"Ah, Molly. Just the person I was looking for." Sherlock strode through the lab with a smile on his face and a folder in his hand.
"Busy, Sherlock," Molly responded, never looking up from the microscope. "I know you need analysis of this soil sample for the Hutchinson case, I'm almost there."
"The Hutchinson case? I solved that an hour ago, Molly. It's irrelevant, now I need your help." Molly stood up, and ran her hand down her face in exasperation. She'd been working on this blasted sample for a good part of her morning.
Well, thought Molly. There's a day wasted.
With a deep sigh, Molly Hooper plastered a smile on her face. "Well, I suppose I'm free now. What do you need?"
Sherlock smiled shyly at her. Ever since she'd asked the same question before his Fall, those four words held more meaning. It was their own little moment, and Molly's smile became a genuine one.
"A while back you assisted me by calculating ideal alcohol intakes for John Watson's stag night. I will need your help in this type of matter once again." He dropped the file onto the counter, just out of her reach.
"Ah, yes. My practical experience, as you called it. I still think that a graduate chemist should be able to figure this out on his own," she teased. "So another pub crawl then?"
"No, not this time. I have amends to make to this- well, a very important person. It's imperative that I impress them, so I want to take them somewhere special. Do you have any recommendations?"
John Watson. Who else could it be? Unless...
"Sherlock, are you... going on a date?" Molly tried to ask the question confidently, but only barely got through without stuttering. She tried to smile, but couldn't meet the detective's eye.
He seemed hesitant."Not sure. It's never really been my area." Sherlock took out his mobile and began texting.
Molly wasn't sure what to say to that. She just knew she had to change the subject.
"So, recommendations. Well, if you want some place very impressive I've heard about a bar in Millbank Tower, supposed to have lovely views of the city. Perhaps they'd like that."
"But you've not been there yourself?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from the screen.
"No, it's a bit swankier than my normal choice of pub."
He met her eyes at that, and she could have sworn he was deducing her. The silence was broken by a ding from Sherlock's phone.
"Mycroft has secured the reservation." He slid the near-forgotten file toward her. "Thank you, Molly. I hope the calculations don't give you too much trouble," and with a curt nod he walked away.
"Just tell your friend not to add shots and mess up my numbers," she called after him with a laugh.
Well, whoever you are, you're in for a treat, she thought, opening the file folder, and half expecting to see the good doctor's face once again, taped onto Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, as she had when she'd done these calculations last time. She'd had a good chuckle at the image then.
But this was no laughing matter.
Because there was only one page in this file. It was the center image from Botticelli's The Birth of Venus, but it had been, well- personalized. Molly's Hooper's face was there, where that of Venus should have been. Molly thought she couldn't be more shocked until she read the familiar, spidery handwriting at the bottom of the page:
I'll meet you at your flat, 8pm.
B.Y.O.B. (Bring your own Beaker)