The following day was a Saturday and Molly got down to some serious housework and life administration. She was paying her telephone bill online when she noticed a sizeable increase in her balance. Mycroft had put £10,000 in her account. Room and board! It was hardly like he stayed at the Ritz. She doubted her real expenses were more than £500 for the whole two months. And she would have paid a lot more than that to keep him safe. There was no way she could keep this money. She dithered about ringing Sherlock, but knew he hated phones, so decided to just call over later in the day. He was always dropping in on her unannounced.
With that plan decided, she finished her chores, and mentally scolding herself for the effort, prettied herself up. Molly wasn't someone who cared what she wore to work, as long as it was clean and presentable, but she did try a bit harder outside of the morgue. Of course, Sherlock would notice the effort, and he'd pretty much seen all her clothes but sod him, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, who wouldn't want to look pretty?
For once, Sherlock actually answered the door when he heard the bell. Usually he just yelled "it's already open" or hoped Mrs Hudson or John would get it, but neither of them was home.
"Molly, what are you doing here?"
She felt the usual scrutiny of Sherlock's gaze as he looked her up and down. She looked lovely in a pale green summer dress and white cardigan with sandals, her toenails painted to match the dress. He felt his icy demeanour melt just a little before he got himself together.
"I want to talk to you about Mycroft."
This was clearly unwelcome but Sherlock opened the door wide and gestured inside.
"John's not here," he said, rather uselessly.
"I'm sure we'll cope without him."
Sherlock followed Molly up the stairs, trying not to watch her neat little bottom sway. He noticed she'd shaved her legs, but supposed women probably did that if they were going to display the whole lower half. What a ridiculous custom! The whole world like to pretend women didn't have body hair. His silence must have been evident because Molly soon queried it.
"You look pensive. Trying to solve some dastardly dilemma in your head?"
"Just meditating on why society – never mind….what did Mycroft do?"
"Well, he was lovely. I don't know why you make him out to be such a monster. Such pleasant manners. You'd never think the same parents raised you."
Sherlock felt he had every right to be affronted by that remark. He'd show her. He ushered her inside and offered to take her cardigan.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Oh, well, it's a bit hot for tea, Sherlock. Have you got any cold drinks?"
Sherlock approached the fridge with some trepidation, mentally scanning the list of body parts inside.
"John's got some foreign beer. Will that do?"
"Oh yes please."
Molly was encouraged to see Sherlock deign to have a drink with her.
"So Mycroft, aside from telling me cute stories about you as a child, gave me £10,000."
"What? Was this a bribe to stay away?"
"Er, no, as payment for my help and expenses when you stayed with me. Why would he bribe me? Stay away from who?"
"From whom. You'll keep the money, of course," he ordered.
"Sherlock – I can't keep that money. Having you stay didn't cost anywhere near that much and…" she fiddled with the belt of her dress, "I liked having you there."
"You didn't give me that impression the other day," he replied softly.
"I told you: I was only messing," she said. Her gaze fixed on something over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Hey, is that my pink scarf? How did that get here?"
She was up off her seat and strolling across to the coat rack before Sherlock could reply.
"Er, yes, I meant to tell you. I must have picked it up by mistake when I was taking my own clothes from the laundry."
"Ha. I'm surprised at you not noticing. It's not like you own anything pink…"
Luckily, Molly was not as perceptive as John. But then, she wasn't in possession of all the facts to make the correct deduction.
"So what will you do with the money?" said Sherlock, shifting back to safer topics.
"I'll have to give it to charity."
"Yes, the Molly Hooper needs new clothes that fit her properly is a very worthy cause."
"Are you saying there's something wrong with my clothes?" Molly's tone of faux effrontery would have been unmistakable to most men. But this was the most singular of men and suddenly he worried that he had massively offended her, again, in this very room, again.
"I..that came out wrong. I just think you deserve some nice things and you never seem to spend money on clothes. You look lovely today, by the way."
Molly's eyes narrowed. She was all too familiar with that kind of flattery.
"You're flattering me. You must want something."
Sherlock held up his hands.
"May I remind you that you came over here, unannounced? I don't want anything. At all."
Sherlock's Johnconscience whispered "liar".
"So you really think it's ok to keep the money?"
"Of course. Mycroft doesn't make £10,000 mistakes – he wants you to have the money, and so do I."
Molly gave a little squeal of delight and threw her arms around Sherlock, forcing him to brace himself.
"Oooh, thank you! This is going to be fun."
She squeezed her arms around him and, as he spoke, looked up at his face.
"I don't know why you're thanking me. It's not my money."
Sherlock felt rather overwhelmed at being hugged by her again. It was funny to think that she'd never even tried as much as a pat on the hand while he stayed at her flat and now, twice in less than two weeks, she was embracing him. However, having thought A LOT about the last hug, he was at least better prepared. Sherlock put one arm around Molly's waist and caught her hand in his. In a move than surprised both of them, he whirled her around the room in a silent waltz.
Molly just went with it. She put her hand on his waist – they weren't doing a proper waltz, although it was clear he had had dance lessons. Never in a million years would she have expected to celebrate a windfall by dancing with Sherlock, who was really hoping that John didn't come home right this minute. As they completed a circuit of the room, Sherlock dipped Molly, carefully supporting her back. She pulled herself back up – her arms around his neck – her cheeks flushed, her eyes locked on his. Suddenly, it was far too intense, and Sherlock pulled away.
For an instant, Molly didn't know what to say, but she recovered quickly and decided levity was the best course.
"So I can add dance lessons to your list of extensive talents?"
Sherlock actually blushed and mumbled something about "mummy" and "forced".
"Is this something I should not mention to John then?" Molly's eyes sparkled at the notion of having secret knowledge of Sherlock.
"Yes, please. I'm getting quite enough mocking from him at the moment."
"Oh really, what sort of mockery?" Molly was still giddy from the dancing, and the money, of course.
"Er, nothing. Nothing you can help with," his tone of dismissal was unmistakable.
"Right. I guess I should go then."
She picked up her cardigan and scarf.
"Wait," said Sherlock.
Molly turned around to face him, her expression an insolent "what now".
"I never…actually, just come into the kitchen for a minute," he said, glancing at the bookcase.
"What? Why?"
"Just humour me."
Molly thought that humouring Sherlock was already her second job but she followed him through the arch into a kitchen/lab mess. She stood on the opposite side of the table to him initially but came to stand right in front of her. Sherlock took her bag and put it down on the table and took both her hands in his.
"Sherlock?" her voice was tremulous.
He said nothing but continued to hold her hands and gaze into her eyes.
"Will you say something? You're frightening me. Is this where you tell me you have some terminal illness or that Moriarty's not actually dead?"
Sherlock grinned broadly and he snorted out a laugh as he let go of her hands. Molly was totally confused now.
"I'm sorry. I was trying to be sincere and honest but obviously I need to work on it if you thought I might be going to tell you I had cancer. Which I don't, by the way."
Though he was trying to make light of it all, Molly wasn't quite ready to let go yet.
"Sincere and honest about what?"
All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself wishing that John would come home now. He turned away from her and looked out the kitchen window. Molly was starting to pick up her bag when he spoke, taking a deep breath as if it would be hard for him.
"I don't make friends easily – never have. John's the exception, or I thought he was. But I find now that my list of friends has doubled to include you. In the time I spent at your flat, I got to know you really well. Observed a lot of curious quirks. What I didn't expect was to miss your company when I came back home. You could say I've become accustomed to you."
Molly's jaw had dropped open at this speech and she was momentarily dumbfounded. Sherlock turned around to look at her now. She struggled to find the right words but he wasn't quite finished.
"That's not all. You see, there's a problem with my analysis. I've done the research, checked with experts and all the results are the same."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want another friend."
Molly was outraged. He makes this pretty little speech and she practically melts and then this…
He rushed over to her.
"No, you misunderstand. I don't want to be friends with you."
"No, I got that. We may not all be the great Sherlock Holmes but I am fluent in English!"
Dammit, this is not going well, thought Sherlock.
"Molly, I want us to be more than friends."
Though she had imagined hearing some version of those words many times, Molly was quite sure she was awake, so the only solution was some kind of wind-up.
"Am I being filmed right now?" she asked finally.
"Of course not. I must admit that's not the reaction I was expecting."
"Ah, did you think I would fall for that then? Because the only scenario I can imagine where you tell me you're…interested…is a practical joke."
"Ouch. Do I really seem so intractable?
She nodded. "Let me prove it then," he said.
Molly glanced around, as if proof would pop up out of the toaster. Her emotions plainly obvious on her face: confusion, embarrassment and always that tiny bit of hope. He'd done this to her. He wanted her to be happy. Maybe he should just get out of her life completely. Fuck it!
Sherlock leaned down so that their faces were level. He moved slowly so that she could absorb what was happening, and react accordingly. Her breathing was shallow. In another scenario, she might have been about to have an asthma attack, but all research indicated that arousal brought on changes to the respiratory system.
Molly watched, almost as if she were outside her body, as Sherlock leaned down towards her face. He's going to kiss me, she thought wildly. He was breathing funny, and his pupils had gone quite large. Suddenly, she was tired of waiting. Molly inclined her head and kissed Sherlock. She intended just a quick brush of the lips but he grabbed her tightly, holding her in place. Joined at the mouth but not really kissing, he looked at her fiercely before (and now she knew she was asleep) relaxing his face, tilting his head and closing his eyes. Loosening his grip but not letting go, Sherlock tried to say everything with the kiss. Her lips were so soft and she tasted sweet. Desire welled up in him and he fought the urge to drag her into his bedroom right this instant. Her eyes were half open, and just out of the corner, she saw a tiny red light blinking on top of the kitchen cupboard. She pulled away from Sherlock.
"What the hell is that?" She pointed angrily at the light. He followed her gaze, for once, clueless.
"It looks a lot like a camera to me," she declared.
Bloody Mycroft, he thought, I'm going to break more than his arm this time.
He opened his mouth to explain but Molly was already shouldering her bag, tears threatening in her eyes.
"Wait, I can explain."
"Funny joke was it? Let's toy with Molly. She's up for a laugh. How dare you?"
She ran from the room, down the stairs and out on to the pavement. A cab pulled up almost immediately and she got it.
Sherlock walked slowly back into the kitchen. He looked up at the blinking red light.
"You better fix this," he said to the camera.