A/N: One, possibly two chapters after this - and sorry, folks, I've downgraded from "M" to "T" cause this little ball of fluff ends before anything exciting might happen. But I hope everyone will be satisfied anyway. Thanks for reading and for all the lovely reviews! Oh, and FULL CREDIT for this chapter and the follow-up goes to Nocturnias, for her lovely efforts to unstick my imagination and put this story where it needed to be! Thanks!


Mary coaxed Molly out of the alcove and back into the ladies to fuss with her hair and makeup a bit more (and to give Sherlock time to do something – and if he didn't take advantage of what she'd ordered him to do she would hit him with her purse the next time she saw him, so help her God). She'd managed to convince Molly it was best not to leave just yet, that she should at least try to make it appear that she hadn't overheard that hurtful conversation. Otherwise Shirene and her crony might put two and two together and gloat over the fact that they'd driven her away from the party early.

Her real reason for convincing Molly to stay, of course, was her faith that Sherlock, who'd been so shamelessly eavesdropping on their private conversation, would take the bloody hint and do something about those two big-mouthed bitches.

Once she'd helped to get Molly's makeup into some kind of shape, she further convinced her friend to take down her hair entirely – thank God she'd brought her clutch with her and had had the foresight to bring a brush and comb along with lipstick and all the rest. Honestly, Molly looked much prettier with her hair down anyway. Oh, Mary understood the necessity of keeping it up when you were elbow deep in corpses all day, but this was a party, after all.

Besides, Mary had overheard a certain consulting detective one time admitting to John when he thought she was asleep on the sofa (and with her head comfortably ensconced on John's lap, she'd almost achieved that state) that Molly looked 'reasonably attractive' with her hair loose.

She'd taken the comment as a simple aesthetic opinion at the time, but found herself wondering if she should have read more into it than she had. Sherlock's eavesdropping could be construed as simple concern for a friend, but that something in his expression at the table had Mary reassessing her thoughts on his feelings for Molly.

Maybe it was a good thing she didn't spend a lot of time urging Molly to get over him after all.

centeroOocenter

Sherlock paused before entering the main banquet area of the venue, scanning the crowd for a particular pair of brunette and brassy (entirely bleached) blonde heads…Ah. There they were, not too far from the dance floor. Perfect. If Mary did as he anticipated and managed to convince Molly not to simply rush off, then he could kill the proverbial two birds with one stone: put her tormentors firmly in their places, and confess his real reason for attending this insipid – no, wrong, never, ever use that word again, even in his own mind – iboringi (much more accurate, at least before all this nonsense started) party.

He stood very straight, setting the scenario he'd envisioned firmly in his mind, then allowed his expression to become less controlled, more fretful and anxious, and his body language followed as he hurried into the ballroom, making sure to scan the crowd as if looking for a particular person. When he 'accidentally' bumped into the back of Shirene's chair, he managed a startled expression as his eyes met hers – which went from annoyed to interested as soon as she realized who it was that had made her spill her drink.

Too bad it only splashed across the table; he estimated the dry cleaning bill for her expensive designer frock to be quite high. Ah well. That would only be a petty little revenge, and what he had in mind was much, much sweeter. "Ah, Dr. Mortimer, my apologies," he said, lifting his eyes from hers and once again allowing his face to drop into fretful lines. "Have you seen Molly? I'm afraid I've lost track of her and I'm beginning to be a bit worried. I went to fetch her a glass of wine, but when I got to the table John said she'd gone off to chat with a couple of mates…naturally I thought of you." He looked back down at her and mustered his sincerest, most charming expression of simpering sincerity. "I have to say, I've finally come round to sharing Molly's opinion of your work. You do appear to be far less incompetent than the rest of the morons you two work with."

That statement was entirely true, although he could tell by Shirene's smirk that she took it as the compliment it certainly was never intended to be. He restrained his urge to smirk right back at her, instead mellowing his expression into something she would no doubt interpret as interest as he examined her low-cut – and far too tightly fitted – deep green dress. "I'm sure Molly is just fine, Sherlock – may I call you Sherlock?" Shirene interrupted herself to ask, her voice a velvety purr. The sound of a would-be predator who believed she had easy prey within her reach. "Mr. Holmes sounds far too formal, especially for a party! And please, do call me Shirene," she added with a flutter of her (artificially lengthened) eyelashes.

He gave her a courteous nod and another false smile, inwardly grimacing at the sound of his name coming from her too-red lips. She darted her tongue out to lick the corner of her mouth, and he made sure to let his glance linger there before 'self-consciously' raising his eyes to meet hers, being sure to wear an embarrassed little smile as he did so. "I'm sure Molly will be just fine, she probably went to the ladies to powder her nose," Shirene said as her smile deepened into something triumphant, want darkening her deep green eyes (well, as best it could manage considering the obvious fact that she was wearing a pair of colored contact lenses). She flicked a glance over at her so-called friend, no doubt attempting to communicate to the other woman her desire to be alone with Sherlock.

Nurse Richards, however, as he noted with inward amusement, seemed intent on ignoring the other woman's silent request, going so far as to deliberately rest her elbows on the table before taking a long sip from her glass of wine. "We haven't seen Molly for some time, Mr. Holmes," she said, no doubt deliberately using his last name as some kind of obscure taunt, if her emphasis on his title was any indication. "Could she be dancing with someone, do you think?" She fluttered her eyelashes outrageously, and he gave an inward sigh of impatience; not another woman who thought he could be so easily swayed by her so-called 'feminine charms'?

Still, it could be used to his advantage if he played it just right. He mentally adjusted his plans, then gave her a dazzling smile. "Of course, the dance floor, that never occurred to me!"

He left it to their miniscule combined imaginations as to why such a thought might not have occurred to him – no doubt they would believe it was because even he couldn't possibly imagine that someone would ask Molly to dance – and took the seat Veronica offered him, between the two women.

He felt Shirene's glare as he turned his attention to the blonde (really, why didn't she realize how absolutely wrong that shade was for her skin tone, surely her natural dark brown was more flattering) now sitting on his left, accepting her offer of a sip of wine from her glass (opposite her lipstick marks, of course). He barely let the liquid touch his lips but it seemed to be enough for her to pass a triumphant smirk to Shirene that Veronica believed him not to have noticed as he pretended to ogle her artificially enhanced cleavage. "That's quite a, um, lovely dress," he said, drawing upon his memories of Molly's (thankfully mostly corrected) inability to speak to him without stuttering, as well as some of John's clumsier attempts to chat up women he deemed attractive. He tore his eyes away from her 'dress' with feigned reluctance and started to turn back to Shirene when movement across the room caught his attention.

Good. Molly and Mary had finally emerged, and he could end this tedious pretence at flirtation.