Sherlock's research was not exactly promising. The show was due to run for another 8 weeks. 8 weeks of listening to Molly talk about dancing, celebrities and not paying proper attention to him. It wasn't fair. And just when he was getting used to having her….around all the time. Surely there was a way around this – he could distract her somehow. He sighed loudly.
"What's wrong with you?" asked John. Sherlock had forgotten he was there.
"It's this stupid television program – Molly's obsessed with it."
"And she's not fawning over you? Are you jealous of TV?"
"No, of course not. But since it took some effort to admit to….wanting a girlfriend…I would quite like to have her."
"It's mad. You're like a soccer widow. Spurned for salsa. Flung away in favour of the foxtrot. Passed over for the Paso."
"Oh shut up!"
"Listen to me, I'm older and wiser. There's no reason why you can't play all this dancing nonsense to your advantage. I'm willing to bet you can dance."
Stony-faced silence was the response.
"I'll talk that as a yes. You, em, move too gracefully not to have had lessons."
"John. Take that tone out of your voice. You don't sound gay because you noticed I've had dance lessons. Which were a long time ago, I might add."
"Right, well moving on. I'm sure you remember how to dance. Take Molly out, dance with her. Women love men who can dance! I'm sure it will be to your benefit…"
"What do you mean?"
John gave him a significant look.
"Be-ne-fit," he repeated slowly.
"I see," said Sherlock finally. He pulled the laptop towards him.
"Better get planning then."
oOOo
The following Thursday, Molly was at work, when she received a package.
"Package for Dr Hooper?" said a grimy looking courier type as he walked into the morgue.
"Oh, that's me. I didn't order anything?"
"Not my problem, love. Just sign there."
Molly found herself holding a large, long box. The courier left her alone. A cream coloured stiff paper envelope was attached to the top of the box. Flipping it over, she saw the envelope was sealed with wax. A coat of arms was stamped into it, but she was useless with heraldry. If it wasn't the Queen's arms on the side of a cereal box, she hadn't a clue. Molly opened the envelope and slid out a single postcard sized note. Written in calligraphy was the following:
Dr Hooper is kindly requested to attend the Dorchester Hotel's ballroom this Friday at 19:30. She should please wear the outfit in the box.
Like any true lady, she ripped the box open in her enthusiasm. Within folds of tissue paper sat what could only be called a gown. She lifted it out and held it up. It was a powder blue dress, with tiny sparkles threaded through. A perfect ballroom dance dress. Oh but what if it didn't fit her? And then she laughed at her thought. This whole thing was clearly some plot of Sherlock's. The dress would fit her like a glove. He probably took her measurements while she slept; or worse, could just work them out from a glance. Also in the box were shoes to match the dress and a wrap. The chances of doing any proper work for the rest of the week had just gone out the window.
Naturally he was not answering his phone or responding to texts: obviously part of the plan. She'd just have to play along.
Molly left work early on Friday to go home and get ready. She did her hair up and wore her grandmother's pearl earrings and necklace. The dress could have been made for her, which of course it was. Molly felt like a Disney princess. She stepped into a cab – no Tube for her tonight – and directed the cabbie to take her to the Dorchester.
When she arrived, a liveried doorman held open the glass doors for her.
"Dr Hooper?" he enquired.
"Oh, yes?" Molly was taken aback.
"The ballroom is just down to your right."
"Thank you."
Molly approached the ballroom doors with some trepidation. What if she had misread this whole thing and it was some awful joke? Well, too late to turn back now. She opened the door and walked inside. The room was lit very low and was completely empty. A single table with chairs was ahead on the right. There was no band on the stage. Curious.
"May I take your wrap, Molly?" said Sherlock, appearing from behind.
She turned around to face him. He was dressed in tails. They mutually took each other's breath away.
"What have you done?" she breathed softly.
"I hope I have your attention now."
"Every bit of it. What have you planned?"
"Dancing, of course. It's your current obsession, yes?"
"Well, yes."
"Then let's dance."
"Sherlock, there's no music."
"Ah, yes, there will be." He clicked his fingers and a waltz began to play.
"Where's the music coming from?"
"A sound system," said Sherlock, slightly scornfully. "I don't think we need a band to witness this – I much prefer us to be entirely alone."
Sherlock stepped forward to hold her for the waltz.
"Hang on…we're here, all alone, to dance?"
"Do you not like this plan?" He suddenly looked unsure, and unconsciously bit his lower lip, a trait he had picked up from Molly.
"I love this plan. I love the bag, love the shoes, love everything. Especially you."
Sherlock had the sense she was quoting something but he had no idea what, so he just started to dance with her.
The dress was perfect on her – as he knew it would be. And she was a passable dancer. She hadn't endured 3 years of lessons like he had but she allowed herself to be led.
"Sherlock, how did you get access to the Dorchester's ballroom on a Friday night?"
"I once solved a case for them. Their head butler was stealing items from high profile guests. They owed me a favour. We don't just have the ballroom either."
Molly arched an eyebrow.
"We have a suite upstairs too."
"Do we?" squeaked Molly. "But I don't have anything with me."
"Are you underestimating me? You have an overnight bag upstairs."
Molly broke from hold to throw her arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him.
"This is an amazing idea. I knew putting in all that time getting you to notice me and then training you up would be worthwhile in the end."
"Training me up?" he asked.
"Well, you did say girlfriends weren't your area. There was a lot of carefully planned mooning about over you before you even realised I was a woman, and not just a pathologist."
The waltz ended and Sherlock twirled her out and pulled her tight against him.
"I always knew you were a woman," he whispered into her hair, then in a louder voice; "now not all the dances will be waltzes, you don't have the right outfit for every single one but you'll just have to make do. Follow my lead."
A tango began to play.
"This is really all about you being in charge, isn't it, Sherlock," teased Molly.
"Of course. And just wait til I get you upstairs later," he said, as he dipped her.
After two hours of dancing, Molly had had enough.
"Take me to bed, Sherlock," she commanded.
"As you wish."
Taking her by the hand, he led her upstairs to a suite larger than either of their homes. The furniture looked antique but the upholstery and soft furnishing were modern. There was a four poster bed. Looking around, Molly noticed there was no television.
"Sherlock, did you ask them to remove the telly?" she smiled.
"I did. I didn't want you to be distracted."
"You need not have bothered. I find my mind is on a single track tonight. It involves getting you naked in that bed."
"Excellent. Perhaps great minds do think alike after all."
Molly silenced him with a kiss. She turned around.
"Unzip my dress. I'm not leaving this on the floor."
"You hardly need my help. You put it on alone."
"Oh shush, you're ruining it!"
He acquiesced.
Without the dress, Molly had very little on and she shivered a little, partly from the cold and partly with excitement.
"I prefer you without the dress," said Sherlock, a smile twitched around his lips.
Molly walked over to the bed and rested one foot on it, rolled down her hold-ups, one by one. Sherlock watched her with almost detached interest. He'd seen women do this in films. He'd never seen the point before. He got it now. She sat down on bed and leaned back on her elbows.
"Your turn. Take it all off."
He didn't need to be told twice. He shrugged off his jacket.
"No, slowly," interrupted Molly.
Well! This was getting very interesting. Apart from The Woman, no one had ever used that tone of voice on him. He slowly undid the buttons on his shirt and peeled it off. Molly exhaled sharply, as if she suddenly realised she was holding her breath. It was faintly ridiculous – she'd seen him naked before. But it never got old. That she was allowed this access to him – to see him vulnerable. Molly ran her own hand over her breasts and down between her legs.
"I think that's my job, Molly."
"Well, you're taking your time over there. I just thought I'd get started."
"You told me to go slowly."
"Yes, but I didn't mean glacier slow!"
Finally finished undressing, Sherlock came and kneeled before her. Grabbing the backs of her knees, he dragged her forward to the edge of the bed. She tried to lean forward and kiss him but he pushed back down on the bed. His hand trailed over her breast bone, down past the soft part of her stomach and came to rest on the tender part immediately above her pubic hair. She inhaled and closed her eyes. Nothing happened.
"What are you waiting for?"
"I'm just savouring the moment. I have your undivided attention for the first time in weeks."
"And you have it until 7pm tomorrow night. Get on with it!"
Molly could be quite the little madam when it came to delayed pleasure. Sherlock did as he was told and ran one long finger along her labia. She was already aroused – he never could quite turn off the observation track of his brain. She wriggled beneath his hand. He bent to use his tongue. All previous evidence suggested it was the most efficient way of achieving her climax. He barely managed a single lick before Molly pulled his hair.
"Ouch," he said.
Molly looked him straight in the eye. For once, not afraid of his gaze, not blushing.
"I want you…"
"Thank god," exclaimed Sherlock, "my knees are killing me!"
Molly giggled as he pulled himself up and hovered over her.
"Are you ready?" he asked softly.
She responded by tightening her legs around his waist, positioning herself just so.
No longer willing or able to resist, he plunged into her. She moaned as she adjusted to the always thrilling feeling of having Sherlock inside her and they began to move together. He fought down the urge to ram her into the mattress. He wondered if all recently deflowered people were this voracious – probably. Molly trembled beneath him, already at the point of climax. He let himself go and they came almost at the same moment, Molly crying out his name as he bit her shoulder to stifle his own groans. He sagged down on top over her and made to move. She stilled him with her hand.
"No stay for a minute. I love the feeling of you on top of me. You're not that heavy."
She kissed him then – actually for the first time since they made it to bed.
"Thank you for a wonderful evening."
"I hope you're not thinking of going asleep yet. There's a very large bath through that door, and I'd like to experiment with it."
"Hmm, I like this plan."
"By the way," he added, "you need to be ready at 5pm tomorrow evening."
"For what?" asked Molly.
"We're going to watch Strictly live."
The look on Molly's face was worth every moment of planning, and the favour he now owed Mycroft. It might even be worth the torture of having to watch Strictly live himself. She certainly looked very grateful…perhaps there were benefits to reality television after all, he thought, as he watched his girlfriend's pert little bottom sway towards the bathroom. He really was beyond all hope of recovery now.