As first dates go it's not the worst she's had. If it was anyone but Sherlock it wouldn't be nearly as high on the list as it is, but hey, she never expected roses and candlelight and dancing.
Except there is dancing, if you want to call it that. Thrashing around in a mosh pit at a punk club isn't exactly what she would have expected, but the call from Lestrade had been frantic and she'd said why not when Sherlock asked if she wouldn't mind accompanying him and here they were. Sweaty, half deaf, bruised up…and grinning at each other like a couple of idiots.
Idiots in love, that's what they are, and that's why this is close to the top of the list of best worst dates ever. Sherlock looks devastating with a fake gold nose ring, black eyeliner ('guyliner' she'd heard one of the other clubbers call it admiringly), torn black t-shirt and black jeans so tight they look painted on. Sin on a stick…and all hers, no matter how many others might try to catch his attention.
The suspect is caught half-way through the second song, the club is shut down for the night, and they spill out onto the pavement with the rest of the disgruntled crowd, giggling and making cow-eyes at each other. A woman with bright red lipstick and short, spiked blonde hair tries to pry Sherlock away from her, but he deduces her unhappy marriage ("Go home to your husband, let him see you like this and he just might surprise you") and hugs Molly closer.
They duck into the alley between the club and the tattoo parlour and Sherlock peers down at her in the near darkness. "You're okay?" he asks. "We're okay? I know this was supposed to be our first date, and technically I suppose it still counts, but I can try again. I'll shut my mobile off and…mmph!"
His other, anxious words are cut off when Molly lunges up to capture his mouth with hers. When they part many long moments later, she smiles and (gently) flicks the nose ring. "My mum warned me about blokes like you," she says with a smirk.
"Oh?" he asks, raising an eyebrow and smirking right back at her, his arms still wrapped snuggly round her waist. "And what did she say?"
Molly shrugs. "No idea, I never did listen to her when it came to men." She tiptoes up to kiss him again. "But I can tell you this much: if you take me home right now, I can promise you you'll get lucky. Very, very lucky." She slides a hand down his chest and grabs his belt buckle, giving it a bit of a shake in case he's inclined to mistake her meaning.
His mobile rings; without even glancing at it he shuts it off and shoves it back into his pocket. Dragging her by the hand, he pulls her back onto the pavement and flags a passing taxi. She giggles as he all but pushes her into the backseat and barks out her address to the driver.
The next morning she wakes up with her faux-punk boyfriend sprawled out in her bed, snoring peacefully, and decides that not only was it not the worst first date she's ever had, but it's actually the best.
What's even better is that it's also the last first date either of them will ever have.