The evening was nothing short of magical.
Less than a week ago, Molly had been dreading this night with all of her being. She knew that she would either have to spend an evening knowing that her mother was simmering with anger and disdain at her for her dishonesty (not to mention despairing over her inadequacy in relationships), or making painful small talk with Anthony, which was perhaps even worse. Even before her mother had called, she had anticipated spending Valentine's day lounging about in her flat, drinking wine with her cat on her lap and getting teary-eyed over a romantic movie. In fact, it had been several years since she had had a date for Valentine's Day; she had had the misfortune of being between relationships every time the holiday had come around. She could not have imagined that she would spend this evening enveloped in the arms of the man that she had fancied and admired for years.
If someone had told her that her family's visit would have gone as well as it did, she would not have believed it. Generally, she spent the time with her mother and sister feeling self-conscious and inadequate, making excuses for her job and her lack of social life. She usually could not wait for them to leave London and return to Alderley Edge.
This visit had been completely different. Her anxieties over their dinner with Sherlock had been completely unfounded; in fact, he had been absolutely charming, asking her sister about her children and husband, and her mother about the charity drives she had been running. Molly had feared that he would be unable to contain his contempt at listening to her relatives' seemingly endless drivel about their favorite London spas, their new stylish drapes, and collections of post-war sculptures, but he had conversed with them throughout the entire evening without a single rude comment, insinuation, or outright insult. He hadn't flaunted his intelligence or showed off in any way; if anything, he feigned some self-consciousness. Molly felt that, although a worker in the "criminal justices" may seem, to her mother, "below" her family's standards, Sherlock qualified as more of a celebrity, and seemed to live up to her requirements. Charles had even accompanied them to dinner, and Sherlock had engaged in a discussion with him about the World Cup; Molly was surprised that Sherlock even knew what that was.
She had spent the whole day Thursday hitting the best of London's boutiques with Evelyn and Elizabeth, trying on hats and shoes and viewing handbags Molly knew she would never actually spend money on. This was something that she would have usually dreaded, listening to her mother and sister ooh and aah over over-priced trinkets as she watched on in derision. But this time, she was walking on air over the previous evening's dinner, and could feel her mother's elation over her eldest daughter's new relationship success. In fact, the only part of the day that she regretted was, surprisingly, Sherlock's absence.
She had spent the whole afternoon today in eager anticipation of the evening's festivities, her anxieties over Sherlock's social inadequacies having been completely dispelled with the overwhelming success of Wednesday's dinner. She had even splurged on a new dress; not quite as expensive as something her sister would buy, but certainly much more than she had spent on any outfit in recent years. It wasn't showy; rather, it was an understated, elegant piece of clothing that accentuated her figure without being excessively revealing. The deep burgundy, satin fabric was nicely fitted to show off her curves (and, she noted with satisfaction, made certain areas appear curvier than they usually did), draping elegantly across one shoulder. The other shoulder remained bare, other than her carefully-curled hair that cascaded over it. She had chosen rather simple shoes, black with modest heels, hoping that avoiding a high heel would make her lack of dancing skills a little less obvious. To finish it off, she added some small diamond earrings and a dainty sparkling necklace.
Despite her elaborate preparations for the ball, she was still ready almost an hour early. She sat on her couch, fidgeting nervously with one book after another, not really comprehending anything on the pages. Toby meowed in annoyance as she pushed him away, not wanting to get cat fur on her dark dress; he finally gave up and glared at her from the corner of the room.
And, of course, when Sherlock showed up, he had taken her breath away. He always dressed nicely, certainly more formally than the occasion generally called for, but Molly had never seen him in this elegant of a suit, the inky blackness of the fabric providing a stark contrast against his Byronically-pale skin. His hair, of course, was as unruly as ever; Molly wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Now she was here, completely comfortable in Sherlock's arms as they danced a slow waltz across the ballroom floor. Violin music floated in the air around them, punctuated only by the low murmur of the conversations of the couples twirling around them. The low lights of the room, sparkling chandeliers and glassware, and waiters milling silently around the ballroom with glimmering trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres created a more glamorous and opulent environment than Molly could remember ever experiencing. Although this would usually make her feel uncomfortable and out-of-place, tonight it was different; she felt beautiful, elegant, and quite frankly (despite the immaturity of the thought), like a princess.
The dancing had made her slightly nervous. She had never really learned how to dance, and wasn't exactly the most graceful of women. But her fears had been completely unfounded; Sherlock seemed to be a natural dancer, and was beyond adequate at leading her movements. She had not stepped on his toes or misjudged his next move even once. They had seamlessly matched the rhythm of the music without any difficulty.
The rhythmic pace of their movements and gentleness of the music lulled Molly into a kind of dreamy trance. She savored the warm touch of Sherlock's hand on the small of her back, the feel of his fingers intertwined in hers. She could feel the muscles in his shoulder (how could someone that thin feel so strong?) tense and relax in time with his movements, the gentle pressure he exerted on her as he led her turns in time with the music. As one song transformed into another, and the evening progressed further, Molly could feel herself relax into his grasp until their torsos gently pressed into one another's. She could feel the softness of his warm breath tickling a strand of hair against her neck. She hoped he could not feel the quickened tempo of her heart against his ribs, but knew that he probably could. When she looked up, she saw his stunning blue eyes boring into hers, and she blushed. Her eyes awkwardly darted to her feet.
"Thank you so much for tonight," Molly murmured, "It was really thoughtful of you. To help me save face and all, I mean."
"My pleasure," Sherlock said simply. Molly glanced up, attempting to detect some trace of sarcasm, but was unable to detect any. She took a shaky breath.
"Where did you learn to dance so well?" she asked.
"Doesn't come up much in cases. But it's quite simple, as long as you understand the mechanics."
He hadn't really answered the question, but she supposed it didn't matter.
"You're not too bad yourself," Sherlock acknowledged. Molly's heart skipped a beat.
Molly was not quite ready to give up dancing when the attendees were called to dinner.
Dinner, like the one two nights before, started off exceptionally well. Polite conversation not only flowed around them; they were able to fully engage in it, Molly loosening up slightly from the champagne, and Sherlock eagerly adopting his most charming persona. Even Molly had to keep reminding herself that it was just an act. Evelyn and Elizabeth were obviously enchanted with him, and even generally reserved Charles found himself laughing at some of his witty comments.
"Oh, I am just so delighted that Molly has finally found someone like you!" Elizabeth laughed, wiping away the joyful tears that one of Sherlock's more amusing anecdotes had brought to her eyes, "We were afraid she's end up dating another Ethan. Or, what was his name, Jackson? The one with the stubby fingers, who didn't know what 'equestrian' meant?"
Molly's face fell. "Jonathon," she muttered. She stabbed at the remains of her desserts in a decidedly unladylike fashion.
"Oh, yes," Elizabeth's eyes glittered with mirth, "Did she ever tell you about the one who said he was a writer from Knightsbridge? Come to find out he was not writing so much as a blog . . . and was living in his mother's basement!" She giggled with ladylike reserve, and Evelyn joined in with unabashed glee. Even Charles took a break from downing his fourth glass of champagne to break a grin.
Molly's heart sank, and her cheeks reddened with humiliation. Of course it would all come down to this; despite her previous joy at spending the evening with Sherlock, she would have given anything not to have him here right now, listening to the embarrassing details about all of her past relationships.
"He was just down on his luck at the time," Molly murmured softly, dropping her gaze, "And he was a nice man." It was the truth. Just not up to your standards.
"Oh, we know, Molly dear," her mother cooed, reaching over to pat her hand gently, "Poor girl!"
"Now, you know, what really made me wonder about her taste in men," Charlie joined in, for the first time that night, "was when she turned down my brother. That one was quite unexpected."
"It just didn't work out, you know," Molly mumbled. Truthfully, she had despised even being near Charlie's younger brother; she always felt like he was undressing her with his eyes. But this really wasn't something you told your brother-in-law, which made it difficult to explain why she wasn't interested in the wealthy, charming, and most importantly mother-pleasing man.
"Oh well, it seems to have worked out for the better," her mother beamed, "I always knew that both of my daughters would end up with such young, bright, and – if I must say so myself – good-looking young men."
"I am simply delighted that I live up to your standards," Sherlock smirked. Molly glanced up at him, alarmed at the sarcastic derision in his voice, but neither Elizabeth nor Evelyn seemed to have noticed.
"Speaking of bright," Evelyn chimed in, turning to Sherlock, "I've heard so much about your ability to 'read' people. You sound nothing short of psychic!" Sherlock grimaced at this. "I'm sure you must get tired of people asking you this, but what can you tell about me?"
Molly's heart leapt to her throat, but there was nothing that she could do to stop this now. She could already see Sherlock's friendly exterior slipping, his annoyance with the pettiness of her relatives increasing.
"Let's see," Sherlock breathed thoughtfully, leaning forward on his elbows to look more closely at her, "You majored in one of the liberal arts, probably English, I'm assuming. Worked for a while as an editor. You were ambidextrous as a child, but learned to favor your right hand for convenience. You have had asthma in the past but it has given you no trouble for at least, let's see, five or six years? You're also allergic to nickel, although it really doesn't matter because someone like you would never even dream of wearing something so cheap. You're a stay-at-home mom, of course, and your boys want a dog but you are hesitant to subject your furniture to that kind of abuse. Although you're not a vegetarian, you are a philanthropist, so you avoid eating meat in front of others because you want to give the impression that you are, especially in front of your mother." Evelyn reddened as her mother gave her a disapproving glance. Sherlock ignored this. "Would you like me to go on?"
"No, thank you," Evelyn said graciously, "But it truly is a great trick!"
"Trick?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, yes," she smiled, a little confused at his confrontational tone, "I used to have this friend who could deal himself a royal flush with his eyes closed every time." Noting Sherlock's grimace, she added, "But this is so much more interesting!"
"So, you think this is a simple parlor trick?" Sherlock growled, "Perhaps I didn't quite demonstrate . . ."
"Sherlock, please!" Molly interrupted, placing a hand on his elbow. She couldn't let this go on much further. Sherlock ignored her.
"You wear Chanel makeup, the most expensive you can find, not necessarily because it looks the best but because your friends have recommended it and you are afraid that, if you don't wear it, they'll think it's because of the exorbitant price tag. Nonetheless, you do worry about your appearance, especially as the 'big three-o'" – he said this with mocking air quotes – "has come and gone within the past, what, two years? You feel like keeping up your appearance may at least help with warding off those encroaching marriage troubles. And as far as your clothing –"
"Wait, back up!" Evelyn's eyes flashed, "We are not having marriage troubles!"
"Oh, of course you are!" Sherlock laughed, rolling his eyes, "It's obvious. Certainly you would not wear an old outfit to an elegant ball like this if you were looking forward to it as much as you would want us to believe; you've worn that dress at least once in those past, and those shoes three or four times. You certainly don't lack the resources to purchase special clothing for such an occasion as this, so why didn't you? Also, what was the name on the tickets to this ball, the one who paid for them? Oh, let's see, Ms. Elizabeth Hooper. Apparently, your mother was the one who bought tonight's tickets. And why would that be? She wouldn't have bought tickets for you if you had already had plans; apparently she was encouraging you to spend some time together, presumably because you haven't been. Mr. Charles here doesn't exactly seem like the type of guy to express much enthusiasm about a ball . . . He has obviously never practiced dancing once in his life, and has seemed to enjoy having his lips on that champagne glass there more than having his lips on yours, Ms. Evelyn, although it's difficult to judge because he's been avoiding you as much tonight as acceptable on an occasion such as this." Charles looked up, surprised, from the food he was still picking at, and gave his wife an apologetic glance. She merely glared, not taking her eyes off of the smug consulting detective, who was greatly enjoying being able to show off for the first time in days.
"But wait, I'm not finished . . ." Sherlock went on. Molly wished she could die on the spot. "Your husband didn't get you a gift for Valentine's day, as evidenced by the fact that you are also re-wearing jewelry . . ."
"Maybe he got me a gift, and it just wasn't jewelry," Evelyn growled through gritted teeth.
"Oh, of course it would have been jewelry," Sherlock smirked, "He hardly seems creative enough for something more original. So, let's see, long-time marital troubles, I'd say a year or two at the least, perhaps even contemplating divorce . . ."
"Divorce has never been mentioned!" Molly's sister shouted suddenly, slamming her napkin down on the table and rising halfway out of her seat. A hush fell over the nearby guests. Elizabeth looked up at her younger daughter in horror; whether at her outraged behavior or the revelation of the marital difficulties, Molly was uncertain. Tears rose into her sister's eyes, and she wiped them away, smearing a bit of mascara in the path. Charles remained silent, unsure of what to say; Molly had the feeling that Sherlock had been dead-on accurate.
It was Molly's mother who finally broke the silence. "Molly!" she snapped, "How could you? How could you actually find yourself . . . attracted to a brute like this! Its . . . It's . . . " She grappled for the right words, but every one seemed inadequate.
It was then that Molly's horror bubbled over into anger. Sherlock had been a complete jerk, humiliated and offended her family, and Molly was getting blamed for it? But in the end, this is what it had all come down to; she was really the one being put on trial each time she introduced a new beau, and found lacking.
"He's not my boyfriend," she whispered.
The table turned even more silent than before. Molly kept her eyes fixed on her hands resting on the table; when she forced herself to look up, she saw her mother staring at her with a look of confusion in her widened eyes.
"What do you mean, not your boyfriend?"
"That's exactly what I mean, Mother! Not my boyfriend. Does that really surprise you so very much?" Molly suddenly found all of her anger, anxiety, and humiliation of the past few days bubbling up inside of her. She couldn't stand it anymore; she shouldn't have had to do this in the first place, shouldn't have had to go to such lengths to try to appease the expectations set for her, to prove that she was truly worthy of someone special. She looked from her mother, to her sister, to her brother-in-law, all stricken with shock, not only at her revelation but at the sudden, uncharacteristic display of rage. And then she looked at Sherlock, and met the crystalline eyes that had already been staring down at her. What was that expression? Surprise? Remorse?
"She's right," he said softly, "I'm not."
"Why?"
It was the only word she said, but Molly could see a multitude of questions swimming in her mother's eyes as she gazed across at her.
"Molly shouldn't have to answer that," Sherlock declared suddenly. Molly looked over at him in surprise. She knew she should stop him, prevent him from saying something else that would offend or humiliate herself or another member of her family, but could things realistically get any worse than they already were?
"I think she has already been interrogated enough in the past, don't you?" he continued, "So I shall answer your questions for her. Yes, Molly lied to you." Her stomach turned at hearing it actually said aloud, "She doesn't have a boyfriend. But really, would it have made any difference if she did? Instead of hearing you harass her about the possibility of ending up as an old spinster, she would get to hear you question her new amour about his job, family, legal background, literary and artistic preferences, and so on. Mostly, I suspect, to prevent a repeat of one of her past relationship failures, some of which I suspect were due to your often unfair disapproval. And really, why should your approval matter at all, considering your younger daughter's relationship choices?" Molly cringed, and her sister glared.
"I'll admit that Molly is not the most, shall I say, inviting relationship option for most men," Sherlock was in his complete evaluative mode now, "Her clothing does not exactly communicate a desire to attract a potential mate; most women looking to be attractive would probably choose something a little more up-to-date than floral cardigans and childish ponytails. Judging by the types of women I've seen John show an interest in (an astonishing array, I will admit), awkward small talk does not generally seem to provoke an invitation to a date. Unfortunately, clumsy, meaningless conversation seems to be all that Molly is capable of engaging in with unfamiliar members of the male species. Perhaps, when she does enter into potential relationships, I would imagine based on her other personality traits that she is a bit 'clingy'" – air quotes around this last word – "which may be slightly off-putting. Not to mention, it's not too easy to meet potential love interests when you're working in a morgue, and poor Miss Hooper doesn't seem too interested, or perhaps too comfortable, engaging in social interactions outside of work. Not that she has many people to invite her anyway."
Molly's heart dropped, and she knew that she could no longer hold back her tears. A single tear dripped down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away; she would not let Sherlock see her being weak, since evidently he thought she was pathetic in every other way. How dare he? How could this evening, the past few days in fact, be so false? The past few years, in fact, during which she had actually felt that he was warming towards her, feeling more comfortable confiding in her. Early this evening she had even thought for a moment . . . but no, she would not let herself think of that now.
She simply couldn't sit here anymore. She didn't look up at anyone around here, not wanting to see Sherlock's smug expression, or her mother's and sister's sympathy (or, perhaps, continued anger). Her head still down, she moved to stand up, but Sherlock's voice suddenly froze her in place.
"But they're wrong," Sherlock said softly, and then forcefully raised his voice, staring right into Elizabeth's eyes, "Anyone who gets this impression is wrong. Despite her upbringing, she feels no need to impress anyone or to communicate her superiority by wearing the most fashionable clothing or spending a ridiculous amount of time on her hair. Nor does she find provocative clothing essential to attracting anyone she would actually want to appeal to. If she shows some hesitation when she speaks, it is simply because she thinks through what she says, rather than risk spouting off meaningless, foolish, rash, and quite frankly idiotic nonsense, like some people I know," His eyebrows rose towards Elizabeth, "She is not dependent on her friends or romantic prospects, merely polite, and what may seem like neediness is simply her way of showing that she cares about them, which even I could quite frankly learn a lesson from. And if any idiot is put off by the fact that she works in a morgue, perhaps he should consider the fact that, by putting her extensive education and medical expertise to good use, she is contributing far more to society than, say, someone who donates to charity just enough to develop a good image in her society circles, not really caring that a good majority of that money goes to the organizers of that 'charity' anyway."
Molly looked at Sherlock, her mouth hanging. She had no idea what to think. Was he defending her? Was this another act? It was simply too much to process at once, too many unexpected and uncharacteristic statements to try to make sense of . . .
"In fact, I have noticed a number of men in her workplace and immediate vicinity who would be more than happy to attach themselves to her. If Molly's relationships are lacking in quantity or duration, it is not due to any personal fault, but rather to the fact that she is not willing to associate herself with a moron, pervert, or bore simply to appease the whims of her overbearing mother. It is through no personal fault of hers, and it should be perfectly clear to any reasonably intelligent human being that one could not hope to find a more suitable mate than Molly Hooper. The only thing keeping Molly Hooper from a relationship is that she's yet to find any man worthy of her."
A dead silence fell over the Hooper family. If Molly's mouth hadn't already been hanging as far open as possible, it would have dropped even further. She tried to say something, but failed to produce even a squeak.
"Well," Sherlock concluded, rising suddenly, "Thank you for a perfectly delightful start to the evening, Molly Hooper. I am sorry that it ended as it did." He turned towards Molly and met her widened eyes for a moment, slightly inclined his head politely, and then promptly turned around and left the ballroom.