~ Lunch at Rules ~
The Christmas Day snow had turned to slush and mounds of grey where it lingered in what might have seemed, in a sentient entity, passive-aggressive resentment of London's urban heat island; John, Mary, and little Grace had blithely flown off to Tenerife for a holiday in the sun; the criminal classes were currently so subdued that Lestrade had left town as well, attempting yet again to reconcile with his ex wife (a Vain Hope, as even a man of average intelligence should have known, though recent developments featuring the delectable Dr. Hooper made the concept somewhat more understandable); Molly had pronounced Sherlock sufficiently recovered from illness that she could leave (abandon) him to return to work (though thankfully Stamford had been persuaded to finagle the schedule in such a way that she was allowed evenings off), and now Mycroft had shown up and, eschewing strongarm tactics, was attempting to guilt Sherlock into parent-sitting on the morrow.
All in all, it was nearly enough to make Sherlock take to his bed again.
"They miss you, Sherlock. Mummy was distraught when she found out you were too ill to come home for Christmas, after the plans she'd made."
"She sounded fine. I spoke to her that afternoon."
"She would, wouldn't she? But I assure you, there were tears in her eyes as we sat down to dinner."
"Probably because you'd snaffled all the mince tarts. Or did her Yorkshire Pudding fail again?" Their mother was a brilliant mathematician, but strangely inept at cookery other than baking.
"You saw me bring in the plate of tarts she sent for you when I arrived, and I suggest you eat them. You don't look quite as malnourished and bleary-eyed as you did when you were on the sauce, but you're not far from it."
"Thanks."
Mycroft gave him a prim smile and a gimlet eye.. "I've no doubt Dr. Hooper will do her best to fatten you up - one of the few advantages I can see in your liaison."
"It's not a liaison," Sherlock growled.
Mycroft was unperturbed. "No? And yet I perceive that your association has moved beyond the professional and entered… what? Boyfriend/Girlfriend? Though the terms seem rather too innocent, don't they?"
Sherlock's annoyance abruptly escalated, and something of this must have shown on his face.
"A deduction, brother mine," Mycroft said, his smug expression fading to one of comparative sincerity. "There never have been surveillance cameras in your bedroom, tempting though it's been in the past. You merely have the… er … smell of April and May about you."
Sherlock laughed. "Is thatwhat it is?" Though not ready to forgive, he could yet be satirical.
Mycroft almost looked embarrassed. "So to speak," he said with a shrug. "Mummy will be vastly pleased, no doubt."
"You haven't told her? You surprise me." You interfering, officious bastard.
"Not precisely. She knows, of course, that Dr. Hooper accompanied you on your recent trip to the U.S., and that she's been caring for you this last week. Why do you think you were spared a visit? She was ready to descend upon you armed with a rectal thermometer and the recipe for Great Aunt Mildred's vile medicinal tisane It was I who assured her that Dr. Hooper was in attendance and most capable of nursing you back to health."
"Well, thank God. I do owe you for that," Sherlock admitted. Mycroft exaggerated, but only just.
"It will only be lunch at Rules and The Nutcracker at the Royal Opera House. I've purchased four tickets for the 2:30 matinee so Dr. Hooper can accompany you, she has the day off tomorrow, I believe."
"A ballet?" Sherlock exclaimed, horrified.
"I know, I know. I'll do the next two musicals if you'll take this one."
"The next three," Sherlock said, stubbornly.
Mycroft sighed. "All right, three - unless they object too much. I keep telling you, they miss you. If you're not careful you'll have them paying you a visit here again"
Sherlock sighed, well aware his brother spoke the truth. "All right. Two. I suppose Molly might enjoy a musical."
"Certainly she would, she's seen eight in the last three years, including two performances of Wicked."
Sherlock glared and raised a brow.
Mycroft cleared his throat and stood, taking a firm hold of his brolly. "I'll send a car and the tickets tomorrow. You have a noon reservation at Rules. Do you think you'll be able to walk from Rules to the Royal Opera House, or should I send the car back at 2:00?"
"For a five minute walk? I hope you're trying to be funny."
"Not at all."
Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward. "Get. Out."
"Very well. But I do thank you."
Sherlock's lips twitched, watching Mycroft consider the prospect of sitting through a work he found even more repugnant thanMama Miaor Cats. But he said, "Go, Mycroft, before I bloody well change my mind."
o-o-o
Molly was, predictably, thrilled at the prospect of the event - "I haven't seen The Nutcracker since I was at school, and I've never been to Rules, though I've heard about it all my life! Oh, Sherlock!" - and demonstrably, delightfully grateful, too. Sherlock's strength was rapidly returning, and he gave every bit as good as he got in the subsequent encounter, which bordered on the athletic and had Molly desperate to muffle her shrieks of pleasure - twice.
A strenuous half hour later, when they lay naked and gasping for breath on the bed, hands tight-clasped, Sherlock told her, "You should be thanking me... women burn… far more calories... when intercourse culminates... in orgasm."
She gave a gasp of laughter. "I read that, too… and of course, it makes sense. But Rules! Roast, and pies and game! And Sticky Toffee Pudding! I'll need a great many orgasms to burn the kind of calories found in traditional English fare."
Sherlock chuckled, too. "I believe I can help with that," he said, squeezing her hand, and longing for the day he could snog her senseless. They were still being cautious about his contagion at this point, though hopefully soon...
"But your mother and father!" she said, suddenly pulling her hand from his and rolling to her side, looking at him with quite a serious expression. "I'm looking forward to meeting them, of course, but…"
"But what?" he frowned.
"Do you think they'll like me?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course they'll like you. My mother will be bloody ecstatic. I foresee a great deal of suggestive prodding."
"Suggestive!?"
"Not that kind of suggestive. More along the lines of grandchildren. She's been despairing for years."
"Oh, dear!"
"Yes, well, if I can bear it, you can. We'll just have to ignore her."
Dismay flashed across her face at this, though it was quickly erased, and she tried to laugh again. Sherlock wanted to reassure her that he did want children, if she would consent to be their mother, but no, that would spoil his plans. His surprise. Only a few more days...
"I'll shower and then make some dinner, shall I?" she said, and began to move away. "Something light, in view of lunch tomorrow."
But he stopped her. "Not yet." And he rolled them over so that she was half-pinned beneath him, his knee riding between her legs. Her startled expression inspired him to smile wickedly. "In view of lunch tomorrow… something light. But delicious. And satisfying. Are we agreed?"
There was such love, tinged with sadness, in her eyes that his heart ached.. Her whispered, "Yes," was barely audible.
"Let me, then," he whispered back, placing a tender kiss by her mouth. Her hands gripped his bare shoulders, but she closed her eyes, legs parting, and gave a soft gasp as, more gently now, he began again to explore.
o-o-o
To Sherlock's surprise, the outing on the following day proved almost enjoyable, far more so than he'd ever anticipated, even considering his enhanced appreciation of Molly's presence.
It hadn't started out well, of course. After dinner the previous evening, Molly had insisted she needed to go back to her own flat for the night, claiming that she had to find appropriate attire for the ballet and, moreover, her cat - her cat!- missed her. "You'll be fine, Sherlock, and I'll be back first thing in the morning, I promise."
But he had not been fine. After Christmas morning she had moved from the couch, where she had been on call during the height of his illness, into his bedroom and his bed, and sans Molly he found that his bed had become an object of purely decorative interest. He fell asleep on the couch himself that night, missing her like the devil, and more and more certain that his derisive remark about his mother's desire for grandchildren had qualified as not good, as John would say.
She seemed happier, but very nervous when she finally returned in the morning - not first thing but well after ten o'clock. She was wearing her yoga pants and an oversized jumper, and carrying no less than three different dresses, with appropriate accessories for each. After ascertaining that he had taken his medication along with Mrs. Hudson's tea and a couple of Hobnobs by way of breakfast, she demanded that he choose one of the three ensembles she'd brought. "Which do you think your parents would like best?," she asked him, a plea in her voice.
Never indecisive when it came to fashion, he immediately said, "Wear that one," and pointed to a short knit dress, deep red with a subtle thread of metallic gold. He didn't much care if his parents liked it or not. It would be warm and comfortable, appropriately festive, and would give a strong hint of her slender yet shapely form.
She retired to the loo to change her clothes, and he took himself off to the bedroom. He emerged far sooner than she, but when she finally did appear, he was not disappointed. He got up from his chair and walked toward her, and saw the happy blush mounting her cheeks as she took in his expression. There was no need to dissemble. He'd chosen admirably well.
"You look lovely," he told her, his hands going to her waist, slim and strong beneath the soft wool.
She chuckled, and ran nervous fingers down the lapels of his jacket. "You do, too!"
He grinned and bending, kissed her - on the cheek.
It was probably that kiss on the cheek, reminding her of far less happy times, that initially made her so quiet as the car drove them the short distance from Baker Street to Rules, but as they moved past familiar landmarks to Maiden Lane in Covent Garden, he knew that it was the anticipated introduction that made her clutch his hand, and bite her lower lip.
Mary Watson had several times accused Sherlock of possessing the palate of a toddler, which was ridiculous. He enjoyed a good curry as much as anyone, and found Chinese or Thai offerings acceptable as well. But it was true that he found the cooking and recipes of his native land more enjoyable than any other, and Rules, the oldest restaurant in London, was famous both for the charm of its warm yet elegant decor and for the excellence of its traditional English fare. Sherlock's father had always insisted on dining at Rules en famille at least once a year (usually before or after a performance of some sort) and had never deviated from this practice in the thirty-eight years of his son's existence. Sherlock had missed a year or two here and there, but the old place was still very familiar, a fact that added yet another layer of ease to the event.
Fortunately, this familiarity calmed Molly as well.
A cheery voice welcomed them as they walked in. "Mr. Holmes! How good it is to see you here again!"
Sherlock winced a bit. "Molly, this is Pelham, who's been the host here since I was a brat of about twelve. Pelham, Dr. Molly Hooper of St. Barts."
The grey-haired man gave Molly a discreet bow and a smile. "Welcome to Rules, Dr. Hooper. We've been looking forward to meeting you. May I take your coat, and yours, too Mr. Holmes. Your parents are waiting in their usual spot."
Pelham took away the coats, and Sherlock glanced down to see Molly's eyes wide with something close to panic.
"Do I look alright?" she said, her voice a low squeak, pulling surreptitiously at the hem of her dress as though it was suddenly too short, and glancing down at the low-cut neckline. She was wearing a simple necklace, a gold chain with an engraved heart, one she'd probably received from her parents when she was a girl: pretty, but it occurred to him that by rights she should be wearing something with diamonds instead.
He'd have to take care of that.
"Come, you look fine. More than fine."
She smiled up at him as he took her hand.
His parents' spot was a booth toward the back of the restaurant, and both of them rose to greet Molly. And their prodigal son.
"My dear Dr. Hooper, I'm so pleased to meet you!" said Mummy, all smiles. Hugging Molly, her smile remained, but there was a certain flash in her eye as she glanced at Sherlock and added, "I understand that my son is once again indebted to you."
"Always," murmured Sherlock. As she straightened, he dutifully kissed his mother's cheek.
"Oh, no…," said Molly. "Always happy... but please call me Molly."
"And you must call me Millicent. But here is Sherlock's father, Vernet."
"How do you do, my dear." Father, ever the charmer, kissed Molly's hand and once again left his son wondering how he made such an old fashioned mannerism look so natural.
Mummy said, "Sherlock, you sit over there by your father, and Molly will sit opposite, by me, so we can discuss you without hindrance."
Sherlock gave a slight groan and roll of the eyes, but really it was no more than he'd expected. He was lucky this first meeting had not taken place in his parents' home, where several hefty albums full of embarrassing photographs lurked, but as he sat down by his father he was speedily disabused of the notion that his dignity would remain unscathed.
"She has several of your baby pictures in her wallet, you know," Father said, quietly, his eyes twinkling, "but perhaps she won't think of that."
Sherlock sighed, hope diminishing as his mother began to quiz Molly on various aspects of his recent illness. Molly glanced at him just once, her eyes laughing now, but otherwise gave her full attention to Mummy - as anyone with a modicum of sense would do.
"Is it serious, then?" his father said to him quietly, his head cocked like some inquisitive bird.
"It is," Sherlock said, equally quiet. "I've known her… a long time."
His father nodded. "I know. Mycroft's told us a little about her. You're a fortunate man, I believe."
Molly was chuckling now, smiling and replying to Mummy's searching questions with admirable calm, and with as much discretion as possible, every bit the doctor… the friend. The lover.
"I am fortunate," said Sherlock, smiling wryly, "though considering our history… what she's done for me over the years… the word almost seems inadequate."
o-o-o
"Did you like it?" Sherlock asked Molly with a smile that evening, when they had returned and were finally alone again in the cozy surroundings of 221B. As she had just danced up the stairs to the tune of Waltz of the Flowers, after whirling the laughing Mrs. Hudson about after the landlady had let them in, he hardly needed to ask.
But she waltzed over to him and he caught her hands in his. "It was wonderful! Wonderful! I adore your parents! Sherlock, do you know how fortunate you are?" And her eyes suddenly sparkled with tears, thinking of her own parents, dead these many years.
He drew her close, and held her, in silence for a while, and then murmured against her hair, "I do know how fortunate I am."
After a time, she sighed and drew back slightly. "I-"
"Stay tonight," he said, quickly. "Please?"
He could see the debate, and the moment when it was resolved, and she laughed, helpless against the love she had lived with for so long. Unrequited for so long. "If you want me," she said.
He swept her up, carried her into his bedroom, and closed the door.