A/N: Good news: very long chapter! Bad news: not sure when the next will be posted. There is a lot going on right now and some major changes are taking place for me. They are good changes, but they require my time. I will be posting THE chapter next week. I am sorry, wonderful readers, but that is how things are. Thank you for all for the continued love!

If a few things seem a bit familiar, they echo some dialogue from Emcee Frodis' exceptional story "The Full House," and are used with her awareness and consent.

In today's chapter: dinner, conversation, and a new arrival

S&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS

Molly had never been to Angelo's, but apparently Sherlock went there often. Often enough that Angelo himself came over to them as soon as they walked in. His eyes widened at seeing Molly, and at first she didn't understand why. Then she realized that John was probably the only person Sherlock had taken there to eat. She smothered a grin when she realized Angelo now realized Sherlock wasn't gay. He seated them with a flourish, got them some wine and water, brought them bread, chatted with Sherlock a bit, praised him to Molly a bit, winked at Sherlock as though in approval and left them alone.

Sherlock caught Molly's smile. "Why are you smiling?"

"You've ruined your reputation," she said with a grin. At his puzzled look she explained: "bringing a woman here."

"Ah." He shrugged a bit. "Angelo's probably a bit surprised, yes."

"He's not the only one," Molly said, noticing that what she assumed were regulars were staring at them as well.

Sherlock shrugged again. "People do little but talk and speculate."

"They also like seeing people who look happy," Molly said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose so."

"Or they're in shock as well," she added with a grin.

"Very likely."

"I've felt that way a bit the past few days," Molly said, then groaned inside. The two glasses of wine she'd gulped down had decidedly not worn off yet.

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Well, this. All this. It's happening very fast, Sherlock. It… it's a bit to take in. It still amazes me that I'm your first, well, everything about dating."

"Why does that amaze you?"

"Why?" Molly blinked. "Sherlock, have you seen you?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"You're amazing. You're beyond brilliant, you're brave, loyal, not to mention insanely gorgeous."

Was it her imagination, or did he blush just a bit?

"Thank you," he said softly. "But that still doesn't explain it." His eyes widened a bit. "Molly, surely you've not been wondering why I'm with you, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. Not, ah, not as such. Not now."

"Good. As for my never having done this, it's as I told you. You've known me for three years: you know I've never been particularly prone to sentiment."

"And now you are?" she asked.

He considered. "More so than before, yes. Death, or the very real possibility of it, can make even the likes of me reconsider how my life is spent."

Angelo came back at that moment and took their orders. He refilled their wine and water and left with a big smile.

"And in light of that reconsideration, a toast," Sherlock said, lifting his wine glass. Molly lifted hers, and he smiled at her. "To new beginnings," he said.

She clinked her glass to his. "To new beginnings."

He took a deep swallow. "We'll be meeting Mary tomorrow night."

"Oh, right. Do you think that will go okay?"

"Given how many people I have actually met versus how many I have actually liked… as John's Magic 8-Ball would say, signs point to no."

Molly giggled. "Well, you don't take to many people right away. You probably couldn't stand me when we met."

To her surprise, he shook his head. "Not true, Molly Hooper."

She blinked a few times. "Oh?"

"Yes."

She paused.

"You're trying to decide if you want to ask me what I thought of you," he said.

"Well, yes," Molly admitted. "We're on our third date, after all," she said with a nervous smile.

He leaned back and studied her. "So you're saying I should tell you after sex," he intoned, and she laughed.

He leaned forward. "Molly… what I thought then isn't entirely what I think now. Please keep that in mind whenever we do have this conversation, would you?"

She looked down for a moment. "I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't like me and care about me. That's all that matters, really." She looked back up quickly and caught a glimpse of something she couldn't explain on his face. He almost looked… hurt.

The look was gone as quickly as she'd been it. He surprised her by reaching across the table and taking her hand. She looked into his eyes, caught and held by the force of his gaze.

"Yes," he said softly. "That is what matters."

She thought she could drown in those eyes: get lost at sea never to be found, never wanting to be found. She wanted him, all of him, so bad she ached. Tears stung her eyes, and she looked down, hating that she was crying on what was one of the happiest days of her life. She shook her head and grabbed her napkin, hastily rubbing her eyes. "Sorry."

"Why are you crying?"

"You…" she took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm just happy."

He gently released her hand, studying her. "Tears of happiness. It seems so contradictory."

"Yes," she said, managing a small laugh. "I'd better stop before I ruin your new good opinion of me," she joked, and he reached over the table and touched her cheek.

"Don't apologize for who you are, Molly," he said. "You'd never try to change me. Well, unless I was being an idiot," he added wryly, and she smiled.

"I like you just as you are. Always remember that."

She swallowed hard, struggling not to cry all over again. "All right. I will."

He smiled and ran his thumb over her cheekbone, then down to her mouth. She nearly gasped as he gently touched the corner where her lips met before withdrawing his hand.

Molly cleared her throat a bit and drank some water, trying to calm her racing heart. "So. Tell me about Mary," she said, desperate for something to say.

"She's a nurse. In her early thirties, widowed, no children. John's already over the moon about her, so there's something different about this one. Tomorrow night I'll figure out what it is."

"Well, that description could've been worse. What are we doing tomorrow night with them, anyway?"

"I have no idea. Probably some banal activity like jumper-knitting."

Molly giggled.

Their food arrived, and they tucked in, eating in companionable silence. They had just finished when a woman walking by with a plate of food tripped, sending the tomato-rich contents directly into Molly's lap.

"OH! I'm so sorry!" the woman exclaimed, shaking her blonde hair furiously as Molly and Sherlock both jumped up. Spaghetti clung to Molly's dress for a few seconds before it began to slide down to the floor. Angelo ordered a server to go help, and a few seconds later Molly was being wiped at with a red checkered towel while the blonde woman, apparently American, kept apologizing. "Honey, I am so sorry. Please let me help!"

"No, no, it's okay," Molly said hastily as the woman started wiping her down with another towel she'd snatched from the server. "I'll just, ah, go to the loo and clean up. Thank you, though," she added, then glanced at Sherlock with a resigned half-smile before walking away. Angelo looked at Sherlock, who nodded and smiled to show that it was all right. A cook called out for help in the kitchen, and Angelo gave Sherlock a thumbs up signal before disappearing.

The server left and the other diners slowly returned their attention to their meals, and the woman now turned to Sherlock. "I am so sorry," she gushed again, sitting down in Molly's chair. "I am so clumsy after a few glasses of wine!"

Sherlock slowly sat down, his eyes never leaving the blonde's face. They had narrowed as soon as she spoke, and the more she'd spoken the more she'd confirmed it.

"I doubt you've ever been clumsy in your life," he said smoothly, and her brown eyes widened.

"I'm sorry?"

"And I find you being sorry difficult to believe," Sherlock said coldly. "Perhaps we could cut through all this annoying duplicity and you could speak to me as yourself?"

The woman across from him blinked slowly, then smiled, red lips parting and her tongue darting out.

"I was wondering if you recognized me."

"You are difficult to forget," he replied brusquely. "Now. Why are you here?"

Irene Adler, disguised as a blonde, brown-eyed American woman, pouted slightly. "You don't seem very pleased to see me, Mister Holmes."

"That is because I am not. Why are you here?" he repeated, this time with an edge to the question.

"Can't a girl just come say hello?" she replied evasively.

"No."

"What a snit you're in," she sighed. "Of course, I am ruining your date. It is a date, isn't it? Funny: I seem to recall asking you to dinner a number of times. But you always turned me down. Now here you are with Doctor Hooper, actually eating food, no less. Is the world about to end and I haven't been informed?"

"This doesn't concern you," Sherlock said coldly.

"You must understand that I'm curious," Irene continued. "As soon as I saw it in the Sun, I wondered what kind of woman it would take to capture your heart."

"Capture my heart? Have you succumbed to reading romance novels in the absence of clients to dominate?"

Irene stared coolly. "Who says I don't have clients?"

Sherlock glowered at her.

"So. Doctor Molly Hooper. She's the one who helped fake your death, I'd wager. She loves you deeply: it's quite obvious. And you seem genuinely smitten with her. It's fascinating, really. I can understand the attraction. You both like dead people. A match made in Heaven."

"Woman," Sherlock said with a warning in his tone.

"You still call me the Woman, don't you. That's something, at least." Irene studied him. "Relax, Mister Holmes. I'm not here to cause you problems."

"Forgive me if I have doubts about that," Sherlock answered.

"I had to talk with you alone. She'll get over it. Besides, it's not like tonight was your third date or anything," Irene said with a laugh, then her eyes widened as she saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's face.

"Oh, my God. It is. Tonight's your night," Irene said in amazement. "The Virgin no more. Well. I do owe you a proper apology, then."

"You'd owe it to Molly, not to me, as she's the one whose clothing you damaged. And you still haven't answered my question."

"She's something, isn't she?" Irene mused. "I wouldn't have exactly thought her your type: then again, no one really knows what your type is. And she is gorgeous in an unassuming way: those eyes, that hair and those cheekbones... I wouldn't mind us both being your dessert, if you're feeling ravenous tonight…" one hand crept forward on the table to clasp his.

Sherlock pulled his hand away. "I've already had dinner. And I only want one dessert," he said flatly.

Irene didn't seem angry, or too disappointed, even. She smiled. "I suspected as much. You and I would light the sky on fire, Mister Holmes. But I know you'd never be able to trust me. You'd always wonder if this was the night I'd put a knife in your back."

"You're not trustworthy," Sherlock replied. "You're capable of jumping the fence whenever it's most convenient for you, in every sense of the phrase. You and I are not on the same side. Now. I am asking you for the last time. Why. Are. You. Here?"

"As difficult as it may be for you to believe, I'm here to help." At his look of confusion she explained: "I've been to see an old friend tonight."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. "Why are you still running with the Devil?"

Irene raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You call your brother the Devil? What do you call your mum, then?"

She laughed at his shocked expression. "Oh, Mister Holmes. Don't look so amazed. Your brother is very helpful when it suits him. I thought it best to pay him a visit on my return, let him know I was still alive."

"What did my brother tell you?"

"That the Devil is looking for a soul to steal."

"Why are you here to help me? You're jeopardizing yourself."

"Please. You didn't recognize me until I spoke. How would anyone else manage? Besides, I was getting bored in America. Yes, there are a lot of wealthy men with lonely, underappreciated wives. But sex only goes so far. Did you really not know I was back here?"

"I had heard rumors," Sherlock replied remotely. "But rumors until proven are simply that. And you are quite capable usually of taking care of yourself."

"True."

Sherlock gave her a hard look. "You are endangering yourself simply by being here talking with me. You do understand that, don't you?"

Irene hesitated for a moment. "And you endangered yourself , and saved my life, by rescuing me from the terror cell. I may not be on your side, Mister Holmes, but I am in your corner. And I don't like being indebted to anyone."

She wiped her mouth with another napkin. "I'll be helping you from the sidelines. It's the least I can do."

Sherlock searched her eyes, but found no signs of duplicity. Of course, that didn't guarantee there wasn't any.

"I'll go now, before your girlfriend comes back." Irene gave him a saucy look. "Oh, some advice: try to experience sex with your body and not your mind."

He stared at her with his eyebrows raised.

Irene stood and smiled. "Good night, Mister Holmes. I'll be in touch."

Sherlock's eyes followed her as she departed.

A moment later, Molly returned, her dress damp but looking somewhat improved. She sighed. "At least we had dinner first," she said as she sat down.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed.

Molly tilted her head. "Why is that funny?"

"It reminded me of something John says about breakfast."

"Oh." Molly smiled.

"Shall we go?"

"Definitely."

Once in the taxi Molly turned. "Thank you, dinner was lovely."

"Spaghetti incident not withstanding?" he asked wryly.

She sighed. He frowned.

"What's wrong?"

She sighed again and looked down. "I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect for you. And here I am, a spaghetti-smelling mess. Is it ruined?"

Sherlock cupped her chin and turned her face up.

"It wasn't your fault. And who says it can't still be perfect?"

Molly looked hopeful.

He leaned close and brushed his lips against her cheek. "All this means is that I'll have to take this dress off you," he murmured. "Do you mind?"

Molly felt her face flush with desire. "Um, not really."

"Good," he said, and kissed her soundly.

Molly was about to protest that they were in a taxi, then she realized that yes, it was a bit pervy, but she actually liked it, and quickly forgot why she had intended to protest in the first place.

Definitely not ruined.