Written as a request from strawberrypatty (Emcee Frodis) on tumblr, who requested Sherlock and Molly on a date with dancing. It started out as a fluff ficlet and yeah, this happened.
I might continue this as a drabble collection series while I work on my other bigger Sherlolly/Doctor Who crossover. R/R's are nice! :)
Owning Sherlock? Not really my area. That's more Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sue Vertue and the lovely folks at the BBC.
Do you know those days at work where everything just randomly decides to go wrong? Not in any special out-of-the-ordinary apocalyptic kind of wrong; just ordinary annoyance wrong. Co-workers are more grating than usual, the workload never seems to decrease, and no matter how many times you look, the break room is always out of coffee.
Molly Hooper was having one of those days. But all frustrating days have to end sometime, like this one was going to in exactly 6 minutes and 23 seconds, according to the clock on the wall of the coroners lab. She sighs deeply in relief as she shuts the cooler door on her last body of the day. She is more than ready to leave for a night of comfortable pjyamas, leftover thai and a Downton Abbey DVR marathon with Toby curled up in her lap.
At least she was, until Sherlock Holmes sails in through the double doors, in full, ridiculously swishy coated regalia carrying of all things…a garment bag?
"Ahh Molly, just the person I wanted to see." he says cheerily in his "I'm-being-uncharacteristically-nice-and-pleasant-because-I-want something-from-you" voice. Which Molly knows, of course; but that doesn't stop it from always making her go completely tongue-tied.
"O-Oh, Sherlock!" she starts, twisting her fingers together. "Sorry; I was about to clock out; can it wait until the next shift comes round?"
"I'm afraid that this is something that only you can help me with Dr. Hooper."
'So body parts then.' she concludes mentally; as she wonders how many rules she would have to break this time. Last week her department supervisor had almost caught her sneaking the left feet Sherlock had borrowed back into the morgue; honestly, now is not the time for her to be risking her job; rent's due next Thursday and-
"Go on a date with me."
Molly's mind goes completely blank as her ears catch those six words that fall nonchalantly from Sherlock's mouth.
"Sorry…what?"
He rolls his eyes in the way that he does when he found people to be very thick. Which was often. "I want you to accompany me on a date." he enunciates slowly, as if she were having trouble comprehending him, which in fact, is the case.
"You want me" she points at her chest. "To go on a date with you?"
"Yes."
In her heart of hearts, because sod it all, she really does love this arrogant bastard, something hopeful rises, but as he opens his mouth to elaborate, she automatically reroutes her thoughts to "Christ, here comes the other shoe."
But no such shoe drops, metaphorically speaking. Instead what comes out is, "Please wear what is in this garment bag; the appropriate footwear is in the bottom. I'll send a cab to your flat at half six." And with that, he neatly hands off the garment bag to her, turns gracefully on his heels, and walks straight out the doors, firing off two rapid texts; leaving Molly standing there to wonder what in the hell had just happened.
As she catches a cab home, still holding the garment bag, she vaguely realizes that he hadn't given her the chance to say no. Her next, much clearer, and much more alarming thought is, that if he had, she wouldn't have said no.
Only behind the door of her flat is she brave enough to peek into the garment bag; mostly expecting some sort of ridiculous disguise. She knows the score of how this scenario typically works from listening to John down at the pub, on the rare occasions that they and Mike and Greg all go out drinking.
But again, the shoe doesn't drop. Inside is a darkly elegant, slightly 1960's style cocktail dress of rich black satin; with stylishly capped shoulder sleeves and a sweetheart neckline edged in muted silver. Accompanying the dress is sleek pair of black velveted peeptoe pumps. Not the quite as high as the last pair she had worn, but still substantial.
Was this really happening? Was she in some sort of twilight-zone lucid dream where the lines between her fantasies and her realities were not so concrete? Because honestly, what on earth would possess Sherlock bloody Holmes to suddenly grow an ounce of social charm and grace, and more than that, ask her out on a date with no readily visible strings attached?
After spending a good five minutes staring at the dress, willing it to answer her questions, she stands up suddenly, grabbing the loaded hanger, to try it on before she can tell herself not to.
After another minute of fighting with the tiny sideseam zipper, she slowly turns and faces the vanity mirror. It's her Christmas dress. But not her Christmas dress. This dress is poise and polish, whereas that dress had been sparkle and a desperation to show what she could be. This dress is what that "could be" was. It hugged her curves with a sophistication that her Christmas dress had lacked. There was no way that this could be a coincidence. Nothing about Sherlock was ever coincidence.
"He picked this out with me in mind…" she says softly to her reflection. And somehow, that makes it okay.
The cab honks at promptly half six, just as Molly is putting the final touches on her hair; a side swept, simple updo with a single mousey curl spilling out.
Molly walks out to the cab, expecting it to already have directions of where to ferry her. What she does not expect is Sherlock sitting in the far back seat of the cab, dressed sharply in one of his tailored black suits and the aubergine shirt that may or may not have been featured in one or more of Molly's fantasies.
"As I thought, it suits you well." he remarks crisply, giving her an appraising look. "Get in, we have reservations for seven." he says, beckoning her forward with two long violinist fingers.
She climbs into the cab and shuts the door. As it pulls away, she turns to him. "Why are you doing this." She struggles to make it a statement, an imperative; not a question. If there was another shoe that had to drop, she'd rather it drop here in the privacy of a cab than in a public place for of potentially nosy onlookers.
He looks at her strangely. "I thought this is what you wanted. It's obvious that you have a romantic attraction to me; and you have previously vocalized, if in a somewhat clumsy way, that you wish to see me socially in an environment that does not include me asking for use of the morgue and or coffee."
"So you're just, saying yes, four years and one faked death later?" she reasons out slowly, trying wildly to discern whether or not this is an acceptable answer. He gives her a smile; a small, genuine looking one.
"Is that so hard to believe?" he says softly and damn it, Molly's inner suspicions melt, if only a little.
The cab pulls up at some sleek, posh restaurant club in an area of London that Molly has long associated with high income career people, fashion icons, and the social elite with so much money to burn it is ludicrous for Molly to even think about it. Molly has long suspected that Sherlock came from money, but never like this.
She moves to open the door, but is surprised as Sherlock beats her to it, holding out his hand to help her out, which she accepts. he quickly pays the driver, then turns to offer her his arm. "Shall we Dr. Hooper?" he says in that deep, purr-like voice. Molly flushes a delicate pink, and after a second of hesitation, takes it as they walk into the restaurant.
The interior is similar to the exterior, posh, sleek, stylish with warm, muted lighting. The small tables are arranged on an elevated level, overlooking a polished dance floor where a handful of couples dance to the soft music of the presiding jazz ensemble. The maître-d silently leads them to their table. She takes one glance at the menu, which is unintelligible to her, most likely because it is written entirely in French. She sees Sherlock note her confusion, and an order rolls off his tongue in perfect French, because it's Sherlock and of course it's in perfect French and she is wondering all the way through her first glass of wine how a man with so many stereotypical "perfect guy" qualities could succeed in being such a complete prat most of the time.
She half expects the meal to pass in awkward, uncomfortable silence; but only minutes into their first course he suddenly brings up the most recent medical paper she had published; a study on mitochondrial decomposition after death. Not exactly dinner date conversation material, but she's flattered that he's read it, even more so that he's genuinely interested in it. And she can tell when he's being genuine; after watching him for; well ever since he had rudely burst into the lab her first week at Bart's; she knows when he's pretending and when he isn't. And he was most definitely not pretending now.
So Molly smiles, pours herself another glass of wine, asks him about the last case he had solved, and stops waiting for the other shoe to drop; stops waiting for the catch, for the alarm clock to wake her from this dream. Because she's finally on a date with Sherlock Holmes, and she'll be damned if she doesn't enjoy every second of it.
They've just finished their main course when the jazz ensemble strikes up a new strain. She sees Sherlock's eyes shift quickly to the right, then back to her. "Molly," he asks suddenly. "Would you like to dance."
Molly makes a herculean effort to not choke on her water as she flushes six shades of red because oh yes, she very much would like to dance with Sherlock Holmes. She puts down her glass and nods, and follows him to the dance floor. "I'll warn you, I haven't actually, um, formally danced in years." she says as she turns to face him.
'Just follow my lead." he says, one arm snaking firmly across the small of her back as the other finds her hand. Molly's heart is pounding so hard that she is positive he can hear it, but right now she is too happy to even care.
The first two songs are slow, and Molly finds it slightly difficult to keep up with Sherlock's long, graceful steps. She is so focused on her feet that she forgets to look up at Sherlock, and consequently fails to see him furtively scanning the dimly lit crowd of diners. But when the ensemble strikes up a loose, energetic beat Molly is suddenly reminiscent of the swing dancing class she and her med school friend Martha had taken together on a lark. She grins up at Sherlock. "Okay, now it's time for you to follow my lead." she says. He abandons his crowd searching; he's found what he needs. He grins at Molly. "Lead on Dr. Hooper."
And they swing and twirl and jive in perfect sync, eyes locked and grins matching; outshining every other pair on the floor until the song ends and Molly is flushed and breathless as the other dancers politely but warmly applaud them.
They make their way back to their table, where Sherlock asks for the cheque and promptly pays before Molly can even verbalize an offer to cover half the bill. They finish off the last of the wine, and Sherlock checks his watch. "We should be going soon, it's getting quite late." he says, standing up. She follows suit, but is confused because it is barely ten pm and that's not late in the slightest. Nevertheless she takes his arm and allows herself to walk close to him as they exit the restaurant into the mild, summer London night.
Sherlock hails a cab, and as soon as they climb in and he gives the cabbie Molly's address, he swiftly pulls out his phone and sends off a barrage of texts, and suddenly Molly has a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Sherlock?"
He doesn't answer, and that just makes her stomach sink deeper.
"Sherlock." she says evenly, trying to keep as much anger out of her voice as possible, because she knew that this happening had been was a possibility, and she'd spent the better part of the evening trying to ignore it. "Did you ask me out on a date because you're on a case?"
He lays the phone down on his lap and looks at her squarely, ice blue eyes searing. "No." he says firmly.
"I don't believe you." and she childishly grabs the phone out of his lap and opens the sentbox. "Domizov is wearing ruby ring." she reads out, voice shaking only slightly. "If scratches on safety deposit box match scratches on warehouse victim's face; arrest Dozmiov. SH"
"I needed to conduct some reconnaissance."
She laughed bitterly. "So you buy me this beautiful dress, treat me to a ridiculously posh meal and even take me dancing, all for a stakeout."
Molly, I"
"Oh save it Sherlock." she cuts him off, and damnit, she can feel the tears welling already. "Just…save it. I really wanted to believe that this was an honest to God real date, that you were more than what I know you to be, that you were finally seeing me as someone other than the stupid silly coroner who you beg body parts off of! Just once I-"
She's unable to finish, because Sherlock has launched himself from his side of the backseat and is now suddenly kissing her. It is neither long nor extremely hot; but it's enough to shock Molly into silence as he pulls away, which is what he wanted.
"I was compartmentalizing." he says finally. "This particular case required undercover reconnaissance at that particular venue and I reasoned that you would enjoy it much more if you weren't worrying constantly about catching the attention of a mass-murdering Russian mob boss. I was protecting you by keeping you ignorant; if that upsets you then I do apologize." he finishes with a snappish edge in his voice, and Molly clamps her jaw shut and sits back in her seat.
They sit in silence for several minutes. The cab is stopped at a red light when Molly finally turns to him. "Sherlock. I want you to be completely, one hundred percent honest with me. If you didn't have to spy on some mobster, would you still have gone on a date with me?"
His ice blue eyes meet her brown ones unflinchingly and resolutely. he slowly reaches over and gently takes her hand. "Yes. There is no one else I would have rather been with than you, and for what it is worth, I am sorry to have upset you." And he smiles, ever so slightly; but it's soft and genuine and even though she's still a bit angry, she wipes her eyes and smiles at him, because he's Sherlock Holmes, the only man who could ever consolidate his work life and love life and absolutely get away with it.
She leans over and kisses him softly on the cheek. "I'll forgive you on one condition."
He quirks an eyebrow at her.
"The next time we do a stakeout, don't let me swing dance so much that we attract the attention of the entire dinner club. I mean, the whole point of a stakeout is to stay hidden, right?"
He laughs, a deep and throaty chuckle, and before Molly knows it he's kissing her again and oh oh oh she thinks she will thoroughly enjoy dating Sherlock Holmes.
END