Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This is the penultimate chappie, the next should be up soon. Enjoy!


PICCADILLY TO BAKERLOO


The place he brings her to in Chinatown is buzzing, even though it's nearly 2 am.

There's bar staff, venue staff, performers of all descriptions huddled inside, as well as road workers and a couple of off-the-clock security guards. Most are hungrily hoovering up bowls of rice and noodles as if their lives depended on it. They barely look up when she and Sherlock come in, the detective towing her confidently around plastic chairs and scuffed plywood tables to a booth at the back, near the kitchens.

"Sherlock?" A fifty-something Thai woman in a no-nonsense pantsuit pokes her head out of the kitchen and his face breaks into a warm smile.

"Annie," he says, rising and bussing her cheek. "How have you been? You look wonderful."

The woman narrows her eyes. "My boys aren't here, so if you're looking for info-"

Sherlock gives an- in Molly's opinion- entirely uncalled for fake pout, hand on heart as if he's been wounded. "I bring my girl in for the best Thai in London, and this is the response I get?"

Molly purses her lips, unwilling to comment on Sherlock calling her "his girl." (She also tells herself to ignore the way it makes her heart skip a beat, because apparently she's still fourteen deep down).

Fortunately for her, however, Annie is willing to forgive her companion. "Your girl, eh?" She says. At his earnest nod Annie throws Molly a wry smile. "You'll have your hands full with this one."

Molly snorts. "Believe me, I know."

Annie laughs at that and bustles out of the kitchen, handing them two menus. "Whatever they want," she tells the waiter she beckons over. A reluctant smile at Sherlock. "After all, I suppose I still owe you for Battersea."

"Everyone owes me for Battersea." Sherlock's smile is blinding, which causes Annie to roll her eyes again.

"Always so humble," she says wryly. Another smile to Molly. "Enjoy your meal- He's right, we are the best in town." Sherlock snorts and she clips him lightly behind the ear before heading back into the kitchen, leaving them to sit down and order drinks. Sherlock recommends the Pad Thai and Molly orders it; he asks for the Tom Yum Gai soup and gleefully settles down to a massive bowl of the stuff.

Molly is really rather astonished by the size of it.

As soon as she looks at her plate her stomach rumbles loudly and she blushes. Sherlock's grin is cheeky- "Didn't hear a thing,"- and despite the embarrassment she grins back at him. Starts on her food. She's surprised by how hungry she is, though she wouldn't normally have a meal this late. As they eat she describes her shift, listing any interesting corpses she's run through in the last week since she saw him-

Sherlock grins at her throughout as though she's Father Christmas and she's just handed him his Christmas stocking, stuffed to the brim.

By the time they finish the place is quieting down, some of the staff pairing off to have their own food in the booths beside them. Sherlock suggests they leave- "The next rush will be the escorts and the lap-dancers," he says. "That's when things get a bit louder- Might not be your cup of tea."

Pulling out her chair he helps her into her coat and lays a fifty on the table- "consider it a tip," he tells their waiter before hooking his arm through Molly's and leading her out onto the street.

She's not sure what to make of his behaviour.

After all, she'd felt his hand in hers in the cab but she'd thought he was trying to be soothing, so she hadn't questioned it. She'd assumed his words to Annie about her being "his girl," had been a way to secure good service and perhaps to make her feel at ease, too.

Now she's not so sure about either.

Still, arm in arm they wind away from Chinatown towards her nearest Tube Station. The streets are loud and neon, tourists and Londoners alike still bustling about. It starts raining about two minutes into their walk and Sherlock pulls her under the awning of a pub, buttoning up her coat for her and briskly rubbing his hands up and down her arms as she shivers.

"You're soaked already," he says, tutting, as if she had any choice in the matter.

"So are you," she points out.

"Yes, but I'm bigger than you," he says, as if this were eminently reasonable. "It takes more rain to make me wet, because there's more of me to cover-"

"So you're saying you're not as wet as me because of acreage?" She asks in exasperation. He grins cheekily, causing her to playfully thump his arm.

"You're a git, you know," she says.

"Noted." Again he nods cheerfully. One of the hands he was chafing along her arms has slid down to take her fingers in his. "Look, Molly…" And he starts, then stops. Looks away. To her surprise… To her surprise his cheeks are starting to redden, just a little. "Look, you'll catch your death in this weather if you head home," he says softly.

The words are said to a spot somewhere on her right shoulder, a spot he's staring at with great concentration, though she can't imagine why.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" She asks. "It's nearly a hundred for a taxi from here to me place, Sherlock, so-"

"WhynotcometoBakerStreet?"

He speaks over her, all in a rush. Again the words are delivered to that (fascinating) spot on her right shoulder. Once they're out though, he looks at her. He seems alarmed to have actually spoken them aloud, so alarmed that Molly expects him to backtrack right away. (As if he needs to, she thinks.

She knows he's not suggesting anything… naughty, not with her).

But-

"The bed in John's old room is still made up," he continues, more softly. "And well, it's a lot nearer. We're nearly at Piccadilly Circus: we could just get the Bakerloo Line right there and then you, you can get some rest..." He shrugs. "It's sort of my fault," he adds. "If I hadn't dragged you out then you would have been home and dry for hours now-"

Molly's lip twitches. "Yes," she says. "But I wouldn't have tasted the best Thai food in London either, now would I?" He laughs and she can't help herself: she links her arm through his. To her surprise he presses against her side, sharing his warmth. Sharing himself. She feels so… little, beside him. "Piccadilly is this way, isn't it?" She says and he nods.

"Chop chop," he says, hurrying her along and Molly can't help it, she laughs, dashing through the rain with this impossible man as if she's not bone tired. As if she hasn't had an awful night and an awful shift. As if she hasn't a care in the world.

If she's been looking at Sherlock she would have seen the happiness in his eyes.

She might also have realised that her night was about to improve dramatically.