A/N: I was going to have a little sleep after a hectic work week, but no, Sherlolly beckoned and it beckoned hard. I wrote it to this fantastic song by Banks called 'Brain'. I wanted a darker, more mature twist to their dynamic, hence. x (I have a collage of Molly's outfit on my tumblr post for this one-shot, if you're interested.)

outré*
*(to mean unusual and typically rather shocking)

There she was.

He could see the glimmer of her nails that were painted a shimmery black as she huddled in her coat, under the miserably grey London drizzle. It was late, far too late to have called her. However, it was New Year's Eve. Or it at least it was New Year's Eve about four minutes ago.

The night was getting dreadfully cold. Sherlock could tell her dress did not afford much warmth underneath that coat. Still, she looked absolutely dazzling. Clearly the party had been wonderful. Sherlock could see the slight pink on her cheeks from the five, no, six glasses of champagne she had enjoyed. Her eyeliner had darkened a little more around the eyes as it wore itself out from the evening. She had refreshed her lipstick though. It was a ravishing shade of burgundy, her lips now delectable as a glass of wine.

He very much wanted to walk over to her. After all, why call her out if he did not want to see her? Strangely, he had half hoped she would ignore his call, or refuse to meet him. Nevertheless, the woman who never once failed him, proved unchanging as she stood there on the pavement, her eyes darting around, searching for him.

It must have been about ten minutes that he spent hesitating, waiting in the shadows. He carefully observed her, watching the sharp breaths she took because of the cold. He could see the quiver in her lips and the way her legs would fidget to stay warm. The more he looked at her, the more he realised he had nothing to say to her. He could feel a strange flood in the cavity that contained his heart. It was a warm flood of electricity. It sent nervous pulses through him, flashes of hot and cold across his skin.

The rain was really beginning to pour now. The little shopwindow awning that Molly stood under, insufficient as it was before, was definitely useless now in keeping her from the rain. Sherlock bit the inside of his lower lip as he tried to make himself decide.

Suddenly, a flash caught his eye. In the dark, and between lashes of rain, Sherlock squinted at Molly to see what that flash had been. To his surprise, she had lit a cigarette. He could see a frown knitted on her brows as she hastily puffed it, as though it would keep her warm somehow. The detective smirked. He had a conversation opener now.

"I didn't know you smoked," he said, finally appearing before her. He did not mind the rain. Also, he had a reliably good coat. He ushered her a little further back against the window, underneath the awning. With his back to the rain, he stood in a way that helped shield her from the splashing rain around them.

Molly laughed at his comment, tossing the now stumpy cigarette to the ground before lighting another one. Sherlock's eyes widened as he processed this new information. She smoked like an expert, smoothly taking in the drag before a measured exhale, shaping the smoke to flow out like a stream. How had he never picked out her smoking before? It was a little shocking, but oddly, it endeared her a little more to him. Probably because it seemed like they shared more in common than he thought.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice strained. Waiting in this icy rain had done nothing for her mood that had plummeted within moments of Sherlock calling her. "I was having a good time, finally. Best time I've had in…ages." She drew another long breath from the cigarette, politely exhaling away from his face that appeared in front of her.

"Why did you call me?" she asked, staring hard at him, "You never call. You always…prefer to text." She chuckled softly to herself as she stubbed the second cigarette out with the sharp end of her heel.
"Well, why did you pick up?" he asked in return. He was being a prick with that response, and he knew it.
"It sounded urgent," she said with a shrug, "You seemed distressed, and you wanted to see me. I don't want to live with any kind of guilt if something happened to you all because I ignored a call."
"That's very kind of you," he said quietly.
"It is, isn't it?" she said, smirking. "I'm too kind to you, Sherlock. And you know it." She jabbed him gently in the chest, resisting the urge to rest her hands on his coat.

The detective smiled. It was as though the champagne and the little hit of nicotine had unleashed the real Molly inside, the steely spirit that she hid beneath warm smiles and awkward jokes.

"This rain is awful," Molly said, her lip curling in displeasure, "Tell me what you want, so I can get out of here."

Sherlock shifted his feet about and exhaled slowly. He needed to buy time to disguise the fact that he had no idea why he had pried her out of her night of revelry and intoxication to freeze out here on the streets of London after midnight. He could feel her stare at him, waiting, while he stared at his own shoes and the glistening drops of rain that danced around them. There were feelings he could feel, intentions he wanted to make, but they could not be articulated. Tried as he might, the words never formed, and his lips remained sealed. With a sigh of frustration, he decided to be blunt.

"I don't know, Molly," he said with a casual shrug. "I genuinely don't know."

Molly rolled her eyes and looked away from him. The anger in her eyes was apparent as she avoided his gaze, her jaw tightly clenched.

"If I knew you smoked, I'd have brought my own and we could have smoked together," he remarked, smirking at her.

That made her laugh, but it also maddened her even more than before. All his shenanigans, contrasted with the depth of emotion she felt for him, constantly made her feel like she had been duped. Tonight had been another classic example. Sherlock Holmes had duped her. Duped her of her emotion, duped her of the foolish affection she held for him that she could never quite extinguish.

"I left a wonderful New Year's Eve party, and a rather handsome new colleague, to come answer an urgent call to meet you…to have you tell me you don't know why you asked me to meet you? Is that what you're saying, Sherlock? Tell me I heard you wrongly…" she exclaimed, glaring fiercely at him.
"No, Molly, you didn't hear wrongly," he muttered, "You're…absolutely right."
"Hah…again…" she said, throwing her hands up, "I've fallen for it again."
"Fallen for what?" he asked, frowning slightly.
"For your stupid whims." she muttered fiercely, reaching for another cigarette.

Sherlock reached out to grab her wrist, stopping her from reaching into her pocket.

"Let go," she mumbled, irritated.
"Smoking is a pleasant little habit, good for brainwork." he said, "Chain smoking on the other hand…"

Molly interrupted him by angrily yanking her wrist from his hand to reach deep into her coat pocket where she found her box of cigarettes and her lighter. She then flung both objects violently and vehemently at him, nearly hitting him in the face. Both objects fell with a clatter on the wet ground.

"Fuck. You. Sherlock Holmes…" she whispered, enraged.

The expression shocked him. He did live with John Watson and was reasonably accustomed to such expressions, but it shocked him to hear it from Molly. Still, if she thought a bit of profanity was going to damage him, she was wrong.

"If you would, I'd give it a go." he replied, staring disconcertingly at her.

His response startled her. Was he attempting to be humorous? At a time like this? Molly wanted to shoot him. She wanted to see his brain in a bowl and those annoying, beautiful eyes floating in a glass jar.

"Bye, Sherlock," she said, moving past him as she attempted to dash across the street in the rain.

The detective grabbed her before she could even take two steps, and held her back in the shelter they were under.

"I know this has been an unusual evening, Molly," he whispered to her. She remained by his side, unable to move because of the way he held her. She kept her eyes on the pelting rain that covered the streets before her.

"If you must know why I called you…" he said, pulling her back such that she faced him once more, "It's because I wanted to see you."

He allowed himself a small smile, a small part of him hoping her eyes would soften a little and return his gaze. To his relief, she looked up at him before turning away, chuckled softly to herself. He could catch the little bit of her spark that had returned to her eyes.

"You're being weird tonight." she laughed, shaking her head, "I'm going to go now…"
"Molly, wait…" he said, stopping her again.
"Fuck you, Sherlock!" she yelled, swiping his hand away. He grabbed that errant hand of hers and yanked her towards him.
"I told you," he whispered, grinning at her, "If you would, I'd give it a go."
"Stop it," she exclaimed, sounding like she was both laughing and on the verge of tears, "You're being completely out of character tonight…"
"I'm the one that's out of character?" he argued, "The woman who wants me off drugs is a bloody chain smoker!"

He let go of her hand as she stared back at him, stunned.

"It's only out of character because you never expected it," she muttered quietly, "Some detective you are…"
"Fine. The swearing then." he said, keeping his stance.
"Everyone swears! It is not out of character," Molly remarked, waving her arms in exasperation.
"You never swear…"
"And you never flirt…"

They stopped their rants suddenly, realising their gazes had finally met and neither could avert their own.

"Well, this has been a surprising evening," he said, smirking at Molly. He studied her lips, realising the colour burgundy had suddenly become unusually attractive. Molly returned his smirk with a smile of her own. The glint in her eyes betrayed the fact that she was no longer angry and, as usual, had just given in, or given up.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," she said, tip-toeing to kiss him lightly on the cheek, trying her best not to leave a lipstick mark.
"Where are you going?" he asked, as Molly began to walk off.
"Out of the rain," she answered, not bothering to turn around.
"But—"
"But what?" she stopped and turned suddenly, "You said you wanted to see me. And you have. So now, I leave." She did a little curtsey, gave him a cursory smile and resumed her walk.

The rain had returned to being a gentle drizzle, which meant Sherlock could see Molly a lot clearer now as she crossed the street. As he observed her figure dash across all wrapped in her little black trench coat, he laughed to himself at the turn of their dynamic. She wielded more power over him than she realised.

"I've one more question," he shouted across the empty street. Molly had made it across now and stopped to face him. It was a strange sight, the two of them standing across from each other with a breadth of dark road separating them, the lamp-posts their only spectators.

"What?" she yelled back, refusing to go any nearer him .
"Would you?" he asked, unable to contain his amusement.
"Would I what?" she exclaimed, tilting her head in annoyance.
"I said I would, if you'd give it a go…" he repeated, sauntering towards her, "So, would you?"

She watched his expression, brazen and haughty, as was the Sherlock she knew. However, this particular forwardness came from a part of him she had never been acquainted with.

"You never flirt…" she murmured, as he stood right in front of her.

He smiled as he leaned forward, returning the kiss on her cheek as she had kissed him earlier.

"Well, as you know, Molly Hooper," he remarked, his fingers gently touching the corner of her burgundy-tinted mouth, "It is a new year…"
"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered, a small smile escaping her.

"And a Happy New Year to you too, Molly Hooper," he answered, bowing his head to kiss that most delicious-looking mouth.