Takes place several months after 'Sigh No More'

Molly Hooper woke up one particular day and felt like dressing up. It was a rare and bright occasion for her, and she danced through her morning routine, singing along with her ipod. Slipping into a fitted button-down blouse, a black wiggle skirt (an impulse buy and she had to admit she felt rather fetching in it) and a brand new pair of stockings. She did her make-up that day, actually minding what she put on, and even opted to wear a pair of kitten heels, comfortable enough for her to walk and stand in all day thanks to gel inserts. The skirt flared around her knees and she gave a little twirl, admiring her reflection as she passed by the mirrored glass of St. Barts. She waved to the CCTV, knowing Mycroft was on the other end.

When she got to the morgue she hung up her coat and purse in her office, setting her coffee down on the desk. She pinned her badge on and looked over the day's schedule. Seeing John's chicken scratch post-it on the door, notifying her that he and Sherlock would be in that morning around nine made her beam, her heart gave an excited leap, beyond pleased with herself that she'd dressed up so nicely. If Sherlock was coming in, that meant John would too. Ever since that awful, horrible, no good very bad day (which ended in Sherlock leaving a cow in her bath), she and John had grown closer, as if their friendship had taken a step forward. Forward to what, Molly wasn't sure, but she knew that she always looked forward to John's texts, or when he'd stop by the lab. His smile brightened her day, and as long as she was being honest, she liked the way he made her feel. It was bizarre to feel so happy around someone, so happy and so comfortable. There was no pretending around John, she didn't have to.

Upstairs elevators

John bounced on his heels, waiting for the lift. He found himself eager to get to the morgue, and it had nothing to do with Mr. Parker's remains or the murder/suicide Sherlock was trying to solve.

"Morning," Greg nodded to him, coffee in hand. "Any progress, Sherlock?"

"We'll know soon enough, if I am wrong, and I am never wrong-"

"Hardly ever-" John interrupted. Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. The elevator doors slid open and they stepped in, hitting the button.

Molly could hear them before they even stepped through the doors of the lab. Sherlock and John arguing, Greg trying to break them up.

"I don't see why you need that body again, we've looked at it three times already and it's exactly the same as before-" Greg was saying.

"Hello lads, anything I can help with?" Molly appeared in the doorway, coffee in hand and two of the three men stopped and stared. Sherlock was already across the room, ticking down the numbers on the drawers.

"Where is Mr. Parker? Did you move him?"

"Not yet, he's due to be shipped out later this afternoon why?" He turned around, glancing over her appearance, scrutinizing before he gave a nod which Molly could only assume was that he approved.

"Can you wheel him out?"

"Yes." She hadn't put on her lab coat yet so when she bent over to pull Mr. Parker out, John found himself leaning over to get a better look.

"John, for God's sake," Sherlock saw, of course. Watson coughed, looking anywhere but the detective or Lestrade. He hoped Molly hadn't seen. He noticed nice bums, sue him. He simply wasn't aware Molly had such a nice one. (That was a lie, he'd known since she wore that black velvet dress to the Christmas Party several years ago). He thought back on their friendship, the shift in their relationship had happened some weeks ago, the evening after the school bus fire. Molly had come home distraught and exhausted to find Sherlock had commandeered her kitchen and her bathtub. John had taken care of her that night, helping her to cope with the after-effects of seeing so many dead children. Her strength had always amazed him, her career was not one most adults (men or women) would choose, but she enjoyed what she did, macabre as it was. Truth be told, it didn't bother him. It said a lot about Molly, her profession. It told him she was stronger than she looked, and certainly a good deal braver than most women. She was one of the few people Sherlock Holmes listened to and trusted, an honor few had achieved. The night of the school bus fire, he'd helped her clean herself up, and when she finally let herself cry, he stayed with her. John had been working up the courage to ask her out since then. John truly liked Molly, good bum aside. She was sweet and clever, made him laugh and didn't mind if he had to interrupt a conversation to run off with Sherlock on a case. A definite pro. No one he'd ever gone out with before had ever understood why he tagged along with Sherlock Holmes, why he spent his nights running across London, through the boroughs and down chimneys and Cheapside when he could be home with a date. Molly seemed to understand though, she'd smile, wave him off. Later, when he'd check his phone, he'd find a message from her, wishing him well and reminding him to be safe.

Yes, if there was anyone John wanted to get to know better, it was Molly Hooper.

And, yeah, she really did have a nice bum.

A few moments study of the corpse, ten minutes of Sherlock running through evidence, coming up with a solution to the case, they were done. Sherlock and Greg hurried off to the courthouse, Molly waved goodbye, turning her back to them to put away Mr. Parker. John hung back, deciding now was as good a time as any to ask her out. Molly slid the body back into the drawer. She turned back and jumped, not expecting him to still be there.

"Oh!" she gasped "Sorry, I thought you'd left."

"No I- well Sherlock did. I wanted to ask you if maybe if you didn't have plans, we could go somewhere." Smooth, Watson. "Out," he clarified. "I was wondering if you wanted to go out- with me, I mean," he took a breath, good grief. He was too old to be this awkward. "What I mean is what are you doing tonight?"

That was certainly a surprise. She didn't know what to say at first. Her first instinct was…well…she didn't know. Nobody asked her out. Yet here was Dr. John 'Three-Continent' Watson doing that very thing. It was a baffling situation and Molly felt herself not reacting as quickly as she'd have liked. She felt her heart give a joyous leap. John Watson wanted to take her to dinner and she couldn't keep herself from smiling.
"Tonight?" she asked, hoping the tinge of excitement wasn't too obvious. No need to sound desperate. John was nodding, hands still in his pockets.

"I have tonight off, well, so far. One never knows with Sherlock. This case is solved so I know he won't be texting me endlessly."

"No, tonight's good for me," She found herself saying.

"Shall I pick you up 7-ish?"

"Yes, that will be alright."

"Good, I'll see you then," and he left before she had a chance to reply.

The rest of her day she was singing. Just before her lunch hour she received a text from John, hinting for her to wear shoes she could dance in. She gave a squeal, and then covered her mouth, glancing around the morgue.

"Sorry," she murmured to poor Mrs. Stein's remains. "He's taking me dancing, that's quite nice, and no one takes me dancing!" She tried to quell her excitement. Maybe he was just being nice, trying to thank her. Maybe he had no intentions of pursuing her romantically. It would be foolish to get her hopes up, silly, in fact. He was a friend. Friends went out. That was all there was to it. Well, if John was just a friend (she ignored the sinking feeling in her heart at that particular thought), then she could wear what she liked. She decided to clock out early and run to Harrods, just for a peek. A new dress didn't mean she fancied John Watson.

Maybe.

221b Baker Street 6:30

"Bored," Sherlock called.

"I'm sorry I can't entertain you tonight. I have plans," John said, checking his wallet for the appropriate funds for dinner. He was old-fashioned, be it first or last date, the gentleman ought to have enough to at least offer to foot the bill. (Some women took offence if he just grabbed the bill apparently)

"Yes I gathered. That Sarah woman no doubt. You know she pads her brassiere." John found himself smirking. For once the oh-so-clever World's ONLY Consulting Detective had it entirely wrong. "Judging by your grin I'd say you knew."

"Actually no, I didn't, and no, it isn't Sarah."

"Ah," Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Maxine then. The one with the whistling nose," John found himself rather enjoying this game. He was a little incensed though, for the poor woman.

"Her nose does not whistle!"

"Oh come off it, she's a bloody foghorn, nice as you are, even you have to admit that John."

"I don't have to admit anything, and you're wrong again, it's not Maxine."

Now Sherlock frowned. He knew for a fact that John had gone out with at least three women while living at 221b. Before that his dating life had been relatively boring as he'd been in the army. No time for women. John Watson was an old-romantic and didn't go for a quick jump in the sack. He liked the courting aspect. Why he'd throw himself into such a tedious activity was beyond Sherlock.

"Alice then," he said confidently. He'd only gone out twice with her and the second time John spent the better part of getting ready trying to talk himself out of it, wondering aloud why he'd asked her out again. Even with this knowledge, Sherlock was sure it must be her, even if John didn't like her. He didn't know any other women; he hadn't met anyone else. Sherlock knew his flat mate's patterns better than anyone. No change in aftershave or cologne, no new shirts or insipid whistling over breakfast. So when John grinned a know-it-all grin and replied:

"Nope," Sherlock actually sat up, affixing him with a glare. He quickly lay back down.

"Don't be stupid. Of course it's her. Unless you were lying about Maxine or Sarah, in which case it's one of them."

"No, it's not any of them," John said.

Sherlock was quiet a moment.

"Who is it?"

"Since when do you care?"

"I don't, I'm bored,"

"Well then you'll have to wait and wonder, I'm going to be late if I don't go now,"

"You're picking her up then," Sherlock said.

"Yes, that is the polite thing to do, and don't you dare text me tonight," John replied before shutting the door behind him. Sherlock sat back, pondering. He would simply have to wait and see. It'd be much easier to deduce who John's date was when he got back. He'd probably be reeking of her perfume from awkward pawing in the cab and trying to hide a lipstick smear on his collar. There'd be a ticket stub in his pocket, and probably a matchbox from the restaurant in his jacket. He didn't smoke, and his dates usually didn't either, but John was one for sentimental things. His dates were predictably the same. Theatre, dinner and then dropping her off before heading home. Sherlock shut his eyes, hands steepled as he waited, rolling facts and figures around in his head.

Molly's Flat

John waited at the door, flower box in his hand. He'd called the florist at the last minute, deciding it might be nice to get Molly something. He kept wondering why he was doing such a thing. He never picked up flowers for his other dates. He never wanted to. Something was different about Molly, he wanted to do nice things for her, he wanted to see her smile. He enjoyed the look on her face when she was completely surprised. The door opened after his second knock, and John found himself, mouth open, staring. Molly had made a run to the shops as well. The red silk complimented her figure, and he found himself looking her up and down, glad he thought to bring her flowers.

"I- I didn't know what kind of dancing- so I sort of- well anyway I hope it's alright," she fiddled with the sweetheart neckline and then smoothed the front of her dress.

"It's perfect, you look lovely," he said. "Really, turn around, lemme see," she did a little spin, her beaming smile lit up her features. "And it matches your flowers," he said, handing her the box.

"You bought me orchids?!" she gasped.

"My mum always told me when I was younger to buy the nice girls flowers, and the ones you really like orchids," John said with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, it's old-fashioned, maybe it's silly,"

"No it isn't," Molly said. "Help me put it on?" He nodded, setting the box aside. Carefully, he secured the ribbons around her wrist. Molly was admiring the flowers, there were at least six or seven orchids on the corsage, and she flushed, thinking of the expense.

"Stop that," he warned her, squeezing her hand lightly. "It wasn't a waste, and you are worth every penny," he assured her.

"Sorry," she flushed. "Nobody ever buys me flowers," she shrugged, embarrassed. "It's a lovely luxury."

"I'll always buy you flowers, if you like," he promised. She didn't know what to say, but her beaming smile was enough for John. If Molly Hooper liked flowers, he'd bloody well fill her flat with them if she wanted.

The date went beautifully. Molly wondered why she had never looked at John this way in the first place. He was comfortable, and quite unlike any other man she'd dated. He was calm and collected; he had, for lack of better words, his crap together. He had steady job, was able to laugh at himself and wasn't so knowledgeable of everything that she wanted to hit him over the head with the bread basket. He didn't try to impress her with knowing every kind of wine on the menu, or try to guess her weight (that was one date that didn't make it past drinks). Molly felt safe with him. She didn't have to worry about him only trying to get into her knickers, or him slipping something in her drink. He wouldn't make a pass at her or try and feel her up. He even offered to pay for dinner. She almost let him, if not for the beautiful orchids adorning her wrist at the moment. The restaurant he took her to featured a live band. In-between courses, he led her to the floor amid the other couples. In his arms, Molly felt herself relaxing, she was at ease.

"Sorry, was I singing?" she asked, suddenly embarrassed.

"Don't apologize, it's a good song," he laughed. "I like seeing you smile," he admitted. "I also liked seeing you in that skirt today," she flushed again and he leaned closer, his mouth close to her ear. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, in a tone Molly was quite sure meant that he was flirting.

"This is the most comfortable I've been all day." She met his gaze, the twinkling glint in her eyes matching his. The song ended and another began. Talking was easy, dinner superb, dancing was marvelous. John discovered he liked dancing, quite a bit actually, especially with Molly. By the end of the night, he held her close; hand pressed against her lower back, her arm around his neck. The restaurant was closing by the time they looked at the clock. She took out her fast-flats and he steadied her arm as she slipped out of her heels.

"I'll carry 'em," he offered. "I made you dance half the night."
"I wanted to," she said. "I'd do it again, happily. I never go dancing like this, nobody to go with."

"Would you like to go again?" he asked suddenly. She looked up from fixing the heel of her shoe, nodding shyly.
"Yes I would."

They walked slowly, her arm tucked in his, fingers linked. He supposed he could have hailed a cab. He should get a cab. But the night was so pleasant, the sky was so clear, and the air was sweet and mild. He could smell Molly's perfume, mixed with the scent of the orchids and the wine they'd shared.

"Hey, hello?"

"Sorry," he blinked, realizing she had been speaking. "What did you say?"

"Do you want to get some ice cream?" she pointed down the street to a shop. He was full, beyond full, but if he said no, it would mean the night would end. He nodded, following her into the brightly lit store to wait their turn in line.

Somewhere between her discovering his favorite ice-cream flavor (pistachio) and him her love of sprinkles (one could order a side of sprinkles?) John realized how happy he was with Molly. He knew what everyone would say, warning him not to rush into things, and he'd agree with them. Only a fool rushes into a good thing, and he promised himself to take his time with Molly. It was the least he could do, and she certainly deserved to be courted, truly courted.

"I'm having a good time," he admitted as they slowly savored their frozen treats. Molly smiled, dipping her cone into her cup of sprinkles, licking them off.

"So am I," she said, "And not just because you let me buy you ice-cream."

"I'd like to go out again sometime," he said. Molly found herself turning red to the tips of her ears. It's good for the soul, hearing someone wants to see you and they aren't related to you. A tiny voice of self-doubt crept up in her head, whispering it was probably because he felt sorry for her, but Molly found herself answering:

"I'd like that, very much."

"Sometime soon," he said. Molly felt butterflies in her stomach as he looked at her, his eyes seeming to drink her in. She couldn't speak for a moment. He wasn't deducing her or scrutinizing her. Molly knew well enough what admiration looked like; she knew what the science of physical attraction was. His pupils were dilated. She wasn't a detective, but she certainly knew what that meant.

"I'm free Saturday," she said. He smiled warmly then.

"So am I."

When John dropped her off, he saw her up to her flat, hands in his pockets, expecting to turn around and leave as soon as her door was opened. A hand on his arm stopped him, and suddenly her mouth was on his. His eyes shut automatically, and he felt the tips of his ears burning.

"Sorry," she murmured, backing into her door, "I- uh- first dates are always strange and I never know if it's right or not but I-" she was silenced by John kissing her back, a little bolder this time. She would never have thought being kissed by John Watson could ever leave her feeling so deliciously wonderful. When at last they pulled apart, he looked at her through dazed, half-lidded eyes, smiling unabashedly at her. "Right," she fumbled with the door knob "I'll uh- I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," he said, grinning now. She tripped into her apartment,

"Goodnight, thank you-" and the door cut her off.

"Goodnight," he replied. He leaned his back against her door, sighing happily. The door opened and he almost toppled back.
"John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she tugged him closer, kissing him once more.

"Thank you," he answered cheekily when they parted. The door shut again and he was about to turn toward the walkway when he realized he still held her shoes. He knocked on her door and it opened quickly, Molly, still flushed, appeared again. He held up her shoes. "You uh- I carried them."

"Oh."

"And I meant it, Saturday, barring a case with Sherlock." Her eyes twinkled, shoes in hand. Another kiss and she backed herself into her apartment, whispering goodnight to him, remembering she had neighbors. He waited for the locks to click in place before turning to leave. He could hear her singing one of the songs they'd danced to that evening, her voice soft:

"-I must have done something good."

He took a deep breath. The giddy feeling wouldn't go away and he gave a triumphant shout, jumping off the stoop to land flat on his feet. He strode down the sidewalk, a spring in his step. As he passed by a CCTV, he saluted it. The camera swiveled to watch him as he continued down the sidewalk, catching the good doctor as he took another leap, clicking his heels before breaking into a run, flagging down a cab.