This one occurs just before John and Mary's first dance at the reception. Feel free to leave love, hate, lukewarm like. Or angry messages. Or if you're drowning in sherlollian feels, say hello. And I'll say 'ugh I know right' back.
He's not lurking in the corridors, he tries to reassure the bemused waiter who passes him.
He is simply restarting. His engine (the mind) has overheated with excitement and he's beginning to feel the unpleasantness of too much joy, (a sharp tingle in one's fingers), resulting in an overwhelming sense of restlessness.
A deep breath should calm the nerves. But a cigarette-
"Unnecessary." He reminds himself, tapping his clothed wrist in a motion, reminiscent of an 'absent' nicotine patch.
He's mentally placing each fragment into place; the Mayflower man is carefully stored away,the resignation of Major Sholto as well. John and Mary's broad smiles slip away into the warmer parts of the mind palace, far away from the risk of removal. He intends to preserve them.
Finally as his eyes roll over, he returns back to the corridor, however he is no longer alone.
A short glance to the side reveals her, the yellow flower collapsed onto a crumpled bow. He cannot remark with any honesty, that it looked better beforehand.
"Molly." He greets her, his mouth contorting into the smile he's grown accustomed to today. It's no longer an uncomfortable stretch. Almost comes-naturally.
She returns it, not shockingly out of character yet Sherlock detects an edge to her smile. "Mary needs you. I think it's time for the-"
"Yes." He pats his suit pocket, the envelope containing his final gift to the happy couple has not been forgotten. But it can wait. "-How was your night?"
Molly expels a rather tired sigh, breaking her silence with an embarrassed mutter, "Meat dagger."
"Ah."
"Oh yes."
He attempts to rally for Tom, "It may be possible in some circumstances-"
"Meat dagger." She ends him bluntly. He notes with some small satisfaction that even Molly could not forgo such an incredible flaw for the benefit of a 'boyfriend.'
"-Well in any case, you may be reminded that Greg did suggest a dwarf."
Her face softens. Sherlock is struck by its warmness as two lips, curled into a smile, frame her face handsomely.
"You called him Greg."
"I've been told that is his name." He jokes with her, hoping she'll be quick (quicker than he was, the night he asked her for 'stag advice') to return his humour.
But she doesn't respond, her smile slipping away into a unreadable look, (Too subtle on his behalf? Did he lack sincerity? Was Greg not Lestrade's name?!)
A muffled announcement is made over the microphone, causing them both to look towards the ballroom.
Sherlock straightens up his jacket, yet remains hesitant about leaving without Molly. She's still standing beside him, her hand sliding the poorly fitted ring off and onto her finger.
Sherlock's mouth dries, instantly recognizing the familiar motion, most commonly found in his martially dissatisfied clients. The scorned housewife, the lonely husband.
Fiddling of any kind with one's rings is the sure sign of an unhappy situation.
But he acknowledges how undeserving she is of that particular existence. Molly Hooper deserves more. Molly Hooper deserves-
"Molly?"
He holds out his arm to her, gazing deeply at her. There is no need to soothe her with winks or hopeful smiles.
She takes it, just as he expects, but he's rather unnerved at how quick his fingers are to fold into hers in a tight grasp.
gracias!
