At least he wasn't bored, Sherlock mused as they put in their orders. It was obvious that Molly Hooper had never been to a restaurant of this caliber, nor had she desired to previously. Strange. Her wants were almost as simple as her needs, it seems. No wonder it was simple for him to ask her to do things for him, her expectation level for a great many things seem to have been rather low.
But this "date", as it were, was less a romantic venture than it was a test. He wanted to know why his previous self thought she was capable of handling such a role when it was obvious to even the wait staff that she was barely capable of speaking an entire sentence without fumbling. That, and the fact that she missed the obvious visual cue, his shirt on her body saying she belonged to him, rings aside, made him wonder how he could have selected such an oblivious creature to go up against someone like Irene Adler. "So," he smiled in a charming fashion, "tell me about yourself."
She blinked. "You know everything about me."
He rolled his eyes. "Everything of importance, but nothing of your romantic inclinations. Normal people are notoriously difficult in their dull day-to-day desires. With criminals, it's easy to deduce what deviance they're into, who they're actually sleeping with, that sort of thing. It's obvious that you once harbored romantic feelings for me, but what your actual taste is, I have no idea. I can hazard a few guesses, but most would likely result in a face doused in water, or you storming out angrily, and if we want to continue our engagement," he raised an eyebrow, "I would prefer that not to happen. So. What does the perfect man look like to you?" He smiled briefly, and began to drink the wine before him.
"Um, well," she looked down at the table, "I don't know. I have a pattern, but that never works out. So I'm not sure what the perfect man for me is."
"What pattern?" he asks, inclining his head for her to continue.
She takes a quick sip, as if to steady her nerves. Apparently, his demeanor has changed more than he's expected in five years, as it seems at time she feels comfortable speaking her mind to him, and at others, like now, she appears quite nervous. "Quick, capable, headstrong men who are willing to dismiss me," she said simply. "They say women tend to pick men like their fathers, but my dad was nothing like that. He was a good man, smart in his own way, and strong."
"He passed away while you were in secondary," Sherlock noted.
Molly smiled a jerky smile. "Yes. He's the reason I got into pathology," she said. "Originally, I wanted to be an oncologist, but Dad told me to follow my heart. He knew I couldn't bear to see anyone in pain, so I decided to work with the dead. They're beyond pain." And her smile twitched up into a real one, albeit briefly.
Curious. "You're rather empathetic for someone who works with corpses," he said, steepling his hands together.
She nodded. "My fiancée in college wanted me to be a children's psychologist, less problems, he thought. But when children go in for treatment, it's usually something so horrible, I don't think I could bear it without crying myself."
"You do have a tendency towards that," he murmured.
She narrowed her eyes, and he began to see why he asked this girl to do this odd request. "I also have a tendency to react violently when woken up outside of my alarm," she said, "feel your jaw to confirm that."
He felt gingerly around his jaw, thinking the mild tenderness came from being run over, but apparently not. "Anything else I should know?" he asked, wondering how often she's been underestimated. Her timid demeanor and physicality show nothing of her physical strength, nor of having survived a father who died of cancer.
"Don't leave anything harmful out, Toby might get into it and I shall be very upset," she said, trying to sound firm, but failing.
Toby? Ah, the cat. He smirked. "The cat with seven lives surely has enough to spare," he said.
"Yes, but you've only got one," she shot back. "And you've lost part of it today." Then she looked stricken by the words that just came out of her mouth. "Oh!"
He sighed. She was doing so well, until just then. "No apologies," he said sternly.
She snorted. "This is not romantic at all," she said suddenly, her mouth twitching upwards.
"I can do romance," he pouted.
The long-haired girl put a hand up to her mouth to hide the not-very-pleasing smile. "Not for long, you can't," she said behind her hand. "You can't put up with any kind of sham for long, it's like it's against your nature not to be truthful, even if it hurts. No, especially when it hurts. You're very good at pretending, though, that's what John says, like being with another person for a bit."
"So he's seen me on cases?" he asked. It was odd, like poking at a missing tooth, trying to recover missing memories that he never meant to delete.
The look of sadness mingled with disappointment is one he hasn't seen since childhood, and yet he's seen in so recently on the face of this girl and the man called John. "You should really read John's blog," she said, "he's written up a lot of the cases you both take on. That's how you two make your living, referrals from his blog, which lead to more referrals. You don't get paid for consulting on cases for Lestrade, although they overlap occasionally." He pursed his lips. "It's not flowery, it's rather straightforward like John is, but it's rather descriptive, and he manages to get across that what you do, how you think, is not just amazing, but necessary. And while clients do show up from time to time, some email you, and once in a while, you and John find something online." Hm. He hadn't thought about checking his email. The amnesia is more of a bother than he expected. Well, he has time to do his research, to restore his portable memory, so to speak.
Then he goes back to what she's said earlier. "You said I don't sham for long, that there's something in my nature that's meant to be truthful. How long have we been," he paused, "engaged?"
"Two and a half weeks," she said, "not including me moving in with you a week prior. Your mother, however, wants you to marry Miss Adler by the end of the month. Something about preparations needing to be made, I think you said."
There was something definitely suspicious about that. Mycroft could set up the legal matters within a day, three days, if he had to deal with some international dreariness or other. Even Mummy would know that. So why are they giving Sherlock a month to come up with something? From what he can recall, Adler was a has-been opera singer; if she were still beautiful, then probably caught up in some scandal or other. There were honestly any number of women (or men) that his family could have forced him to marry, he just didn't see the point. The food came in as he pondered the various implications of their choices (or lack thereof). It was quiet as she ate and he picked at his food, his mind more on his family's machinations.
They were about to leave the restaurant when Sherlock wandered over to the piano in the sitting room. He checked a few keys to see if it was in tune, then started to play. Molly smiled as he began singing a simple song, simple in musical construction and simple in content. He smiled back, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his left hand, playing the primary tune with his right. It was amusing to see the girl look around quickly and fretfully, as if someone might be calling the police on him for merely smoking a cigarette, as opposed to committing an actual crime. He decided to sing and play a few more bars, just to see how long she'd stay fretting about.
To his surprise, before he'd reached the end of the next bar, she pulled out his cigarette and smashed it under her foot. "Your voice and playing are lovely," she hissed at his ear, her eyes still on the foot traffic, hand futilely fanning at the lingering smoke, "but your manners are still rubbish."
He snorted, he couldn't help it. "And you are an older sibling with a sense of overbearing responsibility and low tolerance for social deviation, perhaps because your younger sibling is into, hm, binge drinking and partying. You got off easier than Mycroft, which is probably why still managed to get into a field that is rather unexpected for someone with your shy and simple personality. Otherwise, you'd still be with your unimaginative fiancée living a rather prosaic life in your hometown."
It was about then that he noticed the footsteps of the maitre d' and a small retinue of thick-necked men approaching, but before could greet them, pleasantly or no, Molly Hooper took his head in her hands and kissed him.