Even if he was still fairly clumsy about articulating his emotions, he had learned that there were things he could do that would have the same impact as words, that would help him bridge the gap. The softness in Molly's expression, the happy surprise, told him that his message had been received and understood; the kiss confirmed it. Sherlock leaned into her, fingers lacing through hers, his own smile broadening.
"I don't doubt it."
*
The flight was reasonably short--around three and a half hours, not long enough for Sherlock to lose interest in the list of monuments, museums, and restaurants he had made. They were spending a week in Florence, with a day trip to Pompeii just before Christmas (the sole one of his professional contacts he hadn't muted was the archaeologist they would be meeting there, who had owed him a favor for years, but he doubted the woman would need to call him before the day of their visit).
He hadn't been back to Italy since his time as a 'dead' man, and found that the prospect of revisiting the city with someone to share his interest stoked an emotion that was part excitement, part greed, and part something like tenderness. Sherlock had spent much of his life without real opportunities for that sort of connection; having the woman he loved offer it to him--not just at home in their element, but for a whole week in a foreign city--only contributed to his enthusiasm.
(On their way off the plane, though, a woman bumped into Molly and nearly knocked the contents of her purse askew; out of sheer reflex Sherlock committed the offender's face to memory before hurrying them along to the baggage carousel.)
Of course, since this fell under the category of big gestures, Sherlock had made certain they would be staying somewhere with an excellent location and a great deal of on-site advantages. A suite at the Hotel Brunelleschi, with a view of the Duomo that gleamed like another enormous moon in the evening sky, fit the bill perfectly.
no subject
"I don't doubt it."
*
The flight was reasonably short--around three and a half hours, not long enough for Sherlock to lose interest in the list of monuments, museums, and restaurants he had made. They were spending a week in Florence, with a day trip to Pompeii just before Christmas (the sole one of his professional contacts he hadn't muted was the archaeologist they would be meeting there, who had owed him a favor for years, but he doubted the woman would need to call him before the day of their visit).
He hadn't been back to Italy since his time as a 'dead' man, and found that the prospect of revisiting the city with someone to share his interest stoked an emotion that was part excitement, part greed, and part something like tenderness. Sherlock had spent much of his life without real opportunities for that sort of connection; having the woman he loved offer it to him--not just at home in their element, but for a whole week in a foreign city--only contributed to his enthusiasm.
(On their way off the plane, though, a woman bumped into Molly and nearly knocked the contents of her purse askew; out of sheer reflex Sherlock committed the offender's face to memory before hurrying them along to the baggage carousel.)
Of course, since this fell under the category of big gestures, Sherlock had made certain they would be staying somewhere with an excellent location and a great deal of on-site advantages. A suite at the Hotel Brunelleschi, with a view of the Duomo that gleamed like another enormous moon in the evening sky, fit the bill perfectly.