AN: A guest reviewer pointed out that I had stated Mary was in labor for both 12 and 14 hours; I've now cleared that up. If that was you who pointed it out, thanks. And now, last chapter. Thank you everyone for your kind support; your reviews have absolutely made my day.
o.o.o
But Sherlock does not keep his promise to consider what Mary has said—not at first, anyway. The next few days are a whirlwind of activity; something about the holidays brings out the crazy in people, and as always, the days between Christmas and New Year's are quite busy for him. None of the cases are particularly interesting; he doesn't even leave his flat for them. But they're a nice distraction for his brain.
When he's not solving crimes out of his flat, he's at the hospital with Mary and John and Elizabeth. A mild complication after the birth have the doctors keeping Mary longer than expected, and although John is a doctor and knows perfectly well just how non-threatening it all is, the concerned husband side of him takes over and makes him a bit of a wreck. So it falls to Sherlock—me, of all people, he thinks—to help keep his friend calm and distracted. Mary doesn't bring up Molly again, other than to mention that she came by once, but every now and then she shoots Sherlock very expressive looks.
But Sherlock ignores them, and he ignores the steadily growing compulsion he feels to call Molly and see what she's up to and have any interesting corpses shown up at the morgue and would should like to come over for tea. So he doesn't see her until the day that Mary and Elizabeth come home from the hospital.
This time it's Mrs. Hudson who decides to have a meal ready for those leaving the hospital, as Molly has to work that day. Sherlock was at the hospital already, so he drives home with the Watsons and eats dinner with them and Mrs. Hudson. Molly isn't there, and Sherlock wants very much to know whether she plans on showing up; at first he assumed yes, because Mrs. Hudson has made much more food than could possibly be eaten by the four of them, but as the meal goes on the pathologist never shows up, and afterwards Mrs. Hudson tells Mary that she made extra because she wants the leftovers to last them for a while. So Molly is not coming, apparently, which of course doesn't matter to Sherlock at all, why would he care, it's just Molly. And the burst of adrenaline that shoots through him when someone knocks at the door is just surprise, obviously; he doesn't care whether or not it's Molly at the door.
It is, and the sight of her makes his pulse accelerate.
She's brought by a gift, a beautiful yellow blanket that she crocheted. "It wasn't done by the time Lizzie was born," she apologizes. "I'd forgotten how long this takes."
Mary is over the moon about the blanket, and Sherlock watches her in bafflement. He's never understood how Mary can be two such different people at the same time—she's one of the smartest, most capable people he knows, but she's also one of the most emotional and affectionate. And for a man who's spent most of his life assuming those two things are mutually exclusive, that's incomprehensible. (Sometimes he wonders if maybe it's a failing in his own character that he doesn't know how to be effective at his job but also emotionally open in his personal life. Mary can switch gears, but that's something he struggles with.)
But he is learning how to be a better friend, so he smiles at Molly. "Drink?" he asks, knowing that he probably ought to ask the Watsons first but it's not like he doesn't help himself to anything in their house whenever he likes. But John looks mildly irritated and Mrs. Hudson looks at him the way she does when he's done something dense, so obviously it was wrong.
"No thank you, I should be going," says Molly kindly. "I'm sure you all want to get settled in."
"Yes, I think I'm off as well," says Mrs. Hudson, and bustles off to the kitchen to get her purse.
Surprised and more than a little disappointed, Sherlock shrugs and settles back into his chair. "All right," he says.
There's that irritated look from John again, and Molly shoots both the Watsons an amused glance. "Actually, Sherlock, why don't you come with me?" she asks. "I had a rather interesting corpse at the morgue today. I'll tell you all about it."
Odd, but it has been a while since he's heard about an interesting corpse. And a while since he's seen Molly. "All right," he repeats, and gets up to grab his coat from the kitchen.
Mrs. Hudson is in there doing once last wipe-down of the stove. "I've already called myself a cab, Sherlock," she smiles. "I'll see you back at Baker Street."
"Oh," he says. "You don't want to . . . ride together?" Truth be told, he would rather spend the time alone with Molly, but it's not the most logical way to organize things.
"Not if the two of you will be talking about corpses," she tells him firmly. "And anyway—" she leans in a bit closer and lowers her voice— "it'd be nice for you to spend some time with Molly. She hasn't been by since before Christmas."
Is the whole world trying to convince him to date Molly Hooper?
But even through his irritation, he hears the siren call of getting an entire cab ride alone with Molly, whom he hasn't talked to one-on-one in nearly a week, so he shrugs. "Fine," he says. "Travel well." And back in the living room, he bids the Watsons goodbye, and then he and Molly are walking together out to the street.
"We should have waited and called a cab," he says. "This area is terrible for catching them—"
"Why don't we take the Tube?" Molly asks. "That's how I got here. There's a stop just a few blocks away."
Sherlock physically recoils from the idea. "The Tube?" he asks. "With all those people crammed into that tiny space?"
"It won't be bad at this time of night," she says. "Besides, it's cheaper than a cab." And she grabs his arm and begins tugging him down the street in the direction of the Tube station. Sherlock still hates the idea, but he doesn't hate the idea of traveling with Molly, and he especially doesn't hate the feeling of her small hand curled around his elbow, so he allows himself to be led.
"So tell me about this interesting corpse," he says after a moment.
"Oh, the corpse," says Molly, sounding surprised, and he doesn't have to look for the signs in her face to know that she's coming up with a lie to tell him.
"There wasn't one," he guesses.
She drops her hand from his arm, and when he glances down at her face he can see she looks a little embarrassed. "I'm that bad a liar?"
"I've studied extensively how to tell when people are lying," he says, and then a hint of a smile quirks his lips. "And even if I hadn't, yes, you're that bad a liar."
She laughs. "All right, you win, there's no corpse. I just thought John and Mary would probably like to be alone."
"Alone? Why? They love having people around."
"Normally yes," she says as they turn the corner at the end of the block. "But after they've just had a baby—I mean, think about it. They've been away from home and surrounded by people for nearly a week. Most people want some alone time after that."
Sherlock is quiet, considering this for a time while his spirits sink a little. Molly walks next to him, oblivious, until he speaks. "Do you think I shouldn't have spent so much time at the hospital?" he asks quietly. Maybe the Watsons were sick of him; maybe this is yet another social cue that he's missed; and he curses himself inwardly for it. That's Sherlock Holmes all over, skilled at reading the subtle nuances of human behavior in everyone but himself and the few people he cares about. But although he is embarrassed, that embarrassment doesn't come—at least not much—from the fact that it's Molly seeing this side of him. She'll be kind about it; she always is.
Molly stops dead in her tracks and grabs his hand to stop him as well. "No, sorry, I didn't mean to imply you'd been bothering them. You've been a good friend, and they appreciate you being there for them. They told me that." And she squeezes his hand for emphasis.
In the light from the streetlamp, he gives her a smile that is small and a bit tight-lipped but nonetheless sincere. Molly has always understood him, even when he didn't give her credit for it, even when he didn't want her understanding, and he wishes he had the words to express how much that now means to him. But he doesn't know how to do that, so he simply says "Thank you, Molly."
And that's when he realizes that they're like a scene from a terrible romantic movie right now—standing together on a city street, haloed in the light from the streetlamp above them, hands clasped tightly together (he's glad the evening is rather warm for December, because it means that neither of them is wearing gloves; it's not often he gets to touch her skin to skin). If this was a movie, he thinks this would be a good moment to kiss her. He doesn't hate that idea, he finds. In fact he wonders what it would be like, and how she would react. He wonders if she would kiss him back. He wonders if his breath smells like the garlicky pasta sauce Mrs. Hudson prepared for dinner. He wonders if Molly would mind.
Most of all he wonders what Molly is thinking because she's looking up at him with an odd expression on her face; it started as her usual look of kind encouragement as she was assuring him about the Watsons, but it's morphing into something else, something like surprise and confusion and maybe a bit of admiration. And he'd love to know what that means but this is one area where his usually encyclopedic knowledge is a bit thin.
And then a car horn blasts somewhere in the distance, and Molly blinks, and the moment his over. She laughs a little and squeezes his hand again, then releases it (it takes him longer than is probably socially acceptable to follow her cue and release her hand in return) and leads the way to the Tube station. And she was right, it's not very full; in fact there are enough empty seats that she sits two seats down from him, leaving an empty seat between them, and he's sure she thinks she's being kind by giving him space but he wishes she'd sat closer. So when they get farther into town and a woman gets on with two large armfuls of shopping bags and needs more room, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slide closer to Molly—close enough that he can feel the warmth of her where their knees are brushing. They talk about his cases over the last few days, and the professional conference she hopes to attend in January, and Sherlock's plans to start subtly teaching Lizzie the art of deduction as soon as she can talk ("She's going to be intelligent; Mary's brilliant and John's not a complete idiot"), and they make quiet deductions about the other passengers on the train.
It turns out riding the Tube isn't as terrible as Sherlock had feared. In fact it isn't terrible at all.
o.o.o
"So?" Mrs. Hudson greets him at the door with an expectant smile.
"So what?" he asks as he turns to lock the door behind him.
"So did you have a nice cab ride with Molly?"
"We took the Tube," he says absent-mindedly, still thinking about the hug she gave him when she got off at her stop.
"And?"
"Mrs. Hudson, if you want information, you may need to start asking questions of more than one word."
She puts her hands on her hips and gives him one of her looks. "You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock. When are you going to ask that girl on a date?"
"I'm hardly the dating type."
"And yet you've been mooning over her for weeks. We can all see it, dear."
He keeps his face perfectly impassive. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Mrs. Hudson sighs and pats his arm. "Of course not." She shakes her head and walks back to her flat. "Brilliant about everything except this."
He'd never tell her this, but he's inclined to agree.
o.o.o
On the morning of New Year's Eve, Lestrade calls Sherlock in on a case—not a dreadfully difficult one, but the victim was the daughter of a prominent politician and the Yard is under a great deal of pressure to get answers fast. And that's exactly what they get; Sherlock has a working theory by noon.
"Yeah, I guess that's possible," Lestrade says when Sherlock explains his theory. "But you'll need to check the body for the puncture mark. It's down at St. Bart's; call me when you know for sure."
Oh, he hadn't expected to have a reason to go to St. Bart's today. What a . . . pleasant idea.
Lestrade gives him a wry grin. "I've never seen anyone looks so pleased at the thought of going to a morgue," he says. "Make sure you don't get so distracted that you forget to tell me what you find."
Sherlock frowns at him. "Distracted? I never get distracted on a case."
"Of course you don't," Lestrade laughs. "Now get going. I've got a lot of people breathing down my neck."
"All right, goodbye, Greg."
Lestrade looks surprised. "You called me Greg."
And now Sherlock is just confused. "That is your name, isn't it?"
"Yes, but—never mind." And the man smiles as he walks away.
When Sherlock reaches the hospital, he catches his reflection in the doors leading down to Molly's area and is surprised to see that he's smiling. How long has he been doing that? Carefully he schools his features before entering, but it turns out that was unnecessary, because there's a scowl on Molly's face and that immediately wipes out any inclination he had to smile.
"Hello, Sherlock," she says before he can comment on her poor mood. "Talia Whitsides, right? I was just about to start the autopsy." And she leads him to the body.
And now he's thoroughly distracted by searching for the elusive puncture mark, and by watching Molly work (the sure, smooth movements of her hands have always interested him, and today he finds them particularly fascinating), and he completely forgets about her scowl until after he's called Lestrade to say that he was right, it was the boyfriend who did it.
But now that the rush of the investigation is gone, he watches Molly pull off her gloves and sees that she's still in a bad mood, and that is unacceptable. "Something wrong?" he asks. "And don't try to tell me 'Nothing,' because you know I can tell when you're lying."
She gives him a fondly exasperated look. "It's not particularly important," she says. "It's just, right before you showed up, I got a call from my date tonight cancelling our plans."
He grows still. "You were . . . looking forward to going out with him?"
"Not really," she says, and he relaxes. "It's just that—he was my New Years' plans. All my friends are out of town or doing things it'd be hard to add myself on to. I don't actually like New Years' all that much, and I didn't really want to go out, but I really don't want to spend the holiday alone." Immediately she looks embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't mean unload all of that on you," she says. "I'm just—it's been a hard week. I've been covering a lot of shifts for people who have family plans for the holidays, and it's stressing me out."
She seems genuinely put out, and he finds himself speaking before he's even realized what he's going to say. "Then spend New Years' Eve with me."
She raises her eyebrows. "Solving crimes?"
He makes a dismissive gesture. "I've already solved a major crime today," he says. "We can do . . . New Years' Eve things." He frowns. "What do people do on New Years' Eve?"
She smiles a little at him. "Go to parties or clubs. Drink too much."
"Oh." He pauses. "Actually that sounds awful."
"It's nice to go out with friends," she says with a shrug. "But yeah, right now hanging out with a bunch of strangers sounds awful."
But now that the possibility of spending the evening with Molly has crossed his mind, he can't let go of it. And he remembers something John sometimes says to Mary that always seems to make her happy. So he looks at her seriously. "What do you actually want to do tonight? If you could do anything, what would it be?"
She peers at him curiously, then looks thoughtful. "Honestly? I would love to go out for Italian, then go back to my flat and watch some films. That sounds just about my speed right now."
That is a much more palatable plan for the evening than partying with strangers. "Done," he says. "I'll pick you up at your flat at six. Best bring a coat; it'll be a cold night."
And with that, he breezes out the door, and it only occurs to him after he's left that he has essentially just asked Molly out on a date. And he's not unhappy about this idea—in fact he'd go so far as to say that he's looking forward to it. In fact he'd go so far as to say that the prospect of spending an entire evening with Molly Hooper, just the two of them, is excellent. And in fact the thought that, as a date, this is a situation that could potentially turn romantic, is a bit frightening but also a bit thrilling. In fact it's entirely thrilling. In fact, looking forward to tonight gives him the same sort of rush he gets when he's about to crack a clever case, only slightly nicer, because no one's dead. And when he reaches the top of the stairs, his steps slow until he stops dead in the middle of the hall because he has finally realized that Mary was right on Christmas; he doesn't like to use the word "smitten," because that just sounds ridiculous and sentimental and juvenile, but his feelings for Molly are . . . he can't (he doesn't dare) put a name to them, but it would be correct to say that he has feelings for Molly Hooper similar to the way that romantic partners have feelings for one another.
The thought simultaneously concerns and intrigues him, and the part that intrigues him thinks it could be interesting and productive to use this date as a potential springboard; if this date is pleasant, maybe he'll ask her on another one. Maybe he'll ask her on a lot of them. Maybe he'll see if that mistletoe kiss, which he'd never admit aloud is one of his most treasured and frequently called-up memories, is indicative of how he'd feel if he actually genuinely kissed her. All told, tonight is shaping up to be a very interesting night.
But he thinks he'll avoid telling the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson about the date. They'd just be so smug.
o.o.o
It doesn't occur to him until after he's been waiting at Molly's door for an unusually long time (Molly usually answers within twelve seconds, at least she does when she's not in bed, and already it's been eighteen) that he never actually got a confirmation from her about tonight. Maybe she never intended on coming; maybe better plans came up. Maybe she thought, like he's been thinking, that this all sort of sounds like a date, but unlike him she finds the thought distasteful, and maybe he's an idiot for even asking and why on earth is it so easy to fake interest in a woman for a case and so hard to express interest in a woman he actually cares about—
The doorknob turns. "Hello, Sherlock," Molly says, twenty-six seconds after he knocked. "Sorry, I was finishing up."
Flooding relief mixes with nerves and steals his voice away; he'd planned to say "You look beautiful" as an opening line (if she did indeed look beautiful—no sense lying about it), but the words die on his tongue. (It's too bad, too, because she does look beautiful.) So he holds out his arm, and she laughs and takes it, and they're on their way.
Angelo's is full tonight, but the call that Sherlock placed earlier ensures that the table by the window is open. And Angelo, who always assumes that Sherlock is on a date no matter who he shows up with, brings a candle along with the menus. "Makes it more romantic," he says with a wink at Molly.
"Oh, we're not on a date," says Molly.
Angelo is unconcerned. "Pretty lady, handsome man, a night out on the town—sounds like a date to me. Besides, who doesn't like to eat by candlelight?"
And not since the headless nun has Sherlock been so grateful to Angelo.
Still, it gives him pause to know that Molly doesn't consider this a date. And part of him—a large part—thinks that he's been given an out, and he should take it. He could end this outing at any time and go home, and Molly would go back to her normal life completely ignorant of the fact that once, for twenty-five minutes one New Years' Eve, Sherlock thought that he was on a date with her . . . and he was happy about it. Nothing would change, and they would go on being friends and crime solving partners until they both died of old age while sipping tea at Baker Street.
But another part of him, small but loud, isn't ready to let this go yet. Molly might not think this is a date but Angelo is right—for all intents and purposes, it is. And he's never done this before, never had a whole evening to spend enjoying himself with a woman for whom he harbors romantic inclinations, and it feels like standing on the edge of a precipice, a breath away from falling into something new and unknown and exciting. He's not ready to shut the door on this opportunity.
So it's decided, then; he will carry on as though this is a date, and he will observe her behavior and adjust his accordingly, and if she seems receptive maybe he will ask her out again, but this time in such a way that she's sure it's a date.
In the meantime, he'll try to make sure she has a good time on this not-quite-a-date. He already spent the afternoon running his mind over everything he's observed about dating couples, and he quickly reminds himself of some of the basics he'd distilled it down to: Be charming but sincere.
He can do charming. He's less certain about being believably sincere. But he's certainly going to try.
o.o.o
Molly is startled when he follows her home after their meal—clearly she didn't think he was serious about making a whole evening out of this—but she dutifully lets him in to her flat and they proceed to stand awkwardly around her DVD collection for a while. "Didn't you say you don't like watching films?" Molly asks, which is perfectly true but Sherlock won't have it.
"You said you wanted to watch a film, and that is what we are going to do." He peers closer at the titles on the cases, then is forced to admit, "Though I'm not really familiar with any of these."
Molly is frowning, but suddenly she bends down with a "Got it!" and straightens holding a DVD: Clue, says the title. "It's a murder mystery," she says.
He's about to say yes.
"And it's hilarious."
He's about to say no.
"It's one of my favorites."
And that's the deciding factor. "Well, let's see that one, then." It will be interesting to see if it fits what he'd expect her film tastes to be like, based on what he knows of her. But also, deductions aside, the thought that watching the film will make her happy fills him with pleasure. Who knew that doing something to make someone else happy could make you happy as well? He usually only does nice things when he needs something from the recipient, but this . . . this is nice. And the smile that Molly gives him? That's quite nice too.
To his surprise, the movie is quite tolerable. Some of the humor is juvenile, but some of it is quite clever. And the mystery keeps him riveted to the screen; it's difficult to make an accurate assessment of who the criminal might be, as the film only shows those things that the director chose to include, but he has a few theories.
But when he gets to the end and sees that there are three different ways the story could have ended, he is incensed. "There's no way all three of those endings could be supported by the rest of the story," he says.
Molly just laughs at him.
Sherlock grabs the remote. "We have to watch it again."
Molly only laughs harder, but she acquiesces, and they rewatch the film, Sherlock dissecting aloud every clue and murder scene as seen in light of the ending. After a few scenes of this, Molly joins in, and side by side on her sofa, they do what they do best: solve the crime. And if the first time through, the film was tolerable, this time through—this time where Molly is talking and laughing with him—it's undeniably enjoyable.
(The other big difference from the first run-through of the film is that this time he knows where the unimportant scenes fall, so in those his focus is no longer so squarely on the screen; it falls instead on his sofa partner. He knows she doesn't think of this as a date, but they're sitting so close together now, in such a cozy environment; what would she do if he put his arm around her? If he held her hand? He's not accustomed to touching people, but if there's anything he's learned in the last few months, it's that for Molly he'll make an exception to that rule. In the end, though, all he dares is that when he gets up to use the restroom mid-film, he sits even closer to her when he sits back down. She doesn't seem to notice.)
When the credits roll the second time, Molly checks her phone. "Twenty-four minutes to midnight," she says. "I suppose at this point you might as well stay." She gets up from the couch and stretches. "Tea?" she asks.
"Thank you," he says, watching her walk into the kitchen and silently exulting. That whole exchange, and the way she just casually assumed he'd want to stay—that felt . . . cozy. Familiar. Intimate. And he's getting way ahead of himself but he imagines a future where this happens all the time—where they just spend time together, at his flat or hers, without a case as pretext, and where they're both so fully comfortable with each other that she can just casually assume he'll stay for the New Year celebration.
She fixes them tea while he examines the knickknacks on her shelves, deducing from them vacations she's taken, and then they drink it on the couch while they discuss the narrative difficulties of making murders mysteries into films. He does always have such intelligent conversations with her.
And then, with a few minutes left until midnight, she leads him out to her balcony. "This isn't a great spot for it," she says, "but you can see some of the fireworks shows from here."
It's lovely, being out here with her in the night air, and Sherlock casts his mind about for a way to express this. But eventually he gives up and says simply, "Thank you for this evening."
She turns to smile at him, her face only dimly lit by the streetlamps to her left and the living room lights on her right. "It's been a lovely evening, Sherlock." And then her smile turns a bit embarrassed. "Thank you for not letting me be alone tonight."
He looks at her a long moment, and then words burst from him: "I didn't do it so you wouldn't be alone." He winces a little. "I mean—I didn't do it as a sort of charity project. I did it because I enjoy spending time with you."
And her smile only grows. "Thank you," she says again, then turns to look out over the city. When she speaks again, her expression is thoughtful. "Funny how things change, isn't it? I spent the last new year at a big party with Tom. I remember thinking that night that by this New Year's Eve we'd be married, and maybe I'd convince him to take a holiday somewhere warm."
"Instead you're on your balcony with me," Sherlock says. He hesitates. "Are you sorry? To be here with me instead?"
She shakes her head. "No. This—I took the right path, I'm sure of it." She pauses, and then laughs aloud. "This has been an amazing year." She turns to look at him. "I hadn't really thought about it until now, but this year has been incredible. I've been solving crimes—I've helped you save lives—and my career is at a high and John and Mary had a baby and—and thank you, Sherlock."
He does so enjoy hearing her say his name.
"It has been a pleasure," he says sincerely. "You have been an invaluable asset." And then, hearing how impersonal that sounds, he adds, "And a very good friend."
A sweet, shy smile, much like the ones she used to give him when she secretly pined for him, crosses her face. "Sherlock," she says warmly, and she reaches out and squeezes his hand.
And in that moment of electric thrill as her hand warms his, Sherlock remembers a fact he has stored away about New Year's Eve: at midnight, people kiss each other.
He is rooted to the ground. Does Molly expect there to be a kiss? And if so, does she expect him to kiss her, or should he hold back and see if she tries to kiss him first? And what if he goes in for the kiss but she wasn't expecting one or she doesn't want one—
Through the panic clouding his mind, he dimly hears shouting coming from somewhere nearby—a party or a pub—counting down from ten. Ten. Nine.
Does he kiss her or not? Her hand is still in his. Should he take that as a hint?
Eight. Seven.
At least the after dinner mints Angelo handed them will have made his breath smell a little less like pesto. Come to think of it, this exact moment is probably why Angelo insisted on giving him so many.
Six. Five.
Molly has gone strangely stiff, and he thinks it would not be a huge leap in logic to suppose that she's probably wondering about the very thing that he currently is.
Four. Three.
"Molly," he hears himself saying, his voice strangely strangled, and she turns up to look at him.
Two. One.
She's so beautiful, standing there in the half-light, and he doesn't analyze it anymore. He just leans down and kisses her.
It's a simple kiss—just part of the holiday tradition—but he is so deeply affected that when he pulls away from her (he's not sure how long New Year's Eve kisses are supposed to last, and he doesn't want to ruin it, so he errs on the side of too short) he doesn't straighten up yet, and he doesn't release her hand, because this is too lovely a moment to shatter.
And maybe she feels the same way, because she is still standing motionless, her face upturned, her eyes closed, and her hand has tightened around his. And he makes up his mind in that moment—forget trial dates and observing her behavior. He wants this. So he kisses her again—really kisses her, the way he has wanted to kiss her for several weeks now. She lets out a little gasp of surprise, but she is definitely kissing him back. From somewhere out over the city he hears the popping sound of fireworks, and he thinks that is a perfect cliche for this moment.
And he has just cupped her face with his free hand—he's seen couples do that before and it feels like exactly the right thing to do now—when she suddenly jumps a little, as though she has just remembered where she is or awoken from a dream, and breaks the kiss.
"I think," she says, backing up a step or two, "that for New Year's you usually only kiss the person once."
Normally he'd start analyzing that statement, trying to figure out exactly what she means, but the kiss has addled his brain a little, leaving him in that calm, delicious state of mind that he normally associates with that moment before he falls asleep, on those occasions when he deigns to sleep. So he speaks without forethought. "That second one wasn't for New Year's."
He sees her hands clench into fists (not angry, but anxious, and trying to hide it). "Then what was it for?"
Somewhere below them, a loud and happily off-key group is singing Auld Lang Syne, and the music floats in the air between them as Sherlock searches for words. Finally, he settles on simple observed truth: "I wanted to."
But this makes her look slightly annoyed. "You can't just go around kissing people because you want to," she says. "A lot of people want kisses to mean something—"
"Exactly," he breaks in.
She blinks at him, baffled.
And this is it, the moment of truth. The import of this moment gives him pause—this could end his relationship with Molly, or start a whole new chapter of it—but when he starts speaking, the words flow much easier than expected (maybe some part of him has been planning and rehearsing it for longer than he realizes). "I am the last person you should want to have a relationship with, Molly," he says. "I am self-centered and rude and appallingly bad in social situations. You should want better; you deserve better. But no matter how many times I tell myself I'm being selfish for even thinking of it, it doesn't change how I feel. I . . . cannot stop myself wanting you."
Her eyes are as big as saucers.
"So I suppose the reason I kissed you again is that I'm hoping that even though I don't deserve it, you'll give me a . . . chance." His momentum is spent, and the stream of words flowing from him slows to a trickle. He hopes that was enough to convince her because he's not sure he can manage another romantic speech.
Molly stands stock still, staring silently at him, and part of him hasn't been so anxious in months or maybe years but another part is strangely calm. He's said his piece, and that alone lifts a burden from his shoulders he hadn't noticed he was carrying.
Finally she gives a half-hearted laugh. "Is this some kind of prank?"
"No."
She falls silent again, and then she starts shaking her head. "No," she says. "Of course it's a prank. You're Sherlock Holmes, you don't do romance. And if you did, it certainly wouldn't be with me."
"It could only be with you," he says. "You're the only person I've ever cared about enough to even consider—"
"You spent the last seven years doing everything you possibly could to discourage me," she says, and she's beginning to sound a bit upset. "Why would you suddenly—"
"Because I finally actually know you," he says. "Which is something I should have done years ago, and I'm sorry."
She stares at him, brow furrowed, and then shakes her head. "Do you know how long it took me to get over you?" she demands. "And now . . ."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was an idiot."
The tiniest smile dances across her lips. "John always says I'm the only one who can get you to apologize." But then the smile is gone. "Is this some kind of experiment?"
He's starting to get annoyed that she's so thoroughly convinced that he could never pursue a romantic relationship. "What would I have to do to prove my sincerity?"
Her answer comes swiftly. "Name one thing about me that you genuinely like."
He doesn't even have to think about this. "That you know me—you're the only person who really does—and seeing the real me inexplicably doesn't frighten you off."
She looks surprised, and opens her mouth to speak, but he finds himself barreling on. "And you're clever, one of the few people I can genuinely say that about who isn't a criminal mastermind. And you're kind, almost absurdly so. And you don't judge me, and you're good company, and you're comfortable to be around, and I enjoy spending time with you, and you're unfailingly loyal and trustworthy, and generous, and good-natured, and brave, and honest, and endearing, and goodness knows I am always dismissive of the beautiful but you are . . . entirely lovely."
As his monologue ends he embarrassedly realizes he has probably just said too much, but Molly doesn't look too annoyed. In fact she looks strange; her eyes are big and her mouth is doing something odd and if it didn't make zero sense in this context, he'd think she was about to cry.
Her hands come up to cover her mouth, and now Sherlock is worried because now he's sure: it does genuinely look like she is going to cry. "Are you . . . are you serious?"
He wishes fervently that she would just believe him already, but he nods.
She shakes her head. "I got over you. If I jumped into this again and you changed your mind—"
"I won't change my mind," he says. "You know better than anyone, I can be very single-minded." He steps closer and speaks quietly. "Molly, please."
She stares up at him, then turns away, looking down over the street. The silence that follows only lasts eleven seconds, but it seems to stretch on much longer, punctuated only by the occasional blast of music from a passing car.
Finally, after what feels like hours, she speaks. "I got over you," she says again, quietly, and his heart sinks as he realizes what she might be saying, but then she adds, "but maybe we could start from scratch."
"Scratch?" he prompts.
She turns back to him. "Like normal couples do. Go on dates. See if this is something we both really want."
It's not exactly what he'd wanted, but he can give her time to get used to the idea. "How do we start?"
She smiles a little. "I have work off tomorrow," she says. "We could . . . get lunch. Go to a museum."
He smiles back. "Or breakfast? If people are leaving their parties now, it could be impossible to get a cab. If it's all right, I could stay in the guest bedroom and we could spend the day together. Are my clothes still in the closet?"
She is giving him a searching look, peering at his face as though looking for a hidden secret there, and whatever she sees makes her smile. "Sounds perfect, Sherlock." And then her eyes soften, and the look she's giving him makes his heart thud. "And also," she says hesitantly, even shyly, "it might help convince me . . ."
"Yes?" he prompts.
"If you kiss me again," she finishes.
She has barely finished the sentence before he obliges.
o.o.o
New Year's Day dawns bright and cold, but the flat is warm and Sherlock's buried under a thick quilt and hand-knitted afghan so he doesn't much care about what's happening outside. And he's so exhausted from the last few days that he actually decides to turn over and try to get back to sleep—not something he does often—but in doing so he jostles the hastily bandaged wound on his side and he lets out an involuntary moan. Moldovan mobsters can be rather violent; not his favorite kind of criminal.
He's tried hard to be quiet since he arrived, but apparently his moan wakes Molly, because a few moments later she's at the door of the guest bedroom, looking sleepy-eyed and surprised. "Sherlock," she says, "I thought you were out of the country until at least tomorrow. Why didn't you wake me?"
He gives her a quiet smile. "I thought you could use the sleep after the week you had."
He tries to sit up then, but he can't hide the wince that his wounded ribs elicit, and she immediately goes into Dr. Hooper mode. "Were you hurt? Have you gotten medical attention?" He just looks at her and she shakes her head. "Of course you haven't, why am I even asking? Come on to the bathroom, let me see you."
And he follows her willingly; she may not be the kind of doctor that does much first aid (besides on him, of course), but he always prefers her gentle ministrations to being seen to by Mycroft's brusque cold-handed doctors, even if they are better at this kind of thing.
A few minutes later, he is sitting shirtless on the edge of the tub and she is putting one last plaster on his shoulder. "I know it doesn't do any good to tell you this," she says, "but you really ought to be careful."
"I am careful," he says indignantly. "I could have been done sooner if I'd been willing to take more risks, but I knew you'd be upset if I came back with a broken leg."
She laughs and kisses the top of his head, running her fingers through his curls, and he happily lets his eyes fall closed. It only took a few weeks of dating Molly for him to realize that he loves having his hair played with, and now Molly does it as often as possible. "I'm glad you don't have a broken leg," she confirms. "And I'm glad you're home early. And shocked Mycroft agreed to a change in plans like that."
He smiles up at her. "I recovered the chip early, and then I told Mycroft that if he wanted it back, and for me not to sell it on the black market, I had to be back in the country on New Year's Day. It seems my girlfriend had tried to plan something for our anniversary and his security crisis was interfering."
Her jaw drops. "How did you know?" she demands. "I was so careful."
He just gives her a look, and she sighs. "Clearly I will never be able to surprise you."
"Perhaps if you keep practicing," he says, and stands to pull his shirt and dressing gown back on.
"Breakfast?" she asks. "And don't say you're not hungry, I'm sure you haven't eaten since you left for Moldova."
It's true, so he says, "I suppose I could go for some toast."
In a few minutes they're in the kitchen, waiting for the toast to finish, and he pulls her into his arms. "So," he says, "Wild Ginger for lunch and the Natural History Museum after, just like our first date?"
She shakes her head. "Clearly," she repeats, "I will never be able to surprise you."
"You did surprise me once," he points out.
"How?"
He leans down and kisses her slowly. "This," he says when they part. "All of this. The past eight years. You snuck up on me."
She gives him that smile that he loves—the one that says she's perfectly happy and it's all his doing. So he kisses her again, only to be interrupted by the sound of the toast popping up, and that brings him back to the real world. "Now, Miss Hooper," he says, "I have promised Lestrade that I will look into a robbery in Kensington on our way to lunch, and if you are interested in coming, we will need to leave here in twenty-five minutes."
"Just a nice little robbery?" Molly says with a smile. "Haven't had one of those in a while. Let me shower and I'll be right back out."
And twenty-five minutes later, Hooper and Holmes are striding out, hand in hand, to take on the world.
o.o.o
fin