A/N: I wrote this piece because I was inspired by three things: (1) The Met Gala & BC's flawless white-tie ensemble, (2) 'Stay The Night' by Zedd feat. Haley Williams (Acoustic) and (3) a beautiful Vivienne Westwood gown, whose picture I have on the tumblr post of this fic.
Please enjoy :) Because I really enjoyed writing it. I am not enjoying the migraine from having stayed up so late to write it. But I enjoyed writing it nonetheless, and I hope you do too. x
Stay The Night
It was a normal evening like any evening. Except this evening, Molly received an unexpected phone call. Or at least a phone call she had not received in a very long time.
"Hello? My-croft?" she said, slowly and quietly.
"Good evening, Dr Hooper." Mycroft greeted.
"What's happened?" Molly asked.
"Nothing's happened," replied Mycroft, "But I do have something to ask you."
There were many ridiculous things Sherlock Holmes had to endure in his line of work. As it stood, being the world's only consulting detective was hardly conventional. Needless to say, his brand of detective consultancy certainly fit the bill. Tonight, he had to play dress-up, as one normally did when 'consulting'. The case was intriguing, which made tonight's event a little more bearable. There was nothing Sherlock enjoyed more than disentangling webs, digging for roots that ran deep. Here was a conspiracy among the rich and powerful so deeply embedded it nearly evaded the British Government, much to Mycroft's chagrin, a fact which Sherlock never failed to remind his brother of. Nevertheless, this great gala he had to attend this evening was quite the damper. Yet, without it, he could not gain the proximity needed with the suspected perpetrators.
In his hotel suite, the detective was dressed to the nines but felt somewhat unnerved, as though lacking something. It was to be a glitzy white-tie event and Sherlock was outfitted perfectly for it. Nothing outlandish, of course. After all, he was a man of taste and exquisite vanity. He had procured the perfect ensemble of a crisp white shirt, a smooth white waistcoat and perfect swallow-tail coat. The final touch was a light gold pocket chain for the waistcoat, a gift from Mrs Hudson some years ago. It was nice to have a bit of Baker Street on him. Sherlock never admitted it but it was getting a little lonely in New York, so far away from home.
Staring at his full reflection, Sherlock could only frown. His lips were pursed and his face remained thoughtful. Suddenly, his mobile phone on the desk in his suite buzzed noisily. Walking briskly over, Sherlock picked his phone up and answered the call. It was Mycroft.
"Everything in order, Sherlock?" asked his brother in the smooth voice that irritated him so.
"Hmm. Well, nothing seems out of order…" Sherlock replied, smirking on his end of the line.
"I've decided to send reinforcements," Mycroft said.
"What for? I'm perfectly capable handling this on my own," Sherlock replied. His brows knitted in frustration at his brother. Why did Mycroft always have to meddle?
"Sherlock, you do realise how…difficult tonight would be to navigate without them?" his brother asked smoothly.
"I'll be fine, Mycroft." Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth.
"I'm sending them anyway…"
"What are you on about?" Sherlock snapped, "What reinforcements? More MI6? More snipers? I told you I am perfectly fine…"
"Better go, brother dear, or you'll be late."
"Fashionably late," Sherlock retorted.
"You know there's no such thing…" Mycroft said with a laugh.
Sherlock took a deep breath and tried not to slam his phone onto the desk. Mycroft was always interfering and it maddened the detective.
"Reinforcements…hah." he uttered to himself, as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
When Sherlock arrived in his car and saw the red carpet that stretched out from his door, he swallowed nervously. Still, with his ego in place and an unwillingness to prove his brother right, he kept his chin up and stepped out of the car. Instantly, cameras turned towards him in anticipation. His international reputation truly went before him. Within seconds, he was blinded by camera flashes and deafened by shouts of his name. Carefully, Sherlock did his best to navigate the long and winding velvet road before him. Never had be been more terrified in his life. It felt like the crowds and the lights were going to swallow him whole.
"Easy does it, easy…" Sherlock whispered to himself as he measured each step forward. He turned left and turned right but could find neither sanctuary nor escape from the madness. He would see the backs of women in lavish gowns, posing for the cameras, drinking in their light. Nobody seemed to care about anybody else. For a place that was full of people, it seemed no one noticed anyone, save for themselves. It was most repulsive. Sherlock was just about to make a mad dash for the top of the stairs when he felt a gentle hand reach for his wrist.
"You okay?" came the whisper of a familiar voice.
How he had heard her soft voice amidst the chaos baffled him. When Sherlock turned to see who had reached for him, he gasped to see the face of Molly, smiling shyly at him. If Sherlock was well-dressed, he was nothing compared to Molly. In line with the grandiosity of the event, Molly was dressed in the most jaw-dropping dress with layers of black taffeta silk and blood-red organza. The top of the dress was wide, generously exposing her delicate shoulders, converging just an inch above her sternum. Sherlock had never noticed how flawless Molly's skin was until now. With so stunning a dress, her hair and make-up were kept wisely simple. She wore no jewellery, and with her hair swept in a glossy ponytail, the length of her neck was gloriously displayed for all to see. There was something utterly regal about the way she looked. Sherlock was, for lack of a better word, speechless.
"Westwood." Molly said with a cheeky smirk."
"S-sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, startled when she spoke.
"If there's one good thing Jim Moriarty taught me," Molly said, slipping her arm into Sherlock's and continuing their walk up the stairs, "it's Vivienne Westwood. The perfect British fashion statement, don't you think?"
There were still no words that came out of Sherlock's mouth as they slowly made their way up the carpet. There was shouting, obnoxious PR people running about the place and more posing men and women, but all Sherlock could see was the divine face of Molly Hooper who kept chatting with him as she always did. She talked about how Mycroft had sent her every piece of British couture that existed and how she was able to pick one, thanks to her time with the consulting criminal. Molly continued to comment on how lovelyhe looked and blushed slightly at her own words.
"And that's why I'm here tonight," she said, when they finally reached the end of the carpet. "It was to help you get here." Molly gestured to Sherlock, indicating to him that they were no longer outside and had survived the red carpet.
The silence of being indoors was almost deafening after having been shouted and screamed at for what seemed like forever. Molly looked up at the baffled detective who simply stood and stared at the woman he knew only as a pathologist, an asset to his work.
"I was reluctant at first," she said, lowering her eyes, "But well, it meant finally having dinner with you, so I couldn't pass, could I?" Molly chuckled gently and realised she was still holding on to his arm.
"Oh, sorry," she whispered, slipping her arm out from his, "Don't need to do that anymore, do we?"
Molly had saved him. Again. It took somebody extraordinary to save someone like Sherlock Holmes from anything. Sherlock was only just beginning to see that in Molly.
"There might be no need," he said, speaking at last, "But…" Sherlock reached for her hand, restoring her arm to where it had before, perfectly interlinked with his.
"I want to," he said, his eyes softening as he looked at her with genuine adoration. It made her smile. For the first time, it seemed he could finally seeher.
The night was a hit. Molly was the perfect reinforcement, as Mycroft had (again) so rightly predicted. When it was over, Sherlock was beyond content at the success of the espionage. This time, when they were in Mycroft's designated car headed back to their hotel, it was Sherlock who did not stop talking. He filled Molly in on every detail of the case, all the people they had met and all the things he was going to do next. He was brimming with excitement like a schoolboy and it delighted Molly. She simply smiled and nodded as he rattled on enthusiastically. After all, she loved him best when he was like this.
"What's your suite number?" asked Sherlock when they stepped into the hotel lifts. "I'll walk you to your room."
"907." she answered.
"That's…across from mine," Sherlock said.
"Perfect," Molly said cheerfully, "You won't have to walk far then."
The doors of the lift dinged open and the pair stepped out. There was still a bit of a walk to their suites so they strolled casually down the ornately carpetted floor. As they walked, Sherlock studied Molly. She was tired, obviously, and her feet were probably aching. Yet, there still remained traces of her smile in the way light still danced in her eyes. He was amazed she still had the strength to carry the full weight of the gown she was wearing. Then again, he was not surprised. Molly Hooper was the strongest person he ever knew.
"I don't know how you're ever going to get out of that dress," he remarked, suddenly. "It looks terribly complex."
"Well, that's for me to worry about," Molly said with a laugh.
"Just you?" he asked, stopping in his tracks.
The pair of them stood right in the middle of the corridor that separated both their doors.
"Was there something that worried you?" she asked, eyeing him warily.
"It's just…" he stepped forward and carefully, as though afraid she might electrify him, touched his fingers to the side of her neck, tracing its length.
"Just…what?" she whispered, feeling her breath catch in her throat.
"Are you going to stay the night?" he asked, quietly. His fingers never left her skin.
"What are you saying…" she said with a laugh, "Of course, I am. I'm booked into this hotel, aren't I?"
Sherlock too, laughed gently, and took a step toward her.
"Are you going to stay the night, with me?" he whispered, leaning in.
"Why should I?" Molly asked, gently nudging him away.
The both of them could not hide their smiles. Somehow, their hands floated from their sides to meet in the space between them, tentative fingers gratefully intertwining with each other.
"I could help you with that dress, for starters?" he said, keeping her hands firmly in his.
With a quiet laugh, Molly slipped her hands out of his but took a step closer to him. She reached for his face and kissed him gently on the lips.
"How about breakfast downstairs tomorrow morning instead?" she whispered to him.
"Have I offended you, Molly?" he asked, slightly alarmed.
"No, no, not in the least," she said with a chuckle.
Molly walked to her room door and turned to face Sherlock. The detective stood where he was, on the spot of carpet where they had previously converged, and seemed somewhat perplexed.
"Breakfast, first." she said, unlocking her door. "And if you're still thinking about the dress by the time we get back to London…"
The door clicked opened as Molly's hand remained firmly on the handle.
"Then I'll definitely stay the night," she said with a smile before disappearing into her room.
Sherlock remained where he was, as though transfixed. However, the perplexity on his face was soon replaced by a slow smile that crept back.
"Breakfast it is," he said to himself as he turned to walk to his own room.
Perhaps he had better call Mrs Hudson. There might be a guest coming to stay the night at Baker Street one of these days.
END