"This one is for you, sir."

The bartender slides a scotch across the bar, snapping Benedict back to the noisy, cluttered present. He stares at the drink blankly for a few minutes, completely caught off guard. He looks up at the bartender, asking rather helplessly,

"but…I didn't…order this?"

The man behind the bar chuckles to himself, and then begins to explain, like one would to a confused child,

"Yes, sir, I know. She ordered it for you".

He was pointing down to the other end of the bar. At a woman.

"Oh".

Benedict is aware that he's acting like a basset hound just coming out of anesthesia but he just can't quite make his brain work.

A woman. Scotch. Laughing bartender. That woman.

What.

In his defense, it's been a complete whirlwind of a night. Awards show. Fancy tux. A ride in a shiny car, lots of flashing camera bulbs. He hadn't won but Martin had, and that really was lovely. He wasn't upset about not winning, not in the least—he knew his work on Sherlock was good and he had offers flooding in, but all the same…it was just a bit much. There were so many people to talk to and congratulations to be doled out and interviews to give. And he still had to try and look nice for photos which meant he couldn't lose himself on the sweaty dance floor. Mostly, it was just exhausting and he was wishing he were at home, with a book. Since that wasn't an option, he was taking a breather at the bar with a comforting gin and tonic and now this…this…whoever she was had just ordered him a lovely drink. Now what?

Thankfully his brain kicks into gear in the few seconds of stupor it takes him to gather his wits.

He stands up a little straighter, fusses with his bow tie, and downs the rest of his current drink. As he picks up the scotch, the amber liquid sloshes up the sides, leaving an iridescent film inside the glass. He makes his way over to the woman—the scotch-sender. The interrupter of sulky thoughts. The closer he gets, the more he notices. And what he notices is…wow.

He hasn't really been looking before, not really, not at her; he had mostly just been caught off-guard. But now that he is looking—she is lovely. He would use the word glorious, but she is subtler than that. She has on a deep, deep blue gown. So dark it almost looks black, but it isn't quite navy either—it's richer than that. It has a simple, flowing cut, falling around her body with an ease that makes the dress look like it's part of her. The straps twist around themselves as they make their way around her shoulders, twining together in the back as they meet, with flecks of gold ribbon in the twirled fabric. It's an absolutely marvelous contrast, if he does say so himself, to her golden brown skin, spotted with freckles all down her back and arms. And that's nothing compared to her face. If her dress is the night sky, her face is the North Star. As cheesy as it sounds, even as he thinks it in his head, there's just…no other way to see it.

Her face is almost perfectly symmetrical—but not quite. Which makes it so much more beautiful than it would have been if it were absolutely perfect. The freckles splay across the bridge of button nose that somehow manages to still be elegant, while also being adorable. He meets her eyes and they are liquid, amber pools. Almost the color of sun warmed whiskey, they don't waver from his (now probably too long) stare. As he's been cataloguing her features in his mind these past few seconds, he's been wondering how to start this conversation. After drinking her in, he's determined that the only way to begin is like so: He takes her left hand (tiny in his, but she has long, delicate fingers), sweeps it up to his mouth, places the lightest of kisses on it before murmuring,

"The scotch is almost as lovely as you are. Thank you. To whom do I owe my gratitude?".

At the kissing of her hand she begins to laugh, and it's such a lovely sound. He can still make it out against the clamor of the after party because it's a perfect middle decibel, clear and round. She throws her head back as the laugh escapes her throat, the sinews of her elegant neck standing out as they accommodate her mirth. She has a birthmark behind her ear.

He smiles what he knows is probably a rather goofy smile, and any tension or awkwardness is diffused. Her smile reveals that her mouth is even more beautiful in motion and he watches how her lips move as she says,

"Maggie. Pleasure, Mr.…"

"Cumberbatch. Benedict Cumberbatch. Maggie. Short for…Margaret, perhaps?"

She flushes slightly, the fist ruffle in her countenance he's noticed so far—she mostly seems completely unflappable, confidant and quietly sure of herself.

"Magnolia, actually. It's short for Magnolia."

He's pleasantly surprised, and allows the strange beauty of her name to curve upon his tongue as he speaks it aloud.

"Magnolia. Even more lovely. May I sit? And may I ask, why did you send me a scotch?"

She grins at him devilishly, those gorgeous, full lips pulling over sparkling white canines. She rests her chin on her palm as she leans toward him on the bar

"Because you looked like you were contemplating drowning yourself in the bartender's keg of Guinness. And you're wearing a beautiful suit. In fact, you're just rather beautiful in general."

She throws this out almost as a challenge, to see what he will do. He just calmly returns her gaze, a small smile still in his eyes.

She continues, "I hope you didn't mind me interrupting your reverie".

His voice deepens slightly as he replies

"Not at all. You've saved me from a night of gazing into a ever-emptying glass whilst trying to avoid everyone else in the room."

That clear laugh rings out again, no hint of shyness or self-consciousness in the corners of her eyes.

"Tell me, how did you know if my suit was so 'beautiful', as you put it? I've only recently been honing my sartorial skills—I have a hard time telling Brooks Brothers from Armani".

She's raising her glass to her lips as he confesses this, and almost chokes on the wine as he finishes his sentence.

"Oh my god." She holds her hand to her chest in mock horror, "I don't know if I can be seen with you". She drops the joke and admits "I'm a stylist, that's how I know. And why I'm so horrified at your lack of appreciation for your own gorgeously tailored Steve McQueen".

He likes her. He was pretty sure before, but now he knows for certain. Magnolia. Yes, he likes her very much.