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Sherlock waited in the lab, rocking on his heels. He disliked waiting for Molly to clock in, but he did promise to stop breaking into the lab. He could hear her coming down the hall, laughing.
"What on earth is this?!"
"It occurs that you are rarely thanked for all the hogwash you deal with, especially when it comes to my baby brother, dear as he is to me. I've taken it upon myself to thank you. It is a good deal less than you deserve, but until Anthea tells me she has secured a more appropriate gift, the social norm of chocolates and flowers will have to suffice,"
"Oh, they're beautiful; no one ever gets me flowers!"
Sherlock stared through the partition glass to Molly's office doorway, horrified as she rose on tiptoe, pressing Mycroft's cheek, hugging him outright.
"And quite suitable for you," Mycroft looked…jovial. The fatty. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. Seeing Molly in John's bathrobe was bad enough. Seeing Molly accepting gifts and bleeding flowers (roses, please, something less cliché for god's sake, brother) from Mycroft of all people, and kissing him was infinitely worse! It was all too much. He turned away, sick in his heart, he found his lock-pick and headed for the lab.
"Honestly though, I'm always glad to help Sherlock," Molly said. Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella against his shoe, pausing in thought before he regarded her.
"You love him still, don't you?" Her smile was warm, although a little sheepish.
"Hang me but I do,"
"Love is not a hanging offence, unfortunately," Mycroft sighed. "However if there is anything I can do to help-" his phone beeped. "Do let me know- excuse me a moment," he picked up his phone and Molly turned to set the flowers on her desk, smiling at the fresh blooms. Mycroft frowned at his phone, re-reading the message. "Doctor Hooper…Anthea informs me she has an idea, and if you are quite willing to go along with it, I think we may be able to help with your predicament regarding Sherlock."
The Savoy 8PM sharp
Sherlock was hardly amazed at the ease of fooling people into thinking he was an employee. You would think a restaurant would know its staff. None-the-less, he easily nicked someone's tie, glasses and a stack of menus. From where he stood, he could easily see Molly at a corner table by the window. She wore a rich green silk frock, her make-up had been done with extra care, and her hair had obviously been styled at a salon. She checked her phone, looking around the restaurant quickly, and then nervously glancing out the window. Sherlock almost felt sorry for her. God help Mycroft if he stood up his pathologist. It would be bad enough that he dated it, worse still if he broke her heart! Sherlock made his way over to the table.
"Where is your date?" he asked quietly and she jumped in her seat, clearly startled.
"Sherlock don't do that!" she pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
""If I may offer you some advice, Molly, before you set your hopes on my brother, may I suggest you don't?" Sherlock said, tugging the tie off and tossing it over his shoulder. He pulled out the chair by her and sat down.
"I haven't set my hopes on him," she said with a shrug.
"What? Yes you have. I followed you. He presented you with flowers and chocolate, standard gift of a new beau, and clearly the cliché gift, a standard fallback when Mycroft doesn't know what to do. You also embraced him-"
"I kissed his cheek-"
"And put your arms around him-"
"It was a hug!"
"You hug all your friends with that much affection?"
"What?" Molly was baffled.
"You leaned in, applying pressure on upper torso rather than arms, implying a more carnal desire-"
"What?!"
"I'm only pointing out what I observed," he sniffed. "Meanwhile, he's appallingly late, you'll have to get used to that if you're going to be involved with him,"
"Sherlock,"
"When you're the wife of the British Government, you'll have to get used to many late, lo-o-o-nely nights, in fact-"
"Sherlock,"
"How do you feel about cold, empty beds, and no children? Also no cats, your Mycroft is allergic,"
"Would you care for something to drink?" the waiter appeared, interrupting Sherlock.
"Yes," Molly said, relieved at the distraction. "Thank you, my date is here now." Sherlock did a double-take, staring. "I'd like a glass of the M de Minuty."
"And for you sir?" Sherlock was still frowning, confused.
"What?" he asked Molly, who glanced from him to the waiter.
"Um, he'll have a glass of the Chablis St. Martin."
"Very good," the waiter collected the wine list and left them.
"What did you say?" Sherlock asked finally.
"I said you'd have a-"
"Not the wine!" Sherlock spluttered.
"I said my date arrived."
"He never showed up."
"Didn't he?" Molly asked, puzzled. "Unless I'm hallucinating, I think I'm sitting next to him right now."
"I'm your date?"
"For a usually brilliant man, you're particularly slow this evening, Sherlock," Molly said with a laugh. "Yes!"
From a black car outside the restaurant, Anthea watched.
"Are they through yet?"
"It's rather rude of him to go kissing your date, but to be fair, she initiated that kiss," she commented. Mycroft made a face, reaching for his phone. "You dare text them, I'll throw your phone," Anthea ordered. In a few moments Sherlock and Molly exited the restaurant arm-in-arm. Mycroft tapped on the privacy glass and the car pulled away from the curb. "Why don't you take me out?" Anthea asked. Mycroft frowned.
"What for?" Anthea shrugged.
"Right, silly question," she folded her arms across her middle. "I wouldn't have time tonight anyway, I've got an early start for my luncheon with Harry." Mycroft looked up from his mobile.
"What?"
"With Harry," Anthea said. "I have to get an early start, it's to do with planning another tour for UNICEF. It takes me ages you know, I do try and look nice-"
"Stop the car," Mycroft called. The driver obeyed and Anthea had to catch herself from falling. Mycroft climbed out, giving Anthea his hand.
"Where are we going?"
"To dinner," Mycroft answered smartly.
"We are?"
"Yes," there was a glint in Mycroft's eye that Anthea wasn't sure if she was proud of putting there or not (proud more than likely). "And you shall be wooed."
"Oh how very chivalrous of you," slipping her arm in his, heading back into the Savoy.