Chapter Text
Molly fidgeted in the backseat of the cab, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, her feet and knees bouncing impatiently...she'd managed to pull herself together long enough back at Bart's, and had compiled some kind of excuse that sounded realistic enough for leaving early (thought she had the distinct impression that they weren't all that put out by her leaving...certainly didn't break anyone's heart), but now that they were getting closer to Baker Street, it was getting harder to keep from bubbling (and babbling) over with excitement.
She turned and looked up to the front of the cab, trying to see what the fare was at so she could go ahead and collect it (plus a tip) from her purse (having the money at the ready meant less direct interaction with a stranger, which in Molly's current state, was for the best), when she found herself staring right into the driver's eyes--he'd been watching her in the rearview mirror.
Molly felt her face grow warm and knew immediately by the familiar sensation that she was moments away from a full- faced blush. She dropped her gaze in an instant and began to rifle through her purse as a distraction. 'Please don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything, please don't say anything...' she begged silently.
"Everythin' okay, miss?" the man finally asked, with what sounded to her like a genuine note of concern, rather than someone who was only poking their nose into someone else's business because they're bored.
Molly looked up at the mirror and into the man's lined, scruffy-bearded face, and forced a smile...a weak one, but still a smile. Maybe he would think she was ill and speed up. "Yes," she replied, without stammering, and that was apparently enough to satisfy the man; he stared for a moment longer in the mirror, dark eyes narrowing (in what Molly thought was a poor lackluster parody of Sherlock's 'I-know-you're-lying' gaze) before he thankfully looked back to the road with a small shrug.
Now that he was looking away, Molly tried to calm herself by breathing in through her nose as deeply (and quietly) as possible.
Why was she so nervous?! Granted, she wasn't as nervous as she'd been for their first playdate, when her guts had been churning enough to make her feel physically ill, but the butterflies were definitely back and beating about her tummy wildly. And while she didn't feel like throwing up, she had already nervous wee'd twice before leaving Bart's, and yet was still currently pressing her thighs together to keep from piddling her underthings.
...A nappy didn't sound so bad right now.
And now that she'd thought about it, she couldn't un-think it--nappies. Another untouched milestone for her...she owned some, yes, but had never, ever tried to do one up by herself. Molly felt that putting a nappy on was someone else's job, someone in charge, and she was certainly not that.
At least, she ultimately didn't want to be.
But being the one to put on her own nappy almost seemed like a cheat--not that she felt that everyone she saw who self-padded were cheating, God no! She envied those fellow littles who could tape up in seconds flat and look perfect and cozy and secure...while she couldn't even look at the lone, sad package of nappies she'd ordered ages ago without blushing furiously and, embarrassingly enough, getting a little shaky.
Speaking of the Devil--Molly's cheeks were starting to grow uncomfortably (but familiarly) hot, and she squirmed in her seat; she must be blazing red already,and she'd only been thinking about wearing nappies, for Pete'sake! It's not as if she'd been thinking about being changed...!
...Oh, dear. That train of thought, had been a mistake.
Molly was sure that she squeaked and reached up to quickly cover her mouth. No, no...no-no-no-no! She couldn't think about that here, not now! She needed to stop, to stop imagining herself wearing a soft, bulky nappy under her favorite cupcake onesie, thick enough to keep her legs from closing fully while someone's hand gently thunked against her backside to test if she was wet, and--!
Oh. Oh...no. Oh, shit.
"Miss, are you sure you're alright?"
There was a beat pause, and then she nodded dumbly.
Molly...had just wet a little.
Not a lot, it wouldn't be noticeable (she hoped!), but she had definitely felt a hot trickle before clenching everything that could be clenched down there as tightly as she could. She felt her face heat up even more; Molly hadn't known that that was even possible.
...Were they near Baker yet?! Where was that damned street!
Right on cue, as if it had been a big cosmic joke just to make her sweat a bit, the cab took one more turn and with a rush of relief (and nothing else!), she saw the sign for Speedy's looming up ahead. Beyond that, the door to her safehaven...Sher'yock and Unc'a Jawn's.
The cab edged over and came to a rolling stop at the curbside, right in front of 221 B's door, just a precious few feet away. The driver tossed out a number, and Molly fumbled around for her card instead of trying to count out correct change.It still felt like she mucked about with it for ages before she finally gripped it with clumsy fingers that felt too big to belong to her and handed it over without even knowing (or caring) what the final fare had been.
She was staring out of the window, eager to leave the suddenly too-cramped, too-stuffy cab and dash right up the stairs and into Sher'yocks' arms for a great big hug, when Molly became aware that the driver was still talking...trying to talk to her, actually.
"--third person I've brought here this month," he was saying. And he was no longer watching her through the mirror; he was looking down at his meter instead, waiting for either cash or card. But even with only the partial profile of his face that was visible to her, Molly could still see the snide twist of his lip. " 'parently he's famous, or summ'it like that. D'unno why, he's always been a massive prick."
A rush of hot, searing anger flooded Molly's whole body. "He is not!" she snapped vehemently, and the fury behind her own voice shocked both the driver, who spun around to gape at her like a limp, long-dead fish, and herself. Or it would have shocked her, if the entirety of her attention wasn't focused on this...this jerk talking about her Sher'yock like he knew him, and he didn't! He didn't even know...who did he think he was, talking that way!? He didn't know! "You don't even know him!" Molly spat, her cheeks flaming.
The man continued to gape at her until he collected his scattered wits about him, and then the condescending, derisive look returned to his face. "Sorry, love," he sneered at her. "Didn' know I was talkin' 'bout your boyfriend." There was a cruel arch to his eyebrow; "Y'do know he's a fag, right? With the little one?"
Molly's chest grew tight and her eyes widened, yet her vision reduced down to a mere pinhole, where this bastard's smug face sat at the end of a long, long tunnel.
Molly's hand left her purse, and began to draw back.
Despite being oblivious to her own intentions, the driver knew full well what a cocked arm meant, and his gaze on her hardened as he braced himself for--
There were several sharp raps at Molly's window right next to her head, startling her, and she whirled around...only to find herself staring right up into a certain detective's ominous-looking face.
The next thing Molly knew, she was out of the cab and had her arms clamped around Sherlock's waist in a way that surely must have been painful for him (though he showed no sign of such a thing), with her face pressed tightly to his chest. Behind her, while paying no mind to the vice-like grip that was threatening to cut off circulation to his kidneys, Sherlock was having a short, very tense-sounding conversation with the other man...Molly heard a door slam and, moments later, heard the cab speed away.
A long arm wrapped around her back and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "...What did he say to you?"
Molly kept her face buried in his shirt, and shook her head. She didn't want to think about that disgusting man anymore, or the awful things he'd said.
"Molly...you were going to strike him."
She shook her head again, harder.
"Young lady, do not try to lie to me...it doesn't work."
She set her shoulders and gave a stomp with her foot; who was he kidding?! Sher'yock wasn't boss, he was just Sher'yock! She didn't want to talk about it, and he couldn't make her!
"Molly, look at me. Right now."
It was the way that the 'right now' had been said that compelled Molly to obey before she could think twice...not just the words on their own, no, or else her littlespace would be getting triggered every day (instead of just 'most' days), but it was the way they were said, the command without being commanded, the cool urging with a not-so-subtle hint of the power behind it, and underlying threat, a warning.
And that was why Molly found herself tilting her head back just enough to peer up at Sherlock while the lower half of her face stayed hidden against the buttons of his shirt (which is technically what she'd been told to do...she WAS looking at him now), and waited for whatever came next.
Sherlock stared back at her, brows lowered in concentration and eyes darting back and forth over her face, taking in every seemingly inconsequential detail until Molly began to fidget under the intense scrutinization, and looked away.
It had still been long enough for Sherlock to gleen everything he needed to know from her. "You shouldn't have come by yourself," he said at last, and sighed. "I should have escorted you."
Molly, still overwhelmed and trying to deal with the leftover surge of anger at that...foul excuse of a man and the things he'd said, felt another warm flush come up in her chest. It was different from before, she didn't know how--but she was still feeling prickly, and she didn't like the way Sher'yock sounded like he was bigger than her. "Did it myself," she mumbled, hiding her face again.
"Yes...yes you did. But little girl's shouldn't be out on their own and conversing with strangers, either."
Molly's head snapped up, her face drawing into an angry pout. Who was he, calling her a 'little girl'?! He was just as little, too...just as little as she was! "I did it!" she insisted again, loudly.
The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened as he frowned at her. "Lower your voice, Molly."
An uncomfortable bristling sensation crept up the back of Molly's neck; the near-disastrous encounter with the cabbie had really rustled her, and now all she wanted was a good argument to dispel the icky feeling. "You're not boss!" she retorted, scowling right back at him.
Heated as she was, little Molly failed to notice the subtle-straightening of Sherlock's spine as he squared his shoulders...nor did she notice the tightening of his jaw. But what she did notice, only because she was staring directly at them, was the dangerous glint in his eye:
Big Molly would have already noticed the glaring red flags Sherlock was giving off, and the resulting alarm bells in her head would have let her know to adjust her attitude accordingly…
...but big Molly was not here.
When Sherlock spoke again, the soft, almost serene tone of voice that came out of such a hardened, severe face was eerie. “…We’ll continue this discussion upstairs,” he said quietly.
Suddenly, she wasn't as eager to go into the flat as she had been only minutes ago. She shook her head and folded her arms over her chest; "No!"
"We're going upstairs, Molly," he said again in that same, cool way, devoid of any recognizable emotion, and reached out to take her arm.
In a completely non-Molly way, Molly Hooper whined and twisted away from the detective before he could touch her and dodged around him, then stomped through the front door and up the stairs, glaring daggers the whole way.
Sherlock remained standing at the curb, hands on his hips, and watched the huffy little girl (with an attitude that was quite unsuited to someone of her small stature; the similarities between her and another small yet boisterous little one he knew were uncanny...must be a short-person thing) barge up the stairs with an arched eyebrow. He shook his head incredulously, and started up after her.
Molly stopped just inside the door of the flat, arms still folded angrily, chin tucked down, bottom lip jutting out...this was not the way she'd envisioned her day going. There was supposed to be playing--Sher'yock was supposed to have been waiting for her, they were supposed to be dragging his toys all over, they were supposed to be running around the flat, chasing each other, they were supposed to be making messes, supposed to be doing everything they weren't allowed to before Unc'a Jawn arrived home, supposed to be laughing, supposed to be having fun!...
An' yet here he was, actin' like, like...like he was Unc'a Jawn!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock coming up the stairs behind her.
"Molly."
Molly hunched her shoulders and clutched herself tighter, then shook her head again.
Sherlock sighed, and she felt a small hint of satisfaction from knowing she was aggravating him. "Molly...go inside, and sit down," he said, with an extraordinary show of patience. And that patience of his only served to make her madder.
Sherlock stepped around her and placed a hand on her lower back, urging her forward.
Well, Molly was not having that! With a loud "NO!", she wrenched herself away and shoved his arm aside. Why was he being this way?! "No no no no no no NO!" she repeated, stomping with both feet and balling her fists while slinging them through the air.
Over the sounds of a near-Sherlockian level stropping, there was a loud thud as Molly's purse slid off her arm and hit the floor, sending the contents scattering every which way.
The detective only gaped at her, his eyes so wide that his brow nearly disappeared into his hairline...but the shock didn't last long. While it was surprising to see come from such a petite (the 'it-must-be-a-short-person-thing' argument was looking more and more likely), normally reserved person, it was not Sherlock's first rodeo. His expression darkened, and he scowled down at her; "Molly!...One!" he barked.
Molly jumped and came down heavily with both feet. "NO!"
Sherlock brought himself to his full six-foot-high frame and decided that if Molly wanted a shouting match, well then, she would get one. "TWO!"
Molly stopped her shouting and spun around, already wearing her most thunderous glare for daring to raise his voice at her...only to have it wither away in the face of Sherlock Holmes' own patented ruthless, piercing stare.
Little Molly blanched, and tried to pretend that she didn't feel the need for a wee again.
Perhaps shouting 'no' over and over hadn't been the best course of action.
Sherlock waited for a full minute, his gaze boring directly into Molly, watching her start to squirm under the intense scrutiny. Soon, it became more than she wanted to handle; "Sh-sher'yock?" she stammered, now that all the wind had been knocked from her sails.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head. "Mm-mm, no, that's not going to work. Naughty step, now."
Molly's heart cracked right down the middle at those words. Naughty step? He was...he was punishing her? "Wh-what? But, but...but Sher'yock!" she pleaded, her voice going wobbly.
"Naughty step." Sherlock stepped forward and again, took her by the arm to lead her to the staircase...and this time, she let him. "You're not going to shout at me, and you're certainly not going to shove me, young lady!...you KNOW better than to behave that way!"
Molly's head was spinning as Sherlock scolded her and kept tugging her forward; she could hardly get her bearings. She was getting a time-out? Straightaway? And Sher'yock...was putting her there?
Her head was still swimming, trying to make sense of just how she'd gone from being bouncy and thrilled to the bits after talking to Unc'a Jawn, to Sher'yock turning her around and planting her on the third step up, the creaky one. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "Then we talk." He began to walk away.
The sight of him leaving, of him actually walking away, with is back to her, made Molly realize that yes, she was being left behind, alone, and no, she didn't want to be. She didn't want to stomp and shout anymore, she didn't want to be mad at Sher'yock anymore, she didn't want to be by herself, she...she...
With tears welling in her eyes, Molly got up and darted after Sherlock, catching up with him quickly. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed tight while pressing her face against the middle of his back, babbling furiously about how sorry she was.
Had he not heard the stair creak before the moment Molly stood up, before the stampede of footsteps rushing at him, Sherlock might very well have ended up landing flat on his face. As it was, he still grunted and lurched forward, even after bracing himself for the impact. "Molly, no-no..." he said, and started to unwind from her grasp by taking her wrists and peeling them away.
"I'm soooorrrryyyy!" she wailed as he turned around to face her, and went to attach herself to his front...but she couldn't. He was still holding her away. "Sher'yoooock!"
"And we'll talk about that...in fifteen minutes," he said calmly, ignoring Molly's heartfelt pleading, and walked her backwards towards the stairs.
However calm he was, though, it did nothing to quell Molly's fit. Quite the opposite, in fact, as it finally started to dawn on her that a time-out was inevitable now--it was really happening, no matter how much she howled and cried, or not. "But I'm SOOOOOORRRRYYYY!"
Sherlock didn't reply the second time. He was not a man fond of repeating himself.
When the backs of Molly's heels bumped against the ledge of the bottom step, he held fast to keep her from losing her balance and slowly sat her down, with a steady stream of her bawling and begging in his ear the whole while. "You are going to sit here," he said, leaning in close to be heard above all the caterwauling, "--until I come and get you. If your bum leaves this step again before I allow it..."
Molly heard him pause and peered up at him, her whole body shuddering with big, chest-hitching sniffles.
"...I'm going to spank it."
It too a full minute for Molly to register what Sherlock had just said. He, he wouldn't...she had never, ever...that was...he couldn't!
...Could he?
She looked up into his face, taking in his deathly serious expression.
He could. And he would.
Molly stared at the detective's narrow as he retreated for the second time, but it wasn't until he turned the corner to the kitchen and walked completely out of sight that the tears returned. Her vision blurred as she tucked her legs up close and hugged them to her chest, then buried her face against her knees and sobbed.
Today was not turning out how she'd wanted it to be.