Chapter 8- Brisket

Sherlock hid his shaking hands behind his back as he walked over to the restaurant. It was a small pub-like place- he'd never been there before, Molly had picked it out- and he could smell lamb and gravy as laughter wafted through the open windows.

When Molly had asked him out to dinner, his immediate answer was no. He didn't say this out loud, instead he bit his tongue and reconsidered. He still wanted to say no when he quite charmingly complied, but this was for Molly, not him.

Molly, who had dressed herself in a flattering purple blouse and a black pencil skirt, compliments Sherlock perfectly as he adjusts the collar on his own purple shirt. She pulls one of his hands out from behind him and squeezes it reassuringly. He looks down at her, putting on his best smile, and they walk inside.

"Table for two, please," he says to the waitress that greets them at the door. Late to work. Has been crying; boyfriend dumped her recently- this morning. As she hands them a menu he leans over and mutters "He wasn't worth your time," in her ear, winking and looping his arm through Molly's, leaving her to catch flies in her gaping mouth.

God, I have to admit I am enjoying this a little.

"So, what do you think I should have?" Molly purses her lips, eyeing the menu. "The brisket looks good."

"Yes it does. Smells good too." Without looking up from the menu, Sherlock motions in the direction of the kitchen. Molly takes in a deep breath, eyes closed.

"That's the brisket? How can you te-" Molly stops herself short, shaking her head. He's Sherlock Holmes, remember. He could probably tell whether they are steaming broccoli or carrots.

"Well, I'm going for the brisket then," She says, putting her menu down on her plate. "You?"

"I'll have whatever you're having." He says, smiling at her. He hadn't even been reading the menu- just staring at it, blankly. "Wine?"

"That would be lovely." She smiles at him, knowing that he is out of his comfort zone. "What do you think?"

"I... I'm not really a wine person. All these dates and labels mean nothing to me."

"Neither." She holds one of his hands and nods her head. "Ok, close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes!" He obeys. Molly closes hers. "Take my hand and place it anywhere on the wine list."

Sherlock lifts her hand, her delicate fingers brushing the menu in front of him. She bites her lip as he gently places her index finger somewhere in the middle. The both open they're eyes.

"That one," he says, calling over the waitor.

"That one it is." Molly blushes a warm pink as he lets go of her hand. He can't take his eyes of her; their stormy grey pinning her to the chair. Somehow, his butterflies ease when he watches her- and only her.

He orders their food in his deep, smooth tone and the waitor rushes off in the direction of the kitchen. It's Molly's turn to stare at him.

"Sherlock..." She says, choosing her words carefully as not to ruin the evening, "Um... Why did you take me to dinner?" He stares at her blankly. "It's just... you've never taken me all the times I've asked... before."

He looks down at his empty placemat, biting down on the inside of his lip. He stays that way for a few minutes, thinking about what to say. In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure why he'd never taken interest in Molly before. He didn't quite understand how he'd been oblivious to her beauty, to the extraordinary comfort he felt in her prescence. Finally, he looks up at her, knowing exactly what he's going to say.

"I used to always say to John that I'm married to my work. When I used to work alone, I was so absorbed in my solitude and deductions that I failed to notice anyone who offered their company. When I met John, I became addicted to a new sort of solitude- only wanting to be with the one person who had ever seemingly accepted me. What I didn't know, is that there had been someone there all along." He smiles at her, a slight sadness in his eyes. "I let John in because he put his foot in the door. That is the only way anyone was to get inside my head, and he did it. Now he's gone..." he gulps, stays silent for a while, before composing himself. "Now he's gone, and all my guards are down, I've suddenly realised how many people had been trying to get in from the start. But, due to my intimidating intellect and my natural coldness, no one had been brave enough to stick their foot in the door. Until now." He squeezes her hand beneath the table. "You came in just in time. You saved me Molly Hooper. And now I just can't bear to let you go."

Molly looks up at him, a small smile playing on her lips and a pool forming in her eyes. She's about to say something in reply when they are interrupted by a well-dressed waitor and two mouth-watering dishes.

"Brisket for the lady," he says, placing the china plate in front of her, "And brisket for her date." Gap year university student. Going to study philosophy. Gay- has a crush on the other waitor, judging by the way he looks at him.

When he had left, Molly turns back to Sherlock. He's already cutting into the beef, which isn't quite as tender as steak but just the right density. "Sherlock... I just can't believe this." She smiles, her eyes bright. "I can't believe you just said that, you know, opened up and... stuff." She picks up her own knife and fork. "And you opened up... to me."

"Why wouldn't I?" He says, having swallowed his first mouthful. He doesn't eat anymore, just looks at her, oblivious that someone as wonderful as Molly Hooper could have insecurities.

"Well, because I'm just... me."

Sherlock almost drops his fork. "Just you? You're not just you, Molly Hooper. You are the woman who dissects bodies. The woman who unconditionally cares for anyone who crosses her path. The woman who has saved me- twice."

"Twice?"

He ignores her comment. "You are the woman who I not only need... but might even love."

Molly almost falls off her chair. She grips onto the table, replaying what he's just said in her head, almost convincing herself she imagined it. But she didn't, did she? She didn't...

"Did you just say...?"

"Yes."

"And you really mean...?"

"Yes."

She stares at him for a while.

"But you definitely really mean...?"

"Yes, Molly." he says, getting a little annoyed now. Why did she doubt him? Was it something he said?

She suddenly laughs, rather loudly. Well, loud for Molly. Sherlock stares at her, his face a picture of utter confusion. He watches as she chuckles to herself, weeping at some sort of hidden joke. She takes a deep breath and calms herself, fanning her face. Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to do or say. He just sits there as she prods her broccoli, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth and his green beans dripping gravy as they hang off the end of it.

After a while, Molly looks at him, laughter still bubbling away at her lips. But unlike his previous assumption, this was laughter of happiness, of relief; not of hilarity or spite. She dabs at her eyes with a napkin.

"Well thank God for that," she manages, dropping the napkin back on her lap. "Because I am definitely in love with you Sherlock Holmes, and I wasn't sure how long I was going to have to keep that to myself."

They finish their brisket, laughing together as Sherlock deduces every diner in the room. He pours her more wine, and lifts the glass to her lips as she giggles and gulps it down. They only order one dessert, as well as only using one spoon to eat it between them. She controls the cutlery this time, spooning homemade blackberry crumble into his mouth. A little tipsy, she gets some custard on her nose, and he reaches over and kisses it off. They looked stupidly happy, the past few days and events no longer riddling their minds.

"That was wonderful Sherlock. Thank you."

He switches the light on in 221B, and closes the door behind him. She has her arm wrapped around his, and they gaze into each others eyes. Her breath catches as he leans in slightly. Slowly, she reaches over and turns the light back off.

Pulling him in further by his shirt, their lips collide, her hands running over his chest before wrapping themselves around his neck. He grips her waist and twists so she's against the wall, and she leans her head against it as he kisses her over and over, along her jawline and down her neck. Unsure of what to do next, she makes the next move, fiddling with his collar button and working her way down his shirt. Their kisses becoming deeper, he carries her in his arms down the corridor, and they let the night take them in it's starry arms as they lie between the bedsheets.

A smile plays on Molly's face as she watches Sherlock sleep, his lips parted and his eyelashes brushing his cheek. One of his curls is hooked around his ear, and his pale skin is almost glowing where it catches the light from the window.

She doesn't move. She barely breathes. She just watches, watches the beautiful man that lies next to her as he simply exists.

And she finally realises. He does exist. He is real.

And he chose her.