A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! I promise that I won't take so long to update the next chapter. Thanks to all those who left me reviews, and hello to my new followers! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except these words.

Molly was in a state of panic. It wasn't often the pathologist gave a second thought about her dressing – she normally wore whatever felt comfortable. Given how her "patients" were all deceased, nobody was going to take notice of her in the morgue. And strutting around in heels or wearing a dress seemed wildly ridiculous when one was going to be slicing up cadavers and handling harmful chemicals all day.

But meeting her mother for dinner was different. Her mother's dress sense was the epitome of sophistication. Richly coloured coats, branded blouses and skirts, specially tailored dresses – she exuded perfect elegance and class. Next to her, Molly felt like all her clothes came out of a charity shop (well, some did). She didn't want to look frumpy beside her fashionable mother, and yet, she couldn't find it in herself to feel comfortable when she was wearing clothes that were considered stylish.

She sighed as she dug through her wardrobe, flinging random pieces of work clothes onto her bed. Those wouldn't do. Her mother would have a field day criticising them if she wore those. She inwardly shuddered at the thought of her mother seeing her favourite cherry-patterned cardigan. She would probably advise her to burn it, and burn it immediately. Molly tried on a few skirts and dresses, but nothing felt enough.

"Molly?" Sherlock rapped on her door. He was already dressed in his usual suit, looking quite like his normal self except for his light hair. He was pretty certain that her mother had no suspicion that he was Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't going to miss a chance to wear his suit again.

"Molly, hurry up! I'm bored." He knocked again, more impatiently this time.

"I'll be out in a moment!" she replied, desperately looking into her wardrobe once more, and feeling like she needed to change all her pathetic clothes.

"That's what you said an hour ago. Obviously you're lying."

"Yes, well, I'm still deciding what to wear." She could picture him rolling his eyes.

"Wear what you normally wear, it's just a dinner."

With my mother, she thought miserably. At a posh hotel.

There was silence for a while as she retried a couple of dresses. Not working. She was just about to give up and grab one of her work skirts when Sherlock's voice drifted from the door.

"Wear that black dress you wore for Christmas last year."

Molly stilled. The dress was still in the back of her wardrobe, steadily being ignored. She liked it, but after last Christmas, it only held embarrassing memories – memories of her trying to get Sherlock to notice her, even when she knew that he wasn't interested, and probably never would be. She did consider wearing it for dinner, but she just couldn't bear the thought of wearing that dress with Sherlock beside her. It was humiliating.

"Molly, if you're not coming out soon, I'm going to pick your lock," he warned.

She removed the black dress from her wardrobe and stared at it for a while. It was elegant, not too revealing and proper for a Christmas dinner with a mother she'd not seen for a few years. Seeing how she had no other options, this would have to do.

"Give me fifteen minutes!" she called. She heard Sherlock muttering something unintelligible as he walked away.

Molly slipped on her dress quickly and applied some make-up. She took one last look in the mirror and was satisfied with what she saw. She was no model, but at least it was better than what she had initially intended to wear. Feeling a bit more confident, she stepped into the living room.

Sherlock stopped scratching Toby's ears and looked up. His eyes flickered to her dress and hair. She chewed her lower lip worriedly. God, how did he still manage to make her nervous even after sharing a flat together? His eyes always seemed to bore right into her, making her feel naked.

"What do you think?" She was afraid of his answer.

"Appropriate for dinner," he stated matter-of-factly, before ushering her out of the house.

Well, at least he didn't make a snide remark. She figured it was definitely an improvement.

Sherlock was bored. It came as no surprise to him, seeing how the woman sitting opposite him was one of the dullest people he had ever met.

She knew nothing about science, gossiped incessantly about her social-climbing friends, and kept questioning him about his life. He detested nosy people like her – they reminded him of one Kitty Riley, the reporter who had cooperated with Moriarty to taint his name.

In short, Molly's mother was the quintessential idiot, the type he would never cast a second glance towards under normal circumstances. But since there was nothing decidedly normal about acting as someone else's boyfriend (he'd never done it, even for a case), he had to pay her some false attention.

"Did you know that Molly could never keep a boyfriend for more than a few months?" the mother asked him, cutting into her steak. "How long was your longest relationship again, dear?"

"Six months." Molly's face was starting to turn red. From anger or embarrassment, he didn't know.

"Yes, now I remember," the mother said. "Blokes tend not to like her morbid sense of humour. And then there's her job…"

"Pathology is a respectable field, mum," Molly frowned. "And I enjoy my work."

"It's disgusting." Molly winced and Sherlock gripped the side of his trousers to control himself. He loved pathology. He might've gone on to study it if he wasn't so wasted on drugs after university.

"Why would you want to cut up dead bodies for a living?" the mother continued, oblivious to their discomfort.

"Because it's interesting when you've to determine the cause of death," Molly explained. "The body is like a puzzle then, a mystery you have to solve." Sherlock's lips turned up slightly at her words. "And I like giving others a sense of closure," she said.

"It's creepy, Molly," the mother said, giving her a look of disdain. "Ryan dear, what is it you do?"

"I'm a chemist." He flashed a false smile he had perfected over the years.

"You see? That's a more appropriate job. I don't know how you can stand her job, Ryan."

Before Sherlock could reply, the mother had switched the topic. "I've never seen you wear this dress before, Molly."

"That's because I've not seen you for four years," she muttered under her breath.

The mother wrinkled her nose, ignoring her daughter's comment. "Not very flattering, is it dear? You should've picked a dress that improved your cleavage, rather than emphasise on how small it -"

Something in Sherlock snapped then. He didn't know if it was because of the woman's overwhelming perfume, or the fact that her words reminded him of similar scene a year ago. Or maybe because Molly's face had turned ashen. He drew in a breath.

"Pathology is a respectable and difficult field. Very difficult, in fact." Both women stared at him, surprised by his sudden outburst. A look of understanding crossed Molly's face and she silently pleaded with him. He ignored her.

"It requires copious amount of brainwork, Mrs Lawrence, since corpses can't communicate and hence can't tell you how they died. Although I do understand why you would find it repulsive. You don't possess the intelligence required to appreciate it, seeing how you can't even prevent your husband from knowing about your one affair, while he has successfully kept three from you in the last five years that you were married."

The woman gaped at him, which only motivated him more.

"As for Molly's past boyfriends, I think the problem lies with them, and not with her. You obviously only visit your daughter when you want to feel better about yourself. Mindless criticism of someone usually points towards low self-esteem. I suggest you make an appointment with your therapist soon; you don't want your condition worsening. Good day, Mrs Lawrence. Have a pleasant dinner."

Without a second glance back, he yanked Molly out of the hotel.

"My mum's going to kill me," Molly moaned. "And then she'll kill you too."

"No she won't," he replied calmly, walking alongside her. "I believe she knows that murder will lead her to prison. Seeing how she cares so much about fashion, I doubt she would want to don an ugly white jacket."

"Sherlock!"

"Forget her!" He snapped irritably. "She's an idiot."

Molly remained silent for a while. "She is, isn't she?" she finally said, smiling weakly. "And still I try to impress her. I wonder who the real idiot is."

She looked so dispirited that he felt the need to say something. It was odd, since he wouldn't have cared in the past. He blamed the bright and cheerful decorations on the shop windows they were walking past. He racked his brain for the appropriate behaviour in such situations, and John's voice eerily popped into his head.

"People like compliments. Do it more often if you don't want to be a tit."

He cleared his throat. "Contrary to what your mother said, I don't think the dress makes your cleavage look small. It actually looks aesthetically pleasing in that dress."

Molly exhaled sharply and stopped walking. A blush erupted across her cheeks.

He frowned. "Was that not good?" Maybe focusing on her breasts wasn't the best idea, given his history with insulting them.

"No, it's…erm…is this…you know, the Sherlock Holmes of way of saying that you like my dress?"

"Yes, I believe so."

Molly considered his words for a while before smiling shyly. "Thank you." She leaned in closer and gave him a peck on his cheek. Her lips were warm and they felt pleasant on his cold skin.

For reasons unknown, his eyes travelled to her lips when she pulled away. It was covered in a shade of pink lipstick, which he personally found more pleasing than red. He thought that pink was more reflective of her disposition. His mind flittered back to their kiss two days ago, and his stomach did a flip. He quickly forced the memory out.

"Where shall we go for dinner?" he asked, wanting to focus on something that had nothing to do with lips or breasts.

"Pardon?"

"We barely ate just now. I'm hungry."

"You? Hungry?" She looked at him in disbelief.

"Yes, Molly. I'm hungry, although I don't see why this is so surprising, seeing how I'm a human being and thus, need to eat for sustenance. And I'm not working right now, so food isn't on my list of things to avoid."

She hit him lightly on his arm. "Alright, I understand. Don't have to be an arse about it." She pondered. "There aren't many places opened now though."

"Expected since it's Christmas. How about Asian?"

"Indian?"

"Fine with me," he said. "There's a good restaurant a few blocks away. We can walk, if you're able to withstand the cold." She couldn't tolerate the cold well, and in his haste to pull her away from her mother, he'd caused her to forget her gloves.

Molly smiled. "I'm fine. Lead on." She moved her hands to hold onto his arm, and he stopped walking, surprised by the suddenness.

"Are you uncomfortable?" she asked softly, removing her hands.

"No, it's fine." And weirdly enough, he meant it. No woman had ever held onto his arm like this before, and it felt nice. It wasn't to dominate him, nor was it a display of aggression. It was just a simple gesture of amiable companionship. He noticed her slight shiver, and in an act that would've made him scorn just months ago, he encompassed her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around her cold ones. Her hand was so small, he almost covered it completely.

Her eyes widened and she stared at him. He cleared his throat. "You're cold. The heat from my hand will keep you warm."

Her face relaxed into a small smile, and she curled her fingers around his palm. "Thanks."

They continued walking in comfortable silence, and Sherlock was shocked to discover halfway that what they were doing right now might just constitute as a date.

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