Greg Lestrade stood in front of the Black Feather pub, trying to decide whether or not to go in. The music was loud and it looked crowded and he was tired. And, possibly, he was just a little drunk.
They'd finished a case and some of the inspectors had gone out to celebrate. The others had already called it a night, but he thought he might have one more beer before he went home. He wasn't quite ready to face his dark and silent apartment. Didn't want to shut his eyes and face his crime scene nightmares just yet.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes, but paused as a taxi pulled up and a group of young women spilled out, all dressed up as if they'd been to a cocktail party somewhere. It was a warm summer evening, so their outfits were festive and, well, rather minimalist. They were laughing and joking as they roiled into the bar in a tight-knit group like one giant, colorful organism. As he watched them pass by, one of the women even whistled and winked at him, which made him straighten up and look over both shoulders, certain there must be someone else behind him.
There was one last straggler in the taxi, though, and he watched with increasing interest as a silver high-heeled sandal on a finely shaped leg emerged from the open door, followed by lovely knees and toned thighs below the short hem of a tight emerald green dress, followed by a glimpse of cleavage afforded by a strapless dress, followed by bare and creamy shoulders illuminated by the streetlights.
The occupant's head was tipped down to look at where she put her feet as she got out, long chestnut hair curled and piled high and held in place with sparkly pins. When she looked up, his heart nearly stopped. The pack of cigarettes slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground.
"Cor."
It was Molly Hooper.
He gathered his wits, picked up the pack to slide back into his pocket, and quickly moved over to the taxi.
"Hey, Molly. Need a hand?"
"Greg!" she exclaimed, her voice a little slurred, then reached up to accept the hand he held out. "Well, is this some bloody good timing, or what? Help me get out of this damn taxi, it's not so easy. This dress is tighter than it looks."
He pulled her up and out of the taxi. He tried not to stare like a moron at Molly Hooper's dress, which actually did look tight, and in all the right places.
She laughed as she tripped over her feet. "Fucking stupid shoes," she mumbled, then looked up at him through her eyelashes and smiled at him in that way that always slayed him; that little closed-mouth smile with a twist at the corner of her lips. Then she pulled up the front of her strapless dress, not exactly gracefully, as the taxi pulled away.
"I might be a wee bit pissed," she admitted, conspiratorially.
"What a coincidence. Me, too," he answered solemnly, but could not hide his smile.
Never, not in all the time he had ever known her, had he seen her really drunk. But then he didn't know all there was to know about Molly Hooper. Which was frustrating, because he wanted to know. He'd long had a thing for her, but had never acted on it. First he was married, then divorced, but then she was engaged, but now she'd broken that off.
And even if they were both single now, maybe he was too old for her, maybe they shouldn't mix business and pleasure. Maybe maybe maybe...there was always something. But tonight, meeting her unexpectedly like this and with a few beers under his belt, all of those excuses seemed to be slipping away.
"God, this fresh air feels good," she said. "I don't want to go inside just yet."
She suddenly tucked her hand under his arm, pulled him close and whispered loudly, "Want to know a secret?"
"Uh, sure," Greg said, intrigued, leaning his head down to hear her better, weaving a little bit as he did, intensely aware of her touch on his arm.
"I couldn't wait to get away from that party."
"Really? Looked like a fun bunch to me."
Molly suddenly frowned, a dark cloud passing over her face. "I just needed to get away. Mind if I stand out here with you for a while?"
"Sure, Molls," he said, pleased to oblige her beyond all rational bounds.
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" she asked.
Greg shrugged. "I dunno. Just went out for drinks with the boys, didn't feel like going home yet. Was thinking about going in there, maybe have a smoke first. Then you showed up."
She removed her hand from his arm, and he instantly mourned the loss of it. Now she was digging around in her handbag, swaying on her feet again. "A smoke sounds good. I thought maybe I had a cigarette. I really want a cigarette. Do you have a cigarette?"
"You don't smoke," he reminded her, amused.
"But you do. Give me one."
She didn't wait for him to refuse. Instead, she threw the strap of her handbag over her shoulder with determination, then stuck her hands in his suit jacket pockets, looking for the pack she knew would be there.
He stood perfectly still, at least as best he could under the circumstances, hands held out to the sides, his head spinning a little. Her chest brushed against his and god help him, he could not resist a look down the front of her dress and the view was spectacular.
To think that just a few minutes ago his evening had been winding down anticlimactically, and now here he was, being frisked by Molly Hooper with her nimble hands down his pockets, bumping against the front of his trousers.
She pulled her hand back out with an unopened pack and he watched, mesmerized, as she picked at the cellophane wrapper determinedly but clumsily for quite a long time, ultimately unable to dislodge it.
"Oh, fuck it," she finally said, and stuck the pack back in his jacket pocket and stumbled into him, a dark look crossing her face again.
Instinctively he reached out to steady her, his hands now on the bare, creamy skin of her shoulders.
"Whoa, there," he said. "You ok? Everything ok?"
She looked up at him, a defiant glint to her eyes. She reached out to poke him in the chest with a delicate, sensibly manicured finger. "You know what I want?"
All he could think about was how nice her warm, smooth skin felt below his large, rough hands, how intoxicating her perfume was now that she was close enough for him to smell it, how pretty her eyes were this close up; brown but flecked with gold. There was no question, he knew what he wanted…probably not the same thing she was thinking, though. He forced his thoughts to return to the conversation at hand.
"What do you want, Molly Hooper?" he asked, gently.
She poked his chest again, once for each word she spoke. "I want to be a pirate."
He blinked in surprise. "A pirate?"
"Yes, a pirate. I saw this movie last night about pirates and I thought to myself, I want to be a fucking pirate. They get to do anything they want. Not like me, I always do what I'm supposed to. I'm so tired of being quiet, so punctual, so professional….so fucking nice."
This was not at all what he had expected to hear, but he was fascinated to learn her inner secrets. And between the frisking, the swearing, the secret confessions and those eyes, it was doing unmentionable things to him in his weakened state. Somehow, his hands were sliding off her shoulders, curving around her waist to rest at the small of her back.
She continued on her rampage, poking his chest again.
"Don't you ever just want to let loose? You know, just let yourself fail? And I mean, fail as in an epic fail? I always got good marks. I always do the right thing. I always keep myself under control."
Her voice was rising as she spoke and grew more agitated.
"One of my co-workers is getting married and we all went out for a drink tonight, sort of a hen party thing. Someone asked about Tom and…and it was just awful. She didn't know we broke up, but everyone else did. It just got so quiet and awkward and I know everyone was feeling sorry for me…I was the only one there who wasn't married or in a long-term relationship or engaged, shit, not even a boyfriend…The only thing I ever really failed at was relationships."
Her brows furrowed. "Pirates get to fail, though. And when a pirate fails, like if they lose their ship to another pirate or something, nobody judges them when they just want to forget everything for a while. Sometimes I want to go out, get totally pissed, maybe just drink for two weeks straight and not go to work, not do anything…"
He plundered his own memories. He knew plenty about failure, in relationships and otherwise. He actually had drank for two weeks straight at one point in his life; he could not recommend it as a solid career move. He knew she was speaking metaphorically, but nevertheless, he could certainly identify with her feelings.
As he listened to her, he realized it was all the things that Molly Hooper said she wanted to escape about herself that he loved most about her. He was suddenly startled by his own use of the word 'love,' but as he looked down at her, caught in the circle of his arms, her wide brown eyes looking up at him, something in his chest burst wide open and he was beginning to surrender to the fact that he was in love with Molly Hooper.
He was pulling her closer now, so close to him that her hands were pinned between them and she mercifully couldn't poke him anymore. She continued to speak, looking up at him rebelliously, oblivious to his profound emotional epiphany.
"…and then, after I've failed, I'm going to make a comeback. I'm going to go out and kill all my enemies, recruit a new fleet of sailors. I'm going to rise like a phoenix from the fricking ashes. Pirates just take what they want, no matter the consequences. No one would ever fuck with me again! Because I'm a fucking pirate."
She suddenly stopped talking and he saw a tear roll down her cheek, illuminated by the street lights. Soon more tears followed. Oh, god. His heart lurched. How he longed to punch Tom in his stupid meat dagger face for hurting her. How he longed to punch himself in the face, if for no other reason but to distract from the sudden pain at the thought of her still mourning for Tom, and not loving him instead.
"It's ok, Molls," he finally said, reaching down with a hand to pull her head to his chest, and he gently stroked the loose tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. "It's ok. I know what it's like to hurt."
She was crying openly now. They didn't say anything as he held her tight against him. People streamed by them on the sidewalk without a second glance; it wasn't the first time someone had cried in front of this pub, he was sure of that. After a few minutes, she quieted down.
She sniffed once. "I didn't love him, you know," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "We just kept going together and then it was hard to end…I don't know." She sniffed again. "Don't get me wrong. In the end I'd rather be alone than be with the wrong person. Tom was the wrong person, I know that now. It's just sometimes…it just gets to you, being alone."
He sighed. "I know."
Damn, if he didn't know. He brushed his rough cheek lightly against her beautifully coiffed hair, breathing in the light perfume of her shampoo. She snuggled more deeply against him, and he tipped his head down, ghosted his lips across her temple.
She sucked in a shuddering breath, then continued, almost inaudibly, her voice muffled. "I'm drunk and I've gone this far, may as well keep going, what the hell. The point being of all this, if I were a pirate, I wouldn't care. You know what I'd do? I'd kiss you. I've wanted to do that for a long, long time. I've wanted to be with you for a long, long time. Oh, fuck it anyway. I can't even look at you now, I'm so embarrassed."
At her words, his heart sped up, pounding faster and faster, the pain in his heart receding, feeling lighter by the second.
"Molly," he said softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I've wanted that, too. For a long, long time. Please, look up at me."
She pulled her head slowly away from his chest to look up, her cheeks turning pink, sniffing delicately one last time.
His thumb grazed over the exquisite line of her jaw, so beautifully exposed with her hair pinned up. He could feel her trembling, could feel her chest rising and falling rapidly against his. He leaned his head down but stopped, leaving just an inch of empty air between them, hoping desperately that this pirate would make her move to take his heart as willing captive; and finally, finally, she stood up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, softly, hesitantly, just once.
He responded with a strangled moan in his throat and his arms tightened around her so much that he lifted her off her feet and then she wound her arms around his neck, her lips seeking his again. Then he was kissing her urgently, passionately; on her lips, her face, her long and beautiful neck, letting his love pour out as if a dam had burst, not a care in the world that they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Just then, one of Molly's friends stuck her head out the front door of the pub.
"Molly Hooper! There you are!" she exclaimed boisterously, astonished, then playfully pretended to shield her eyes with her hand. "Jesus, tone it down, would you? Aren't you the sly one! You certainly didn't bother to mention anything about him tonight! Now stop sneaking around to snog that gorgeous man of yours and get in here! This is a 'girls only' night, remember?"
Reluctantly they broke apart and Molly slowly unwound her arms from around his neck as he gently lowered her to the ground, sliding her slowly down the length of his body; before he let her go he whispered in her ear, "Have dinner with me. Soon."
"My place. I'll cook," Molly answered quickly, breathlessly, tugging a bit at the hem of her skirt to smooth it down.
"I'll bring the wine. Real proper pirate grog."
Molly smiled, looked over her shoulder at her friend, then back to Greg and sighed wistfully before she gave him one last, lingering kiss.
"Call me," she said. "Soon."
He watched her walk away to join her friend and caught his breath and winced as she tripped rather alarmingly on the front step of the pub. Her friend held her arm to steady her but they both were laughing as they disappeared into the crowd.
Greg Lestrade found himself once again standing alone in front of the Black Feather, but now a huge smile was spreading across his face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his pack of cigarettes and slowly unwound the cellophane. He pulled one out and lit it up, took a deep and satisfying drag and blew it out. Then he turned around and promptly crashed into the rubbish bin. But he just laughed and continued homewards with a dizzy head, unsteady foot, and bursting heart.