Eighteen minutes. Nine minutes. Seven minutes. Four minutes.

Sherlock glanced down impatiently at his watch, tapping his foot to release energy and fight the urge for a cigarette. Molly was punctual, one of the many traits he had come to admire about her, however this only increased his anxiety knowing exactly when she was expected.

To Molly's pleasant surprise, by the time she arrived at the Holmes household for their weekly arrangement he was already seated on the front porch awaiting her arrival. Usually he was an appalling host, leaving the door unlocked and allowing her to let herself in as he just waited in his room, preoccupied with a more urgent matter. He was so upright he seemed almost uncanny and doll-like, seated at a perfect 90 degrees with his hands resting completely still on his knees as though he was using them to try and stop himself from jostling his leg.

He stood to greet her, smoothing the creases of his jeans and inviting her inside before clasping his hands firmly behind his back, suddenly the picture of a perfect gentleman. Best to keep his hands occupied, he thought, or at least until they were somewhere more private than his front porch.

He paused at the kitchen instead of leading her upstairs to their usual haunt, beckoning her to follow him. She eyed with him suspicion before spotting the two sandwiches sat plated on the counter, shockingly prepared, with raspberry jam oozing out the sides and holes torn in the bread from trying to spread too-cold butter. Sherlock stood awkwardly next to his creation, like a child next to their science fare project waiting for his praise.

'I thought it might be nice to forego the studying for today and…have lunch together. If you're willing to bend the rules, that is.' He was as tight-lipped and unfeeling as ever, although Molly got the sense that it may have been a front this time.

She wished she were a stronger woman, one who could say "no, you embarrassed me at school and made me feel small and every time I think you like me you do something to make me think otherwise, so leave me alone and stop playing with my heart please." But that wasn't Molly. Her heart had been Sherlock's since she was 11 years old and she would take whatever piece of his he was willing to offer.

'That would be lovely,' she replied with a tender smile, watching as the muscles in Sherlock's face relaxed at her agreement.

'Well, that's a relief,' he joked, grabbing his plate of sad-looking-sandwiches and leading her through the back of the house towards their expansive back garden. 'Would have been quite embarrassing if you'd said no.'

Molly stopped dead in the doorway, her mouth dropping open at the scene.

Laid out on the grass under the shade of their old oak tree was a classic tartan picnic rug, topped with the kind of fanciful spread you'd see in a film. Iced tea in a crystal pitcher, not the rubbish store-bought and bottled kind, but the kind you had to brew yourself from tea leaves and refrigerate overnight. Individually wrapped expensive chocolates that her family only bought for guests at Christmas time, and fresh seasonal cherries in what appeared to be an antique Bone China bowl.

'Did…did you do all this for me?' She asked in disbelief.

'Yes,' he answered casually, placing the sandwiches down with the rest of the feast. 'Not to worry, it didn't take long to put together.'

Lie. It had taken him hours. He had prepared the tea the night before, set multiple alarms that morning to make sure he had enough time before her arrival and there were several failed sandwich attempts sitting in the bin following a butter-related-breakdown.

Truthfully, he wanted things to be as perfect as he could for her. It was the least he could do after his faux pas at school and Mary had now opened his eyes to the possibility of friendship, perhaps more, and this was a perfectly friendly gesture to offer.

Molly tossed her school bag aside on the grass and sat herself down on the rug, gleefully tucking in to one of the chocolates and groaning in sheer delight. Treats had become even fewer and farther between in her household since her father's illness, only buying what they could afford and even then, Molly often felt too sad and nauseous to eat a proper meal. She had been looking peaky lately and was more than grateful for the sugar.

'Sandwich, my lady?' Sherlock asked in his best mock-gentlemanly accent.

'Why thank you.'

The two nibbled quietly on their sandwiches for a few minutes, unsure of what to say or how exactly to say it given their completely strange non-relationship.

'Well, we kissed,' Sherlock was the first to break their silence, eliciting a nervous laugh from Molly at his bluntness.

'Yes, we did.'

'And it was quite nice.'

'Yes, it was,' she concurred, careful not to sound too eager.

Molly blushed at his admittance that it was "quite nice", completely unsure of where this was going.

'I suppose it seems silly to pretend we didn't,' Sherlock rationalised, inching his face closer to hers. 'And I was wondering…if you wouldn't mind…allowing me to do it again?'

There was no need for Molly to respond, she had already instinctively moved closer with him so that their lips were already brushing together softly, giving a silent small nod of consent before closing her eyes and allowing herself to melt into their second, perfect kiss.

His hound found its way from her hair to her cheek, cupping it softly and memorising the contours of her cheekbones and jaw before moving down to her collarbone, hidden beneath a soft yellow cardigan. His finger gently thumbed along the collar, feeling the contours of where each row of knitting began before finding the centre, gently popping open the top button.

Sherlock, who was normally so adamant on keeping his distance from her, guided the two of them to a horizontal position on the picnic rug, so gently as though he was sure he would break her if he moved too suddenly. She took the unspoken invitation to settle onto her back, relishing the feeling of his weight on hers and the softness of his touch, a completely new sensation since their initial frenzied kiss.

They pulled apart for some air, content to lay on their sides and gaze at each other for a few moments, taking in all the hundreds of tiny details of each other's faces.

Molly became aware of the sun suddenly becoming blocked by a nearby figure before hearing a familiar voice call out from the back doorway.

'Do you two need a hat? It's quite hot out there today!'

'I'm going to commit a murder,' Sherlock grumbled into Molly's neck before she quickly scurried away from him, completely mortified at the possibility of being caught in a compromising position by his mother.

'Oh! Mrs Holmes, I'm so sorry, I- I didn't realise you were home this weekend,' she stuttered, hastily rebuttoning her cardigan and accidentally missing the correct loop.

'So lovely to see you again sweetheart,' Mrs Holmes said with a kind smile before turning her attention to Sherlock and holding up a crumbled piece of paper. 'Found this in your schoolbag, darling. Were you planning on telling me any time soon?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Molly squinted to identify the paper, recognising it as an old school notice for the formal.

'Forgive me for not sharing this thrilling piece of news,' Sherlock huffed.

'Will you be attending, dear?' Mrs Holmes turned to Molly warmly, who in turn looked to Sherlock, completely uncertain of how to respond.

'I…no, no, I don't think so,' Molly decided, '….not unless…somebody asks me.' She slipped up on their charade and looked to Sherlock as she said it, a silent plea in her eyes that she prayed he picked up on.

'No boyfriend then?'

'Um…no. No boyfriend,' She smiled, concealing her discontentment as she was suddenly brought back to reality. She knew there was no scenario in which herself and Sherlock would be walking into a school dance hand-in-hand as a public couple.

'Sherlock? Do you have a date?' His mother was glaring daggers at him, clearly hoping for a certain answer.

His eyes searched Molly's for a moment before finding the words to answer, hating everything about this conversation and wishing his mother would just disappear.

'Yes…I'm taking Irene. It was organised back in February.'

Mrs Holmes forced a polite smile to both of them, both herself and Molly doing their best attempts at hiding their disappointment.

'Hm. I see. Well, I best leave you two alone. Give me a shout if you need anything,' his mother said before disappearing back inside the house.

Molly turned to Sherlock, completely horrified at everything that had just happened. He ran a nervous hand through his curls, sensing the need for an explanation.

'It was nothing, really,' he reasoned, lacing his fingers with hers as an offer of comfort. 'The unfortunate result of a one-night dalliance while I was horrendously drunk at a party. Somewhere in between the alcohol and far too much tongue I must have promised I would take her.'

'I actually would have preferred to not know that…' Molly trailed off, shuddering at the thought. 'It's fine! Honestly. You made a commitment, and you should stick to it. If I change my mind at the last minute then I can always go by myself or with a friend,' she said with a half-smile, not quite believing her own words. It was fine, he had agreed to take Irene months ago but that didn't take away from the sting. 'Let's not talk about it.'

'If you insist,' Sherlock agreed, placing an affectionate peck on her forehead before guiding the two of them back down on the rug.

They stayed there for hours until they noticed the sun had begun to set, stealing kisses when they were sure they weren't being watched and Molly dozing in and out of consciousness a few times, nuzzled into Sherlock's chest. He watched her fondly as she slept, her eyelids fluttering as she dreamt and her mouth slightly parted. He allowed himself to imagine, briefly, what it would be like to wake up next to her for real. As grown-ups, in the same house, the same bed.

He walked Molly to the bus stop later that night, beaming from ear to ear as he snuck in as many secret kisses as he could when the road was empty and feeling entirely like a giddy school boy. He was behaving exactly like John during the times he had rolled his eyes and called him a stupid, lovesick imbecile.

Mrs Holmes was waiting in the front sitting room when he returned home, her expression of anger and disappointment completely wiping the giddy smile from his face. He ran through the list of possibilities in his head and eliminated the obvious "no's" -

1. Disapproves of Molly. Wrong, she's always had a soft spot for her and had been bugging Sherlock to invite her over more.
2. Found his stash. Wrong, this would be a much more dramatic intervention.
3. Took the nice chocolates from the pantry without asking. Potentially, but not worth the "we need to have a serious talk" face.

'Who's Molly going to formal with?' She asked, disrupting his chain of thought.

This wasn't where Sherlock had expected the conversation to go, his brow furrowing in confusion.

'I don't know.'

'So what if no one asks her? Will she just not go?'

'Yes, I suppose. Or she'll go alone or with a friend if it bothers you so much.'

'And do you not think perhaps you should have asked her?'

'And why should I have done that?'

'Good God, Sherlock, you cannot be serious.'

He looked up at this mother, perplexed and slightly fearful of her sudden anger.

'What, what's the matter? It's already been arranged; Irene bought her ticket and a dress ages ago.'

'What's the matter? Do you think I was born yesterday? I've seen the two of you together, I mean bloody hell Sherlock you're hardly doing a great job at hiding it!' She rubbed her eyes in frustration, trying to keep a lid on her emotions. 'So what's the official arrangement then? Hm? You two spend every weekend together, you kiss her, and she's not allowed to tell anyone, is that it?'

'I'm not speaking about this with you,' Sherlock said as defiantly as he could muster, mortified at how much his mother really knew.

'Do you talk to her at school?' She asked as calmly as possible, her only giveaway being her restless hands fiddling with her jewellery and clothing.

'What?'

'At school, in front of John and your other classmates, are you nice to her? Do you even say hello to her?'

Sherlock's face turned red as he was confronted with his own shame. No, I've been a complete prick, he wanted to say but couldn't bring himself to admit to her.

'Why would she care if I say hello to her?'

'I ran into some other school parents recently and you know what I found out? Her father is dying, Sherlock, which I'm sure you already knew. She's never had a solid group of friends I think she might have appreciated some kindness from the boy she's quite clearly head over heels for who appears to be taking advantage of that.'

Mrs Holmes exhaled with a heavy sigh, hanging her head in her hands for a moment as she chose her words carefully before continuing.

'You are a brilliant young man, with a great mind that can do great things if you wanted and I'm so proud to be your mother. But right now I am utterly disappointed in you and with myself for not teaching you better.'

She stood and made her way to the kitchen, busying herself with meaningless tasks and opening cupboards just to keep herself occupied, unable to say anything more. Sherlock tried to speak, to defend himself and his actions but she firmly cut him off.

'I think it's best if you go to your room and have an early night and some time to think by yourself. I don't want to say anything I'll regret.'

Sherlock's face burned red. He hadn't been chastised like that since he was a child and it was deeply humiliating, particularly because he knew every word was true. He was selfish, taking all the parts of Molly that he wanted and not giving her any of the commitment she deserved, never truly apologising for anything he said or did to her.

He felt the corners of his mouth quiver and he made his way silently up the stairs, refusing to look his mother in the eye. He didn't cry often. He cried as a child, when their dog died, when he scraped his knee, when he was told Victor couldn't be his friend anymore. He found himself once again like a child, curled into a ball on his bed with his hands tucked safely under his cheek as he let the tears flow freely down his face for the first time in years, allowing himself to feel, with all their weight, all those silly little emotions he had sworn didn't exist at all.