A/N: This was written back in December for a secret santa exchange on tumblr. I'm only belatedly putting it here. You can find me on tumblr (with authorly rambles, commentary, and drabbles) at paradigmflaws.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The dimness of dusk did nothing to obscure his sight and it seemed that his homeless network's intelligence hadn't failed him yet. Shouldering his way through the crowd, the Consulting Detective paused at the intersection of dry ground and ice.

For a moment, the man sneered. Artificial ice, back-lit in an attempt to evoke some maudlin sentiment. Romance.

Sherlock scoffed.

Any intelligent creature could have seen through the manipulations without so much as a sideways glance. Of course, sentiment had always been a dangerous weakness. It was one that people were all too comfortable exploiting.

It was rarely an egregious thing, not until it transgressed on his life.

And of course, it had done so on Christmas Eve.

Molly Hooper had not been in the lab at Bart's. In fact, she had been none of the places she was meant to be. She wasn't in her flat (he had checked. Both rooms, even, though it was clear from a cursory glance that the entire place was empty,) and nor was she at the pub she often frequented with her friends.

A tip from his homeless network had let him…here. Here. The physical location was a paltry thing, foolishly simple to recite (even the latitude and longitude), the street directions so straightforward on the overall map of London that anyone would have known if they had simply observed. There were more pressing things to deduce.

'Silly little brother. You haven't figured it out yet?'

Swatting away the haunting taunt of Mycroft from his memories, Sherlock remained still for only a moment longer.

Molly Hooper. Red lipstick matched her scarf (which was new, he observed casually – spent more than she should have on it, it washed her out,) and her hair was carefully curled although the effect was lost in the ponytail and the wind. Molly's cheeks were blushed with color – cold? No. Too straightforward. Arousal? Sherlock's jaw tightened. Unacceptable. Pleasure, then. Flattery.

Still unacceptable, but it was a marginally less pressing issue to deal with. Instead of having Mycroft construct some facsimile of a war to wreck everyone's evening (Vatican Cameo indeed,) he would simply have to deal with the nuisance himself.

Popping his collar up and ruffling a gloved hand through his hair for the briefest of moments, Sherlock skirted the edge of the ice rink. Along the way, he casually slipped past a man of his approximate shoe size and liberated his skates. From another, an unfortunate (plaid! Plaid, of all abominations!) hat. By the time he had made it a quarter of the way around the rink, he was appropriately kitted out. Gingerly toeing out of his own shoes (catching the eye of one of his familiars, he knew they at least wouldn't wander inappropriately… Damn it, Molly Hooper!) the skates were stepped into and laced up with barely a minute's passing.

All the while, Sherlock's gaze barely left the familiar silhouette of his pathologist. Temper bit and clawed when it was obscured by the masculine figure she was… with. In the physical proximity, Sherlock assured himself – it would be nothing more than that. There would be no more of such nonsensically whimsical things such as hand holding with strange men. Preposterous. Didn't she realize the man was married? With children, no less? And a dog. It was simply unacceptable. A dog would never be tolerated by Molly Hooper's feline. She simply had to be informed of her egregious errors.

It was the work of a second. A step there, a glide here, and a nudge there – and the small child in front of the man that his pathologist was skating with so merrily (hand in hand, Sherlock noted in contempt) was forced into an abrupt stop. The sudden cessation of movement culminated with the man's cheek on the ice as Sherlock's skate, ah, helpfully got tangled up in his. Maintaining his own footing, the Consulting Detective peered down at the man who sprawled so inelegantly on the rink.

He had nearly taken Molly with him, Sherlock noted with indignation. Only his own arm wrapped around his pathologist's shoulders had kept her from meeting the same ungainly ending. Foolish man, to have nearly taken Molly with him to his own unfortunate ends! Simply unacceptable. It was a travesty.

"Beggin' your pardon, sirrah," Sherlock chorused as he affected an accent distinctly unlike his normal frame of speech.

It did nothing to slow Molly's recognition of him. He could feel her grow tense underneath his arm. Ah, well – so long as she didn't make a comment… and yet, there she went to. He squeezed her lightly, bringing her closer against his belstaff.

What had been speech garbled and tapered off from Molly's end. It did nothing to convince her, ah, suitor to remain in silence.

"As damn well you ought!" He was indignant, attempting to rise. Without so much as a hand offered, his efforts were met with more hilarity than any form of success. "I ought to have your head for that, you bastard!"

Sherlock's brow raised as he glanced down to Molly. Her pleased flush was fading quickly.

"He said he was sorry," she volunteered quietly.

"The hell he did!"

It was clear that there was going to be a scene. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dramatics are so tedious," he informed the man. "If you're going to try to affect the air of the injured party, it would help if you weren't trying to bunk out on the wife. And children. All two – no, sorry, three – of them. And the dog."

For a moment, it seemed that the atmosphere around them was filled with nothing but oppressive silence. Molly had brought herself more closely against his side, Sherlock noted (with no dearth of smug self satisfaction for her own instincts) as the man finally managed to rise to his feet. Her eyes were tear-bright, though, and that simply wouldn't do.

"Now see here," the man began to bluster.

"Just go, Will." Molly sounded tired. Fatigued.

Sherlock found it completely unacceptable. Removing the man (his name continued to be irrelevant and had been discarded almost immediately) from his attention, the detective shifted to see Molly at arm's length.

"Molly, really, you mustn't cry over it. Frankly, he's hardly even an aberration on the radar, what, with Moriarty-"

The tears spilled over onto her cheeks. Sherlock's heart pounded faster as he brought his hand up to rest on her shoulder – at least, he would have until she knocked it away. She pulled back, turning with an unsurprising agility on her skates.

"Piss off, Sherlock."

For a moment, he remained completely still. Thunderstruck. "What?!" "Easy. Leave me alone, Sherlock."

He pushed off the ice to catch up. "No! Angry, yes. Be angry, Molly, be angry at him! Why are you angry at me? It's illogical when a simple deduction could have told you that –"

Molly cut him off. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. Haven't you deduced enough tonight?"

Clearly not. "You simply mustn't go on first dates again, Molly Hooper. If not for your own wellbeing (and it very well would be), but for the safety and security of Queen and country, if nothing else! Your type is clearly inappropriate."

Molly had reached the edge of the ice rink and had made to climb back to solid ground. Sherlock reached out and took her hand, tugging her back onto the ice. "No, no. Molly, wait!" He paused, wrestling with the words as he pulled them back further onto the ice. "Contrary to your belief, I don't intend to leave you to spend the rest of your evening alone with mulled wine-"

"Christ. So now I'm an alcoholic?"

"..Bit not good. Sorry, yes, but – it's beside the point! First dates are tedious. Nonsensical. John is evidence enough, clearly. Trying to test out your compatibility on completely ridiculous partners that never end up staying in your life, afterwards?"

He had drawn them all the way back to the less crowded center of the rink. Whilst the rest of the nighttime skaters had seen fit to skate lazy laps (or ungainly ones in the case of the child whose blade was loose and likely to come away from the boot soon, Sherlock noted absently) he and Molly were the only two in the center. It meant that he could nudge her around, bring his hands back down to her shoulders and keep her at arms' reach as he peered down at her.

"What are you even saying, Sherlock? Just – just let me go home. I'm tired. I want to go home. Since I'm completely incapable of first dates and of picking suitable men, I might as well spend the rest of my hols being comfortable and not… dealing with how awful I am."

Sherlock's brain stuttered for a moment. "No!" A breath. "No, Molly. That's not what you should do at all. You simply shouldn't have any more first dates."

Her uncomprehending gaze evoked a sound of frustration from the detective. Clearly he'd have to spell it out further.

"We've spent time together," Sherlock began. "Gone to dinner – even if you've turned me down before. Coffee –"

"Sherlock, my getting you coffee does not count as a date."

She was doing her damndest to spike his guns, he noted. It was incredibly vexing. The logic was sound! She simply had to acknowledge the rationale that was right in front of her. If she would only deduce – oh.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock began, his voice dropped to its lowest pitch, "I believe you're laboring under a misconception. You believe I eschew sentiment. Find it worthless." He tugged her closer. On skates, she made no effort of resistance and glided nearer.

"You're wrong."

He went to stop her forward movement with his own skate.

And the entire thing went completely to bits. Watching in horror as Molly wobbled on her skates, as his skate tangled with hers, and as she fell, Sherlock reached forward to wrap an arm around her waist. Twisting slightly and throwing his own center of balance to hell, he grunted as his shoulder hit the ice. The belstaff offered little by way of cushion.

But he was capable of cushioning Molly's fall.

She sprawled over his chest, blinking down at him.

"According to my sources that should have gone much better than it did," Sherlock began nervously.

Molly laughed. Delightedly.

Reaching down, she carded her gloved fingers through his hair for a moment. "You look quite fetching with snow in your hair, Sherlock," she murmured before color flooded to her cheeks. "I mean, ah, I should –"

And she went to try to rise, by planting an elbow in his shoulder. Sherlock grunted slightly before sitting up, cradling Molly even closer.

"Kiss me."

Carefully reaching up to cradle the back of her head with his palm, Sherlock's eyes locked onto Molly's. "Kiss me, Molly Hooper. To commemorate our second official date."

And Molly Hooper did, all too happy to comply.

Years later, she still couldn't quite tell her children what her first date (first first?) with their father was. But it didn't matter. She would never forget the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting on an ice rink, with snow in his hair.