Thank you for nice words. Molly the Detective takes her tea break as Dr. Watson takes the lead in the unusual case of the Consulting Detective.
As if the almost empty fridge could look even less appetizing, the unexpected reappearance of the 'thumbs', (even after Mrs. Hudson's food intervention) turned John's stomach uncomfortably.
He slammed the door shut with disgust, relieved that he wouldn't be dining at Baker Street tonight.
"Right, I'm off." He said to the back of a pyjama-cladded Sherlock, slumped onto the sofa in his blue dressing gown. It was clear that the detective was making no effort on his night off.
"There's that pasta from Monday, if you want." Sherlock doesn't stir from his position, John doubts he'll even move this evening.
"I should be home around twelve-ah, probably not." John retracts his words as Sherlock lazily swivels his head round to give him a knowing look. "Yeah, well. Pasta in the fridge and maybe, you could do a shop, since you're going to be here alone. Only if it doesn't kill you."
"Hmm."
"Or if I don't kill you." John mumbles as he pulls over his coat.
"What?"
"Right! I better go." John speedily heads to the door and down the stairs. Although he only makes it as far as the doorstep, before his mobile buzzes.
Sorry john! i can't make our date tonight (blame a sadistic boss :( rain check? My treat ;) – xx Anne
John groaned, mumbling to himself, "Thumbs for dinner, it is."
"John!" A familiar cry pulled John up from his phone, to see an overly-wrapped up Molly approaching, snuggled in a beanie and scarf, carrying two plastic bags.
John wasn't surprise to see Molly; in fact he had seen a lot of her in these past months.
Somewhere between May and August, Sherlock's one-off arrangement fell through. Molly soon became the unofficial third member of the 'business', joining Sherlock and him as frequently as she could afford in her work schedule.
Her presence on a Sunday afternoon, scrambling with Sherlock at the kitchen table, suddenly became a 'thing', much to the delight of Mrs. Hudson (Molly, in her eyes, was her table's savior to any unruly plans Sherlock had for it.)
Although Sherlock's explanation, as to why Molly was accompanying them so often, was more than sus.
"You don't run like you used to." Sherlock bluffed to John, one morning, again avoiding indulging John's curiosity.
It wasn't like John to romanticize anyone, let alone, Sherlock Holmes, God's gift of arrogant asexuality but he couldn't help to see a little more in the detective's motives.
Apparently, John's silence went on too long as Molly's polite smile began to slip off her face.
"Sorry, hey! What you doing here?" John eyed the bags cautiously, a suspicious looking lump of pink strained through the thin plastic bag. He was sure that they didn't have a case tonight.
"Sherlock texted." Molly gestured to the windows above. "I am to bring him Chinese food and liver samples." She said happily, showing John the suspicious bag. "You going out?"
"Err, was. She just cancelled."
"Oh, I've got plenty of food here! I doubt even he can eat it all." They both looked up the window, where a soft strain of melody began to play; the dancing shadows flickered over the curtains.
"I hope you got double of everything." John smiled, taking one of the bags from Molly. "Didn't you have a date with that bloke tonight?"
John couldn't tell whether she blushed or whether it was the outside chill that tinted her cheeks but Molly tucked her head down, as she replied meekly. "Oh no, that was yesterday-Mrs. Hudson's not good at keeping secrets, is she?"
"You've learnt your lesson now." John joked, as they walked up the stairs, the soft notes of the violin growing louder.
The violin cut short as they pushed open the door. "Ah, good. Molly, you're—John."
A dressed Sherlock, (his dressing gown disappeared from sight), stood still, the violin dropped to hang down awkwardly by his side.
"I couldn't get that beef dish but I did get you those noodles." Molly headed towards the kitchen, oblivious to the stare-off, in progress, between Sherlock and John.
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's suit.
Sherlock replied with a tight curl of his lip.
"Perhaps, we shouldn't eat here." Molly said to no one in particular, eyeing Sherlock's ongoing experiment with disgust.
"I thought you had plans with Jeanette." Sherlock spoke out of the silence.
"Anne. And she had work." John corrected.
"The more the merrier." Molly cheerfully called from the kitchen, three plates in her hands as she walked back into the room.
"What?" She muttered, confused by their looks of disbelief.
After the second servings of dumplings and rice, Molly sat back happily in her chair by the sofa.
"So is the liver for the case?" She asked.
John mumbled with a mouthful of rice, "Case?"
"The case, yes John." Sherlock was quick in his sharp reply.
"I thought it was your night off. No cases."
Sherlock turned his head to John, blinking at him with a vacant look. "Obviously not."
"You just didn't mention it, that's all."
"I did. You were probably too preoccupied with Annette."
John took note of Sherlock's icy answer and replied with his own fire. "Do you always wear a suit underneath your dressing gown?"
Their silence was interrupted by an odd giggle, emitting from Molly, all forgotten in their exchange.
"-I better be off actually." Molly got up from her seat, reaching for her bag.
"There's no need for you to leave, Molly." Sherlock joined Molly, standing up. John, lagged behind, watched in surprise as Sherlock's cool facade faded.
"No, I've got work tomorrow. Might pop me in the incinerator if I'm late again." She badly joked, giving them a smile that barely reached her eyes. Sherlock guided her, somewhat reluctantly John noted, to the door.
"Night!" Molly gave John a final wave, before disappearing down the stairs.
"Admit it." John spoke to the back of Sherlock who was still by the door.
"Admit what?" Sherlock turned round, making a fast pace walk over to his chair to retrieve his violin.
"You like the pathologist." John dropped a dumpling into his mouth, a smirk on his face.
Sherlock waved his hand flippantly all the while fixing a puzzled look at John's statement. "Yes, I like Molly. Don't you?"
"What? No. No, you like her. You know, like a man likes a woma-"
Sherlock scoffed, turning away to face the window, the violin lifting up to rest on his shoulder.
"Then what was she doing here?"
"We had a case."
"It's your night off."
"I needed a liver."
Their conversation was apparently finished as Sherlock began to draw his bow out in quick shorts of high pitched notes.
John, unsatisfied, watched Sherlock, so obvious in his denial before shaking his head, getting up from the sofa.
"Right, I'm off to bed."
John made it to the door before Sherlock paused his 'playing', to call out to him. "Next time, text beforehand. I prefer my work not to be interrupted."
"Right, wouldn't want to interrupt 'nothing'." John wagged his eyebrows good humouredly.
A union-jack cushion hit the closing door, just missing its target.