~ A Grateful Heart ~

For the 'Thanksgiving' prompt

Caught up in Lestrade's case, Sherlock had texted to let Molly know he'd meet her at Angelo's, and had dispatched a cab to pick her up at the appointed hour. Now, having become strangely nervous in the twenty minutes he'd been waiting for her at the restaurant, he felt his pulse quicken further as Molly finally entered the door. He'd secured a table in a candlelit corner toward the back, and now rose to his feet and did his best (which was always very good indeed) to shield himself with an air of nonchalance as she made her way toward him.

Alone protects me.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

A frisson of confusion and anger tugged at him, as it had all too often of late, at the knowledge that those aphorisms, while useful to him in a certain sense, were basically lies. Mycroft had drummed them into him to start with, ever fearful for his little brother, but eventually they'd been thoroughly absorbed into Sherlock's own bizarre and pervasive persona.

Sherlock Holmes: bloody coward.

She was looking amazing he thought as she walked toward him. Quite beautiful. She was wearing a simple A-line, cocktail length frock of what looked like silk brocade, a deep color with a subtle pattern that caught the faint light… aubergine? - he could not help smiling at that, remembering how fond she'd been of that shirt he'd had in a similar color, now, alas, destroyed (interesting cases were hard on clothing); black kitten heels, close-toed but thin and strappy and not really suited to the January weather - his smile faded slightly; the oval locket on a silver chain that had been passed down to her (he remembered the first time he'd seen her wear it, several years ago, shortly after her grandmother's death, and recalled with relief that he had sincerely (if somewhat awkwardly) expressed his condolences on her loss); and a silver clip that secured one side of her hair, which was otherwise loose, falling in graceful waves about her shoulders.

And beyond her unusually stylish attire, there was that fond and familiar light in her eyes.

He swallowed hard, all too aware that he was not only a bloody coward, but thoroughly unworthy of… of what he knew Molly felt for him.

She smiled and, as she reached him, held out her hand, just a little shyly. "Hello, Sherlock," she said, her voice breathy. Nervous, just as he was.

He took her small hand in his and laid on the boyish charm. "Hello, Molly. Ready to give me a scold?"

She blushed (of course), and said, with some diffidence, "What else can I do when you keep hacking my phone?"

"Accept the fact that there is information I must have and just get on with it?" But he softened the flippancy of this retort by raising her hand, bending, and lightly kissing the backs of her slim fingers. The nails were short, as always, but pearly, neatly manicured. She gave a tiny gasp as his lips brushed her skin, and a grin pulled at one side of his mouth as he straightened and squeezed her hand. "Sit down, then, and fire away - though God knows hacking your phone is the least of my sins."

She laughed a little as she took the chair he politely pulled out for her, and said, as he joined her, "Well, I'm hardly going to rant at you when you've finally asked me out to dinner after all these years. What… what suddenly possessed you?"

Some of his mask fell away at this startling piece of honesty. A series of scenes flashed through his head: her eyes watching him with trepidation as he embarked upon his speech at John's wedding; the haze and pain (far more psychic than physical) as, furious and hurt, she'd slapped him after that drugs test in her lab (three times, sharp, surprisingly loud in the silence, no more than he'd expected - or deserved) ; moments of the many hours she'd spent by his side after he'd been shot, her tender care and quiet, easy company a healing balm in itself; her furrowed brow or shouts of laughter as she'd sat opposite him playing Operation after he'd come home to 221B - so much more entertaining than Mycroft's pitiful efforts; that slender hand brushing the hair back from his forehead the day he'd suddenly spiked a fever again; cups of tea and biscuits; chattering away with Mrs. Hudson; listening to her breathe as he lay beside her in her bed, after he'd resumed his practice of using her flat as a bolthole, not long before Christmas, the final confrontation with Magnussen creeping inexorably closer; her fierce, brief hug and her tearful "Happy New Year," when he'd gone to see her after being released, free as a bird, from Whitehall, - no questions, though he suspected she knew more than she let on, just joy that he was back among the living.

He realized, suddenly, that he'd been "mind-palacing" a bit, as John would put it, and cleared his throat. "There's no suddenly about it," he said, rather gruffly. "I… um… the timing just never seemed quite right."

She raised one brow slightly. "I suppose not. It does now, though?"

He stared at her again, aware of his heart thudding beneath his bespoke jacket and his elegant, form-fitting £200 shirt. Lord he might as well be a grubby and hopelessly gauche fifteen year old again. "Molly... " he began, slowly...

But then she chuckled, and reached across to lightly cover his hand where it lay (fisted, white-knuckled!) on the tablecloth. "No, never mind, it doesn't matter. I mean it does, but I'm just so happy to be here. Let's not spoil it. Let's pretend everything's fine - comfortable - and it will be!" She sat back, releasing his hand, and smiled. "Now tell me about the case. How did it all turn out?"

The thought occurred to him that, if angels existed they would undoubtedly look exactly like Margaret Elizabeth Hooper.

It was hard not to be overwhelmed by relief, affection, and, above all, thanks, but Sherlock, for all he was a coward, was also a man of great ability. He therefore took a deep breath and said, "Well… since you ask…" and launched into a detailed account of the seven (bordering on eight) that Lestrade had brought to him that morning (he stammered, just briefly, at the beginning, as he recalled the sight of Molly dressed in her yoga attire), desiring nothing more in that blissful moment than to please and obey.

~.~