A/N: Thank you for all your nice words! They made me so happy! Just though you know: There won't be any updates in at least 3 weeks, because I'm gonna be abroad. Have a great time and I'm looking forward reading you again when I'm back!

The Job

When Molly awoke on Saturday morning, Sherlock Holmes was gone. Of course he was. He always was gone on the next morning, as if he had never been there in the first place. Molly knew that, but still she could not shake off the little pang of disappointment she felt every time when she woke up alone in her flat after another night on the couch. She stretched and yawned while Toby looked up at her from his place on the chair with expectant eyes, hoping to be fed now that his mistress was awake.

After having fed her beloved pet, Molly sat at the kitchen table having breakfast. While sipping her coffee she thought about the night before. It all seemed like a blur of weird incidents colliding into each other. At first her attempt at having a one-night stand (why did she do that again?), being interrupted by the one and only consulting detective, having a conversation with him about the relation of high IQ and good sex (she felt herself blushing alone thinking about it) and then he had asked her out on a ball at the Austrian Embassy. Well, he had not really asked her out. He had wanted to pay her to accompany him. He had emphasized that it was "strictly business." Was that true? Of course it was! This was Sherlock Holmes after all! She sighed deeply and stared into her now empty mug, as if it would turn into a crystal ball and answer all her questions. Not much to her surprise it did not, but the noise coming from her mobile, indicating a new text, interrupted her thoughts. She opened the text feed and read the message:

Your dress will be delivered in the afternoon. You've got an appointment at Réné's at noon. A car will pick you up at 7.30. Don't be late. SH

Molly stared dumbfounded at the device in her hand. He was getting her a dress? He had made an appointment at the most expensive hairdresser in town and there was a car going to pick her up? Although her inner feminist screamed how high-handed his behaviour was, she could not help the smile that was creeping onto her face. He had arranged all of this for her? Granted, his text was phrased like a military command, but most of his texts were like that. She had stopped being affronted by it a long time ago.

Another text appeared on the screen:

See you later! SH

The pathologist chuckled when she read it. Obviously someone was trying to make an effort. She contemplated what she could text back. This was far more than she had expected. This was more than she had expected a "normal" man doing, yet alone Sherlock Holmes. She had no illusion that the main part of why he did it was out of selfish reasons: He didn't trust her enough to come to the event appropriately dressed and styled. And she had to admit that he was probably right. She had no idea what kind of dress one wears on such occasions, nor did she even possess such a dress. Could she even afford a hairstyling at Réné's? How did Sherlock get an appointment on such short notice? She could not accept him paying for the hairdresser, the dress, the car, ... Could she? He definitely had enough money (judging from his own clothes) and it would only be a small payback for what she always did for him, but still it did not feel right. Molly did not do all the things for him, because she expected something from him. (Well, maybe she expected a "thank you" or a proposal, but that was only in her fantasy) So what should she text back? "Thank you, but I can take care of myself." No, that would be rude – and a lie as well. "Oh Sherlock I can't believe you did this for me. Thank you so much!" That was way too much... Molly was not sure if this was the time for panicking, but given the circumstances it probably was. How could one silly text be such an obstacle? She took a deep breath and texted back:
Thank you! (she deleted the exclamation mark three times, replaced it with a full stop and then went back to using an exclamation mark again) I'll be on time. See you then, Molly

She hit the "send" button and repeated the mantra of the day in her head:strictly business, strictly business, strictly ...

It was a rare occasion that Molly Hooper thought herself to be beautiful, yet alone pretty. She was not vain, and she knew she did not look like what was generally considered as a classic beauty. But tonight she felt like she was beautiful, or at least pretty.
Réné had made her look like a model. The instant she had hesitantly walked into the hair salon, he had known who she was and had treated her like she was the Queen herself. He had complimented her how wonderful thick hair she had and that he would make her shine like a star tonight. And he had not promised too much. Her hair was swept up into a fancy bun and some strands were loosely framing her face. Thanks to Réné's makeup artist Marie, her skin looked flawless and the slight green of the eye shadow highlighted her brown eyes. The lipstick was a dark red and she was sure that not even Sherlock Holmes could argue now that her lips were too small.

The dress he had gotten for her was gorgeous. It was a strapless floor-length emerald gown that hugged her figure perfectly in just the right places, but still was the perfect mixture between playful and elegant. He even had thought about the matching shoes, awfully expensive looking earrings and a clutch.

Dressed like that Molly Hooper stood on the pavement in front of her building waiting for the car to arrive. She was nervous, of course, but she had practised her "strictly business"-mantra the whole day, and was determined to expect nothing from tonight. She would just try to keep Sherlock from insulting of shooting someone. And she knew from experience that that was anything but an easy task.

At 7.30 sharp a black limousine stopped in front of her. The back door opened, and a well known baritone voice commanded from the inside, "Get in. We don't want to be late."

Molly looked around in the limousine. She had never seen one from the inside before. Sherlock noticed her expression and said, "I think it's posh."
She turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"The limousine. I think it's posh and too much."
She frowned. "Then why do we go by limousine?"
He drew a face. "Remember originally this should have been Mycroft's job?"
She nodded.
"Well, I want to make my big brother proud."
Now it was Molly's turn to draw a face. "Sure."
"All those silly people go there by limousine, so we don't really have a choice."
Molly shrugged. "I like it. I don't think this dress is made for going by motorbike."
His lips actually curved into a small smile.
The rest of the car ride was spent in companionable silence.

When they finally had made it past the security check ("Sorry, I almost did not recognize you without the deerstalker, Mr Holmes.") and left their coats in the cloakroom, Molly had a chance to look at Sherlock properly. He was dresses in a tuxedo and looked absolutely handsome. It took all the strength she had in herself not to stare at him open mouthed drooling.
Sherlock on the other hand gave her a quick once over and stated, "I knew the dress would suit you."
She figured this was his way of telling her she looked pretty. At least that was what she decided for herself.
"Thank you," she mumbled in a meek voice. "I really love the dress. It's beautiful."
"Good." He nodded and went straight into the main hall expecting her to follow him, obviously.
When she caught up with him, he was standing at the bar ordering two glasses of champagne. She took the moment he was occupied with talking to the bar tender to have a look around. The exterior had already been impressive – the embassy being a white building from the 19th century on Belgrave Square – but the interior was stunning. The main hall was decorated with yellow flower arrangements. There was golden moulding on the ceiling and some giant oil paintings on the walls. A small orchestra was playing in the corner and some couples swayed gracefully on the dance floor. Others were standing around, chatting and drinking. The women were all wearing expensive looking long dresses and jewellery and the men tuxedos. She had never been on such an event before and she was getting more nervous by the minute, not sure if she would be able to fulfil her task of being Sherlock's graceful plus one.

Said man turned to her and handed her a glass of champagne. She took it with shaking hands and hoped – against better judgement – he would not notice. If he did he chose to ignore it and raised his glass. At first it looked like he wanted to say some kind of toast, but then he seemed to think better of it and only let theirs glassed meet with a soft "cling". Sherlock took a sip and she did the same, hoping that the alcohol would calm her down a bit.

The consulting detective was scanning the crowd when he suddenly said, "We still haven't talked about your payment."
Molly almost chocked on her drink. She had totally forgotten about that. She stared at him, but his gaze was still directed at the other people surrounding them.
She cleared her throat and looked down into her glass, watching the bubbles in the liquid making its way to the surface. "Sherlock, I really don't think that is necessary. I mean... you've already paid for the dress, the hairdresser, the limousine, ... It's too much already." She looked up hesitantly.
He turned away from the crowd and looked hard at her. "No it is not."
She was confused. The way he had said it irritated her. "What do you mean?"
He took another sip of champagne and his face was again devoid of any expression when he asked, "I hope everything was to your liking at Réné's?"
Molly knew all too well that he had changed the topic on purpose, but she had known Sherlock long enough to know not to push him. Therefore she joined in on his attempt at small talk.
"It was perfect, really. Everyone has been so nice to me. And Réné was so sweet. He is probably the gayest guy I've ever met; a walking cliché. I really liked him."
"I've sent John there one day to get a haircut." Sherlock smiled devilishly.
Molly's eyes widened and she grinned. "No you did not!?"
"Yes. He did not talk to me for three days after he had lectured me that he was NOT gay."
They both chuckled and had another sip.
Something had been on Molly's mind the whole day, so she asked, "How did you get an appointment at Réné's on such short notice? Is he another one of your former clients?"
The smile had left Sherlock's face and his attention was back on the crowd again. "I made the appointment well ahead of time."
"But how could you? You couldn't know that I would be going with you."
Sherlock shrugged. "I did know."
Molly put one hand on her hip. "What if I'd had other plans for tonight?"
He looked at her with his trade mark don't-be-ridiculous-stare. "You did not, I checked. And even if you did, you would have cancelled them to come with me."
She hated that he was right. That self-righteous bastard!

Since Molly did not know what to repeat to that she was glad when a tall man with grey hair walked up to them and greeted the consulting detective by stretching out his hand and saying, "Oh Herr Holmes, wie schön Sie zu sehen! Und wer ist Ihre bezaubernde Begleitung, wenn ich fragen darf?"
They shook hands and the man looked expectantly at Molly.
"Herr Friedrichs das ist Doktor Molly Hooper," Sherlock introduced her (of course he could speak German, why was Molly not surprised…) and then explained to her, "Molly this is Mr Bernhard Friedrichs, he is the ambassador's brother and tonight's host."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Friedrichs."
"The pleasure is all mine", he assured her with a thick German – no Austrian – accent and kissed her hand. Molly almost snickered at his antics.
"The ball is wonderful, Mr Friedrichs," Molly complimented the host. He seemed very flattered by her statement, because he seemed to stand a little taller.
"Thank you. And if I may say so: I would not have given Mr Holmes the credit of having such lovely company." Molly blushed, but out of the corners of her eyes she could see Sherlock shooting daggers at the man. If it had not been Sherlock Holmes, she would have guessed he was jealous. Mr Friedrichs turned to the consulting detective again. "Es freut mich, dass Sie es persönlich geschafft haben. Ich dachte, Mycroft würde Sie vertreten?"
Sherlock's face was again set into a neutral expression. "Nach all dem was Sie für mich getan haben…"
Mr Friedrichs nodded and pat Sherlock on the back, which the consulting detective did not seem to like at all. An uncomfortable silence settled. Neither of them knew what to say. Sherlock because of his lack of experience with small talk (or his refusal to participate in it) and Mr Friedrichs because he sensed that Sherlock was more or less done with talking, but did not really know how to excuse himself. Therefore it was left to Molly to do something. And luckily she had an idea. In a bold move she grabbed Sherlock's arm and put on her best whining tone, "Sherlock, you've promised me a dance."
Sherlock did not seem to get it at first and looked at her hand on his arm incredulously. It hardly ever happened that Molly Hooper touched him on her own accord, because she knew he abhorred physical touch. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not fast, so he caught up on her plan after a few seconds. He laid his hand over hers on his arm and looked her in the eyes.
"Oh yes, sure."
He looked back to Mr Friedrichs for a second, "Wenn Sie uns entschuldigen würden?"
Mr Friedrichs nodded in understanding, clearly relieved. "Aber natürlich." And then added in Molly's direction, "It was nice to have met you, Dr Hooper. Take care of him. We don't want him to jump off a roof again, do we?" He winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Don't worry, Mr Friedrichs." And then Sherlock put down their glasses onto the counter and pulled her away towards the dance floor.

"What are you doing?" Molly whispered when he was still not letting go of her, pulling her between the dancing couples.
"Dancing, obviously."
Molly looked around a bit frantic. "I just said that to get you away from that man." She still kept her voice down without really knowing why.
"I know. But wouldn't it look suspicious if we went away to dance and then don't dance at all. What would he think?"
"Since when do you care what other people think?"
Sherlock came to a halt and without further ado pulled Molly into closed position – one hand around her waist, the other holding hers - and started to move in time with the music. Molly was so taken aback by his actions that she could not do anything else but follow his lead. And she found it easy to follow, because Sherlock obviously knew what he was doing; he was a brilliant dancer. Sherlock seemed to sense her surprise about his dancing skills and smirked. "You didn't think I could dance."
"No, I mean yes, I..." She remembered that he had advised her not to stammer tonight, but it was hard to form a coherent sentence when he was oh so close, holding her like they did this on a regular basis. His hand on the small of her back was sending shivers down her spine and she hoped desperately that he would not notice. She gulped and started again, "I didn't think you were such a good dancer."
"Well, you're not so bad yourself." He tightened the hold on her waist in order to spin them faster, as the tempo of the waltz sped up. They glided over the dance floor quite gracefully and Molly felt her nervousness drain away with the wonderful music, and she relaxed into Sherlock's embrace. He seemed to feel her change in posture, because something akin to contentment settled over his features.

The next waltz was slower and Molly thought they would leave the dance floor, but Sherlock made no attempt to do so. Instead they continued to dance. Not that she minded...
Since they both seemed to feel comfortable, she dared to ask, "This Mr Friedrichs, did he help you during your time away?" Molly never referred to his absence after the fall as "your death". He may have been dead to the world, but not to her. He rarely talked about his time dismantling Moriarty's network, and she hardly ever asked. Somehow it was a sore spot – for both of them.
Sherlock's hold on her hand tightened just the slightest bit, but she noticed. He looked at her for a couple of turns, clearly considering how much he should reveal to he, until he asked a question of his own, "Why do you think so?"
Molly shrugged – or tried to do so, because shrugging properly was not so easy while waltzing. "I don't know... The way he referred to you jumping off a roof, I guess." Sherlock nodded, staring on a stop behind her head, as he was once again reminded, that Molly Hooper was way more observant than most people gave her credit for.
The pathologist was almost sure that he would not say anything else on the topic, when he finally answered her earlier question, "Yes, he helped me get to Austria, where I worked for some time."
Molly knew that "worked" was probably a euphemism for: killed someone.
"I see," was all she could think of saying.

They danced again for some time without speaking, when Sherlock said out of the blue, "I've thought about what you said yesterday."
Molly could not follow. "About what?"
Sherlock sighed dramatically, as if he expected her to read his thoughts and explained, "About the fact that the level of the IQ has nothing to do with how good the sex is. And I think you're wrong."
"What?!" The petite pathologist was so surprised by his statement that she stumbled a bit and stepped onto Sherlock's left foot. He tried his best to keep his face from contorting in pain and her from falling, put he could not prevent them from colliding with another dancing couple who shot daggers at them, before they continued to dance. Molly and Sherlock remained standing and Molly stepped out of his embrace. The other dancers swayed past them, clearly not liking that there was someone standing in the middle of the dance floor.
Sherlock cleared his throat before he went on to explain why he thought her logic was false, "Someone who is more intelligent is a better learner and might find it easier to find out what you prefer in bed and hence could satisfy you better."
Molly's eyes were as big as saucers and she was more proud of herself than ever for not stumbling over her next sentence. "We're not really having this conversation, are we?"
The consulting detective's voice clearly showed that he found nothing abnormal about his choice of topic. "Why do you feel uncomfortable about it? You were to one who started this conversation in the first place."
"Me?! When?" Her voice was a bit louder this time and a couple waltzing by gave her the death-stare.
"When you've told me that you and Tom were having quite a lot of sex."
Molly turned crimson, remembering the incident. "That was a totally different conversation all together."
"Isn't every conversation a built up from another conversation of the same topic?" he reasoned.
Molly shook her head. "Even if it were so: It was ages ago and a whole different context."
He huffed. "It was not ages ago. But you're right, the context was different, namely no context at all. You just told me, out of the blue. I still don't know why you did." He drew his eyebrows together like he was thinking about it.
"Even if every conversation was a built up from another one, you can't apply your theory to this." She made an expansive gesture with her hands.
"Why not?" The wrinkle between his eyebrows became deeper.
"Because I'm sure you can't remember every conversation we've ever had. You've probably deleted most of them," said with triumph in her voice.
Sherlock sighed. His eyes scanned the room and Molly had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding her gaze. It felt weird, because normally it was the other way round. She was quite sure she had put an end to this conversation, when she heard Sherlock mumble, "I've deleted some, but I've restored most of them."
Molly was taken aback yet again. "You've restored them?"
Finally he met her eyes. "Yes, while I was away. I was... bored."
The last word was spoken so low that it was almost inaudible over the music. She knew he had been tempted to use another word, but had changed his mind in the last second. There was something in his eyes that Molly could not quite place. It reminded her of the look he had worn when she had seen him leaving the Watson wedding. And again she just wanted to hug him and tell him that he was not alone and that things had not changed for the worse, but for the better. But before Molly could think of a way how to proceed without embarrassing herself and making Sherlock uncomfortable, the waltz had ended and the people around them were clapping. The consulting detective seemed to remember that they were in the middle of the dance floor, but had stopped dancing a while ago. So he took Molly by the arm and guided her to the far end of the room, mumbling, "I need some fresh air." The pathologist did what she always did: she followed him.

A/N: The Austrian Embassy being in Belgravia is not a reference, but it really is situated at Belgrave Square – what a funny coincidence isn't it? ;-)

And here's the translation of the German sentences:
"Oh Herr Holmes, wie schön Sie zu sehen! Und wer ist Ihre bezaubernde Begleitung, wenn ich fragen darf?" – „Oh Mr Holmes, how nice to see you! And who is your lovely company, if I may ask?"

"Herr Friedrichs das ist Doktor Molly Hooper." – „Mr Friedrichs this is Dr Molly Hooper." (That one was quite obvious, wasn't it?)

"Es freut mich, dass Sie es persönlich geschafft haben. Ich dachte, Mycroft würde Sie vertreten?" - „I'm glad you could make it yourself. I thought Mycroft would represent you?"

"Nach all dem was Sie für mich getan haben…" – „After everything you did for me…"

"Wenn Sie uns entschuldigen würden?" – „If you'll excuse us?"

„Aber natürlich." – „But of course."