It's out before he can stop it. For a startled second he just watches her face, trying to determine whether he ought to apologize. On the one hand, the way she talks about her mum indicates she probably wants and needs a sympathetic ally, but on the other hand he's not sure how rude it is to casually (albeit mildly) insult the mother of your first and hopefully only partner.
"Oh, um, no, English actually," Molly says, the insult going past her without registering. "She was...is a poet, but that doesn't really pay the bills."
Or at least not for her mother it didn't. Molly never took to poetry herself so she can't much judge her mother's talents, but she always acted like she was just waiting to be discovered by some rich publisher. It was a fantasy that she always talked about but never seemed to do the work that would be needed to actually have it come true. She was a dreamer and Molly thought her mother was magical until she got to an age where she could realize that's all she was. And if your world and your own dreams didn't revolve around hers then they were stupid or wrong or unnecessary.
Oh. Thank God he's off the hook for now. And maybe if intercourse after breakfast is still on the table (so to speak) he can use that as an opportunity to further make up for this awkwardness.
Though already he doesn't feel very charitably towards Molly's mother, as something tells him she hasn't written much poetry about or for her daughter.
But right now, right this moment, Molly's mother is God-knows-where and Molly herself is right here.
This time he takes her hand, thumb brushing over the backs of her knuckles.
"I'm aware it might be rude to ask if you'd rather talk about something else, but it seems disingenuous to pretend you aren't uncomfortable, and--this has all been really good so far."
"It's not rude," she assures him as she curls her fingers around his and feels better already. "And you're not wrong. I would rather talk about something else. Thank you for noticing."
She gives him a small smile.
"We can save my mum for another time, when we don't have crepes getting cold. And maybe when there's alcohol involved. All you really need to know is she's a narcissist and I've spent loads on therapy."
There's a self-deprecating smile there. She has learned to have a sense of humour about her mum. Her dad always did, so that helped. She misses him. She thinks he'd really get on with Sherlock.
Something about that word narcissist registers like a pinprick under his skin, brief but unpleasant. He's been called that before--though by other people who knew him far less well than she does, to be fair--and he can see that it hurts her, having to apply it to someone who should love her unconditionally.
This is, he realizes suddenly, a lot like bringing back souvenirs: people need to be shown that you think of them when they aren't immediately in front of you, and they need to be shown that you think of them as being part of your life.
"You can borrow mine, then." He squeezes her hand. "Once every three months, whether I need it or not, she gives me some sort of lecture about women in STEM. She'll probably invite you to Christmas once she finds out what you do at Bart's."
It's true that Sherlock has some narcissistic personality traits. They've gotten better over the years though and she doesn't think he's a true narcissist, not in the way her mother is. Not to say she hasn't explored her relationship with Sherlock in therapy sessions - her therapist worried that her interest in him as an unhealthy mirror of her mother in the way that abused children often end up in abusive relationships as adults.
She is certain that her previous willingness to constantly bend to his whims was a direct output of being raised by a narcissistic parent. But therapy has helped her with that. Learning to say no and to stand up for herself and to not feel guilty over things has been a huge step in escaping her mother and clearly it has paid off in her other relationships as well.
"That's very sweet," she says of his offer to share his mum. And it really is. "It sounds like we'll get on quite well."
She smiles but thinks about how her mum hated Molly's choice to go into pathology. Being a doctor would have been fine (not her mum's first choice, but at least an important job), but cutting open dead people was not respectable or fit for a daughter of hers.
Giving his hand a squeeze back, she banishes thoughts of her mother and goes back to her crepes. In spite of their conversation, she's still hungry. And it's still early in the year and in this relationship, but the idea of a Holmes family Christmas brightens her mood as well.
It has paid off, possibly in a bigger way than she can know--the more willing she's been to put down her foot, the more brave she's been about making him aware that he's being oblivious or hurtful, the more he's come to respect her and value the place she has in his life. And with respect has come trust, and then the slow fall that he'd thought would shatter him but has instead opened up a part of him he's still astonished even exists, and now he's sitting at her kitchen counter minus his virginity and happier than he's been in god only knows how long.
Sherlock can see her make an effort to push the topic to the back of her mind, when she goes back to her crepes, and he decides to follow her lead. The thought flashes across his mind, briefly, that even though Christmas is pretty much agony every year, it might not be so bad with Molly around.
But he'll definitely need to deal with that later, too. Breakfast is good, and the two of them just chatting about stuff is good.
He lets go of her hand to attack his own crepes again.
"Mm--you adapted this recipe from something I've had before. Not Julia Child's, she uses orange juice. Can't put my finger on it, though."
"It's my dad's recipe," she says as she cuts a forkful of sugar and lime crepe off. "They were his favorite to make on Sunday mornings. I don't know what he adapted the recipe from though."
The bite of crepe makes it into her mouth and she immediately looks pleased.
"Oh. Your grandma's combination is nice. I like it."
She doesn't know why but there's something really nice about blending her dad's crepes with his grandmum's condiments.
"Thank you. And it goes well with your dad's batter. So."
He's not-so-secretly pleased that he's offering her something both unusual and personal and she genuinely likes it. He did that with the fishdive, and the night at the ballet, and now his grandmother's style of crepes, and every time she's met him with warmth and delighted surprise.
It's never been easy for him to share so much of himself with someone. But the more he shares with Molly, the more he finds he wants to tell her, as if he could open windows into his mind palace and let her look in.
"Crepes on Sundays, Dr. Mario, and fishing," he muses. "Based on what I know about you I wouldn't have guessed."
"You read my mind," she says and smiles before taking another bite of crepe. "In the good way."
Not in the "deducing your darkest secrets in front of everyone" way.
And then he even admits to not being able to deduce her, which is another surprise.
"Well, that's probably because Sherlock Holmes never guesses."
She bumps his shoulder with her's playfully and smiles, echoing a statement he'd made about himself long ago when someone had implied he'd made a lucky guess about something or other.
"But I'm glad I can keep you guessing anyway. And you know I'm pretty much an open book so you can always just ask whatever you like to know."
All this casual contact is having a fascinating effect on him. It's both soothing and highly stimulating. It's as if he's getting much more oxygen, or he's recovering from some sort of long-term illness. Yes, logically he knows it's all brain chemistry at work, and there are dozens of papers stored in his mind palace to back that up, but those are far less interesting to him right now than observing her firsthand.
"That's a dangerous blanket permission to give, Molly," he says, a grin stretching his mouth. But saying her name sets off that first wave of curiosity. "You know. Actually. I know you've seen my full name, when you did the death certificate, but I don't know yours. You haven't got anything monogrammed with your initials in your wardrobe, and I haven't seen them on any jewellery..."
"Well, you noticed I just said you could ask," she points out. "I didn't say I would definitely answer."
She smiles cheekily in reply to his grin.
"I think I'm flattered that you haven't had your brother do a full-on background check on me."
Molly assumed he already knows mostly everything about her that one could find from a paper trail, but it's kind of nice that he doesn't. They'll have more to discuss at least.
"Margaret Ann-Marie," he echoes, turning the name over in his mouth. "You're right to use Molly, it suits you better. Less ordinary."
As he says it, his eyes warm, the realization rolling over him. Like him, she's changed which version of her name she uses in everyday life. There's a sudden sense of connection to her, of a distance being bridged.
It's so strong he doesn't even point out that Mycroft's already done the paper trail and he just hasn't asked to look at it. Not that he ever will. Mycroft has always been far more paranoid about the company he keeps than he himself has.
"I just always hated Margaret. It sounds like an old woman's name," she says. "The only person who calls me that is my mum. It's always weird when people read it off lists at the doctors or when telemarketers call."
She looks up from her crepes to see a new look in his eye. He seems...pleased at finding out this tidbit about her. Pleased and maybe endeared? She's not sure.
"That's exactly why I don't use William." That warmth makes its way to his voice, too, turning it into a pleased rumble. "For one thing, it makes me sound like I'm ninety, and for another there was this little shit named Billy Thorton who used to beat me up at school, so by the time I was seven I'd dropped it."
He reaches over to swipe a smear of sugar away from the corner of her lower lip with the tip of his index finger. Instead of wiping it off on a napkin, though, he simply licks it off. He'll have to experiment, but he's pretty sure the taste of her is an excellent chaser for just about any flavor profile.
"I don't know, I kind of like Will," she says with a shrug. "And I would have thought the name Sherlock would have got you beaten up more.
"Sorry you got beat up at all though. Kids can be so cruel."
Molly never got beat up but kids were sometimes crueler without fists.
After he wipes the sugar away she licks the spot on her lip anyway to get anything else left behind and then watches as he licks the sugar from his finger. It's so intimate, all of this. Talking about their parents and their names and their childhoods over breakfast makes her chest swell even more. She's worried her heart might burst at the seams even though she is a doctor and knows that's not possible. At least, not from something like love.
He watches her expression soften, just as he's swallowing a bite of crepe, and though he can't know what she's thinking he knows that she's every bit as present in this moment as he is.
Despite the parts of their names that don't fit them, despite all those nosy texts, despite the unhappy memories--they keep making their way back to each other, leaning into one another for support.
His fingers skim over her cheekbone as he tucks a lock of hair back behind her ear. It's a little easier to reach out to her every time he does it.
And every time he does, Molly registers it as a win. This frustratingly logical, machine-like man had evolved right before her. And not just this past week. It started long ago. She knew what he was capable of being. She saw in him a deep pool of emotions he tried so hard to repress. She saw it would kill him someday if he didn't start to admit they were there and they were valid. Now here he is and she never expected to be the one with him on the other side of that hurdle.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she requests. "I mean...if you want."
"Loads," he murmurs, hand stirring gently against the warm curve of her jaw. "Wondering about your dad's crepe recipe. Which of the boxes is likely to have the best view. When I'll see you next after this. Whether I ought to put something up on the blog to address the whole photo thing."
It'd likely just be a short statement--yes, I have a regular ballet date, she's tremendously intelligent, I will consider any harassment of her carte blanche to make your life a total hell--but he's not sure, yet, if it's either necessary or something she'll object to.
"Of course," she says with a fond smile as her head tilts into his hand just a bit. Of course he is thinking about a million things at once and far too fast for any normal person to keep up she's sure.
"I can share the recipe with you. Any box or seat will do. Whenever you like - you know where to find me. And...I don't know."
She hadn't thought about that - that he could address it out right on his own platform that people read. That they don't have to get the gossip from Tatler. If he were to just come out and say it, then would that cut down on the gossip and speculation? Or will that just stir up more interest in her?
She's always been quick to catch up to him, he realizes, and this is no exception. It's why he's preferred working with her over anyone else in the morgue or the lab, right from the beginning. His expression warms subtly.
"If things haven't died down in a week I'll address it," he says, "but in the meantime. As I do know where to find you, I'll meet you there when your shift ends, before your next day off. Provided I'm not on a case."
Although any case that would win out over time spent with Molly Hooper is going to have to be an absolute corker.
"Alright," she says with a nod. Hopefully no one will really care that much, aside from Meena and Sophie who know her history with Sherlock.
"And I work a 12 hour starting tomorrow at 7am and then an overnight on Friday. I don't know if I'll be in much shape to do anything but sleep by 7am on Saturday. Might be better to plan on something later that day after I've had a few hours....If you're not on a case anyway."
Molly knows that cases will come first, especially the really interesting ones. That's okay with her. He's got a job, like she's got a job. Or sort of like she's got a job. His is just erratic and unpredictable. She can live with it.
omg it was amazing. *_* and hopefully snow day from work tomorrow...
"I could bring breakfast," he suggests. "Or lunch, I suppose, depending on whether Rosie sleeps through the night."
Yes, he sometimes gets up in the middle of the night when his goddaughter starts crying to address the situation. Or, well. Often it's not so much that he gets up as that he's already up and he might as well help because John's still having a rough go of it most days.
"Although it's entirely likely I'll see you at work before then."
"I thought it might be likely," Molly says with a pleased smile. He did stop by often when she was working to get access to the lab or morgue, so it wouldn't be weird for him to do so now. Except that some of her coworkers know about them. That might be awkward. She doesn't want to seem unprofessional, having her boyfriend(?) coming by her workplace. She's also not sure about calling him her boyfriend. Partner? Male friend? Yeah, no. Not that last one.
"But, if not, breakfast or lunch on Saturday would be good. I'll be hungry after my shift."
She usually ate a little something before going to bed. Overnights really messed her up though.
(He's really not fond of the word boyfriend, because he's hardly a boy anymore, but there are really very few terms in English that even come close to sounding acceptable. Though he supposes he's grateful they're not French, as he remembers learning that the standard phrase for someone you're in a relationship with is petite amie, and Molly is certainly a lot more than a 'little friend'.)
"And it'll be more than crisps this time, as it's a terrible idea to eat those in bed."
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It's out before he can stop it. For a startled second he just watches her face, trying to determine whether he ought to apologize. On the one hand, the way she talks about her mum indicates she probably wants and needs a sympathetic ally, but on the other hand he's not sure how rude it is to casually (albeit mildly) insult the mother of your first and hopefully only partner.
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Or at least not for her mother it didn't. Molly never took to poetry herself so she can't much judge her mother's talents, but she always acted like she was just waiting to be discovered by some rich publisher. It was a fantasy that she always talked about but never seemed to do the work that would be needed to actually have it come true. She was a dreamer and Molly thought her mother was magical until she got to an age where she could realize that's all she was. And if your world and your own dreams didn't revolve around hers then they were stupid or wrong or unnecessary.
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Though already he doesn't feel very charitably towards Molly's mother, as something tells him she hasn't written much poetry about or for her daughter.
But right now, right this moment, Molly's mother is God-knows-where and Molly herself is right here.
This time he takes her hand, thumb brushing over the backs of her knuckles.
"I'm aware it might be rude to ask if you'd rather talk about something else, but it seems disingenuous to pretend you aren't uncomfortable, and--this has all been really good so far."
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She gives him a small smile.
"We can save my mum for another time, when we don't have crepes getting cold. And maybe when there's alcohol involved. All you really need to know is she's a narcissist and I've spent loads on therapy."
There's a self-deprecating smile there. She has learned to have a sense of humour about her mum. Her dad always did, so that helped. She misses him. She thinks he'd really get on with Sherlock.
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This is, he realizes suddenly, a lot like bringing back souvenirs: people need to be shown that you think of them when they aren't immediately in front of you, and they need to be shown that you think of them as being part of your life.
"You can borrow mine, then." He squeezes her hand. "Once every three months, whether I need it or not, she gives me some sort of lecture about women in STEM. She'll probably invite you to Christmas once she finds out what you do at Bart's."
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She is certain that her previous willingness to constantly bend to his whims was a direct output of being raised by a narcissistic parent. But therapy has helped her with that. Learning to say no and to stand up for herself and to not feel guilty over things has been a huge step in escaping her mother and clearly it has paid off in her other relationships as well.
"That's very sweet," she says of his offer to share his mum. And it really is. "It sounds like we'll get on quite well."
She smiles but thinks about how her mum hated Molly's choice to go into pathology. Being a doctor would have been fine (not her mum's first choice, but at least an important job), but cutting open dead people was not respectable or fit for a daughter of hers.
Giving his hand a squeeze back, she banishes thoughts of her mother and goes back to her crepes. In spite of their conversation, she's still hungry. And it's still early in the year and in this relationship, but the idea of a Holmes family Christmas brightens her mood as well.
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Sherlock can see her make an effort to push the topic to the back of her mind, when she goes back to her crepes, and he decides to follow her lead. The thought flashes across his mind, briefly, that even though Christmas is pretty much agony every year, it might not be so bad with Molly around.
But he'll definitely need to deal with that later, too. Breakfast is good, and the two of them just chatting about stuff is good.
He lets go of her hand to attack his own crepes again.
"Mm--you adapted this recipe from something I've had before. Not Julia Child's, she uses orange juice. Can't put my finger on it, though."
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The bite of crepe makes it into her mouth and she immediately looks pleased.
"Oh. Your grandma's combination is nice. I like it."
She doesn't know why but there's something really nice about blending her dad's crepes with his grandmum's condiments.
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He's not-so-secretly pleased that he's offering her something both unusual and personal and she genuinely likes it. He did that with the fishdive, and the night at the ballet, and now his grandmother's style of crepes, and every time she's met him with warmth and delighted surprise.
It's never been easy for him to share so much of himself with someone. But the more he shares with Molly, the more he finds he wants to tell her, as if he could open windows into his mind palace and let her look in.
"Crepes on Sundays, Dr. Mario, and fishing," he muses. "Based on what I know about you I wouldn't have guessed."
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Not in the "deducing your darkest secrets in front of everyone" way.
And then he even admits to not being able to deduce her, which is another surprise.
"Well, that's probably because Sherlock Holmes never guesses."
She bumps his shoulder with her's playfully and smiles, echoing a statement he'd made about himself long ago when someone had implied he'd made a lucky guess about something or other.
"But I'm glad I can keep you guessing anyway. And you know I'm pretty much an open book so you can always just ask whatever you like to know."
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"That's a dangerous blanket permission to give, Molly," he says, a grin stretching his mouth. But saying her name sets off that first wave of curiosity. "You know. Actually. I know you've seen my full name, when you did the death certificate, but I don't know yours. You haven't got anything monogrammed with your initials in your wardrobe, and I haven't seen them on any jewellery..."
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She smiles cheekily in reply to his grin.
"I think I'm flattered that you haven't had your brother do a full-on background check on me."
Molly assumed he already knows mostly everything about her that one could find from a paper trail, but it's kind of nice that he doesn't. They'll have more to discuss at least.
"Margaret Ann-Marie Hooper."
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As he says it, his eyes warm, the realization rolling over him. Like him, she's changed which version of her name she uses in everyday life. There's a sudden sense of connection to her, of a distance being bridged.
It's so strong he doesn't even point out that Mycroft's already done the paper trail and he just hasn't asked to look at it. Not that he ever will. Mycroft has always been far more paranoid about the company he keeps than he himself has.
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"Is that why you use Sherlock instead of William?
"I just always hated Margaret. It sounds like an old woman's name," she says. "The only person who calls me that is my mum. It's always weird when people read it off lists at the doctors or when telemarketers call."
She looks up from her crepes to see a new look in his eye. He seems...pleased at finding out this tidbit about her. Pleased and maybe endeared? She's not sure.
"What?"
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He reaches over to swipe a smear of sugar away from the corner of her lower lip with the tip of his index finger. Instead of wiping it off on a napkin, though, he simply licks it off. He'll have to experiment, but he's pretty sure the taste of her is an excellent chaser for just about any flavor profile.
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"Sorry you got beat up at all though. Kids can be so cruel."
Molly never got beat up but kids were sometimes crueler without fists.
After he wipes the sugar away she licks the spot on her lip anyway to get anything else left behind and then watches as he licks the sugar from his finger. It's so intimate, all of this. Talking about their parents and their names and their childhoods over breakfast makes her chest swell even more. She's worried her heart might burst at the seams even though she is a doctor and knows that's not possible. At least, not from something like love.
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Despite the parts of their names that don't fit them, despite all those nosy texts, despite the unhappy memories--they keep making their way back to each other, leaning into one another for support.
His fingers skim over her cheekbone as he tucks a lock of hair back behind her ear. It's a little easier to reach out to her every time he does it.
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"Tell me what you're thinking," she requests. "I mean...if you want."
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It'd likely just be a short statement--yes, I have a regular ballet date, she's tremendously intelligent, I will consider any harassment of her carte blanche to make your life a total hell--but he's not sure, yet, if it's either necessary or something she'll object to.
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"I can share the recipe with you. Any box or seat will do. Whenever you like - you know where to find me. And...I don't know."
She hadn't thought about that - that he could address it out right on his own platform that people read. That they don't have to get the gossip from Tatler. If he were to just come out and say it, then would that cut down on the gossip and speculation? Or will that just stir up more interest in her?
back from vacation~! <3
"If things haven't died down in a week I'll address it," he says, "but in the meantime. As I do know where to find you, I'll meet you there when your shift ends, before your next day off. Provided I'm not on a case."
Although any case that would win out over time spent with Molly Hooper is going to have to be an absolute corker.
\o/ I hope you had a great time!
"And I work a 12 hour starting tomorrow at 7am and then an overnight on Friday. I don't know if I'll be in much shape to do anything but sleep by 7am on Saturday. Might be better to plan on something later that day after I've had a few hours....If you're not on a case anyway."
Molly knows that cases will come first, especially the really interesting ones. That's okay with her. He's got a job, like she's got a job. Or sort of like she's got a job. His is just erratic and unpredictable. She can live with it.
omg it was amazing. *_* and hopefully snow day from work tomorrow...
Yes, he sometimes gets up in the middle of the night when his goddaughter starts crying to address the situation. Or, well. Often it's not so much that he gets up as that he's already up and he might as well help because John's still having a rough go of it most days.
"Although it's entirely likely I'll see you at work before then."
Awesome! And I already have a snow day. :D
"But, if not, breakfast or lunch on Saturday would be good. I'll be hungry after my shift."
She usually ate a little something before going to bed. Overnights really messed her up though.
UPDATE SNOW DAYS ARE THE BEST
(He's really not fond of the word boyfriend, because he's hardly a boy anymore, but there are really very few terms in English that even come close to sounding acceptable. Though he supposes he's grateful they're not French, as he remembers learning that the standard phrase for someone you're in a relationship with is petite amie, and Molly is certainly a lot more than a 'little friend'.)
"And it'll be more than crisps this time, as it's a terrible idea to eat those in bed."
THEY ARE.
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