stop! Ow, please!" He dodged round one side of the body. Which John noticed, now had a sort of waterfall of guts hanging out of it. Molly stood on the other side with the crop raised threateningly. Sherlock was trapped.

"What. Have I told you. About making a mess with the bodies?" She asked, dangerously. She wasn't shouting. But John knew the tone. It was a tone that asked you how many bullets it had left, and how you felt your luck might turn regarding said bullets. Punk.

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't think- the reaction..." This was amazing. Sherlock completely cowed by Molly Hooper, girl voted most likely to have a brain made of kitten fur.

"We have to hand them over to the undertaker after you're done with them you know!" She started to advance on him. John wondered if he had gone mad, and in a moment he was going to wake up in a padded cell. Sherlock opened his mouth, attempting to smile, to charm her, like he usually did.

"Don't you give me that!" She pointed the crop at him. Sherlock's back hit the body drawers. "I don't have to let you in here you know!"

Sherlock was easily half a foot taller than Molly, but right now he looked about five feet shorter, and Molly's head brushed the ceiling. John bit back a giggle. Sherlock rolled his eyes towards him beseechingly. Molly turned to where Sherlock was looking and lowered the crop. Her face was flushed, her back was straight. She looked like Britannia, if Britannia swapped the helmet and shield in for an Alice band and clipboard.

"I don't know what you're laughing about!" She told John, wiping the smile off his face as he anticipated a similar beating. "You're supposed to keep an eye on him!" Turning back to Sherlock she snapped. "Now you clean this up Sherlock Holmes, and get out of my morgue!" And she swept out. If you had asked John before now, he would have said that Molly wouldn't know how to sweep if someone lent her Sherlock's coat and a broom. He stared after her. Sherlock started to pick up long ropes of gut and place them back in the body. The silk of his jacket was marked by the end of the crop, and John was sure that there would probably be bruises, even though Molly had been swinging with more anger than force. But Sherlock, as he carefully pressed what looked like the spleen back into place, looked strangely satisfied.

“Successful experiment then?” John didn’t move to help him. He was still sort of in shock.

“You could say that,” Sherlock said, carefully kneeling to pick up broken glass.

That night a bad man tried to do some damage to Sherlock with a tire-iron in a convention centre (and John did sometimes wonder when his life had become a game of Cluedo). They dodged round a buffet table, the bad man wielding the tire-iron with a snarl. Sherlock suddenly lunged, and managed to grab the tire-iron (really, he hardly needed to stretch, the lanky git), allowing John to come up and tap the bad man on the head, sending him to sleep while they waited on Lestrade.

The next time John saw Molly, she was humming. She smiled at him as she referred to her clipboard.

"Alright?" John asked, cautiously.

"I'm fine, Doctor," she smiled sweetly. No hint of Britannia today.

"Molly! Molly where on earth did you put my-" Sherlock stopped short as Molly
raised her eyebrows at him. "I- I can't find my test-tubes... Do you know where they are?"

"I put them in your cupboard," she told him, smiling.

She stood there for a few moments, hovering with her usual nervy aura. "Anything else?"

"That will be all," Sherlock looked up and added hurriedly. "Thanks, Molly."

When Molly had floated out (she always did if Sherlock said her name) John thought about a bad man with a tire-iron and Molly Hooper doing her Britannia impression, and about Sherlock neatly twisting the tire-iron out of the bad man's hand.

"Molly seems to be feeling better," he hazarded.

"I didn't notice," Sherlock was tapping the side of a test-tube. But he was smiling.
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