SHERLOCK

Sherlock emerged from his room, looking fresh and clean. He traipsed towards John while fixing the button on his sleeves when his friend looked up and chuckled.

"You are the one who is dressed like we are going on a date."

Sherlock looked at his attire and frowned. He wore a crisp navy oxford shirt and neatly pressed trousers. His shoes shone brilliantly in the soft evening light. He bit back an oath.

"I always dress like this. But for the benefit of the both of us, I'll forgo the jacket."

John gave a small nod. "Good call, mate. Could have used a shave though."

Sherlock rubbed his stubble and glared at John.

"Unless this evening involves us kissing, I don't see why my stubble should trouble you," he said grimly and John grinned. "Right, so I've showered, I look socially acceptable. Let's get a move on and be done with this so we can get rid of you as soon as possible."

"Ahh.. it feels good to know that I'm loved and missed," John remarked dryly as he got up and cracked his neck.

Sherlock's lips twitched but he said nothing. He strolled out the front door with John jogging behind him to catch up.

They stopped by Mrs. Hudson's to let her know that they'll be out for a bit. She simply shooed them away, while Rosie didn't even bother to acknowledge them; her eyes were glassy and fixed on the telly.

John and Sherlock walked the streets in companionable silence. Well.. as companionable as the evening allowed. As for Sherlock, he felt a black cloud looming behind him and he pointedly ignored the fleeting looks John kept giving him. Dusk fell around them, shrouding the London sky in a kaleidoscope of colors. A small smile tugged his lips as London came to life in front of his eyes. The streets bustled with activities that ranged from tourists who huddled together with maps in their hands to locals pushing past each other in a frenzied way, not even bothering to look up to see where they were going. Even the prickly summer heat couldn't stop him from breathing in the air that was so uniquely London. Feeling marginally better, he sped up his gait from a hesitant trudge to be a brisk walk. In no time, they came to a halt by the fish and chips place they both liked. With their hands piled with an enormous amount of food, Sherlock and John ambled towards an empty bench outside.

John moaned appreciatively after taking his first bite and Sherlock reluctantly bit into a chip, having no appetite for food. He simply wanted to get through this evening with minimal damage. John polished off his chips and took a gulp of his beer. He dusted his hands off, and after what felt like an eternity, his gaze finally settled on Sherlock.

"Alright, what gives?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Sherlock crumbled a piece of chip in his hand and stared at a couple who were snogging as though their life depended on it. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Like he needed a fucking reminder…

John followed his gaze and grimaced lightly.

"That mustn't be easy for you to see."

Sherlock snapped his attention back to his friend and eyed him warily.

"People exchanging saliva and enjoying it? Yes, it's a revolting sight."

John pushed around a small piece of fried fish with his fork before he said,

"Greg told me what happened."

Sherlock gave his friend an annoyed look as the real reason behind John's snooping dawned on him. So that's what this was about... Fucking Lestrade.

"Lestrade says a lot of things. By now you should know not to believe everything that comes out of his mouth given that he is the head of a bunch of underperforming fools."

John gave him a brief smile that bordered on pity and he felt himself go rigid. Because Sherlock Holmes didn't do pity.

"If you've got something to say, just say it, John," he growled.

John didn't even bat an eye as he gave Sherlock an unfazed look.

"So you walked in on Molly and Tom kissing in the lab."

His face was perfectly composed under a mask of nonchalance and he gave John an almost bored look. But what John couldn't see was how his hands clenched and unclenched beneath the table. The memory of that night was seared into his brain, like a gruesome crime scene. The details stood out vividly, even now, even after three days of throwing himself into a manic state to get rid of that image. Her hair, her laugh, her disheveled appearance, her look of shock when she finally realized that they weren't alone, all the while the moron she was going to marry stood there, looking dazed and rumpled and stupidly happy. All Sherlock saw then was red. Inexplicable anger had him turning on his heels and striding away, leaving Lestrade to work out the details of the case on his own. And even now, a faceless monster tried to maul its way out of him and he dug his fingers into his palms as he fought it back. He suddenly remembered that he wasn't alone and his spectator was eyeing him curiously.

"Isn't that what people who are in love do? So why the nitpicking?" he asked in an unconcerned voice, even as his neck tingled.

John laughed which only caused Sherlock to glower even more.

"Sherlock, you dimwit."

He stiffened. The last thing he needed was his friend to laugh at him and call him a blockhead. He pursed his lips and waited for John to stop giggling like a small boy.

"Are you done mocking me, doctor?"

Some of the empathy from earlier seeped into John's face as he regarded his best friend.

"I wasn't laughing at you, Sherlock. I was..." John looked away and rubbed his temples. "God, I suck at this, I wish Mary was here. She'd know what to do." He gave a sad little sigh before he straightened up. "Sherlock, I think you were jealous. And I think that's why you've been spiraling out."

Sherlock scoffed but his palms began to sweat. He rubbed them on his trousers unconsciously.

"Even by your standards, I have got to say that this is some shoddy deduction work. Do you think I'm someone who gives into shallow human emotions? Do you think I spend my days wasting precious time on things that hardly matter to me? Do you think I care-"

"Quit fibbing," John interrupted mildly and he took another swig of his beer. "You act like your friends can't see you. I don't need Greg to tell me what's going on with you and Molly. I see it all the time. You've been nothing but an insufferable arsehole ever since you learned about her engagement and you make it a point to be a dick to her and Tom. So, really, correct me if I'm wrong."

Sherlock seethed. This was madness. John had pulled him away from his work to gossip like a group of old ladies over a game of bingo. He had other, more important things to do and he certainly had no desire to entertain this topic anymore. So he applied cold logic instead.

"I've always been an arsehole and a dick, so why are you talking like this is news? But since you are not planning on letting this go, I'm going to suggest something. Would it help if we were to spend an evening with Tom? Would that be proof enough that their relationship doesn't bother me in the least? I'll be the poster child of proper manners and courtesy. Would you stop harassing me with this vapid chitchat then?"

John considered him with calculating eyes. He nodded in agreement and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

"Excellent, now let's consider this chapter closed. I have to stop by-"

"Let's go now."

Sherlock balked as John gave him a decisive nod. Dread bubbled and rolled in his stomach. He opened and closed his mouth several times while John watched him patiently.

"Now? We can't do, now !" he finally yelped in a strangled voice which only caused John to smirk.

"Why not? Now is as good a time as any, as you've never ceased to let me know several times before, so yes, now."

Sherlock quickly evaluated the situation in his head. He legitimately had run out of excuses and he had simply walked into a trap that he had set up in the first place. When he had suggested this hare brain of a plan, he had been banking on time. Time to compose himself. Time to calm himself so that the need to choke Tom would be out of his system. What he didn't factor in was John can sometimes be a sneaky ruthless bastard. So when his brain fizzed and went into a static mode, his friend simply jumped into action.

"Atta boy! Let's get a move on, shall we? Let's make hay while the night is still young!"

Sherlock stared at John's back as he started walking away. He thumped his head on the bench twice before he stood up unwillingly.

"That's not even a saying," he murmured gloomily as he binned his barely touched food and walked behind John.

MOLLY

Molly fished out a tatty old t-shirt and a baggy pair of shorts from her dresser. The bath had helped ease some of the tension from earlier and she rolled her shoulders to loosen her muscles as she pulled on her clothes. Silently she hobbled over to the dressing table and sat in front of the mirror to brush her wet hair as she went through her evening ritual. The little diamonds on her ring winked and blinked in the low light, momentarily shaking her from her daze. She paused and stared at the ring reflecting in the mirror. Was she actually getting married? Her belly did a quick flop and she pressed her hand over it. Was it panic or excitement that she felt?

Molly stared at the woman in the mirror and miserably took notice of all her imperfections. She focused on all that was wrong with her. From her mousey brown hair to her dull dispassionate eyes. Her too-small breasts to her calloused fingers. She titled her head to one side as she continued to study her. Ordinary. She felt like the mirror screamed ordinary at her. A wave of sadness engulfed her as she indulged in some self-pity. Had she been traumatized so much that she was unable to see the beauty in her? she wondered. Her charming smile, her wonderfully generous heart, her strong hands, her incredible intelligence?

A low whisper of fierceness blossomed inside her chest as she smiled faintly. She watched her reflection do the same and Molly grinned a little more broadly. Fuck everyone, including her, who thinks she is ordinary, she thought. She is anything but. So what if her lips are too small or her breasts are the size of tiny satsumas? She was more than her appearance, More than the taunting remarks that plagued her. She was Molly fucking Hooper. The pathologist who worked fearlessly among the dead. The person who stood like a pillar when her friends were falling apart. The godmother who single-handedly managed Rosie for months at a time, all the while juggling her career and life. So really, fuck them all, she thought savagely.

Her silent but fierce monologue brought a nice color back to her face and she suddenly felt a lot more happier. Feeling considerably better, she slathered some cream on her face and arms, when she heard muffled noises coming from the living room. Frowning, she hurriedly pulled her hair into a braid and walked out of the room to check on the commotion.

"Hey Tom, is that the food? I'm hung-"

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the small gathering in front of her. John sent her a jovial wave, Tom shrugged in a confused manner and Sherlock? His gaze was razor-sharp on her and his eyes traveled the length of her lazily, as though he was taking his time dissecting her.

Molly didn't shift, didn't flinch, didn't so much pull her t-shirt lower and she applauded herself for standing her ground. She hadn't seen him ever since he walked in on her and Tom... Well… Served him right for barging in unannounced. Idly, she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.

"I'm not working tonight."

She kept her gaze steady and unwavering and was extremely pleased when Sherlock looked away. Victory!

"We are not here for you!" John said cheerily while he raided the refrigerator.

A flutter of panic skittered across her skin as she marched over to Tom. Sherlock stood by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets and his eyes were burning holes into the back of John's head. After a few seconds, John resurfaced holding a bottle of water in his hands.

"What do you mean you are not here for me?" she asked as she lowered herself into the armchair.

"They want to have a boys' night out with me."

Tom answered looking a little awed and Molly's lip parted in shock and terror. Her pulse jumped erratically and she immediately knew that this was a ploy. A ploy to do god knows what.

Narrowing her eyes, she snarled at John.

"Why?"

"To prove that I have no problem hanging out with your fiancé. John thinks I don't like him, which is not the case, obviously, " Sherlock answered in an obnoxiously conceited tone.

Molly could feel the stabbing pain of fury erupt in her chest. She gave the bastard a perfunctory glance only to find him looking directly at her. There was a feral challenge in his eyes, as though daring her to contradict him; a tête-à-tête that was only meant only for her to see. This time it was she who looked away.

"Tom, can I talk to you for a minute?"

And without waiting for his assent, she all but frog-marched him to their bedroom and snapped the door shut.

"You can say no, Tom," she said immediately.

But Tom simply looked like Christmas had come early.

"Molly, I get to hang out with The Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson this evening. Are you kidding me? I wonder if they have a case to solve tonight."

Molly slapped a hand over her forehead and groaned. How did she forget that Tom was their biggest fanboy?

"Tom, I know those two. I've known them for more than a decade. Trust me, their idea of hanging out is not the same as ours. I don't want you to get hurt."

Tom just shot her a dazzling smile.

"Darling, this is a dream come true for me! And honestly, I always thought Sherlock sort of disliked me, but he's here! And he wants to hang out with me. I know you and I planned on spending the night together, but this is once in a lifetime opportunity, so please," he begged, peppering her face with kisses.

Molly felt her heart sink. She was terrified. Terrified that something awful might come out of this. Pulling back slightly, she pressed a small kiss on his lips.

"Just be careful and don't take anything they say seriously."

Tom gave her a hasty nod and pressed a kiss on top of her head.

"You are amazing, you are!" With that he bolted out of the room yelling, "So what's our first stop boys?"

Molly followed him out with a lot less enthusiasm and joy. She watched John clap Tom's back as he wobbled on one foot to get his shoes on while Sherlock looked on with mild disdain. Molly clenched her jaws and strode over to him. As soon as John and Tom hurried out, calling their goodbyes over their shoulders, Molly caught Sherlock by the elbow and dragged him aside.

"You better be nice to him or I will skin you alive," she hissed menacingly.

Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.

"You know, it's hard to take death threats seriously from a person dressed in a cartoon T-shirt and no pants."

His tone was easy but his eyes were spurting molten lava and Molly suddenly understood the word volatile. Trying her best not to be intimidated by his towering presence and his enticing cologne, she lifted her chin defiantly.

"I'm wearing pants, you dolt. They are called shorts."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and gave her legs an appraising look.

"Stop that!"

Her spine tingled and her cheeks warmed, which only irritated her further. Sherlock shrugged and pushed off the wall. Without sparing her a glance he strode out the door. As he jogged down the stairs, he said,

"Don't worry Molly, I'll return your fiancé in one piece. But don't be too upset if he falls for me and leaves you. You know I can be charming as hell."

Molly flipped him the bird as she shut the door behind her. Leaning on the hardwood, she closed her eyes and slid down to the floor. She knew this was going to be a long night.