Taste
A/N: This story originated from a series of Sherlolly notes I had and ended becoming an accidental sequel to my other one-shot, Clues. I hope you'll enjoy it. x
"Here you go, one seafood fried rice." said the friendly Chinese waiter. Sherlock nodded and gave a polite half smile to the man. The plate of rice speckled with assorted vegetables and seafood was piping hot as fresh steam rose from it.
"You're lucky this place exists." Molly commented, "We'd never find food anywhere else at this hour."
"The luck rests in the fact that the food is decent," said Sherlock.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that."
"And the fortune cookies are marvellously predictable." he said with a smirk.
Molly smiled at his last remark. Trust Sherlock to mess around with something like fortune cookies. Though trivial objects, they symbolised everything that Sherlock didn't and couldn't believe. He wasn't one who believed in chance or luck. He certainly wasn't one to believe in fate or destiny. They were but figments of the human imagination, 'a sign of the weak human condition', he often said.
"You sure you don't want something more than just tea?" Sherlock asked his dinner companion.
"No thank you, Sherlock. The tea is just fine." Molly answered, smiling.
As the detective ate from the plate of food before him, Molly took this rare opportunity to simply sit and stare at him. This was rare for two reasons. Firstly, they weren't in the morgue, the laboratory or anywhere in the hospital. Secondly, they weren't working. She did stare at him often, whether sitting or standing. But this time, this was just Sherlock, herself and a dinner table between them.
"It's almost unusual to be with you and not have a dead body between us." Molly remarked, chuckling.
"Would you be more comfortable if we had one?" he replied, looking seriously at her.
"No, of course not, Sherlock." she answered, chuckling even harder at how serious he looked.
"Good. It would be a little troublesome to have to obtain one." he remarked.
"Of course, you'd have trouble. I'm the one that gets you the bodies, remember?" said Molly.
"Indeed, you are." Sherlock acknowledged with a gentle smile.
It was so nice to have him looking right at her like that. She rarely had his attention, rarely had his eyes meet hers unless he was having some sort of epiphany or crisis. The kiss from just less than an hour ago remained firmly in Molly's memory. The surprising touch of his lips to hers sent pulses of bliss that ricocheted throughout her body.
"Thinking about the kiss again?" he asked, eyeing her.
"No…no…I was just…" Molly sighed, "Yes. How obvious was I?"
"Very," Sherlock replied. "And if you keep biting your lip like that it's going to bleed."
"Oh dear…I didn't even notice, sorry." she answered bashfully.
"You should be sorry, indeed." said the charming detective, "I don't want to be kissing..scabs."
"You would kiss me…again?" asked Molly, wide-eyed.
"Molly…"
Sherlock placed his cutlery neatly over his empty plate and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. He took a slow sip of his hot tea and leaned back in his chair.
"There are tastes that you forget, Molly. Like this rice, for instance. It's not awful. But it won't come surging back to me as a vibrant memory. It would't be worth storing anyway." Sherlock then rose from his chair and walked over to Molly's side.
"But you, Molly," he said, leaning his face close to hers, "are unforgettable."
The detective brought his lips to hers again, just as he had before. This time, there was barely any pressure, but the faintest contact of the skin of his lips on the very edges of her mouth. How did something so light have so much impact? Molly's head spun as Sherlock's mouth parted from hers before he returned to his seat. She looked up at him and he returned her gaze, with his clever eyes, bright as the sun.
"Now, should we return to work? Or do you need to compose yourself a little more?" asked Sherlock.
"I'm…fine. Let's..go back." Molly answered, remembering to breathe deeply.
"You're a very diligent worker, Molly." Sherlock remarked, impressed.
"As are you, Sherlock." she responded, meeting his eyes properly.
"A stroke of luck for us both then." said Sherlock, rising from his seat.
"A stroke of luck?" asked Molly, puzzled.
The detective took some notes out of his wallet and placed them on the table, waving to the waiter.
"Yes, Molly," he said, helping her with her coat. "We have the same work ethic, work interests. We share the same supposedly morbid fascination for blood work…"
He then bent to kiss her softly on the side of her face. "It is not often I find someone with such similar tastes…"
Sherlock reached for her hand and led them out of the restaurant where the streets were black as ink and quiet as death.
"And whose kiss tastes so wonderfully too." he whispered.
Looking up at Sherlock, Molly drank in his unusually tender gaze that rested upon her. Squeezing his hand, she kept herself close to Sherlock as he led his pathologist safely and warmly back to the place they loved best.