-I hope you're awake. You're going shopping with 'CiCi'. Car will be there at noon. S—
-What? Why am I going with her? Are you coming with us?—
-Nope. Doing research, talking to her maid, trying to reach her ex girlfriend in India. Far too busy. And she may bond with you or whatever it is you do which might be useful. S—
-Why do I even have to go to this thing? It's your case.—
-When else are you going to get to experience a real live New York society charity function? Besides, I'll blend in better if I have a date. People find me creepy when I go to social things alone. S—
-She's not going to try to give me a makeover or anything, right?—
-Don't know. Maybe. I told her that the most formal thing you'd probably brought is that cherry print sundress. S—
-Are you still there? S—
-I LIKE that sundress.—
-Apparently since you wear it for almost every occasion that calls for a dress. S—
-Sod off. I have fifteen minutes to get ready apparently.—
-The driver will have my AmEx card. I refused to expense anything. S—
-Isn't that sweet. Now I'm indebted to you instead of her.—
-I'm actually rather certain that you'll never be indebted to me for anything again. Have fun. S—
Having no answer for that last text, Molly drags herself out of the bed, which is tucked into an alcove across the hall from the bathroom. It's just big enough to hold a full sized bed. The layout is more convenient than a traditional studio, but it still feels odd, sleeping in a space that's not quite a bedroom and not quite a hallway. If it were hers she'd put up some paisley print curtains and some beads so it'd feel like a caravan or something. But she's pretty sure that would be considered tacky and wouldn't fit with the sleek minimalism of the rest of the flat.
She admits to feeling relieved about not having to shop on her own. She may have to be vigilant about being forced into something too trendy, but at least she won't get lost in a sea of choices or fall pretty to the machinations of clerks on commission.
Molly knows that some people consider her wardrobe lacking in style. In fact, she often looks at her closet and bureau drawers in complete frustration, because while she's got an image in her head of how she'd like to dress, what she's done over the years is collect an assortment of clothes that are comfortable and somewhat feminine but that she wouldn't mind so much if they were ruined by chemicals or bodily fluids. And a few trendy items that are adorable when she gets to wear them on a night out but are out of season or out of style by the time she has a chance to wear them again.
Before leaving for New York, told herself that she would really look at how people dress in this city and try to bring some of that back with her. Today might be her day to get a good start.
She chooses a plain black A-line dress, black tights, and the grey ankle boots she bought on a whim right before leaving London. She feels like a blank canvas. At the last minute she grabs her cherry print cardigan, like a security blanket, and discovers that with this dress, and in this city, it looks like a statement instead of an admission of defeat.
Cecily is in the car when Molly slides in, and she's immediately relieved that the younger girl is again dressed in jeans and a jumper.
"I have a friend who lived in this building," Cecily says as they pull away. "It's gorgeous. You're lucky. I'd totally be here if I went to NYU."
"Where do you live now?"
"Washington Heights. My boyfriend's dad owns the building. I pay full rent, though. It's a refurbished brownstone, converted into two apartments. So Mr. Keene told me you're a doctor?"
Molly had just formulated a response to the comment about her building and is caught off guard by the change of subject. How much has Sherlock told her about me?
"I'm a forensic pathologist."
"So you help solve crimes?"
"Sometimes, yes. What field are you going into?"
"Oncology I think. My parents are so dumbfounded. My dad didn't go to college and my mom's degree is in art history. She thinks she wasted all the ballet and voice and acting lessons, but it gave me poise which has really been fucking necessary the last few years."
"I once discovered a tumor the size of a softball in the abdomen of a man who'd died of a brain aneurysm. Totally unrelated. Both conditions undiagnosed." The words tumble out of Molly's mouth before she can think, her mind having latched onto "oncology." She ducks her head and blushes.
"Shit, no way!" says Cecily. "Was it malignant?"
"Benign."
"No way!"
"Yep. Sh—a colleague of mine ran labs on it for weeks. He was obsessed with it."
"So how do you know Mr. Keene? He told me to call him Shers but it's fucking ridiculous, right? Like my English friend Cecil who wanted to be called 'Cis.' And yes, funny that I had a friend named Cecil, right? He thought CiCi is a ridiculous nickname."
"It's a name a university friend gave him. It's less formal."
This is partly true. Sherlock told her had chosen the name Sheridan because it could be shortened to Shers, a nickname a university acquaintance who was not quite a friend had given him, and was something he didn't have to remind himself to answer to.
"I suppose." Cecily sits back and scrolls through her phone. She is more relaxed and youthful today. Molly imagines she feels less stressed now that she has someone working on her case. She also doesn't have to try to impress Molly as she had Sherlock.
Molly is glad that Cecily has steered herself away from her question. Molly doesn't know how much Cecily knows about Sherlock's occupation and she doesn't want to give away anything he'd rather keep quiet.
The car stops in front of a block long nineteenth century building with a limestone façade.
"Don't worry," Cecily says as the driver lets them out. "Bergdorf is basically just like Harrods. You'll be fine."
"Right," Molly says, as though she pops into Harrods twice a week.
Before they enter through the imposing wood and glass door, Cecily stops Molly and pulls her aside.
"Look, I know you're nervous, but I'm good at this. I'm not going to put you into anything that's going to wear you. In fact, if what I have in mind works, you'll only have to try on one thing." She smiles and squeezes Molly's arm, then leads her inside.
The attention that Cecily receives the second her heels hit the marble floors is overwhelming. Everyone rushes to help her, and to offer assistance to Molly, as her companion. Cecily politely declines and tells them she has a specific Alice+Olivia dress in mind for her dear friend and if someone could fetch a pair of the royal blue Chie Mihara Mary Janes in a size 6 she'd be thrilled. They're ushered directly into a private fitting room, and a clerk brings the shoes and dress right away.
The dress is fairly simple. Knee length and cinched at the waist, with a few deep pleats giving the straight skirt a bit of volume, cap sleeves, and straight neck line with the slightest bit of drape. It might be considered borderline boring if it weren't in a gorgeous shade of deep coral.
"I loved this one on the runway," Cecily says. "But the color doesn't work on me and that's the only one it comes in since it's ready to wear."
Molly is certain she's never seen a more perfect dress than this one. She tries it on and the fit is incredible. The shoes are blue velvet Mary Janes, the vintage styling allowing for a sturdier heel without going into matronly territory.
"You short girls with your tiny feet," Cecily sighs. She comes to stand behind Molly. "We have time to have them take it in just a bit at the waist and take the hem up just about an inch. It's perfect with your hair and your English complexion. And I think a blazer instead of a cape or shawl will give it some edge. Just do a high ponytail with a little bit of volume up front and you're perfect."
Molly blushes. "Thank you."
"No, thank you for trusting me," Cecily smiles. "They can do the alterations while we grab a snack and get our hair done."
Three hours later, the women leave the store, completely ready for the evening ahead. "Honestly, I don't usually do it like this," Cecily says. "I try to wear what I already have unless it's a really big press event. But this was fun. Looks like I'm losing you for the time being, though."
"What?" Molly says.
Cecily points to the curb, where Sherlock waits beside another black car, looking as close to London Sherlock as he possibly can despite his red hair and a pair of heavy framed glasses. He's wearing a navy suit, no tie. He assesses her quickly and gives an approving nod.
"Thank you, Miss Forrester. We'll see you soon. Molly?" He holds the car door open and she slides in. He joins her and they stare at each other as the car eases into traffic. Molly breaks eye contact first and starts laughing.
"What?" he says, lower lip jutting out slightly.
"Nothing," she gasps. "Except this is so bloody surreal. Don't you think?"
He considers it, and shrugs. "Weirder things have happened."
