The night had been absolutely lovely for them both. The food was exquisite - so, Molly had made sure to ascertain, were the two white wines served with the meal - and he was quite surprised to see how much he had enjoyed conversing with his pathologist about herself, where and with whom she had grown up, memories of her high school, everything she had ever enjoyed doing. The childish smile she unconsciously gave when she opened up to him was a particularly precious piece of the experience.
And now, they were walking side by side with her hand in his; or rather, he walked and she stumbled, bumping into him every few seconds.
"The wine wasn't wasted on you, sweetheart. Should I call a cab?"
She huddled even closer into him.
"I'm not drunk, Sherlock, how could you ever think that? I'm just sleepy."
"It's not that late, is it?"
Not that late? For him, perhaps, but for Molly, it was two hours past bedtime. One of the many things about her life she'd had to tweak after their engagement, in order to survive.
He looked down at the beauty at his arm. Molly had by the past displayed an awkward fashion sense, but the royal blue cocktail dress and the white shrug she was currently donning over it were as unexpected as they were dazzling, along with the light pink lipstick and the gorgeous updo her hair was styled in - a very complex, layered structure of curls he was still struggling to wrap his mind around. She was delectable just to glance at, but she was shivering.
"Molly, you're shivering."
"That's because I'm cold."
An ironically obvious answer to his obvious remark.
"When human beings evolved to have less hair, they started skinning or shearing animals so they could cover themselves in their fur or fabrics made from it. Fascinating creatures, those… people."
"And when they evolved even further," she said, slapping him on the arm, "they came to learn all about gallantry and not making fun of a shivering woman on a cold night, lest they dampen her urge to engage in sexual congress once she reaches home."
"Right… maybe I should do something about it to preserve my entitlement to a night of said sexual congress of the filthiest sort in gratitude."
Molly smiled, nodding vigorously.
In one graceful motion, he pulled his coat off and draped it over her shoulders before tugging it tight, her slight frame almost disappearing under the loads of thick fabric.
"That should take care of the cold."
"Sherlock! You don't need to-"
"And this," he said before she could fully protest, "is for the drowsiness."
He scooped her up like a bride as if she hardly weighed anything, carefully cradling her body in his arms.
"All comfy?" he asked in mock detachment, like a flight attendant probably would.
She could only look up at him with her big, brown, fuzzy eyes, happy if thoroughly disconcerted, and nod, holding the coat around herself.
"Good."
As he resumed his walk in the dark and quiet street, slower than before, Molly felt the gentle rocking motion and warmth pulling her closer and closer to falling asleep proper.
The tweed felt wonderful between her fingers and on her skin. It felt like drowning in Sherlock. That would be nice, wouldn't it? If there could be a giant Sherlock and she could live tucked away in his coat pocket. Preferably the inside pocket, the one closest to his heart so she could fall asleep to the tune of it beating with his love; and sometimes he would take her out to hold her in the hollow of his palm and Molly would smile at him and hug his finger. She loved him so, so bad.
"Sher'" she mumbled with her eyes closed, "I'm falling asleep."
"What of it?"
"You can't carry me all the way to Baker Street."
"You're barely a hundred pounds in a soaked blanket."
"If you keep stuffing me like a goose, I won't be for long."
"Don't be harsh on geese. They're beautiful birds, and you're beautiful too."
"So I'm a goose. What does that make you?"
"Another goose, geese are monogamous."
"Why do you spoil me so much?"
"Molly, you are allowed to indulge yourself but you are entitled to me indulging you."
French onion soup, lobster Thermidor, partridge roast and vanilla floating island. Indulging was a criminal understatement, heart attack was more like it. Heart attack of the most considerate, romantic and decadent sort.
"Just relax and stay pretty, you'll be snoring in bed in no time."
"But what about our sexy time? I promised…"
Sherlock cut her short with an unexpected moment of pure humanity.
"Holding you in my arms is far beyond what it takes to make me happy."
And she knew just then how much he loved her back.
"I'm really the luckiest, Sher, aren't I?"
He kept walking, now with a slight smile gracing his lips, thinking the sight of them both had to be an odd one.