A/N: Not beta read.
2. Claimed
Recently, Sherlock forgot and left behind a lot of things in the morgue and lab.
At first, it was just a pen, and when he didn't get it back on the next day, Molly assumed he just didn't care about trivial things like stationeries. It probably didn't make much of a difference what pen he used.
He even left his expensive Montblanc in the lab.
She kept them in the lockable drawer in her office and planned to give them back to him when he went to Bart's, but she never got the chance. He would barge in the lab with a series of orders, and then left without a goodbye.
On Monday, he left behind a button from his shirt. Well, that was expected. The button had a hard time holding on to the tight shirt and finally failed. Bless it. It had served its time.
On Wednesday, he forgot his handkerchief. It probably slipped out when he took his phone from his pocket in a hurry. Molly would never ever admit it, but she took a small sniff at it. It smelled of detergent. It smelled of him.
There were more. After he took a nap in the lab, he left his watch on the desk. After an experiment, he left his lighter. After he beat the corpse of her dead colleague, he left his riding crop.
As of Friday, he totally left: 4 pens, 1 Montblanc ballpoint pen, 3 buttons, 1 handkerchief, 1 watch, 1 lighter, and 1 riding crop.
Why did Sherlock become so careless? Her mind kept thinking about him and his belongings. She was worried she would lose the items or someone would steal them from her drawer. Telling him to get back his possessions was always on the top of her agenda, but he would always cut her off when she asked him about it. He barely stopped to give her his time. Her stammering wasn't helpful either.
Today, he left behind his signature blue scarf.
Staring at his scarf, Molly sighed. It was enough. Her office wasn't a lost and found station. She put all his stuff into a paper bag and headed to Baker Street after work.
Sherlock opened the door three seconds after she rang the doorbell.
"Sherlock, you-"
"Ah, Molly. Come in. I'm busy." He flashed a smile and then trotted back to his flat.
"I won't take you too much time. I just wanted to give you back all this stuff that you left in the lab in the past week. You-" Molly stopped talking as soon as she stepped into the living room. She looked around. It was much tidier than the last time she was here. There were still a lot of things sitting around, but she could tell they were organised.
The strangest things were the room was filled with the smell of onion, tomato, and meat, and the sound of cooking.
She gaped at the sight of Sherlock Holmes wearing a blue apron. He was filling a plate with spaghetti and meat sauce.
"You are lucky. I just cooked." Sherlock smiled. "Eat with me."
Molly blinked. The dinning table was clean. The experiments that usually covered the surface were gone, leaving just cutleries and two plates of spaghetti on it.
Why was he cooking? Was it an experiment? Did he put something in the food?
"Cooking is just like chemistry. No, it isn't an experiment. There's no poison in the food," Sherlock said and pushed Molly to sit down.
"Eat with me."
She could only obey when he looked at her with his bright blue eyes and charming smile.
To her surprise, Sherlock really could cook, and she didn't feel sick after eating the spaghetti. They had a pleasant conversation – he talked about his case and she talked about her work. He criticised on her taste in men once, but nothing offensive. They both had a good laugh.
"Blimey! I was so careless. Thanks for keeping them for me, Molly," he said after she handed him the paper bag. Then he offered to walk her home because "a gentleman should make sure his lady friend get home safe".
Huh?
Molly was still in a daze when she waved goodbye at Sherlock from her balcony.
She felt like she was trapped, but she didn't know what she had fallen into.
Dinner, wine, a good chat, and a walk under moonlight.
It sounded like a date.
Except it wasn't.
Or was it?
Don't. We're talking about Sherlock Holmes! You know it's not his area.
Lying on her bed, Molly stared at the ceiling.
Toby was mewling at her, asking her to give him some food, but she didn't hear him.
No matter how she thought about the night, she still couldn't make sense of it.
Weird.
(About a year later, on their first night as husband and wife, Molly finally had her question answered. Yes, that strange night was their first date.)
A/N: Thanks for reading. Please leave me a review? :)