theonewhocounted | (no subject)

Though she's been shy around him a lot, before, she tackles her food without any hesitation. And the funniest thing happens--Sherlock realizes she makes eating look appealing, like something he should probably do more of himself. Not just like a distraction or something that slows him down, but like something he might enjoy, if he did it with her here.

(Plus he knows any spice in her curry will probably make her lips red, and for some reason he wants to see that.)

He's got his own forkful of curry halfway to his mouth when he notices the faint, troubled micro-expression that crosses her face. Hard to tell what it's about--there is, after all, so much to Molly he can't just unravel at a glance--but he does have the thought, clear and confident, that he wants to make sure it comes back as little as possible.

Except he's not sure what to say in a situation like this.

So instead he leans towards her a bit, his shoulder pressing into hers.

It's a testament to her hunger that she doesn't notice Sherlock watching her. Or maybe it's just that he's always watching and noticing things so much that she's gotten used to being passively observed when in his presence. While it used to make her nervous, now it just...exists. She's always been hyper aware of him whenever he's around anyway. She's just used to it at this point.

His shoulder pressing into hers, though, is new.

She looks up from her food and toward him, her eyebrows raise in question, a small smile on her lips. She expects that maybe she's been shoveling her food in and he's going to make some teasing remark about it.

Edited 2017-02-05 22:38 (UTC)

The smile gets filed away in his head for later, one of these rare little human moments that doesn't bring pain with it. Because Molly Hooper eating curry next to him, giving him a look that says she's ready to challenge him if he moves in the wrong direction, is somehow on par with an expertly forged Picasso or a set of 32 fouettes done by a talented dancer.

Love is definitely making him biased and he doesn't give a damn right now.

He winks at her, broadly--that's something he knows a handful of people reliably laugh at, and if anything fits this moment in her kitchen it's laughter--and promptly takes an enormous bite of his own Madras curry. Which is, also to his surprise, delicious.

Molly does laugh, surprised and bright. They are sharing such a simple moment together - enjoying a meal side by side. It seems almost unreal after everything but it is perfect.

She watches him enjoy his curry for a quick moment before going back to her own.

"Bugger but I'm an awful host," she says suddenly. "Can I get you something to drink? A coke? Flavoured seltzer? Water?"

He's got a mouthful of curry when she asks, and has to make his way through it somewhat hastily before he can answer.

"Mm--no, I'm okay for now." He pauses for a second, and then, because there's always a random thought somewhere that gets through his filter: "John must not have told you what happened last time we had curry and coke. It's why I'm not allowed back into that one art gallery in Soho."

Molly nods and gets up to get herself some water.

"I'm afraid to ask," she says of his next statement. She's definitely sure John's never brought that up. She would remember a story that has to do with them and an art gallery and curry. Her imagination is providing possibilities already and none of them are good.

"It was disgusting," he informs her cheerfully. "Though I suppose it could have been worse, as we weren't drunk."

He's still somewhat reluctant to have a beer with John again. The Great Pub Crawl Disaster is an incident he has no desire to repeat any time soon.

He studies her for a second. Yes, there's definitely a hint of remembered ballet movement in her hands now and again, or in the way she steps forward. He's not sure how he missed it.

Molly huffs out another laugh and shakes her head. She supposes she's seen Sherlock at his lowest first-hand - sweating and vomiting as he detoxes from a bender comes to mind - that there can't really be embarrassments between them at this point.

"Maybe you should have told me this story before we decided to order curry," she says, looking a little worried for her wood floors and the state of her loo.

She comes to sit back down next to him and eyes his dish before looking up at him.

It's possible Sherlock's missed Molly's previous dance training because off the dance floor she's still prone to clumsiness. And she's historically been especially clumsy when he's around.

The wariness in the way she eyes his Madras curry nearly makes him giggle again.

"I'm not having coke and I'm not about to sprint five city blocks, Molly, it'll be perfectly fine."

Her warmth re-settles next to him--funny, that the last time he saw her in this kitchen she was on edge and now she's totally relaxed.

"Remind me to show you something after lunch."

"Alright, well, you know where the loo is," she says before she goes back to her own curry, taking sips of her water in between. It's not too hot really, just spicy enough. Good spicy.

"If what you have to show me has anything to do with that last bit of story, then I'm a little concerned."

His mind moves 1000 kilometers an hour so she knows he's probably already 20 topics away from the previous one, but hers is a little slower and she finds the jump in subject amusing. Sometimes she can follow how he's gotten from one seemingly unrelated subject to another and sometimes she can't find the links of association.

"What--oh god, no, even I know that's terrible relationship etiquette for everyone except penguins." He has another bite. It might be near impossible for him to keep track of things in the normal, regimented ways other people do, but he knows his last full meal was a couple of days ago and it's a good idea to refuel more often now that he knows he'll be devoting some energy to... emotional stuff. (Okay, and sex.)

Plus, rather than being the crack in a lens, Molly's presence just sort of tilts that lens a bit so it's turned on different things. Not only can he taste all the ingredients, but the tastes register as something he likes. Something with value.

She laughs.

"Okay, good," she says. "Just making sure."

It doesn't escape her though that's he's just referred to this as a 'relationship.' She's not sure he even knows he's done it or that they technically haven't talked about that. He probably doesn't even know that usually there's a discussion where you decide things are official. He'd find it entirely dull and unnecessary, she's sure. Or maybe in his mind they're halfway to married. He does think on a whole other timeline (ss much as she loves this man, that's a vaguely terrifying thought.).

"How's your dish? Good, I hope."

(In Sherlock's mind, the link is a simple one: a relationship means both parties are significant to each other. Also a Facebook status for announcing yourself to be either off-limits or desperate to be single again, depending.)

"Better than what we get at Baker Street, actually. Shame we're not in their delivery zone, the flavors are noticeably less of a culinary sledgehammer."

He eyes her food, and his smile quirks.

"Based on how often you order it I don't need to ask about yours."

He might sound just a touch smug about that.

"I can always bring you some when I come over," she says, forgetting for a moment that no one is coming over to 221B for a while. "Once you're back in, of course."

She takes one last bite of her curry before she makes herself stop. She's getting far too full for her own good.

"I'm not sure if it's creepy or kind of romantic that you've stalked my curry shop orders on my laptop in order to pick my favourite."

"I wasn't stalking, I was researching. And you know I'd have deduced it anyway." He's slowing down, too; he might be absurdly thin but he's not a bottomless pit. Plus the spice has, in fact, reddened her lips slightly, which is a very attractive and distracting look on her.

"Potato, potahto," she teases with a smirk as she starts putting the cover back on her container so she can save it for later, but then stops.

"Oh, did you want to try some of mine before I put it away? It is really good. Might become your new favourite too."

Molly is serious about plumping him out. As long as she doesn't also plump herself at the same time.

She keeps pushing back, challenging him in these very small ways, and every one makes him want to get closer to her.

"Game on," he says, and scoops up a bite for himself.

It's different--not as much heat as the one he likes, but a significant kick all the same, with an unfamiliar balance of sweet and savory. It's another clue to the complexities of what she prefers and who she is.

It's delicious.

"Mm--" He's almost reluctant to swallow. "--okay, that is vastly better than the one close to us."

She grins, entirely pleased that he's willing to try her dish. She's even more pleased that he seems to even enjoy it. Sherlock is a creature of habit who generally only seems to want to try the things he comes up with himself. Getting him to deviate is a proud moment for her. Actually, this whole day has been a deviation for him. Molly's version of smug is looking like someone brought her a puppy. They kind of have - floppy hair and all.

"Have more if you like," she says, pushing the container a bit closer to him.

"I'm okay for now. Much more and I won't be able to demonstrate."

He fastens the lid on his own container--she's right, they do give large portions--and sits up a bit, head inclining towards the front room.

"Ought to be enough space for it out front, when you're ready."

Molly looks confused.

"Demonstrate?" she asks, looking a bit confused and wary. His demonstrations at Baker Street usually have to do with noxious chemicals and explosions.

He gets to his feet, smirking faintly as he strides past her to put their food in the fridge.

"Front room, Molly. Fifth position."

(He's entirely forgotten that he left the Belstaff and his scarf and jacket in a crumpled heap in the front room the night before.)

Molly's eyebrows raise. He does like to be dramatic.

"Alright," she says slowly even has her wariness turns to amusement. She stands up and heads into the sitting room.

Toby has not forgotten about Sherlock's coat on the floor and has returned there for an afternoon snooze. Molly's initial reaction is to shoo him away, but he's looking so cute that she doesn't have the heart. Besides, Toby owes them from his usual routine being so rudely interrupted.

"Toby, you're not going to win him over this way," she says to the cat. One eye opens to look at her and immediately closes again.

It only takes him a minute to catch up to her--and his own expression ends up caught between amusement and offense.

"Mittens," he says, like Toby will understand the threat. "Furry little bastard."

Still, at least napping in the coat he can't interrupt.

"Right. Fifth position, arms out, stand facing away from me."

"I think he likes you," she says about Toby, not sure that's true at all.

She then goes to a clear spot on the floor and crosses her feet so the heel of her right foot is touching the toe of her left. Her arms come out in second as instructed. She then looks over her shoulder for him, curious as to what his plan is.

He's already moving up behind her. When she catches his eye his smile shifts, becomes something warm and secret.

"Keep your back straight and trust me."

And then he sweeps her into a perfect fishdive, handling her as if she's weightless. She's nearly parallel with her own floor, her feet higher than her head, and he knows exactly how to hold her so she won't fall.