Two days later, having returned to Bakersfield and her former bedroom the day before, Molly awoke to a layer of fresh snow covered the rolling estate. She groaned as the sun filtered through the window, shining on her face. Blinking against the sudden brightness, she got up begrudgingly and made her way to her wardrobe.
Molly suddenly grinned as she saw the beautiful rich, green gown hanging from the door.
It was Christmas Eve. Which meant tonight was the party she and Sherlock planned on hosting. Giggling with joy, she set about getting ready for the day. After having breakfast and a warm bath in her room, she eagerly put on the festive dress. Its cap sleeves and white lace edging were simple and tasteful, accessorized by elbow length gloves of purest white. Standing in front of her mirror, Molly brushed out her long hair, pulling it back and pinning it to the nape of her neck in a loose chignon. No sense trying anything fancy, simple suited Molly just fine.
And Sherlock says he finds me attractive, so what sense is there in a painful up-do? Molly caught her own gaze in the mirror, seeing the uncertainty in her own eyes at the thought. Returning with Sherlock was not an easy decision, even after his shocking admission. Molly was struggling desperately with her own self-doubt and distrust of Sherlock's honesty.
She flushed in mortification and regret as she remembered her fainting episode, wishing mightily that she was able to forget it entirely.
Weak. Pathetic. Dramatic. Self-recriminations taunted her, reminding her that just when she thinks she is strong enough, she will fail. She will always be weak.
Molly closed her eyes and turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself. Her gloved hands twisted the loose material of her skirt as she tried to control her thoughts.
Worthless. You can't even stand up to him without losing control of your own body. A weak body is the sign of a weak mind. You are a simpleton compared to his genius. What will he want with you when he is no longer intrigued by your mind? Images of Sherlock dancing with a beautiful woman flashed through Molly's mind followed by images of him embracing the woman, holding her close, caressing her cheek and staring into her eyes before claiming her lips with his.
Her stomach dropped and tears pricked her eyes. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, Molly focused on breathing deeply and stopping her runaway thoughts. He said he loves me. He would not have said it if he did not mean it.
Or would he?
Sherlock is many things, cruel and hurtful, yes. But to hear him profess so ardently his love… he would not be able to fake that depth of emotion.
…
Would he?
Arguing with herself was proving to be a depressive endeavor, so Molly purposefully straightened her back and put those thoughts from her mind.
With her anxieties calmed for the moment, she left the room to face the day.
In the study, dressed in his finest, tailored suit, Sherlock paced.
How long does it take for the bloody woman to get dressed? It was nearing midday and he had yet to see Molly.
She had returned to the estate the evening before, her and Sherlock having spent the day visiting with her father. Although happy to have her back home, Sherlock still knew it was a long road to her forgiveness before him. Angry at himself for being too forward and starting the chain of events that led to her leaving, he spent the night devising a new plan, one that did not involve mistletoe. Something told him that that planwould definitely not improve his standing in Molly's regard.
Wishing that he could meet with Charlotte for guidance before the party, but knowing it would be impossible with the preparations, he found himself floundering in his thoughts. What is appropriate for this stage in our relationship? No kissing, of course, not until she is certain of my love. Embracing? Perhaps, but only when customary, such as one of us departing the manor or when she is in need of comfort. But should I instigate the embrace or wait for her permission? How long should I hold her? Where do my arms and hands go?
Suddenly overcome with questions that he had not been concerned with before, a layer of sweat formed on his brow.
But before he could deal with the barrage of thoughts, the door to the study opened behind him and the sound of slippered feet announced the presence of his wife. Sherlock spun around and froze, his greeting dying on his lips.
His wife, even in the simplest of gowns, her unassuming and unpainted face covered with a mask of confidence, was beautiful. He stood unmoving as she slowly walked up to him. Despite her nonchalant attitude, Sherlock, when he removed his eyes from her curvy figure, could see the hesitation and fear in her wide, brown eyes.
Snapping out of his daze, he reached out for her gloved hand, holding it reverently in his. 'You, dear Molly, are beautiful.' Without breaking her gaze, he lifted her hand and placed a gentle kiss to her knuckles as her neck and face flushed red.
'Thank you, Mister Holmes,' she murmured. He could still see her wariness and felt her tense under his touch. Oh, Molly, please. Please trust in me.
Remembering his plan, he slowly released her hand and stepped back, knowing she needed time and space to come to terms with his love. 'Are you quite ready for tonight? I believe last minute changes are permitting Mycroft and Anthea to attend. I have already informed the staff to prepare extra.'
Molly smiled broadly, her anxieties forgotten. 'Oh, wonderful! It has been so long since I have seen either of them, it will be lovely to have them come.'
'Yes, lovely,' Sherlock deadpanned, his nose wrinkling in distaste.
Molly giggled, 'You love your brother, Sherlock.' The man visibly preened at her use of his informal name, but Molly did not notice, continuing speaking. 'Do not deny it. He is a brilliant-'
'Snobby'
'-kind'
'Arrogant'
'-wonderful'
'Fat'
'-man.' Molly frowned in semi-disapproval at Sherlock's interruptions. 'Am I to assume that you have planned some form of childish prank for tonight at Mycroft's expense?'
Sherlock didn't answer, lowering his eyes, a definite pout on his lips at being found out and having his fun spoilt.
I know I should not find it endearing when he torments Mycroft… And I know I should not be so cavalier with him myself, after everything. But Heaven help me, I cannot resist wanting to see his smile when he has a devious, child-like plan.
She rolled her eyes and huffed, 'Do what you like,' Sherlock raised his eyes in disbelief. A moment later, he smiled devilishly, as though a brilliant thought occurred to him. Molly instantly knew what he was thinking and raised her hand, exclaiming, 'But do not bring me into your confidence. If the evening ends with bad blood between the two of you, I would like to claim ignorance.'
The pout returned, Sherlock feeling a bit let down.
Someday, though, he smiled to himself as they left the study to make the final preparations for the evening, you will be my companion in crime, bringing down the mighty Mycroft Holmes, one Christmas pudding at a time.
The clock chimed the late hour, as four couples made their way into the drawing room, lethargic from the holiday feast.
'That was a lovely meal, Lady Holmes,' Mary Morstan, Doctor Watson's fiancé, a smartly dressed blonde with a confident air, had quickly endeared herself to Molly early in the evening and the feeling was quite mutual, the two women sitting down together on the settee.
'I shall be delighted to tell our cook of your approval,' Molly smiled, 'but only if you call me Molly.'
'And please, call me Mary.'
Watching them, Sherlock and Watson exchanged amused glances. Leaning over to whisper in his friend's ear, Watson chuckled, 'You do realize that we will never have any secrets from one another after this. Women tell each other everything.'
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and smirked, 'I do not need Molly's third-hand information to know everything about you, Watson. You seem to have forgotten who I am.'
A rueful grin graced the doctor's face as he once more whispered, 'You may be able to deduce everything about me, but women are into details. And once their friendship is established, I am sure I will know everything about you, Holmes.' His smiled turned wicked, 'And I mean everything.'
Sherlock froze. Everything. Even… intimate details?
Without a second thought, he strode over to the chatting women and towered over them, a stern expression on his face. 'Molly, it has been brought to my attention that a friendship with Miss Morstan will bring to light certain… private details of our life. If you insist on maintaining contact with her, which I assume you will, I must ask you to be discreet in divulging information about our intimacies.'
Heavens above, he cannot be in earnest. With wide eyes, Molly felt herself flush with embarrassment and anger. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with tension, waiting for someone to break the silence after Sherlock's rather abrupt, and loud, declaration.
Suddenly, the settee began shifting slightly and a muffled snort sounded from beside Molly. With disbelieving eyes, Molly turned her head to see her new friend, Mary Morstan, shaking with barely contained laughter, her hands covering her mouth.
'I'm-I'm sorry, it's just, that was the last t-thing I would have e-expected him to say,' she managed between giggles and snorts, her blue eyes flooded with mirth.
Unable to help it, Molly felt a laugh rise in her chest. Giving in to it, she felt her embarrassment and anger fade away. Soon, seven of the eight occupants of the room were laughing uproariously, as an indignant and extremely confused Sherlock frowned in disapproval.
An amused Mycroft removed himself from the Lestrades, who were shaking with laughter, and drew up next to his frustrated brother. 'I see you still have yet to learn to rein in your tongue.'
'I shall never understand the inner workings of the minds of goldfish,' Sherlock groused, both grateful and annoyed about that fact.
The gathering concluded several hours later, after several performances by Sherlock on his violin and a round of singing by the entire party, Holmes brothers excluded, despite their wives endeavoring to coerce them.
Snow was gently falling as Sherlock and Molly waved farewell to their guests, the other three couples carefully making their way out to their carriages on the slightly icy path.
'Happy Christmas!' Molly called out, her voice echoing into the night. A series of loud 'Happy Christmases' returned, brightening her smile. Her eyes drooped and, without thought or hesitation, she leaned into her husband, watching the carriages roll down the path and into the darkness, the lanterns on the buckboards fading as they drew farther away.
'I believe that was a very successful Christmas Eve, wouldn't you agree, Mister Holmes?' Molly sighed contentedly, leaning her head against his arm.
Sherlock looked down at her and smiled, 'A very successful Christmas Eve, indeed, my love.' He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, 'However, the clock is about to chime the midnight hour, and Christmas Day shall be upon us.' His voice dropped and Molly shivered at the feeling of his breath across her neck, 'May I give you your present now? Or would you rather wait?'
Molly stared up at him, her eyes wide. Nothing on his face gave his intentions away, his eyes open and somewhat uncertain. Her heart stuttered at the slight vulnerability showed. He is trying, Molly, to bridge the chasm between us. Do the same. She scolded herself for hesitating.
Squeezing his arm, she smiled up at him, 'Now would be lovely.'
Guiding her back inside, a grinning Sherlock refused to let go of her arm and began leading her into the study. He instructed her to stand by his desk and close her eyes, her arms out in front of her.
The clock in the hall began to chime, twelve bells for the start of the new day. Christmas Day. Molly smiled as she heard the sound of Sherlock shifting something about.
Finally, he stopped and she heard him approach her. Settling something heavy in her hands, she could hear his smile as he said, 'Open your eyes.'
She obeyed and looked down at her gift. It was a simple, leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Her eyes caught the simple engraved title and her heart skipped a beat.
The Laws of Thought by George Boole.
Molly stared at the book, astounded. She had been an avid admirer of Boole before their wedding, but had been unable to follow his work since. Once, a few months into their marriage, she had mentioned Boole's recent mathematical discovery to Sherlock. He had ignored her, continuing to write his case notes. Molly had sighed in defeat and left the room. But now, as she stared at the evidence before her, she realized that he had heard her. He had remembered.
She swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion.
'Do you… not like it?' Sherlock asked, his voice uncertain.
Molly couldn't move, her hands clenching the book tightly. Her mouth gaped as she tried to find the words to thank him, for the book, for remembering. She raised her head, eyes suddenly swimming with tears.
Sherlock misread her silence and tears, afraid that he had offended her or disappointed her. He reached out to take the book back, 'I apologize, I was under the impression you-'
His apology was cut short as Molly stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was short, chaste, but both felt the unmistakable spark ignite between them. Molly leaned back, a small smile on her face. 'Thank you,' she whispered.
Sherlock stood in shock, frozen by the feel of her lips against his. The fact that she had initiated the kiss was an overwhelming feeling, his emotions erupting into chaos, short-circuiting his motor functions. Molly watched as a gamut of emotions flashed across his nearly unmoving eyes: shock, wonder, fear, and desire warred for dominance.
Hugging the book to her chest, she smiled at her Consulting Detective and turned to leave. When she reached the door, she turned back slightly and whispered contentedly, 'Happy Christmas, Sherlock.'
The gentle snap of the door closing broke Sherlock from his paralysis. He smiled as he heard her gentle footsteps fade down the hall, still feeling the remnants of her lips on his.
'Happy Christmas, my Molly.'