Chapter 11- Bordeaux
"Come on Molly! We're going to miss it!"
Sherlock's coat flaps behind him as he runs through the station, his bag over his shoulder. Molly has no idea how he has the energy for this- she was out of breath and she wasn't the one missing a pint of blood.
He turns back to look at her again, a stupid grin threatening to break his face in two. "You look excited," she says, laughing.
"Yes! But we need to hurry! Quick!" He reaches back and takes her hand, dragging her behind him. Her bags hit the back of her legs, and she tries to hike them further up her arm. Sherlock glances up at the message boards. "That one! It's leaving in a few minutes. Let's go!"
After an array of barriers and people asking for authentication, they finally make it onto the train. Most people are in cars at this time of day, but not this crazy duo- a trip to France on New Years Eve!
"I hope we make it before midnight," Sherlock says, glancing down at a breathless Molly. She pulls her hair back from her face in an elastic band, leaving a few strands loose. She goes to brush them behind her ears but he reaches out and pulls them back in front of her face, smiling at her. "It would be a shame to miss the fireworks."
"If you don't mind me asking," she says, her eyes searching his, "where exactly are we going?"
"Bordeaux." Although he says it in his deep British accent, the French word twists it to make it sound even lovelier. Molly leans into him, grateful that he is hers, and she is his.
"Bordeaux sounds wonderful. I've heard it's even more beautiful at night."
"I've heard that too." He strokes her cheek, before cupping her face in his hand. "But if that's not true, then I've got something much more beautiful anyway."
"You know, I love it when you deduce. When your voice rushes over the words, insanely fast and absolutely mesmorising. But when you say things like that to me..." Molly sinks into his palm, sighing. "Sherlock Holmes, my heart melts."
"Well, it's nice to know I have that effect on someone. However, I would advise you see a doctor about that melted heart."
She slaps his arm. "Shh, you. You're ruining the moment."
As they step off the train into Bordeaux, the sharp winter air greets them. It's cool in a comforting way, like on a Saturday night when you're walking home from a party with friends. You've just escaped a stuffy room, and you feel the stars on your back as you stroll over the cobblestones.
They leave the station with their arms wrapped around each other, laughing as they blow steam out of their mouths and noses. Stopping under a street light, Sherlock watches as it's glow casts an angelic light over Molly. "So where to, Mr Holmes?"
"Wherever you wish, Miss Hooper." He smiles down at her, and she reaches up to kiss him. The kiss is brief, but a thousand words and declarations pass between their lips.
"Anywhere," she breathes, eyes closed. "Anywhere with you." When she opens her eyes, she goes pink. "Oh wow. That was embarassing."
"Really? I found it quite flattering." Both laugh, and Molly links arms with him. "Shall we find a nice vantage point for the fireworks?"
"Sounds like a plan." They both turn to leave their little cone of light, but Molly pulls him back. "Wait," she says, reaching round his neck. Slowly, she turns his coat collar up. "There. Ok, now let's go."
They leave the warm safety of the light behind, Sherlock's collar shadowing his face and emphasising the brightness of his eyes. His bright, bright eyes.
Molly takes a swig from the bottle of champagne that Sherlock had bought from one of the little stores below them. They sit on a little picnic blanket, watching the city throb with a gorgeous yellow glow, the world laid out before them as they sit on their little hill.
"Not sure this is how you're supposed to drink champagne," Molly says, giggling. "Not that it tastes any different though."
She hands the bottle to Sherlock, who brings it to his lips, sipping. "Nothing beats French champagne. Even if we are lacking the proper dinnerware."
"Dinnerware is such a stupid word," she says, sighing. Frowning at her comment, she refuses anymore champagne, deciding she's had enough alcohol for the evening.
Sherlock checks his watch. Three minutes to midnight. He shuffles closer to Molly, taking another blanket from his bag and throwing it over their shoulders. She leans into him, sleepy.
"Three minutes until midnight. Try to stay awake 'til then." He nudges her, and she nods, smiling. She keeps her eyes open, waiting for the display.
And it's beautiful. The firecrackers compete with the stars, shining bright and illuminating the town below. Pink, blue, and gold showers them, popping in their ears, heightening their senses. Cheers resound below them as more glittering flames are thrown into the sky. "Happy New Year Molly," Sherlock says, kissing her softly. She looks up at him, and watches the reflection of the fireworks burst in his eyes before falling asleep.
Sherlock sets her down gently on the bed, having carried her to the nearest bed and breakfast. She sighs, sinking into the frilled pillow. He gently pulls off her jacket, before tucking the blankets around her. Her eyes flutter open, but its not long before they drift shut again.
Sherlock strips, quickly dressing in his p-jamas. He slides into bed, turning so that he can fall asleep to the sound of her breath against the pillow.