Sherlock recalled exactly one previous occasion of being intoxicated while otherwise existing as what would be a fully functioning adult human being (although his landlady might disagree), and that occasion was John Watson's bachelor party. The second was currently occurring at of all places, a christening. Not as one might have expected, the christening of little Charlotte Watson, who was currently being charming and blonde in her mother's arms, but that of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's first grandchild.
Grandchild. Ridiculous.
Sherlock supposed that mathematically, this wasn't all that absurd. Lestrade had married fairly young, and that same marriage had distinctively gone south when his nest had emptied several years ago. His daughter had apparently fallen in love with a pleasant young man who had some job related to the mobile phone industry. They had opted to reproduce…possibly earlier than planned but if that was the case both halves of the pair appeared quite game for the challenge. And apparently no one was more game than Lestrade, who carried his tiny granddaughter around, cheerily declaring how adorable and clever she obviously was. From what Sherlock could tell, her most impressive accomplishment was fitting her entire fist into her mouth. He supposed she was, objectively speaking, cute. Far more so now that she had exited the squashed potato phase that seemed to characterize the earlier pictures on Lestrade's phone.
No, Sherlock had no genuine argument with Lestrade's pride in his family, or indeed, the new parents' happiness. Even if Lestrade's son-in-law had blathered something about how Sherlock should totally get one of his own because they were just life-changing. However, little Poppy represented something very unpleasant to Sherlock's mind, namely the potential for time to march on remorselessly with no thought for his career. Sherlock was married to his work, and this particular spouse risked shabbiness without the right connections. Lestrade was the best sort of connection, local, happy to have Sherlock's input and more or less accustomed to…Sherlock's self. Now Lestrade would start thinking about how long he actually wanted to be chasing criminals in the streets, especially with a baby with dimples and twinkles to cuddle on the weekend. Lestrade might even start saying that nasty, unpleasant "R word".
"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, Greg doesn't have to retire for nearly fifteen years. Just worry about behaving yourself so you don't drive him out early."
As Molly Hooper plopped down to the bedroom floor beside him, it occurred to Sherlock that he might have said that last bit out loud. She wore a floral dress in a massive red hibiscus print that threatened to give him a headache, and before he could say so she reached over and snatched the bottle of scotch out of his hand as she rested her head against the footboard beside him. Molly swigged an impressive gulp, wrinkling her nose as she swallowed.
"What are you doing in here?" Sherlock asked, grabbing the bottle back.
"Minding you," Molly said, the side of her mouth curling up in a smile. "Or at least it was subtly hinted to me that I should do that."
"Mary," Sherlock grumbled, and attempted to sink further into his jacket. "Apparently she and John also made the RSVP for me."
"You were going to come anyway," Molly replied as she crossed her ankles in front of her. "You said so in the lab the other day."
"They rousted me out of my bed, Molly. And made me leave the house without tea. I just finished a case yesterday. I should be quite contentedly passed out in my bed as we speak."
"Pssh. It's mid-afternoon. You'd be up and texting me about spare tendons or something at the least."
"I had to wedge myself into the back next to Charlotte's car seat."
"Oh? Should have called shotgun," Molly teased.
"Hmph. And when did that happen? When did I become the sort of person who gets invited to christenings? And who actually attends them?" Sherlock took another swig of scotch. "I don't even like children. Charlotte excepted of course, but then she is quite… exceptional."
Molly raised an eyebrow. "She can't even hold the drool in her mouth yet."
"She's teething." He smiled as Molly wrapped her fingers around the bottle and tried to tug it out of his hand.
"You really are on impressively good behavior though," she said. Sherlock scanned her face, looking for any indication of sarcasm or humor and finding none. He tilted his head, unable to grasp what was "good" about their current state.
"I'm hiding in a bedroom with a bottle of scotch during a christening. On what planet is that good?"
Molly shrugged. "I'm here now. Still counts as socializing then. Besides, there are two people in their barely into their mid-20s with a baby in there plus all of their friends and family including Lestrade's ex-wife and you've managed not to alienate a single person with a deduction."
Surprised at her logic, Sherlock let her have the bottle. He stared at his empty hands. "When you put it like that, it does seem like a remarkable feat."
"You do have a gift for doing extraordinary things," Molly said, and again with a glance he sought the joke in her expression but couldn't find it. Sherlock let his head loll against the footboard in her direction, and found himself trying to blink himself into full understanding of just why the room suddenly felt a bit different. That wasn't working, unfortunately – there was a reason he generally didn't favor drink – so he opted to investigate a different question.
"Why are you hiding in here?" He finally asked. "Shouldn't you be fussing over little Poppy?"
"Oh," Molly said softly. An unfamiliar emotion, not quite sadness but perhaps its close cousin, flickered across her face. Sherlock inched just a little closer to her until they were nearly hip to hip, although he didn't know why. Whatever she was going to say, it called for being near to her.
"I just – needed a break." She sighed softly, her exhalation causing her collarbones to sink. "They are so young, Sherlock. And I just think, sometimes – shouldn't I know by now if that's what I want? I thought I did, but if that was true then I would have married Tom and I didn't. But then I think that when I was little, I thought that would be part of my life…and I know you don't care about any of this. Shouldn't you have told me to be quiet by now?" She nudged his shoulder playfully, but Sherlock felt stuck, his mind caught up in the whirl of Molly's internal world.
"Would it make you happy?" Sherlock asked, unsure why he was hesitant to hear the answer.
"I don't know. I thought – I thought it would." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "The rest of my life is a long time, though. I didn't want to get it wrong, and I wasn't sure that I had it right."
The worst thing about alcohol (beyond the hangovers and other delightful aftereffects) was that Sherlock found himself unable to focus on facts, and instead found himself helplessly swept away by waves of pathos. The fragments of her being that he would have boiled down to a few words - ambivalent about children, left her fiancé - had life and vibrancy as they spilled from her own lips. More than those facts, though, was the mingling of her sense of loss for a life she wasn't sure she wanted. Caught up in her confusion over a sense of loss for a life she wasn't sure she wanted, Sherlock found himself almost twitching with the urge to fix it, to say something that would sweep those thoughts from her mind, bring clarity to her confusion.
"I knew Mary was special, different from other women John saw, because it took surprisingly little time to think of them as a pair. Not just John. And Mary." He gestured, upturning each hand on his thighs. "But John-and-Mary, a pair that had a different value from each of them on their own." He added, "You and Tom – that transition never seemed to occur. You were always Molly. And Tom. More separate than together." He blinked, suddenly aware again that he was really quite drunk.
"I suppose we were," Molly said quietly, and shook her head slightly. "We should get back. Before someone comes looking for us." If her smile was just a little too forced, a bit too brave, only Sherlock Holmes would have noticed.
Sherlock forced his breath into a normal rhythm as the urge shifted from saying to doing and coalesced into a defined thought. He wanted to kiss her. To be fair, he couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to kiss her at that moment, be it on her soft cheek, the coppery hair at the crown of her head, or her smiling mouth, but he was unaccustomed to being a person who desired such things. Certainly he knew what it was like, to feel the velvety skin just at the edge of her hairline beneath his lips and to be tempted to linger just a little too long there. Molly might not even mind, but that wasn't quite where his attention had drifted, was it? No, it was to her lips, curving against the edge of the bottle as she seemed to contemplate one last sip.
That sounded like a brilliant strategy, though – he could kiss her cheek, determine if she seemed receptive to anything else. He only had to cross the breach of a few inches between them, which was hardly impossible. Just a few inches. That he needed to breach shortly, before she attempted to figure out why on earth he'd been frozen in place for two bloody minutes, for fuck's sake.
"Oh honestly! I thought I was done with this when my kids moved out." Sherlock blinked up at Lestrade glaring down at the two of them, and did his very best to look sheepish. He guessed that he succeeded, in light of Lestrade sighing and pointing towards the door and the party. However, any attempt at feigning sobriety failed miserably when Sherlock walked into the door jamb, to Molly's utter delight.
Lestrade sighed again. "Sherlock, I know you ignored all the food but it's in the kitchen. Go have a sandwich or three, please." Sherlock started to object – that coronation chicken salad was potentially dodgy – but Lestrade raised his eyebrows and Sherlock felt oddly compelled to obey.
He followed Molly into the kitchen, his gaze sliding along her profile from her dark lashes to her pert nose to her lips, slightly pursed as she sized up her options on the buffet. If he were her…paramour (there really wasn't a not-appalling term for that, was there?) he would have been tempted to slip an arm around her waist from behind and lean in to nuzzle the graceful curve of her neck. As is he wondered what it would be like to just brush his thumb along the back zipper of her dress, whether the crisp cotton would be cool or warmed by her skin. His fingers twitched, and Sherlock grabbed a plate to prevent further disaster.
Right. Bread and ham, far safer line of thinking. "Skip that," he blurted, as Molly's hand hovered over the suspect chicken. She smirked, but grabbed a spoonful of curried rice instead.
"Hurry up and eat before John catches you," Molly said sternly, "And you have to buy Greg a new bottle of scotch."
Sherlock paused mid-sandwich construction. "Why do I have to buy it? You had your share."
Molly raised an eyebrow. "You had a lot more. And you're far more annoying than I am. He thinks I'm cute."
"He thinks more than that," Sherlock muttered, and finally managed to get the bread onto his ham sandwich, then helped himself to cole slaw and pasta salad. Molly ignored his comment and finished making up her plate and slipped out of the kitchen, a gentle smile still glowing on her face. Sherlock thought he would follow when Lestrade abruptly appeared again, arms folded across his chest.
"Whatever you were thinking about back there," Lestrade said, eyebrows raised. "Bad idea."
"I know. For Molly's sake," Sherlock said quickly (which sounded like an admission of wrongdoing that he had no intention of making), but Lestrade shook his head.
"For your sake, you git. Don't think I don't know what the level in that scotch bottle was before you snatched it." Lestrade poured a plastic cup of water and handed it to him. "Here, drink up."
Sherlock swallowed, looking at the cup and back to Lestrade. "I suppose my thinking may have been somewhat - impaired."
"I know," Lestrade's eyes twinkled. "If I thought you were unimpaired I would have just closed the door and left you two to work it out."
"Oh," Sherlock said, furrowing his brow. He narrowed his eyes. "And then you would have told John and Mary."
"Course I would. Just because I'm nice doesn't mean I don't get to have fun." Lestrade handed him the water. "Eat your lunch. And don't think about skipping out until you've sobered up because if you leave now, you'll make Molly worry." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but realized that was entirely accurate. Molly would worry, and Molly would be cross with him, and he honestly loathed the thought of making her unhappy again. He could add that to the list of ridiculous things he had somehow been roped into over the past few years.
"You know, if you could be this precise at crime scenes it would be infinitely helpful." He glanced at Lestrade, a wicked smile suddenly appearing on his features. "Speaking of work, how is Sally these days? How does she feel about being – well I don't know the proper term for a step-grandmother."
Lestrade glared. "I'm sure she'll be called Sally, if it comes to it. And don't you say a bloody word about it."
"Put in for a promotion, has she? I suppose that's not awful, she's far less of an idiot than most at the Yard." Sherlock blinked, the alcohol finally doing him an actual service. "And the reason you've been happy for a while now. Even when you were worried about Ellie's blood pressure."
"Yes. Lovely. Don't say any of that to her face, there are children present. Now stop being a wanker, go out there and pretend you care about babies who aren't Charlotte and think christenings are anything other than a ridiculous waste of time." Lestrade clapped him on the back and steered him back into the sitting room, where Molly scooted over to let him sit beside her. The room was slightly too warm (and far too many people were eating that chicken salad) but it had almost stopped spinning. His goddaughter was smiling, neither John nor Mary had picked up how tipsy he was just yet, and Molly's voluminous skirt was threatening to overtake his knees.
"I think," Sherlock said, leaning over to Molly to whisper, "That I could get used to being this sort of person."
"Eat your sandwich," she scolded, but her eyes crinkled with mirth as she blushed despite herself, and Sherlock thought that perhaps he could get used to that sight too.