The Ivy, London, Three Weeks Later
Sherlock rose to his feet as Molly approached his table. He pulled out her seat and made sure she was settled and comfortable before taking his own seat again. He signalled to the wine steward, who immediately brought over a chilled bottle of champagne, popped the cork, and proceeded to pour out two glasses before bowing himself off.
"Impressive," Molly said as she took an appreciative sip of the perfectly chilled champagne. "You weren't joking when you said you intended to take this seriously." Her raised eyebrows took in not only the champagne but the venue as well: The Ivy was one of the city's most prominent 'see and be seen' spots despite the fact that it had only come into existence three years prior.
"I never joke when it comes to obtaining my independence," Sherlock replied, clinking his glass genially against hers and taking a sip. "Although some might find it comical that my chosen method of doing so is to shackle myself to the first interesting girl to cross my path."
Molly blushed a bit at the compliment, although Sherlock seemed oblivious to having paid her one. The more she got to know him, the more she understood how rarely compliments came to him. He was, in his own words, dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. Which meant that she should take any compliments he might offer with the proverbial grain of salt, as part of the act they were both putting on for the world at large.
And yet…
He'd called her 'interesting'. That was a far cry from his more vapid comments on her charm and beauty, delivered solely in the hearing of others. Playing for the crowd, as it were. There was no one near enough to overhear them at the moment, which meant that he was simply...speaking his mind. Telling the truth, rather than carefully crafting a lie.
It shouldn't thrill her as much as it did, but over the past few weeks as they'd started to 'accidentally' meet up at various social functions - how he'd wangled the invites for her, she'd never been told - she'd come to appreciate Mr. Sherlock Holmes a great deal, and not just for his very fine features. No, it was his mind that held the greatest attraction for her; Molly had to constantly remind herself that this was all a game to him, a way to circumvent his controlling elder brother and the terms of his trust fund. If, by-the-by, he was also able to help her ensure her family's financial future, well that was simply the icing on the cake.
In the meantime, he insisted on funding their mutual deception, pointing out quite reasonably (in his own mind) that, although his current financial state was not ideal, it was certainly superior to her own.
The row that had followed that declaration had been brief but intense; almost, almost Molly had backed out of the deal they'd struck after her conversation with Lady Smallwood. Only the fact that Sherlock seemed genuinely bewildered by her reaction kept her from doing just that. She'd had to spell it out for him in painful detail: she was an equal partner in their deception, and would not tolerate being treated as a kept woman no matter how altruistic the offer might be.
She would allow him to pay for their dinners and theater tickets and such; she would even accept such small gifts such as any woman in her supposed romantic situation might expect to receive; but she absolutely put her foot down at anything more extravagant. Up to and including paying the rent on her mother's modest flat on the sly - at least at first.
"After all," she'd pointed out while Sherlock grumbled at her stubbornness, "you know how people gossip. It's the foundation of our agreement, is it not? To have us noticed, to have people believe in the truth of the lie we're feeding them?"
When he'd nodded, she'd gone on, "Therefore you must agree that it would give the entirely incorrect impression were it to get about that you'd purchased an entire trousseau for me before we'd even entered into any kind of a formal agreement!"
When he'd pointed out that her argument didn't apply to his offer to help keep her family safe from eviction, she'd been forced to allow him to offer her a 'salary' as his 'secretary' since she was currently without actual employment. But only on the condition that she pay him back every penny once their duplicitous 'engagement' had come to an end and he'd steered her toward an appropriately wealthy husband.
He'd reluctantly agreed, but had got her to agree to allow him to purchase one or two frocks for her via intermediaries. "What type of intermediaries?" she'd demanded, a bit disconcerted when he'd revealed to her his network of informants, street Arabs and others decidedly unacquainted with anyone who might recognize them as his agents.
While she lost herself in such thoughts, extremely aware of the fact that she was wearing one of those very frocks tonight, in the latest mode and of the finest material, Sherlock busied himself giving the waiter their orders, as had become his habit during their dinners out. The first time he'd done so she'd had to quell her annoyance at such high-handedness, but he'd proven rather adept at selecting meals to her liking, and after all, as she'd been forced to (eventually) agree, it certainly suited the roles they were playing.
While they waited for what promised to be yet another excellent repast, Molly sipped her champagne and stared wistfully out at the dance floor. They hadn't danced together since that first night at the Criterion, and she wasn't ashamed to admit that she'd enjoyed herself far more than was proper when he'd held her in his arms. A rollicking jazz tune was playing; she idly tapped her toes to the music and took another sip of champagne.
Abruptly Sherlock rose to his feet, holding out one white-gloved hand to her. "Would you care to join me in a dance before our dinner arrives?" When she hesitated, he let out a small huff of annoyance. "It's obvious you long to join in the fun, and I see no reason not to partake in something which we both enjoy."
Biting her lip, Molly nodded and allowed him to lead her onto the small dance floor. "I didn't think you actually liked to dance," she admitted as they fell into an easy rhythm. He was a superb dancer, but his disinclination to exert himself during their previous, stage-managed encounters had led her to believe he only danced when circumstances forced it upon him.
He shrugged. "I love to dance, actually," he confessed with a blinding smile. "What I've lacked, until now, is the proper partner with whom to share my...passion."
The last word was said in a husky near whisper that sent another blush across Molly's overheated cheeks. She looked up at him with a shy smile, that only faltered the tiniest bit as she saw his gaze flicker over the crowd, judging how many of them had overheard him. But when he lowered his head to murmur in her ear, "That wasn't entirely for show, Molly, I promise you," she could only blush even brighter and mumble acknowledgement of his words to him in an even quieter voice.
The music ended and he escorted her back to the table, once again assisting her to her seat. Conversation ebbed and flowed between them far more easily than with any of the other men she'd spoken with since embarking on her initial plan to snag herself a wealthy husband; with Sherlock, she didn't have to keep up the pretence of empty-headed frivolity so many of them seemed to expect from a woman of her age and supposed station in life.
Yes, she had to admit, Sherlock's proposition had been the perfect solution to both their problems. In approximately six months' time he would be in possession of his own fortune, and as a reward for her assistance, he would find her a suitable match. A wealthy man who wouldn't treat her badly, drink too much, or run around behind her back. One who would love or at least tolerate her family and give her some independence to return to her medical studies - or some other form of education.
Those had been her only stipulations; the man's age or appearance were secondary to those other, far more important, characteristics. And with Sherlock's deductive skills, she would be assured of meeting someone who truly met those criteria, rather than having to depend on her own, far less developed, skills at reading people.
"You've done something different with your make-up," Sherlock said, apropos of nothing. He nodded at her as she gave him an inquisitive look. "Your mouth, that soft pink lipstick you were wearing before, made it too small. And you've done something different with your eyes as well."
Molly put a hand to her mouth, then forced herself to bring it back down to her lap. "Do you like it?" She'd gone for the bolder purple eye-shadow, pleased with the way it brought out heretofore unseen highlights in the brown of her irises.
He shrugged. "I suppose. But if you're putting in any extra effort on my account, I can assure you there's no need."
"Right, you're unaware of the beautiful," she said, repeating his own words back at him while stifling a disappointed sigh.
He nodded. "Exactly," he said, sounding quite satisfied. "I may be playing the part of a lovesick fool, but those who know me will be utterly unconvinced by the act if I play it too well. I'm still me, after all. The most believable part of our relationship will be my admiration for your not inconsiderable intellect."
There he went again, complimenting her when no one was close enough to overhear them. Of course, he'd done so immediately after disparaging her looks, but if one was to be admired for something, intellect was certainly the more important of the two - not to mention the one that would last longer!
As they ate he encouraged her to speak about her time at university, her medical studies, the career she'd longed for before her world came crashing down about her ears. At first she shied away from such subjects, both because of the pain they caused her as well as the fact that such things were definitely deemed taboo at the dinner table, but if there was one thing Sherlock was not, it was conventional. He was supremely uninterested in hearing personal details about her family or small circle of friends, but quite animated when she discussed the proper methods for dissecting a human brain.
Truth be told, she too found normal social intercourse rather dull and stilted, even in these modern times. She shunned the fast crowd, having quickly learned that all they were interested in was dancing, drinking and other, less socially acceptable, pastimes. She'd focused her efforts on the more serious members of the younger set, the ones looking to settle down and start raising a family of their own.
Frankly she'd been surprised and dismayed to learn that Sherlock had dabbled in some of those 'less socially acceptable pastimes' more than once. However, he'd assured her that, when it came to such things going forward, he would be on his best behavior for as long as they were together, and so far had stuck to his word.
All in all, she concluded as she tucked into her stuffed crab and asparagus, things were working out exactly as Sherlock had predicted, and she couldn't be happier.
oOo
Sherlock studied Molly while she ate. When he'd proposed this farce of a relationship to her, he'd expected very little of her, even knowing that she was intellectually - indeed, scientifically! - inclined. However, as their discussion tonight had proven, those low expectations had not only been exceeded, but might even be described as having been blown out of the water.
Equally important was her ability to keep a secret. His trust in her had been well rewarded, although of course so far it had only been put to the test among casual acquaintances. And, of course, Lady Smallwood. Bringing her in, however obliquely, had been a calculated risk but it certainly had paid off - quite handsomely, if he was being honest. He'd been quite chagrined when Molly informed him that the older woman hadn't been fooled by his pretence at sexual deviancy, but eventually his sense of humour had won out and he'd impertinently sent Lady Smallwood an extravagant bouquet of red carnations and heather (a color combination the florist had been reluctant to provide lest his reputation suffer) to express his - as the flowers symbolized - admiration.
Lady Smallwood had responded with a bouquet of buttercups which he'd presented to Molly after explaining their meaning (childishness) to her. She'd laughed out loud and accepted them. "Why not?" she'd said, leaning down to sniff appreciatively at the yellow blooms. "We are being rather childish, aren't we? Trying to get one over on the grown-ups in our lives?"
Not that Molly was trying to do any such thing; she'd told her mother the truth about her arrangement with Sherlock, against his strenuous objections, but that sensible woman had only warned her daughter to be careful of her heart.
As if she needed such a warning, Sherlock had scoffed to himself. After all, someone who could cold-heartedly go in search of a wealthy husband with no expectation of love was perfect for a man like him, who had no heart.
Except, his inner voice piped up, she wasn't cold-hearted at all. Unlike certain other women he'd known (like, say, The Woman, the one he refused to refer to by name even within the privacy of his own thoughts), she wasn't a fortune-hunter in search of a life of luxury from which she could manipulate and control those around her; no, Molly had only been trying to help her family and had no other ulterior motives.
Irritably he brushed aside those unhappy memories. The Woman had nearly taken him in, when he was young(er) and far more gullible; only Mycroft had saved him from disaster, which had caused his infuriating older brother to increase his interference in Sherlock's life - and finances. And, of course, caused Sherlock to resent his interference that much more.
Mycroft. He sniffed in annoyance; Mycroft would have heard of his brother's current dalliance, and would no doubt summon them for an audience so that he might scrutinize Molly under the guise of a simple social occasion…
"Sherlock? Are you all right?"
Molly's soft question brought him out of his thoughts; blinking, he remembered to smile as he focused on her, his hands reaching automatically to take hers. "Sorry, just going over things, refining one or two thoughts as to how next to proceed."
"Meeting Mycroft, you mean," Molly said with a nod of understanding.
He blinked again, this time in surprise. He really needed to stop underestimating this woman. "Yes, meeting Mycroft," he confirmed. Despite his annoyance at having to do so, introducing Molly to his brother - and, eventually, his parents - was the next step along the path he'd so methodically set out once Molly had agreed to participate.
One of the milestones along that path had been the dropping of her false title. One or two of their mutual acquaintances had greeted her as Lady Molly, only to be corrected with a laugh and a, "Oh, it's just Molly, actually, Teddy [or whoever] thought it would be a scream for me to call myself that, but Sherlock [here she would take his arm and rest her head on his shoulder in a way that definitely didn't make his heart stutter a bit] figured it out right away, you know how he is with his deductions, so amazing!"
Yes, now that that slight difficulty had been properly dealt with (Molly really was quite the actress when she wanted to be, almost as good as he was) and their mutual interest firmly established, it was time for the next phase.
"Mycroft," Sherlock repeated firmly, "will be wild to know more about you." He gave her an ironic grin. "To make sure you're not a golddigger, of course."
"Of course," Molly replied, with equal irony. She raised her glass. "To the success of our partnership?"
"Indeed," Sherlock replied, clinking his glass against hers.
He refused to acknowledge the twinge of regret he felt at the prospect of their partnership coming to an eventual end.
End note: Thank you everyone for your encouraging comments. I appreciate them all!
