'Are you aware that whenever you mention her you say her full name? Never Molly, it's always Molly Hooper. Careful to not say Holmes perhaps?' Mary was pleasantly tipsy, gigglier and cheekier than usual as she worked the room in a sheer lavender number, arm in arm with Sherlock to one side and John on the other, the latter who had spent the last 30 minutes ogling at his girlfriend's beauty.
Sherlock smirked innocently as he thought of an appropriate answer.
'There are four Molly's in our year level. Simply making sure you understand which one I'm referring to.'
'Oooohh you're no fun,' Mary teased, releasing herself from the two boys and adjusting the straps of her dress to optimise her cleavage. 'I'm going to go dance. You boys behave, alright?'
Mary sauntered off to the middle of the dancefloor, wiggling her way into the circle of her hockey teammates and joining in on an apparently popular dance trend that Sherlock had never seen before. He pulled the sleeves of his shirt down and fiddled with his cufflinks, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute at the amount of drunken, sweaty teenage stupidity going on around him.
The old council hall was decorated in typical school formal fashion. Tacky sashes and balloons in clashing shades of pink and red, a disco ball hanging in the centre of the dancefloor, cheap streamers that had been half torn down already, and a 30-something year old DJ who looked as though he was ready to commit a violent crime every time a student requested a song.
'So where's your date?' John called out over the music.
'Found better company, it seems,' Sherlock was completely disinterested, pointing to a darkened corner of the room where Irene was shamelessly making out with Anthea from Sherlock's literature class. It was making sense now why she was so keen as a fifth-former to be invited to the sixth-form dance.
John gawked at the two girls for a moment while Sherlock glanced down at his watch, calculating how long he had left. He knew the event was bound to be unbearable and had snuck some supplies into his jacket pocket to take the edge off, which he suspected were bound to kick in sometime in the next half hour.
John dragged his eyes away from Irene, mentally reprimanding himself for intruding on their privacy.
'No. Not your official date…The one I know you wanted to take instead.'
The one he really wanted. Molly. Truth be told, Sherlock loved dancing. The whole parade of dressing up, taking someone's hand and moving in time with them, he found delightfully old-fashioned and intimate in a way he couldn't describe. If Molly had been his date, he imagined he mightn't be crowded into a corner with John, waiting for his high to kick in so he could mentally disappear.
'I think I've been careless, John.'
'Not sure which specific time you're referring to mate but, yeah, I'd agree.'
He looked down at his feet and cleared his throat, remembering his mother's scolding words and preparing himself for a moment of bravery.
'Treating her like she doesn't matter and then only being kind to her in private…She…She deserves better. She deserves someone who will love her entirely, without a second thought of telling the whole world how wonderful she is.'
In cosmically perfect timing, he glanced up as he saw Molly make her entrance into the hall, leaving Sherlock momentarily speechless as he took in the sight of her. Her dress was made of maroon satin that brought out the warm brown hues in her hair and eyes, complimented by the shimmery wine shade painted on her lips and rosy blush across her cheeks. The thin straps highlighted the contours of her pale neck and collarbone, the fabric clinging to her slight waist and elongated torso. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Unfortunately for Sherlock, despite the fact that she had suggested she might come alone or with someone else, he hadn't even entertained the idea of her doing so, and he was not at all prepared for her presence.
'Well, now's your chance,' John suggested, raising his drink to his friend in encouragement. 'Give her a dance, tell her how you feel. With a bit of luck she won't have moved on already,' he jested.
'Yes,' Sherlock murmured, suddenly overwhelmed. 'Excuse me.'
His gaze was fixed ahead of him, striding straight for the back fire exit where he could have a moment's peace in the cool air of the alleyway. He reached for the small bag inside of pocket and emptied the contents into his mouth, tired of waiting for his previous dosage to take effect. He needed all the confidence he could muster, and to drown out the pesky thoughts running through his mind at a million miles per hour.
He sat himself down on the concrete for a moment, resting the back of his head against the cool brick wall and allowing thoughts of Molly to cloud his vision. A memory, stored away at the very back of his mind, of a bright little girl who had scribbled his last name next to hers in the margins of her schoolwork. Years of watching from afar as she grew up into a young woman, intelligent and kind, beautiful, awkwardly funny, quiet yet passionate. Memories of the smell of her hair and his favourite floral sundress of hers that she wore one summer afternoon as their knees grazed against each other.
He inhaled thoughts of her with the cold evening hair, and with one sharp exhale felt his heart rate rise and a euphoric, floating sensation take over his body.
Back inside the hall, Molly resisted the urge to hide her body by throwing on a cardigan or folding her arms over herself, instead marching with false confidence over to the drinks table where she was greeted by Certified Rat™ Jim Moriarty.
'Fancy a dance, Hooper?' he asked coyly, pulling a silver flask from his jacket pocket and taking a swig, all the while maintaining an air of total sobriety and control.
'Uh, maybe later, thanks,' she managed with a fake smile, slinking her way over to a dark corner and accidentally bumping into someone's shoulder. 'Oh, sorry!'
The dark corner figure turned, revealing herself to be Irene with a lipstick-stained Anthea attached to her.
'No worries, gorgeous,' she said with a coquettish smile, maintaining eye contact with Molly as she found her way back to Anthea's collarbone.
Molly blushed as she moved away from the pair and tried to find a safe corner to blend in, relieved to know that at least it wasn't Sherlock's neck Irene was latched on to. She scanned the room for the object of her affections, disappointed to realise he was nowhere to be seen. There was John, standing alone with his drink, watching on with love as a joyfully tipsy Mary twirled around with her circle of pretty friends.
Bathroom, maybe? She thought to herself. Maybe he bailed altogether? Maybe he left in a huff after his date swapped him out for another girl. Maybe he's off crying somewhere because he's secretly in love with Irene and he feels betrayed, and I've actually just gone mad and imagined our entire relationship.
'How about that dance?' she heard a whisper from behind her, she could recognise his accent and unmistakably silky voice anywhere, the kind that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up in uneasiness.
'Jim,' she greeted him again with gritted teeth. 'Sure, alright. Just one.'
She let him lead her onto the dancefloor, his hand squeezed too tight around her waist and sliding too low down her hips for her liking, her hand quickly grabbing his wrist and forcing it back up.
'Now who are you here with tonight, Molly?' He murmured into her ear.
'No-one.'
'Really?' he drawled out in high-pitched surprise. 'Because, a little birdy told me, that you and Sherlock were a little bit twitterpated by each other.' He gazed off into the corner, whistling a birdlike tune before singing quietly into her neck, 'Molly and Sherlock sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.'
She shuddered, unsure of how he even knew anything about that. Sherlock and Jim had always been known academic rivals, both arrogant, socially impaired rich boys who had no problem tearing each other down publicly in some sort of intellectual pissing contest.
'It's not like that,' Molly insisted, grabbing his hand to try and shove him away from her neck. He was stronger than her, and maintained his position, keeping his eye contact fixed with someone over her shoulder.
She managed to turn them around and pass it off as part of their pas-de-deux so she could see who he was looking at, breathless as she saw Sherlock leaning by the back door. He looked unreasonably handsome in his suit, flattering his lean muscles and tall stature in the best possible way, but his eyes seemed to glass over with revulsion as he observed Molly and Jim's intertwined hands with his mouth near her neck.
'With a bit of luck she won't have moved on already!' John's voice echoed in his mind, warping into a distorted shriek that taunted him as he felt the full force of his dose take effect, repeating the words over and over again like a badly scratched record. He shook his head violently as though it would force the voices out through his ears and pulled himself together. A menacing glint had formed in his frosty eyes as he staggered his way across the dancefloor, waving his arms above his head in order to draw as much attention to himself as possible.
'Ah, Molly! Sweet Molly, Molly Hoopaahhhhhh,' he drawled.
Molly's cheeks burned red with embarrassment as she managed to finally pull herself away from Jim's clutches, who immediately placed a possessive arm around her waist again as soon as she was free.
If it wasn't already apparent by his inability to walk in a straight line and his dilated pupils, his slurred speech told her everything she needed to know about Sherlock's state of mind. He was high as a kite, and devoid of any inhibition. The music had died down during a slow song, and the students gathered around him as he began his delirious soliloquy.
'Everybody look at my friend Molly! Molly Hooper, Mary, just so you know we're talking about the right Molly. Does everyone know Molly? Mousy Molly, I think was the nickname, but she's not mousy now is she? She's all dolled up! Dolled up for Jimmmmm of all people. Lovely dress Molly, bit-old fashioned, but does the trick doesn't it? Don't even notice the size of her breasts in it!'
The crowd snickered at her, save for Mary and John who had made their way to the middle of the confrontation, staring daggers at Sherlock and begging him to stop talking.
'See unfortunately for Jim,' Sherlock spat his name, dramatically separating the two of them and placing a fake-sympathetic arm around his rival's shoulder. 'No matter how much he tries I'll always come out on top, won't I Jimmy?'
Jim was scarily calm, smirking and licking his lips as Sherlock manhandled him, finding an indecent amount of humour in watching his enemy make a complete fool out of himself and the girl he cared for, regardless of whether or not he was dragged down in the process.
Molly grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, hard, and tried to pull him aside.
'What the hell are you doing?' She hissed.
'No, it's fine, look, I'm telling everyone so it's not a secret! This is what you wanted!'
'This,' she insisted, 'is not what I wanted. Not even close.'
Molly was no longer Molly, he couldn't see the hurt in her expression or hear the pain in her voice above the ringing. She was just a blur of chocolatey hair and fancy white floral and vanilla perfume that she didn't normally wear, blended into a kaleidoscope of moving walls and a floor that seemed to be caving inwards.
With a bit of luck she won't have moved on already, Delusion-John babbled in his mind, his face warping into a twisted smile and cackling at him until Sherlock buried his face in his hands to physically try and escape his own hallucination. He shakily planted himself face-to-face with Jim and poked him hard in the centre of his chest, remembering who the real enemy was here.
'She might have come running to you but ME?' He shouted suddenly, feeling his adrenaline rise with every passing minute, 'I'm the winner,' he muttered to himself.
He was shaking, beads of cold sweat rolling off the ends of his dark curls and down his pale forehead.
'Because Molly's not very good with romance, is she? Poor thing, she does try though. I would know, I was the crème-de-la-crème in her eyes, wasn't I? But then I was always a bit of an arsehole,' he pouted, encouraging his audience to boo him.
'I know, I know, Bad Sherlock. Sooooo off runs Molly Hooper into the arms of another pathetic rebound with her dress and her rouge and her perfume, and it worked!'
He paused to initiate applause from his onlookers, triumphantly revelling in being the ringleader of the circus as the mean girls and lacrosse boys hooted, pulling out their phones to film the outburst.
'Alright, stop it now,' John warned as Mary moved directly next to Molly, placing a protective arm around her shoulders.
'But I have something Jimmy doesn't have,' Sherlock stage-whispered for dramatic effect, waving away his friend's concern. 'Because I'm the one she really loves, isn't that true, Molly?' He turned to the mirage shape that he knew to be Molly, his eyes not entirely present but filled with misery all the same.
'I'm sure everyone remembers the Molly Holmes incident, don't we? Little Molly acting like we're married and sharing a last name, take me to dinner first! And you see, it's all very sad because we were finally getting somewhere when I saw that she'd moved on to this creep and unfortunately…,' he said, pulling a pretend air-dagger from his pocket and acting out stabbing himself in the chest for his finale ultimo, '…she broke my heart.'
He bent over to take a theatrical bow and almost as soon as he was upright he was doubled over again, as John's fist collided square with the side of his jaw. For a brief second, Sherlock's vision and mind were clear, just long enough to see Jim laughing hysterically to himself and Molly, totally crestfallen, with Mary instinctively pulling her closer into a protective embrace.
But Molly wouldn't cry, not this time, not in front of this many people. She was in fight or flight, too in shock for her body to waste energy on tears and she had already spent too many of those on Sherlock Holmes. Her mouth hardened into a firm line as she moved bravely away from Mary, ever her protector, and stared up at him, allowing him to truly take her all in.
'You say such horrible things sometimes, do you know that?'
Her tone was defeated, but not spiteful at all, and it reached Sherlock's core even in his hysterical state. Her question was rhetorical, and he knew it. He had no response as he watched Molly take the high road, leaving the dance with Mary and her dignity still intact. She could have slapped him; it would have been deserved. Rage would have been a far easier emotion to be on the receiving end of, easier to justify his own behaviour by turning it on her and her anger. Instead, it was sheer disappointment, just as he always knew he would do to her.
'What?!' He shouted to his spectators, suddenly loathing the attention. His breathing was rapid and shallow, wiping the sweat from his forehead and becoming aware of the pain radiating from where he had been smacked in the jaw.
'We're leaving,' John instructed, grabbing his arm firmly with both hands, escorting him out of the dance from the opposite exit that Molly and Mary had taken.
The two pairs made their way home with very few words between them, John shoving a deadweight Sherlock into a cab and insisting he stay the night to watch for signs of an overdose, and Mary walking hand in hand with Molly the whole way home, assuring her that it was okay to cry or talk if she wanted.
Molly's mother was still awake as they arrived home, waiting on the couch for news of her little girl's evening, which boys had asked her to dance and which girls had said she looked pretty.
There were so few occasions this past year that Molly had been allowed to be a child, putting aside her emotional needs for her final year of schooling and her sick father, getting so used to the detachment that she excused behaviours when she knew she deserved better.
Seeing her mother like that, waiting excitedly for gossip of her teenage milestones, she had reached her limit. She kicked off her heels and joined her mother on the couch, throwing her arms around her neck and her legs across her lap as she allowed the tears she had been holding in to finally fall, her ribs aching as they rose and fall with full body sobs.
Mary stayed, offering support and cups of tea as the three women sat together in the living room, careful as to not wake Molly's father who was sleeping in the adjacent bedroom, staying up together for hours whispering, crying and laughing together. It was the connection Molly had so desperately craved, brought about by a scenario she wished had never happened.
All four friends were restless that night. They went to sleep still in their formal clothes and huddled on sofas, makeup smeared, and blazers thrown haphazardly on the floor. Each of them spent the night tossing, turning and waking hourly to stare at the ceiling and shed a silent tear, wishing that when they woke, they would discover the entire night to have been a terrible dream.