theonewhocounted | (no subject)

Well. As much as he'd like to show her off to the dancers and anyone else who might recognize him, any plans he might have been developing to do exactly that evaporate when she murmurs in his ear. And it takes a real effort to keep that edge from surging back in full force--largely imagining his brother in his Lady Bracknell getup, to counter the thoughts of how Molly might look at him once they get back to the door of her flat.

He stares after her for a second before getting up to drag his suitcase into his room and grab something smaller. Something that has just enough room for a change of clothes, his toothbrush, his phone charger, and the variety pack of condoms he picked up on his way back from the train station.

This is, he decides, going to be an amazing night despite the fact that the chance of running into an interesting murder on the spot is vanishingly slim.

Molly puts away the baby things quietly in the nursery and takes a moment to watch Rosie sleeping before she goes and grabs her dress which is hanging in the nursery closet and her other small bag. She then goes into the bathroom to get ready.

About 25 minutes later she steps out of the bathroom wearing a dress she'd managed to find time to buy while he was gone, along with sheer black stockings and a pair of black pumps. It's a more subdued style than some of the things she owns but it still has colour and sparkle while still being elegant. Or at least, she hopes. Because Sherlock always looks like he's stepped out of a bloody Armani ad and usually she doesn't care how she looks in comparison, but now that they're essentially a couple, she doesn't want to look too outlandish next to him.

Honestly, she knows he thinks a lot of her wardrobe is a wreck and she's never going to be terribly fashionable or sophisticated, nor does she think she should have to be to please a man, but she does want to please him. And if that means trying a little harder not to look like she lives at a second-hand shop, then she's okay with that.

Her heels click down the hall as she heads to the sitting room to see what Sherlock is up to.

Edited 2017-02-21 00:33 (UTC)

He's taken the time to put away the remains of their tea and change (and several moments of running through a meditation exercise to make absolutely sure he doesn't follow her down the hall and interrupt her), finding a dark purple shirt he knows always makes her stare a little longer at him and a fresh suit. It's a dramatic look, he knows, in contrast to his pale complexion, but he does feel like showing off.

When she comes in, he's got his back to her, fidgeting with his phone again--sending reminders to various contacts that he is 100% Not Available for the next 36 hours.

"Right. So tickets are confirmed, there's this place called Barrafina that's a bit of a walk from the Opera House but if we cab it straight there we can--"

And the rest of the sentence just sort of falls apart like a house of cards when he sees her.

Well. That's a fairly different style on her, and she looks more comfortable in it than she did in that Christmas dress, which improves it tremendously. And while he will always be at least a little fonder of her ugly jumpers than he likes to admit, when she really cleans up, she looks pretty damn good.

"...uh," he manages. "I. Did. You say something?"

It's the reaction she hopes for (what any woman hopes for), but does not set herself up to expect from him. She would have been happy with a nice compliment or even just a quick 'very nice." To actually make him speechless, is a surprise and a gift to her self-esteem. After all the jabs he's given her wardrobe over the years, he deserves the fish out of water look he's sporting right now.

She smiles and blushes. Her hair is up in a low bun with a few soft tendrils escaping and her makeup is just a bit darker than usual - an attempt at a smoky eye and a deeper shade of lipstick.

"Nope. Don't think I said anything," she answers, feeling a bit cheeky. "What were you saying?"

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock looks as dashing as ever. She is fond of the purple shirt and makes plans in her head to wear it herself later.

The massive engine in his brain tries to turn over again.

"I." In less than a week the way he sees her has changed radically. Now there's a layer beyond the deductions: he can see her confidence sparking, bringing that hidden, fascinating, constantly evolving Molly to the surface. His next attempt at talking comes out blurred, mostly consonants running together, and he has to shake himself slightly to jar his swimming brain back into place.

(If Irene knew, she'd probably want to take notes.)

"Um. The--tapas bar. We can cab it over as soon as John gets back, that'll give us time to walk to the Opera House. That's a new dress."

It's very early on, but Molly is pretty certain she will never tire of making Sherlock Holmes speeches (or as speechless as Sherlock Holmes ever gets) and that pleasure is written all over her face at the moment. It's the sort of pride she imagines he felt when popping open her bra with one hand or when he put Rosie to sleep in 5 minutes.

"It is," she says, looking down at the dress, smoothing out the skirt with her hands. If she felt incredible in it in the department store, she now feels like a bloody model. "I bought it for tonight."

Worth every shilling.

"It's. That's a good cut on you."

And before he can start stammering like a teenager at his first dance, thankfully, he hears John's key in the door. He's always a lot steadier when John's around.

(Although, come to think of it, John's never really been around him when he's been in a situation like this. He hasn't even seen the two of them together since before Sherrinford.)

"Great. Well." He grabs his overnight bag off the sofa. "Better go let him know his consult fee's in the fridge and his baby's still the slimy delight of her godparents."

"Thanks," she says and tries not to feel too disappointed that he's not told her she looks beautiful or anything that she would normally expect of a date. He's not a normal date and his lack of speech says more than words probably could anyway.

Her attention turns to the door and she feels Sherlock's relief at having been saved from whatever that interaction was they were having. He seemed rather uncomfortable with it.

"Well, let him get in and settled before we run off," she says to him as she goes to transfer some of her things from her every day purse to the black clutch she's brought to go with her dress. She hopes Sherlock won't mind tucking the rest into his overnight bag so she doesn't have to carry it around.

"What's this about you running off--" John manages, and then he looks up and sees the two of them. "Oh Jesus. I've got bloody James Bond and Moneypenny in my house."

"You're hilarious," Sherlock says.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock. Molly. Sorry, where did you say you were going again?"

"Royal Ballet. The resident choreographer owes me a favour--"

"Yeah. Of course he does. You fancy bastard." John gives him a cheeky grin.

"You say that now, but when Rosie's hanging off your knees begging, 'Oh, please Daddy, please can we go to the Nutcracker this year,' remember this moment as you ask for my fancy assistance."

John laughs, which is always a relief to Sherlock these days.

"Okay, okay. Molly, you look great. How was Rosie today?"

Molly looks on amused at their exchange. Sherlock and John have a great sort of relationship and she's glad to see it getting back on track lately. It's awful when they're on the outs for some reason or another, and after Mary, Molly wasn't sure they'd ever get back to this easy sort of rapport.

"Thanks, John," she says at the compliment. "Rosie was a doll today. She only fussed a little bit after you left and only a couple times during the day, but easily fixed by diaper changes or bottles. We had a walk and some tummy time and Uncle Sherlock recited some Shakespeare to her - nothing obscene.

"She's still down for her nap now."

Edited 2017-02-21 03:06 (UTC)

"It was Henry the Fifth," Sherlock says, before John can ask about the Shakespeare. "I still think there's some stuff in Othello you could let me do."

"Or you could read Goodnight Moon, she likes that one. Anyway--that's great, Molly, I'm so glad to hear it. Sounds like a good day all round." John's smile quirks a little, and he adds, "Too early to hope it's the first of many?"

"Not too early, no."

"Good. Well then. Anything else I should know before you two head out?"

"There's some leftover Thai in the fridge," Molly says to John. "I thought you might not feel like cooking when you got home.

"And don't ask about the receipt, I already lost it."

Or so she'll claim.

Molly starts to pull on her coat and gloves before she hands her regular purse to Sherlock and asks him to put it into his overnight bag.

"If you don't mind."

Co-mingling their things feels a little weird once she asks him to do it, and she suddenly feels anxious that she might be overstepping some imaginary line. This is all so new and tentative.

(John can't help but watch them. It's like some kind of nature documentary--the mating dance of the consulting detective and the pathologist. Which is both awkward and weirdly cute.)

"Oh--good idea, less to keep track of." Sherlock's practical approach keeps him from getting too anxious about whether he's doing certain parts of relationship etiquette right or not. He's got space in his bag, she's going to be carrying her clutch for the rest of the evening, it works out.

Plus at this stage in their relationship, if she forgets anything in his bag it's just an excuse for him to come over again.

"Right. Well. We're off, then, don't expect me back till tomorrow, Welsh beer in the fridge for you. Enjoy your daughter and leftovers."

"Cheers, you two," John says. "Don't let me see you on the news later."

*

Sherlock actually handles dinner a lot better than he'd ever thought he would handle a dinner date he doesn't have to fake his way through. Sure, a couple of the other diners look at them funny when they get into an animated discussion of the experiment he's going to have to clean out of the lab, but he never has to pretend that he's interested in something when he isn't, and he's not bored for a second.

Molly is--fun to be around. She's more confident than he's ever seen her, and she laughs often, and when she gets up to hit the ladies' room at one point he can't help but notice that the dress she's wearing makes her arse look ridiculously good.

It's only the thought of getting to watch her react to the ballet that keeps him from suggesting they take a cab straight back to her place.

The Royal Opera House is a beautiful place; tonight it's absolutely glittering, as befits a major artistic premiere. (Sherlock stops for a moment at the coat check to make sure the person taking their coats is someone he knows, and even then he slips the young woman a hundred quid to keep a close eye on their things.)

Molly cannot ever remember feeling so relaxed on what is essentially a first date. And a first date with Sherlock, no less. Maybe it's because they've known each other for ages and she knows she doesn't have to censor her topics of conversation in any way with him. Conversation is easy and fun. It's almost like they're having lunch at the Bart's canteen except she's way overdressed for that and the food is about a million times better.

By the time they get to the Opera House, she is giddy, almost like the first time her parents took her to the ballet when she was a child. Not only is she about to watch what is sure to be an extraordinary ballet, but she's got the smartest, most handsome man in the building on her arm. The looks they receive from some other patrons do not get by her. Sherlock is a mini-celebrity in the city and it's not like he tries to blend in. But instead of feeling intimidated, she feels confident, like she belongs.

"Sherlock! These seats. They're in the first row of the grand tier," she says as she looks down at the tickets he's handed her to hold while he checks their things. Those are arguably the best and most expensive seats in the house. She has never seen a ballet or theatre performance from there.

"Really?" He's genuinely a little surprised at that. He'd expected something in the balcony, or possibly the orchestra section. But then, he thinks, getting someone's best friend out from under a blackmailer and a murder charge is above and beyond a first-row-grand-tier favour. "Well. I'll have to find him later and--"

"Sherlock?"

He turns, momentarily thrown off.

"Sherlock Holmes! I knew that was you." An older woman, wearing an elegant green silk dress and a frankly excessive amount of diamonds, sweeps towards them out of the crowd. Sherlock takes in a dozen tiny details about her before the flashy necklace at her throat sets off a reminder in his brain. He's pulled that necklace out of a haggis in front of a dozen gawping police officers.

"Mrs Stafford." His tone is polite, but he doesn't smile.

"Christabel, please."

She eyes him, largely ignoring Molly, and somehow his pettiness and pride roll together in a strange chemical reaction. He draws himself up a little--if he were a peacock, he'd be fanning out an enormous tail.

"Yes. Molly, this is Christabel Stafford, a former client of mine--I recovered the necklace she's wearing after it was stolen from her at a premiere much like this one. Christabel, this is Dr Molly Hooper, my date."

That last word comes out a lot more easily than he'd thought it would.

Molly's attention is also drawn to the sound of his name being called and she turns to see the woman who is clearly high society London and clearly a fan of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly stays about a step behind Sherlock, knowing this woman has no interest in her and expecting to just be an awkward bystander to the exchange. What she does not at all expect is the way Sherlock makes it a grand point to introduce her to this woman, and as his date no less. She tries not to let the shock of it show but can feel her cheeks colour just a bit as she smiles politely at Christabel.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stafford," Molly manages to say. "It is a gorgeous necklace."

The price of which Molly cannot even fathom.

"Thank you." She seems a little flustered, for a second, and Sherlock puffs up just a bit more. He's got no desire to endure anyone flirting with him tonight who isn't Molly, and directing this woman's attention to the presence of someone she can't hope to compete with is every bit as satisfying a shutdown as picking apart one of Anderson's ridiculous theories. "I expect the whole adventure will end up on that blog of his before you know it."

"Funny enough," Sherlock says smoothly, "we're a bit busy for the blog these days."

"Ah. Well. Anyway--oh, that's my mobile, probably my husband. Please excuse me. Lovely to see you both."

She strides away fumbling with her own clutch, and the look Sherlock shoots Molly is both pleased and subtly inviting.

"I think that might be record time between someone making a poorly-calculated overture to me and them pretending their phone's gone off so they have an excuse to leave. I should bring you out more often."

While Molly is pleased at being shown off a bit and it doesn't really bother her to be used as interception, she gives him a bit of a look.

"Oy," she says, even though she can't help but smirk a bit. "Don't be rude. Flirting with you probably would have been the highlight of her night."

Molly remembers not long ago when she was the one who was terribly, unsuccessfully trying to get Sherlock's attention and affections.

"I don't give a damn about her night. You're the one I invited here." And the one I intend to leave with, he almost says, but he realizes in barely enough time that if he does he'll probably end up half hard in public and he's fairly sure that's not something you want on a ballet date. (At least not according to what he's picked up from John.)

So instead he reaches down slightly to take her hand, a touch that grounds him and refocuses some of the nervous energy that's pinging around his brain.

She always has helped him find extra clarity when he's needed it, now that he thinks about it.

That thought warms his smile, softens his eyes briefly. "Come on. We can nick some free champagne; I'll show you where I found that bucket of livers I was telling you about at dinner."

"Alright, alright," she says, knowing that some social niceties will never be very important to him.

When he takes her hand, her fingers curl around his and Mrs. Stafford is all but forgotten. She smiles back at him.

"You do know how to show a girl a good time."

She squeezes his hand and lets him lead her to wherever it is he wants to go. How can she possibly turn down champagne and adventures with buckets of livers at the ballet? That does have sort of a nice balance to it, she realizes, and then realizes how incredibly well-suited they really are for each other. She's always imagined they would be, but those were fantasies not based on any data besides their rapport in the lab and the morgue and in occasional social situations. The fact that she was right hits her in that moment.

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?

Molly is beside herself meeting both choreographer and a principal dancer. She's a bit awkward as usual, but if either of the men notice, they don't let on - plying her with champagne and praising her attire. Combined with Sherlock at her side, it's more male attention than she's received in a long time. It feels really good actually and she's all rosy cheeks and smiles by the time they make it to their seats.

She does hear the little girl's comment, but she doesn't register that it might be about her until they've sat down. It's definitely a surprise. Molly's never felt much like a princess. Well, maybe Cinderella before her fairy godmother shows up. There isn't exactly a Disney princess who cuts open dead people and mostly wears ill-fitting clothing.

Once she's settled in, she feels Sherlock's eyes on her and she catches him eyeing her exposed neck a bit hungrily and she blushes. It's a good thing she didn't go with the low-cut dress option she'd also tried on, he might jump her where she sits. She just smirks at him and takes his hand again. It's the safest form of contact right now.

Edited 2017-02-23 01:07 (UTC)

His fingers twine through hers, and for a quiet moment he's unbelievably grateful that she's here at all. After everything they've been through, after everything he's done and been responsible for, he somehow still has this chance at something he's been too stubborn and frightened to admit he craves.

And how many people can say they've taken the most significant and painful emotional risk of their lives and ended up at the ballet with a clever, interesting, and frankly bloody gorgeous woman?

He shifts in his seat a little, clasps her hand just a bit more tightly. The lights start to dim, which seems strangely appropriate. He's sharing a secret in public with her, and she's the only one who can tell how important this is, how firmly she's connected to him on a level he's never let anyone approach before.

Molly can feel the weight of this night in the way he's been holding on to her hand, the way he's been parading her around like he's proud to be with her. She knows how huge all of this is for him and she hopes that she can be all the things he needs .

As the lights dim, she feels excited for the upcoming performance and sits up a little taller in her seat. She doesn't want to miss a moment. She smiles over at him and then looks back to the stage as the music starts and the first dancers step out onto the stage.

Molly would likely be shocked if she knew that he is proud to be with her, as proud to show off the fact that someone truly loves him as he was to show off after John had called him his best friend. And all he needs her to be, all he's ever needed her to be when she's helped him most, is herself.

*

During the performance he sneaks glances at her, alternating between being absorbed in the dancers' fine form and energy and being fascinated by the way Molly's reacting. Every time he catches her looking delighted by something, he tucks the image into his mind palace, trying to ignore the occasional adolescent skitter in his pulse.

(He does let go of her hand to applaud, at appropriate moments, but as soon as the applause is finished his fingers find hers in the dark again.)

There's no interval, but between the pleasure of the ballet itself and the newer, sweeter pleasure of studying her, it flies by.

All too soon--or maybe not a moment too soon--the heavy red-and-gold curtain falls, and Sherlock lets go of her hand again to join in the wave of applause that's breaking over the theatre. And this time when he glances at Molly, he's looking for a signal, something to tell him whether this evening will linger at its current warmth or blossom into a fuller heat much more quickly.

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*Heart eyes all the ballet videos*

:D I am a secret ballet nerd (and have seen Brooklyn Mack perform!)

I adore ballet. Don't go nearly enough. Did you or do you take?

I did a little, in college! Now I try to go whenever I can. :D You?

Heart eyes all the ballet videos