He may still be prickly, awkward, socially awful Sherlock, but he's happy with her and it shows. Before now he'd only really imagined sharing little bits of himself with the few people he considers close friends, but Molly's here for ballet and gruesome anecdotes and him, all of it rolled together, and that's so new he's a bit drunk on it.
There is, in fact, plenty of free champagne. And they do run into the choreographer who secured their tickets--as well as an incredibly handsome American dancer who's apparently on loan to the Royal Ballet for the season--and somehow Sherlock puffs up even more when he introduces Molly to them this time. Both choreographer and dancer treat Molly like she's royalty, which seems about right to Sherlock.
(In fact, on their way into the theatre proper, he overhears a little girl nearby ask her mother if the lady in the blue dress is a princess. He hopes Molly's heard as well, though personally he thinks princesses are overrated. Who'd want a princess when you can have a pathologist?)
And even if he's not nearly as open with her in public as he is in private, he finds he's not embarrassed when he catches people staring at his hand clasping Molly's. He's no longer ashamed to be caught caring about someone--or even afraid of it. Yes, the events of the last year have made it clearer than ever that love is the quickest way to the most profound kinds of hurt, but every minute he has with Molly now is memorable and brilliant enough to chase away the fear that he'll lose everything he has somehow.
Her hairstyle and the neckline of her dress draw his attention to the soft and impossibly attractive curve of her throat as they start to find their seats, and Sherlock's pulse speeds up a little. The ballet's only eighty minutes or so, but Sherlock knows it's going to seem a lot longer once they're sitting side by side in the dark.
For a second he does sort of wish they'd skipped the whole thing to drag one another back to bed. Is this how normal people feel as kids, he wonders, on Christmas Eve? Split between agony that something's almost close enough to taste and a dizzy anticipation of what's to come?
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There is, in fact, plenty of free champagne. And they do run into the choreographer who secured their tickets--as well as an incredibly handsome American dancer who's apparently on loan to the Royal Ballet for the season--and somehow Sherlock puffs up even more when he introduces Molly to them this time. Both choreographer and dancer treat Molly like she's royalty, which seems about right to Sherlock.
(In fact, on their way into the theatre proper, he overhears a little girl nearby ask her mother if the lady in the blue dress is a princess. He hopes Molly's heard as well, though personally he thinks princesses are overrated. Who'd want a princess when you can have a pathologist?)
And even if he's not nearly as open with her in public as he is in private, he finds he's not embarrassed when he catches people staring at his hand clasping Molly's. He's no longer ashamed to be caught caring about someone--or even afraid of it. Yes, the events of the last year have made it clearer than ever that love is the quickest way to the most profound kinds of hurt, but every minute he has with Molly now is memorable and brilliant enough to chase away the fear that he'll lose everything he has somehow.
Her hairstyle and the neckline of her dress draw his attention to the soft and impossibly attractive curve of her throat as they start to find their seats, and Sherlock's pulse speeds up a little. The ballet's only eighty minutes or so, but Sherlock knows it's going to seem a lot longer once they're sitting side by side in the dark.
For a second he does sort of wish they'd skipped the whole thing to drag one another back to bed. Is this how normal people feel as kids, he wonders, on Christmas Eve? Split between agony that something's almost close enough to taste and a dizzy anticipation of what's to come?