Spoilers: Up to 2x01 definitely (2x03 vaguely referenced).
A/N: A oneshot I wrote some time ago, unbetaed. I'm posting now because it's finally the right sort of time for this fic. Happy holidays. :)
When she visits, at John's request, to dispose of old forgotten about experimentally used human waste she is left in the living room by herself whilst he makes them both tea. An endeavour she thinks might be preferable to forgo considering why she's here and what the milk shares a fridge with. But she's too polite to refuse the beverage and besides, it is a little chilly with the window necessarily opened to air the place.
Nothing much appears to have changed since she last visited, the room has the same character minus the holiday decorations. The untidy piles have emigrated and duplicated across the surfaces, but over all it is the same. Her unclouded mind takes in more detail this time though, now that she is neither nervous around Sherlock (he's out, John's planned it to be so, much easier he said) or making up for it with inebriation.
She walks over to the bookcase, running her fingertips across the spines of the books, admiring the mix of medical texts and philosophy volumes. Her eyes wander and like a magpie she catches a glint of silver reflected, gravitating toward it.
The present she gave him last year sits on the mantelpiece, almost entirely out of view behind a thick wad of partially opened mail with a post-it note marked "Fanmail". Could be a coincidence, she reflects, or it could be a categorisation. She takes the hint.
Much later in the year Molly buys Sherlock a present. To not do so would arouse suspicion, and furthermore, be impolite in Mrs Hudson's eyes if she does get invited to Baker Street again. She doubts the lady would miss an opportunity for a gathering, joyful tidings are probably all the more appreciated after the year they've all had.
Yes, she buys Sherlock a present. She buys him chocolate liqueurs, sickly sweet, filled with spirits. A not uncommon present, frequently on special offer. A present she is sure he would never eat and sends the message she is not spending time, effort nor much money on him. Not anymore. Molly wraps it with roughly the same care as all the others. He'll notice the change because when has Sherlock not noticed those little details. She can never say no to him, not literally, so she gives up speaking with words this Christmas.
Molly hands him a gift with a slightly anxious forced smile and yet he spies a glimmer of strength hidden in her expression. Is she hoping it will please him? That he will be overcome with her care?
Gifts are tedious, Sherlock thinks, as he forces a tight smile in return and makes short work of her less than careful wrapping. When he wants anything he buys it. Or sends John to, more precisely. He hates shopping, mingling with people, and whilst infinitely more convenient to order the exact specimens online, he hates waiting around a minimum whole day for post.
The paper is ripped off, thrown to the side, and he is staring at a box of fruit flavoured vodka liqueurs. Sherlock is appalled. Even with her inferior observation skills, in the years she's been around him she should know him well enough to know he doesn't often eat on a case, which is a sufficiently large amount of time, doesn't eat needlessly unlike Mycroft, and when he does he would not consume inefficiently intoxicating treats, much less things for example cherry flavoured. The infusion of fruit sugars largely bars any value the vodka could have if extracted. Not to mention milk chocolate has sparse value in affecting serotonin levels, she could have at least bought dark chocolate. Utterly useless.
"Hmm," is the most neutral and truthful reply he can manage at that precise moment. His pause for thought and lack of proper reaction either way appears to attract attention though.
"Sherlock, something wrong?"
It's Mrs Hudson asking. John would never waste his breath asking something so obvious. Sherlock doesn't look towards her or answer her though. He shifts his stare from the incongruous item to his erstwhile friend. Then he understands. He spots the flicker of her gaze to the fireplace, to where her last present rests and the badly concealed glee at his reaction. Molly knows he hates it, knew all the while she handed over the piddling amount of cash in Boots, bought as part of a 3 for 2 where he was supposedly sidelined. She had relished her revenge as she crumpled the corners and bit off ragged snatches of Sellotape, haphazardly firming the joins.
"Just surprised Mrs Hudson, but isn't that what it's all about. Getting what you didn't ask for, what you'd never dare ask for."
He doesn't break his gaze with Molly for a second as he gracefully pulls the tab and shimmy's off the plastic wrapping, wanting to watch her reaction. He pops open the lid and stuff a whole chocolate in, smiling around the crunch of the brittle shell and making use of his analysis of the situation to make it seem he's being an entirely different kind of thoughtful.
Molly watches it all, watches him with an unusual eagle eyed stare. She hasn't had any of her mulled wine. Odd. She's not usually able to keep eye contact without a blush, but then the nature of the game is different this evening. She thinks herself subconsciously the predator, the manipulator and he the pawn this time. She feels in control.
"How are they?" she asks innocently, not betraying her surprise, that he's actually eating the chocolates, to anyone else there.
"Most..." he swallows and her gaze follows the line of the food sliding down his throat. Did she think he'd feign it and spit it out when she's not looking? He's not the least bit squeamish, he'll have to remind her that one day and test if she has as strong a stomach as he.
"...novel," he finished after his gulp.
She turns away and takes a modest sip of her wine in an effort to appear relaxed, nonchalant. An action that is given away when she does the same 10 seconds later, and 5 again after that. Making up in frequency that which she does not want to reveal in with a single noticeable dose.
Sherlock despises spirits, he'll have his ethanol in his lab, please, and nowhere near his digestive tracts. Spirit, in people however, in reaction to him especially, and not merely in swear words, he does like to see. It makes life much more entertaining. Molly has unknowingly become that less dull in his estimation.
"Want one?" he holds the box to his side, ready for inspection and her delectation. He assumes she likes these, the old 'buying what you want as a gift for an unfortunate other' trick he recognises from his own family interactions.
She says no. He knows she means yes by the lingering look on the curves of the ovals. He asks again, turning on the charm and is heartily surprised this is one aspect she can resist on this occasion. Showing spine.
Much much less dull, Molly. Do keep this up, he thinks. He steals a small sip from her wine glass placed nearby, leaning across her as he does so, and enjoys he brief startled part of her lips at his actions until she turns it into a pleasant cheery fawning smile like she had often tended to sport once upon a time.
"Oh sorry, I thought that was mine," he says apologetically as he turns the glass to view the faint lipstick mark evident on the other side of it, before engaging in the same move in reverse to replace it back on the side table. This time she is prepared with a steely expression as he invades her personal space, giving no reaction.
He swaggers away smirking lightly and is four steps away before he hears her particularly timed comment.
"You weren't drinking, Sherlock."
He can forsee trips to St. Bart's being vastly more interesting in future.