The title was inspired by the poem 'After the Lunch' by Wendy Cope. As always, nothing belongs to me. I hope you enjoy.
She should never have gone with him. She hadn't even been particularly hungry, but when Sherlock had asked her whether she wanted to get fish and chips she'd said yes, and she had no idea why. No, that wasn't true – she knew exactly why. Now she was kicking herself for being so stupid. She was a clever woman; she should have seen this coming and been able to dodge the bullet. As it was, she'd practically stepped in to the line of fire.
"Silly cow," she silently berated herself.
They'd ended up back at Baker Street, although Molly couldn't recall either of them suggesting it. It just seemed to have happened. She'd hovered awkwardly in the living room until Sherlock had gestured to John's – no, not John's any more – the other chair. Despite Mrs Hudson's protests, they'd eaten out of the paper.
"You'd only end up washing the plates," Sherlock had called to his landlady, smiling like a naughty schoolboy, "we're simply saving you the trouble." He'd been right, of course, the fish was delicious and despite her lack of hunger, Molly found herself finishing the whole portion. Sherlock had said very little as they ate, but she more than made up for it, wittering on about nearly everything under the sun. It was only once they'd finished eating and the paper lay discarded that Molly eventually tailed off.
Silence fell.
It didn't last long, however, as Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and fixed her with a look that she found herself unable to hold.
"How are you Molly?"
"Fine," she lifted her gaze once more, "I'm fine. Why do you ask?" She couldn't remember him ever asking such a thing in all the years she'd known him. It wasn't something he'd ever been particularly concerned with, and when he wanted to know something he usually managed to deduce it. Sherlock Holmes didn't ask; he helped himself.
"I'm asking because since we arrived you've managed to rather impressively maintain a fairly steady monologue." Molly could feel herself blushing; she knew she rambled when she was nervous, and she hated herself for it. Sherlock continued, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore her discomfort. "Whilst I admit I found some of it to be of great interest – particularly that poisoning case, I'd quite like to examine his heart at some point – the rest of it, including the status update on that wretched cat of yours, was obviously not what you really wanted to talk about, but was rather a not-so-subtle ploy to try and distract me from the fact that you've not made one mention of the diamond ring that now adorns your finger."
Molly froze. She knew this had been a bad idea, and the proof had just slapped her in the face. She took a deep breath.
"Yes, I'm engaged. He's nice. We didn't meet at work: through friends - the traditional way. We go to the pub, and take his dog for walks, and I've met his parents, they're lovely." She realised that she was rambling again and fell silent so that she didn't embarrass herself again. It seemed like an age before she looked back to him, and when she did she was surprised to find that Sherlock's expression was warm.
"Congratulations Molly." His voice was soft, "I hope you'll be very happy." He paused for a moment. "You of all people deserve it." There was such sincerity in his voice, like Molly had heard from him only once before. All she could do was give him a small smile as her eyes filled with tears.
"You are happy, aren't you?" She couldn't look at him, but there was definitely concern in his voice, and a touch of confusion. She didn't blame him; how could she convince him that she was happy whilst simultaneously holding back tears? There was only one thing for it:
"I have to go," she whispered, rising to her feet. She grabbed her bag, and her hand was on the doorknob before she realised that Sherlock was right behind her. She felt rather than heard him say her name, his voice quiet, little more than a rumble.
"I need to know, Molly."
"Know what?" she replied, still facing away from him, gripping the handle, ready to run. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she swore that he moved closer, despite the lack of visual or auditory evidence. When he spoke, she thought she could feel his warm breath in her ear.
"I need to know that you're happy Molly Hooper." She nodded, her grip on the doorknob loosened and she turned to face him. She'd been right, he was standing so close to her that she could smell him: soap and cigarettes and Sherlock.
"I'll let you know when it happens," she whispered. She hadn't thought it possible, but he managed to move even closer to her, so close that he was almost pressed up against her, and she knew that if she took even the tiniest step backwards she would find the door. He was gazing at her with such intensity that Molly found herself transfixed; the black of his pupils had almost eclipsed the green ring at the centre of his iris.
"Could I make you happy Molly?" Her breath caught in her throat, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from man standing so boldly before her.
"I don't know," she said so quietly that she wasn't sure that he even heard her. It seemed that he had, however, as before she knew it he was leaning in. Her stomach lurched. His dark curls brushed softly against her cheek as he whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her neck to her spine:
"Will you allow me to try?" She couldn't speak, and the bag that had been in her hand fell to the floor with a thud. After all those years she thought she'd wasted on a stupid crush, it felt like the tables had now turned, ridiculously and unexpectedly. The surge of excitement that suddenly overwhelmed her managed to knock the shock out of her. Raising a hand, she placed it on his chest and pushed him gently back so that she could see his face once more. His eyes now held a touch of uncharacteristic uncertainty, but this soon vanished when she nodded.
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, I will." A genuine smile crossed Sherlock's face, one that she hadn't seen for a long time. This time when he leaned in to her, her hand still on his chest, he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
"Thank you Molly" he murmured, "thank you." She exhaled, releasing the breath that she'd hardly noticed she'd taken, and he pulled away. They looked at each other; neither moved, not wanting to break the spell. Sherlock's breathing was irregular, ragged even, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingers, the buttons of his shirt pulling tight. Then, almost as if he couldn't wait any longer, Sherlock's hands came up to cup her face, pulling her in and crashing his lips against hers. For a second all she could do was let him kiss her, but then it was as if a barrier had been lifted and she reached up to his neck, he thumb stroking along his jaw. When she knotted her hands in his hair she felt him gasp, and all of a sudden she felt the hard wood of the door pressing into her back. Their bodies were now flush, pressing against each other with passionate urgency. At some point his hands had fallen to her hips, and she could feel each of his long fingers squeezing her tight and pulling her even closer to him. Without even realising it, Molly coaxed his lips open, and he responded enthusiastically, running his tongue along her bottom lip before gently sucking on it, causing her to moan softly. This only served to spur him on, but it was all becoming too much for Molly: too much, too fast. If she didn't stop now she didn't think she'd be able to, and there was something she was forgetting.
"Tom," she whispered. Sherlock drew back sharply.
"What?" His hair was ruffled, and his eyes seemed somewhat unfocussed. Molly looked down at his engagement ring, still glistening from its place on her finger.
"His name's Tom." Sherlock frowned, and before he got the wrong idea she clarified, "I can't do this yet. Not with this," she indicated to the ring, "and not to him. Like I said, he's nice." Sherlock visibly relaxed when he understood, and he stepped forward once more, pressing a light kiss to her lips before resting his chin against the side of her head. They stood like that for a few moments - his tall frame resting against her petite one, her arms about his waist and his about her shoulders, one hand in her hair – until their breathing returned to normal. Eventually they drew apart. Molly straightened her clothes and tried to fix her hair before picking up her bag from where she had dropped it. Sherlock didn't seem to care about adjusting anything, and remained quite happily in his dishevelled state. When she was ready she turned to him,
"We can try," she said. "But I have to do this first." Sherlock nodded, a small smile playing across his lips. Before he could say anything, Molly rose onto her tiptoes and planted a swift kiss on his cheek. "Thanks for the chips," she said brightly before turning and heading out of the flat. Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she smiled to herself. She didn't know whether she was making a mistake, and frankly she didn't care, because at this moment she knew that she was happy.