As Sherlock hurried up the steps to 221B, he could hear the cheery laughter of the people inside. Everyone would already be at the Christmas party that Mrs. Hudson was hosting at Molly's flat, as it had taken him two hours to get ready. His curly hair, as always, had refused to cooperate, and Sherlock had had to employ what seemed to him like a startling amount of hair gel. But after wrestling with his hairbrush, he had to admit he was looking rather nice. He was wearing an expensive suit that he'd bought just for the occasion, although he hadn't cut the tags just yet. Mycroft's assistant, as a Christmas gift from his brother, had sent over a posh shirt that made it hard for him to breathe. And as a final touch, he had put a red handkerchief in his chest pocket. Sherlock adjusted the silky handkerchief before he walked in, carrying the shopping bags full of presents for his friends.
"Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello, er, it said on the door just to come up," he said.
Everyone greeted him cheerfully, although Sherlock noticed Molly standing in the corner, rolling her eyes. Joan Watson, Molly's flatmate, walked over to him and shook his hand. "Oh, everybody's saying hello to each other. How wonderful," Molly said, and she turned away to set down her violin.
Sherlock took off his bulky coat, and Joan reached to take it, but stopped dead in her tracks. "Let me, er…holy Mary!" she exclaimed. Even DI Sally Donovan's mouth fell open, and she gawked at the pathologist, and said (quite loudly at that) "Wow!" His usually lanky frame looked defined and toned, his pallor livelier away from the fluorescent lights of the morgue, his usually unruly hair slicked back. Sherlock Holmes, the nerdy pathologist, looked…fit.
"Having Christmas drinkies, then?" he asked, not noticing the other women. But Molly Hooper, the brilliant detective, only had eyes for her laptop, just deigning to reply, "No stopping them, apparently."
"It's the one day of the year where the girls have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock laughed half-heartedly. Joan pulled over a chair, and told him to have a seat. But she was soon called away by Molly, and DI Donovan jumped in, asking him if he wanted a drink. He told her yes, watching Molly and Joan quarrel over the laptop.
"The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," Molly said. "Ooh, no, Christmas is cancelled!" Joan replied sarcastically, but Molly would not let her get away. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" Sherlock knew which photograph they were talking about. It was the one of her wearing the deerstalker walking out of the theatre. She hated it, but Sherlock thought it was cute, and secretly kept a copy in his wallet.
"People like the hat," Joan replied, walking away, but Molly continued to look at the screen. "No they don't. What people?" Sherlock was smiled to himself. She still didn't know. The kind of effect she had on people.
He turned to Mrs. Hudson and asked, "How's the hip?" She smiled kindly, and replied, "Ooh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking."
"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems," Sherlock said. And as usual, his feeble attempt at humor was met with an awkward silence. Joan's new boyfriend shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "Oh, God. Sorry," Sherlock apologized. Why did he always have to make a fool out of himself? Molly looked over, and said, "Don't make jokes, Sherlock." He tried not to look hurt, and apologized again.
Sally returned with his drink, and handed him a glass of red wine. Sherlock took the drink from her hand and said, "Thank you. I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas." She smiled brightly and replied, "That's first thing in the morning. Me and the husband—we're back together. It's all sorted."
"No, he's sleeping with the P. E. teacher," Molly said, not missing a beat. She didn't even look up from her laptop, and couldn't see Sally's grin turn stony. Sherlock turned to Joan, and asked, "And Joan, I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"
"Yeah," Joan replied. "Molly was complaining," Sherlock said, and Molly looked at him, raising her eyebrows. He corrected himself, looking away from the consulting detective. "…saying." Sally rolled her eyes, upset at how the nice doctor was so infatuated with a woman who was obviously so horrible to him.
"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze," Joan said cheerfully. "Nope," Molly corrected again, popping her lips on the 'p' sound. "Shut up, Molly," she said.
"I see you've got a new girlfriend, Sherlock, and you're serious about her," Molly said, finally looking up from the laptop. "Sorry, what?" he said, confused. But she continued, saying, "In fact, you're seeing her this very night, and giving her a gift."
"Take a day off," Joan said, exasperated at her friend. DI Donovan gave her a glass, trying to stop her from talking. "Shut up and have a drink," she said, but Molly would not be stopped.
"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag—perfectly wrapped with a bow; all the others are slapdash at best." She stood up and walked towards him and the bags of presents he'd set down on the table. "It's for someone special, then," she said, picking up the present he'd spent hours shopping for then perfectly wrapping himself.
"The shade of red echoes his handkerchief—either an unconscious association or one that he's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Mister Holmes has love on his mind. The fact that he's serious about her is clear from the fact he's giving her a gift at all." Molly Hooper sneered at the word love, as if only Sherlock Holmes would be silly enough to believe in such a notion.
Please stop, please, Sherlock thought to himself. Joan looked at him sympathetically, but he couldn't meet her eyes. Molly continued viciously, oblivious to the horrified expressions of the people around her. "That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that he's seeing her tonight is evident from his hair and what he's wearing." She smiled at Joan and her boyfriend, reveling in her own cleverness.
"Obviously trying to compensate for the size of his pectoral muscles and p…" Molly trailed off as she opened the card.
Sherlock wanted to run away, but found himself unable to move. The card, written in his neat handwriting, would read in red ink:
Dearest Molly
Love Sherlock xxx
He heard a sharp intake of breath that had to be his own. Molly looked down at the card as she realised what she had just done to her pathologist.
"You always say such horrible things," he said, trying to hold back tears. "Every time. Always. Always." Sherlock looked at the woman he had been in love with for the past three years, ever since she had barged into his morgue. She had never made it easy for him to love her, but at times like these it was especially difficult.
Sherlock watched as Molly turned to walk away from him, like she always did. But then she turned back to him, and said, "I am sorry. Forgive me."
Joan looked up, astonished at her friend's reaction. She had seen Molly manipulate, rebuke, and generally be horrible to Sherlock—well, she was like that to everyone, but Joan felt especially bad for him because he was so in love with her—but she had never seen her be so sincere and heartfelt.
The only consulting detective in the world stepped closer to the pathologist. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered, leaning into him. She stood on tiptoes, even though Molly was taller than most women herself. Sherlock only had time for a glance into her eyes before she gave him a kiss beside his lips.
And then of course, as luck would have it, the text message from Ian Adler had to ruin everything. But as Sherlock lay in bed that night, Tabitha the cat meowing in the dark, he smiled to himself and touched the spot where Molly Hooper had kissed him.