A/N: A Sherlolly short piece for New Year's! I hope you enjoy. This is regular universe, just after TRF.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
There's a theory that whatever you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve would be an indicator of what you'd be doing the rest of the year. Molly Hooper certainly hoped not. So far she'd been sitting alone at a table drinking glass after glass of cheap champagne. She glanced down at her watch. Still another hour to go. She never understood what was so great about this confounded holiday in the first place. So what if the calendar changed? Tomorrow would just like every other day except for all the people wandering through, completely hung over. The only excitement would be trying to figure out which of the nurses were still wearing last night's dress.
"Good Lord, Molly. You could at least make an effort to look enthusiastic." Molly stared up at Mike Stamford through the narrow eyes in her cheap, glittery mouse mask.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, her tone dry and disinterested.
"I recognized your handbag." He gestured to where her enormous shoulderbag was resting over the corner of her chair. It was not glittery or glamourous. Nor did it match the simple black sheath dress that was draped over her thin frame. Molly had not been doing well the last several months. Most weren't quite sure what had brought the normally bubbly girl down into the depths of this depression with which she'd been struggling. But Mike knew. Well, he knew part of it. He knew she still mourned for Sherlock Holmes. They say that ultimately people forget all about you five minutes after your death, but this was not true of Molly Hooper. Not where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. Despite his coldness toward her, his outright taunting of her affections—Molly had loved him with the whole of her heart.
Mike sat down beside her and took her hand gently. "Molly, I know the last couple of months have been difficult for you."
Molly gave a snort of derision and drained the rest of the champagne in her glass. "You really have no idea."
"Of course I do, Mols. But walking around like a zombie isn't going to bring Sherlock back."
Her jaw tightened at his words and she could feel the rage burning in the corners of her eyes. She wanted to shout at him. To scream that he didn't know anything. That she knew he wasn't dead. That she knew he was off in some godforsaken country, hiding from the world. That she knew he may never come home again. Not only that, but she could see the pain in John Watson's eyes whenever they met. She had heard Martha Hudson weeping at his graveside as if Sherlock were her own son. She had stood there like a stone at his funeral while Greg Lestrade gripped her hand and forced himself to keep up that unemotional male façade. All of these things she'd seen but had still said nothing. She'd promised Sherlock that she would keep quiet and she'd been strong this long. She couldn't betray him now. It was the least she could do. She loved him. But she couldn't say any of this so she just murmured, "No. It won't."
Mike nodded and gave Molly's hand a light squeeze. "And he wouldn't want us to grieve so."
"Oh I don't know about that," she chuckled. "Sherlock would want us all to be beside ourselves with grief."
Mike laughed. "You're probably right about that. Always the center of attention. He did have a flair for the dramatic."
"He did." Molly smiled, for a moment her mind full up with images of him sweeping into her lab, his coattails flying as he jerked that damn scarf from around his throat.
Finally Mike spoke again. "You know, Molly, a friend of my brother's is in town and is staying with me for a couple of days. He's thinking of taking a flat-"
"Mike—"
"No really. He's not from London and is completely lost. I, of course, don't have much time to show him around. Besides, I think he'd much prefer your company."
"I don't think so…"
"Oh come on, Mols. It's just some sightseeing and maybe a drink at the pub." He stood up and went through his pockets, rifling through keys and spare change before coming up with a slip of paper. "Here's his mobile number. I told him you'd be calling."
"Mike! How… I mean… what are you…?" She stammered, staring down at the number scrawled across the paper in Stamford's doctor hand. She shoved the number back toward him, trying to get it stuffed into his hands. "I… I can't do this."
He refused to take it back and closed her hand over it tightly. "It's just a phone call, Molly." He gave a small, sympathetic smile and patted her hand once more. "His name is Tom. He's nice."
Before she could refuse again, he walked away. Molly thought about discarding the poor bloke's number, but it felt like a betrayal of Mike. And she had already betrayed too many of her friends to add another. "Tom," she said, not really liking the way his name fit in her mouth. It didn't roll off the tongue. It kind of laid there in her throat, cut off.
"Would you care to dance?" Molly looked up to see a tall man in a black tuxedo standing over her. He was wearing a sequined mask of deep crimson. The sequins were arranged in a pattern that made the mask look scaly. That, along with the horned protrusions that extended over the man's forehead and across his cheeks suggested that the mask was supposed to be a dragon. She couldn't see much of his face except his mouth, the line of a sharp jaw and square-ish chin. Coupled with the mask, this person could very likely pass for the mythical fire lizard.
"Me?" Molly asked, thinking that perhaps the loud music had distorted what he was saying.
He chuckled. "Yes you. Why not you?"
"I… uhm… I'm not sure. I don't usually get asked to dance."
"Seems a bit odd," he said. "You seem to have both legs. There's music."
"Well… yes…"
"Then come on and dance." The man offered his hand and Molly stared at it as if it were a dangerous insect. When she didn't move or speak, he cleared his throat and beckoned her forward with an impatient wave of his hand. Not knowing what else to do, Molly took it and allowed the stranger to lead her toward the dance floor.