A/N: These few one-shots were written for my sister a looooooooong time ago. I never did manage to do all 22 Things, but she did convince me to post those I'd done. The chapter titles are based on those in the book. Enjoy!
1. There will be Loneliness
On Christmas Eve, Molly had gone over to Sherlock's flat again for a Christmas drinks party. Not that it was Sherlock who invited her, of course, it was John who had text her about it. Sherlock had her number too, he had just never used it; except that one time when he had text 'Do you have any spare thumbs? I need some. SH', which didn't count because it was business. She had still kept it though, silly, sentimental person that she was. She liked the way he text, with full punctuation and grammar. John, on the other hand, was clearly not tech savvy, as his message had come in full capitals: 'CHRISTMAS DRINKS AGAIN CHRISTMAS EVE 7PM JW'. This was soon followed by 'IGNORE SH HE IS COMING JW', so Molly was forced to assume Sherlock had been voicing his protest to someone else in the text message round-robin. Not to her, though. Naturally.
The invitation had sent Molly into agonies of choices. After the humiliation of the previous year, she almost didn't want to accept, but if she said no, everyone would think she was still embarrassed. So she said yes, but the problem was, everyone would be thinking about the previous year. It was a Catch-22. If she dressed up again, it would be even more of a reminder of what had happened; if she didn't, people would think she was too hurt or embarrassed by last time. It was the same with getting a gift for Sherlock. People would notice if she did, and if she didn't. It was a social situation that was impossible to navigate. In the end, after several days of worry, she settled on bringing with her a large tin of chocolates instead of individual presents and to dress in jeans and a nice top. Still, it worried her. The idea of going was only slightly more bearable than the idea of not going.
Yet, in the end, she found herself in Sherlock's flat, on Christmas Eve, and nobody was talking to her. It wasn't that they were deliberately excluding her, she had just gone to the toilet at the wrong moment and conversational groups had formed without her. John and Lestrade were talking about the pub football league, while Mrs Turner from next door was gossiping with Mrs Hudson about people that the other one didn't know, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Sherlock, as usual, was ignoring everybody, sitting at the table, looking over some document. Molly's attempts to engage him in conversation had failed so absolutely that she knew he must have been thinking about last year because he had none of the easiness he had with her in the morgue. She put up with this for some time, but no-one spoke to her, no-one noticed her discomfort or how out of the loop she was. She was bored, but worse than that, she was starting to feel lonely; and loneliness at a party was the worst kind. She would rather go back to her flat and her cat and watch Christmas films to fill the place with sound that wasn't exactly talking to her either, but was at least meant to be listened in on. Her mind made up, she said her goodbyes, assured Mrs Hudson she didn't need to see her out and went downstairs.
One thing Molly hated about winter was how long it took to leave anywhere because of all the layers you had to get on; coat, scarf and gloves. She was buttoning her coat when she heard someone coming downstairs. To her surprise, it was Sherlock; looking furtively behind him as he came. He seemed awkward, almost nervous.
"Um… are you alright?" Molly asked.
"Yes." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I wanted to give you this. I'm sorry it's not wrapped, but…" He trailed off and thrust a box at her. Mystified, she took it, unable to deny her heart was racing a little. Sherlock had got her a present. Unfortunately, when she looked at what she had in her hands, her joy would soon turn to mortification.
It was an unopened pack of disposable rubber gloves, just like the ones she used at work every day, and the ones Sherlock used in his own examinations. It seemed obvious what had happened. After she had come downstairs, John had probably told Sherlock he had to give her a present to make up for the year before, and this was the best Sherlock could lay his hands on in the few seconds available to him, a box of gloves from his supply. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, ashamed still at the humiliation of last year. Sherlock was hovering, obviously uncomfortable but waiting for her to speak.
"I hope they're alright." He blurted.
"No, no, they're wonderful, thank you." Molly said, forcing herself to smile. Then she realised something odd. The gloves were a different brand to the ones she used at work. Not that it would make any difference to what was inside, but they were made by a different company. Sherlock, however, used the same brand as she did, she knew he did, because he always made her steal them from the St Bart's supply cupboard for him. Her smile became genuine as she realised what it meant.
Sherlock must have gone out and bought these, for her, specifically; using what he knew best about her: her work, where the one-size-supposedly-fits-all gloves were too long for her fingers. He must have noticed, because this brand obviously came in sizes, and these were small. He had thought about it, he must have really thought about her and what to get her. True, it was a fairly awful present- no girl wants disposable gloves for Christmas, especially not when it seemed to suggest their work was the most important thing about them- but Molly didn't care. She couldn't stop smiling. The gloves meant the world to her.
"Good. Merry Christmas." Sherlock said, and beat a hasty retreat back upstairs.
Molly wanted to follow, she really did. She could hear them laughing upstairs, probably teasing Sherlock. She stood at the bottom, trying to make herself brave the mockery, to go back up and say she didn't have to leave after all. Unfortunately, she just wasn't brave enough, and after listening to the sounds of those inside for another minute, she went out into the cold, back to her empty flat, where she had to turn on all the lights for herself because there was nobody else there.
She put the box of gloves on her bedside table. She wanted to see them when she woke up on Christmas morning and remember that someone, at least, had thought of her a little; as much as he could, anyway.