If you change your mind
I'm the first in line
Honey, I'm still free
Take a chance on me
If you need me, let me know
Gonna be around
If you've got no place to go
When you're feeling down
- Abba, Take A Chance On Me
"Actually," Sherlock says with his best cheeky grin, "I really do love to dance."
Molly stares at him for a long moment, then her shoulders sag and she turns away. "Fine, be that way," she snaps, her attempt at sarcasm just as weak at his own attempt at casualness.
Stop her, you idiot, his inner John berates him. Tell her the truth!
But what truth? Sherlock finds himself paralyzed with unaccustomed indecision. No, not simply indecision: he's paralyzed with complete and utter panic.
As Molly walks angrily away from him another voice pipes up: "Go after her, you fucking idiot, and apologize for whatever ya said to piss her off!"
It takes him far too long to realize the voice isn't coming from inside his head, but from the man standing next to him. He gives Lestrade his best haughty, "what are you talking about" look, but the detective inspector ignores it in favor of scowling at him. "You don't dance like that with an attractive woman an' just, what, ignore her afterwards." He nods emphatically at Molly's rapidly-disappearing form. "Go after her an' apologize!"
"You heard the man," a new voice pipes up. He rolls his eyes: fantastic, now Mary/Rose's other friend, the one whose name he can't recall, is trying to give him advice. Just what he needs - NOT.
But she goes a step further by planting herself directly in front of him and jabbing her finger into his chest as she speaks. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, her brown eyes fairly flashing with the intensity of the emotion; looks like Gavin will have a rollicking good time when they get back to his room later. "Molly Hooper is one of my best friends in the world, and for whatever reason she not only wants to climb you like a tree, but she actually likes you. Greg's right; dancing like that with her was cruel if you're not interested in following through with things. So you either apologize like a man and let her down as gently as possible under the circumstances, or you man up and let her know you really are interested in her as a woman and not just some lab assistant only good for fetchin' coffee and texting you experiment results!"
His rising indignation at this utterly unwarranted interference in his personal relationship - professional relationship, he hastily corrects himself - with Molly Hooper instantly transforms into outrage. "Molly is a Specialist Registrar, not a lab assistant!" he corrects her so-called 'friend'. "She offers to bring me coffee, I've never once asked her to do so! As for texting me results of extremely important experiments that I conduct to help save lives, I don't simply give out my number to just anyone! Not only that, but I trust her to send me those results after correctly interpreting the data, also not something I trust anyone else with! She's more than merely competent at her job; have you ever seen her perform an autopsy? Her scalpel work, the flair with which she uses a chest-spreader and her handling of a bone saw is second to none! Yes, her coffee is rubbish, because I've had her home-made brew as well as the slop they serve at the hospital canteen and trust me, she needs to work on that particular skill, but in all other ways she's per…"
He comes to a halt mid-word, eyes wide as he realizes exactly what he's saying. Mortifyingly, he can tell by the grins Gavin and - what's her name, Jane? - have on their smug faces that he's given away far more of his feelings than he'd meant to.
Feelings, ugh, here they go again, how can he resist them? Stop that! he commands his thoughts irritably; when they spin into song lyrics like that he knows he's in trouble.
Mamma mia! Here we go again! that same internal voice warbles at the back of his mind; in desperation he blurts out, "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side" but neither that inner mocking voice nor his current audience of two appear to be convinced; the one blows a distinct mental raspberry at him and the other two just...keep grinning at him.
In fact, Lestrade has the temerity to reach up and pat him on the shoulder. "Yeah, I thought so," he says, somewhat cryptically. "Go after her, mate," he urges again, in softer, less accusing tones this time. More sympathy, just what he doesn't need. "Tell her how you feel. Let her know she's not alone in this thing, whatever it turns out to be."
"Tell her you like her as much as she likes you, then take her back to your room and show her exactly how much that is," the friend - Janice? - urges with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows. Lestrade chokes on what sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but nods his agreement when Sherlock glances at him through narrowed eyes.
"I don't even know where she's gone," he protests, knowing how weak an excuse that is even as he speaks.
Lestrade raises both eyebrows and gives him a disbelieving stare. "Right. The great Sherlock bloody Holmes can't find a woman he knows an' works with on a tiny little island like this. That'll be the day." He jostles Sherlock's shoulder with his. "Do it, man, find her. Or regret it the rest of your miserable, lonely life." Then he turns and offers...Janet?...his arm. "Care to dance?"
"Love to," she replies, linking her arm through his. They vanish into the crowd, leaving Sherlock to contemplate his next move.
Should he go after her? Of course he can figure out where she's gone; in many ways Molly's an open book to him, always has been. In other ways, of course, she's a complete mystery, but in this particular case he knows there are only four possibilities for where she's gone (a bar, the beach, to find Mary, her own room).
It's what happens after he finds her that he's concerned about. There are so many possible outcomes that he can barely organize them in his mind: she might slap him and tell him to leave her alone; she might be (he shudders at the thought) crying and in need of comfort he's not equipped to offer no matter what his supposed feelings are for her; she might be coldly angry and follow through on her threat to get him banned, at least temporarily, from Bart's; she might -
She might drag you into her room, strip off every stitch of your clothing, throw you onto the bed and shag you into a puddle. Which you, incidentally, would love from start to finish.
That's John's voice, this time definitely inside his head, although he darts a quick glances around to make sure of that before withdrawing into his mind palace to try to make sense of everything that's just happened, from that spontaneous, heated dance to Molly's demand for the truth, to Lestrade and...Janine's interference.
When he emerges a few minutes later, blinking himself back into awareness of his immediate surroundings, the music is slow and sensuous, the couples swaying together look as if they're trying to meld into each other, and Lestrade and Janine are nowhere to be found.
Good. Better they should concentrate on their own love life rather than his and Molly's. Which of course, is an impossibility, since he is who he is and she is who she is, and once she realizes exactly how unsuited they are, surely she'll be able to settle back into her place as 'professional colleague who lets me get away with things that aren't technically legal' instead of this muzzy, confused, emotionally tumultuous, seductive, dancing temptress she's inexplicably morphed into…
"Sod it," he mutters to himself, and marches across the outskirts of the dance floor and down the stone stairs that lead to the hotel proper.
Time to get this sorted once and for all. Molly will understand; she always does, even when he's at his worst.
oOo
Molly ignores the knock on her door; she's in no fit state for company at the moment, not even for tea (or, more likely, booze) and sympathy from one of her dearest friends. "I'm fine, Janine, go back to the party," she calls out as she continues undressing.
She's down to her bra and knickers and freezes in the act of removing the former when she hears a very unexpected baritone call out, "Molly, it's me. I can pick the locks but I presume you'd rather let me in yourself."
Oh, that man! Gritting her teeth as hurt and anger vie for dominance, she strides to the door, wrenches it open, and glares up at him, never mind her state of undress. He's as much as told her he's not interested, so what difference does it make? "What?" she snaps out as he stares down at her, eyes blinking rapidly as he takes in her lack of clothing.
"I actually do love to dance, Molly." She just about stamps her foot in frustration, but there's a note of something - she almost wants to call it desperation - in his voice that keeps her from following through with her desire to slam the door shut on him. "But what I should have said was that I was just, that it was only -"
"It was only what?" When he remains silent she actually does stamp her foot. "Go away, Sherlock. I got the message, loud and clear: tonight was just some kind of a, a lark, an aberration. The information has been duly noted, thank you for your feedback!"
She steps back, just about to slam the door (very satisfactorily) in his face when he speaks again. "I should have told you that I especially loved dancing with you, and I want to keep dancing with you."
She gapes up at him, utterly flummoxed, as his expression morphs from cool and aloof to bewildered, as if he'd surprised himself as much as her with that confession.
"What are you saying, Sherlock?" Molly asks softly, the fact that she's standing in her open doorway wearing only her knickers and bra completely forgotten in the wonder of the moment. Does he mean what she thinks he's saying? Or is he just...her expression hardens as she considers the possibility that he's trying to manipulate her just to keep his lab privileges from being threatened. "I swear to you, if you're just trying to manipulate me…"
"No!" he says loudly. A couple passing by give them a wary look, and the man steps forward as if about to offer help if Molly needs it. She waves him away with a shake of her head and a forced smile, then grabs Sherlock by the arm and drags him into her room, closing the door behind them.
"I'm not trying to manipulate you," he says, in a slightly quieter voice, pacing a bit while she watches through wary eyes. "I do, I want to dance with you, I mean. Not just here, but when we get back home. I'm rubbish at relationships, just ask John - I mean, not that John and I were ever romantically involved," he rushes on, the words seeming to just flood out of him as he pauses in his agitated movements to give her an anxious look. "Please don't tell him I even implied such a thing, he's incredibly touchy about what he perceives as slights to his masculinity, but what I meant was that even though I'll make a terrible boyfriend or whatever title you choose, I'd like - I'd like to try."
His eyes widen and his mouth opens in an 'O' as if, once again, his own words are surprising him. "I'd like to try all of it. Dancing and I suppose dinner and trips to the cinema if that's what you really want, even though they haven't made a decent movie since the 1950s, at least not here in the UK or even in America, although some of the more recent Bollywood productions are actually quite-"
Molly, heart racing and not even bothering to try to repress her joy, reaches up and gently places her hand over his mouth. "Breathe, Sherlock," she advises him, and starts to pull her hand away.
He reaches out and catches her by the wrist before drawing in a rather shuddering breath and letting it out again. He waits a beat before speaking again. "Apologies. I hadn't realized I was holding all of that inside." He blinks, clears his throat, blinks again before speaking. "I really am rubbish at relationships, always have been, but since we first met I've noticed that I have been paying rather more attention to you than anyone else since John became my flatmate and then my friend and then my best friend."
"So does that mean we're...friends?" Molly asks when he falls silent.
He nods, once again looking surprised. "Yes, but that's not what I want. I've certainly never wanted to dance with John or, well, anyone else. Not in years."
He brings her wrist slowly, carefully up to his face so that her hand rests on his cheek. Once there he turns his face and presses a soft kiss to her palm. "I'm sorry I froze and got flippant with you, back there." He cuts his eyes up at an angle that she presumes is in the direction of the dance floor. "I didn't mean to hurt you, and I can't guarantee I won't hurt you again, but if you're willing to take a chance on me…"
"Honey, you're still free?" Molly asks, unable to resist the urge to tease him a bit, even if he's unlikely to get the reference.
It's her turn to be surprised when his lips curl in an appreciative smile. "If I put you to the test, if I let you try?" The smile turns into a smirk. "My parents' taste in music is decidedly retro."
"My, my, how can I resist you?" Molly murmurs as she allows him to take her in his arms. Yeah, it's the wrong song but who cares when she's about to snog the breath out of the man of her dreams?
The kiss is soft at first, but once her fingers tangle in the soft, luscious curls at the back of his head it turns heated, passionate, all she'd ever dreamed a kiss with Sherlock would be.
As they fall onto her bed the last thought that drifts through her mind is a single, joyful word.
Finally.
End note: Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews, and a special thank you to Mouse9 for reading this chapter over!
