A/N: Okay, right off the bat, I'd like to apologize for this super late update! Sunday night my computer crashed, then on Monday there was family drama, and Tuesday I tore my hamstring in a basketball game so I spent the whole day icing it and resting. I'm really sorry, guys! Unfortunately, as the saying goes, shit happens.
Personal matters aside, I made sure to make this chapter extra long to make up for the long wait (10.5k words!)
Shout out to everyone that commented on the last chapter, you guys are my muses *hugs all around*
I hope you like it and please let me know what you think in the reviews! Feedback honestly helps so much with the writing process. :)
*IMPORTANT Q IN END NOTES*
Enjoy!
When Sherlock steps into Molly's flat for the second time in his life, all five senses are flooded with data. The first thing he notices aside from the heavy scent of floral air-freshener, is the row of kitten-themed pillows lined up on her couch. After the initial horror of that particular sight wears off, his eyes wander over to the six potpourri dishes overflowing with pungent dried flowers, the neat pile of hand-sewn coasters on the coffee table, and the stuffed bookcase teeming with trashy romance novels.
Not the mention the three—no, four cats that are currently milling about.
Her flat gives him the impression that she in constant preparation for guests, since it appears almost forcefully welcoming. However, the space also possesses an aura of habitual cleanliness and overt femininity, as well as a subtle sort of organization only a scientist might have. All in all, Molly's flat is a fair reflection of herself and Sherlock finds himself quite liking it, despite the overabundance of cat-themed decorations (as well as the actual cats).
Speaking of cats, one of them dawdles over to greet them at the door. "Oh, hello, love!" Molly coos, placing her keys on the table and squatting down to pet the blonde, rotund object of her attentions. The creature proceeds to roll about on the floor while she eagerly strokes its stomach.
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Still allowing animals to rule your flat, I see," he comments drily. He sheds his coat and hangs it up by the door, annoyed but unsurprised to find that Molly has ignored his comment and is still doting on her obese pet by the time he's turned around. He is just about to make another comment, when one of the beasts has the gall to dash over and rub itself into his trouser leg. The nerve! He shakes his leg about, but it remains wholly unperturbed. In fact, if anything it only increases in its ministrations after that. Something flashes in its snakelike green eyes and Sherlock swears that it's bloody amusement.
Finally, Molly's wits return to her and she stops cooing at the fat thing. After straightening and brushing stray hair from her blouse, she asks Sherlock what he'd like to eat. Still occupied with his task of prying the black, slinky creature from around his ankle, Sherlock absently replies, "Anything. Eating isn't a large concern of mine."
Molly mumbles something akin to "nutrition is important" and "eating regularly is healthy", which he gladly ignores. He already gets quite enough of that at home from his hyper-aware doctor.
John! Speaking of the devil, he's yet to tell John that he won't be home for dinner.
Sherlock hobbles over to the couch, the black cat still clinging to the hem of his trousers, and pulls out his mobile to compose a text. His fingers are poised to write out a quick explanation and press 'send', when he finds himself with the strangest urge to call John instead. The impulse is an odd one indeed because Sherlock has preferred texting over calling ever since the former became an option.
Though…perhaps this isn't all that odd. He supposes the reason he'd like to call John instead of text him is simply because he'd like to hear John's voice. He winces to himself at how painfully pedestrian that whole line of reasoning is, but finds himself dialing the doctor's number anyway.
After three rings, John answers, "Sherlock!"
"Hello, John, I called to say I won't be joining you for dinner tonight."
There's a beat of silence before John's disappointed voice replies, "Oh, well, alright." Pause. "Er, why though?"
"I'm…" he glances around Molly's strange, feline-filled flat and briefly considers lying. Why, he isn't sure. However the feeling quickly passes and he answers, "At Molly's. She's in the kitchen making dinner while her various breeds of cats harass me."
John chuckles and the sound flows right into Sherlock's chest, filling him to the brim with satisfaction. "What time do you think you'll be back?"
In all honesty, he has no idea. He is usually such a straightforward, organized man, but for once he has no inclination to plan out every last detail. Tonight, he needs a few long hours with platonic company, uncomplicated boundaries, and Molly's patient, soothing advice. After this morning, the last thing he needs is to return to the flat while all of that strange tension shimmers in the air like tangible smoke.
"Not sure, but I'll call you when I'm on my way home. Talk to you then, John," he pauses, "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Sherlock," is John's immediate, warmly-spoken reply.
It isn't until he has set the phone face down on Molly's coffee table that he realizes how intimate that whole exchange was. It was almost like—like they were a married couple that'd been separated for the night, or something. The mere inclination to call John and let him know his whereabouts smacks of domesticity and closeness. He hadn't even thought twice about his actions; that is how second-nature they are.
Stuffed between two large cat pillows, Sherlock sits there and contemplates the whole situation extensively. He's so deep in thought that he doesn't initially notice the fat blonde cat from earlier crawling into his lap and settling there. When the added weight and audible purring finally drag him from his musings, he immediately attempts to shove the beast off, to no avail. The bloody thing just sits there in all of its obese, languidly-blinking glory, lazily licking its front paw and refusing to break eye contact. He glares and it purrs contently in response.
Just when he's about to try his hand at feline-lobbing, Molly pops her head in with a tray of biscuits. "Lasagna is in the oven, so it'll be a bit. I thought we could have a little snack while dinner is cooking." She grins and makes her way over to the couch. When she sees her mammoth of a pet anchored in his lap, Sherlock expects her to immediately apologize and get the damn thing off of his expensive suit. Instead, however, she makes a ridiculous sound that is somewhere between a squeal and the word "Aw". She puts a hand over her mouth and shakes her head, unbearably endeared by the whole situation.
"Sherlock, Draco likes you! He never takes to strangers, but he likes you!" She grins, happily ignoring his glare, and sets the tray on the coffee table.
Sherlock accepts a biscuit and frowns at the cat. "What kind of name is Draco? If I'm not mistaken, that is a constellation of a dragon. This blob of flesh and fur is hardly reminiscent of a power, mythical beast, Molly."
Molly smiles and strokes the creature fondly. "When I met him a few years ago, he was some pathetic skinny little thing on the brink of death. The shelter didn't want him because he was snappy and mean and refused to let anyone touch him, let alone administer the necessary medicines and nutrients. For some reason, though, he immediately took to me. After I officially adopted him, I nursed him back to health with food, medication, and endless affection. Once he was back to his happy self, I decided to call him Draco, as in Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter series. I know it's a bit silly, but I always liked Draco because he was so beaten down and lost throughout the first several books, until the very end when he finally sought redemption and made a remarkable recovery—" she stops at his blank expression. "And you have no clue what I'm talking about, do you?"
The unnecessary answer to that question is 'No', since he completely tuned out as soon as he realized the answer wouldn't be short. "A hairy porter and a book series, I believe?"
She rolls her eyes but doesn't look offended. "I suppose it's my fault for bringing up a pop-culture reference." She glances back at him and Draco, her smile returning tenfold.
"Look at the two of you; peas in a pod, you are. Both of you are so antisocial and uninterested, but when you finally meet someone you like you just can't get enough." She gives him a sly look out of the corner of her eye. "Speaking of which, why don't we discuss John?"
"Or," he drawls, "We can discuss Lestrade."
Her cheeks redden at the unexpected retort but her eyes glow with joy. "Well…" she says slowly, taking a bite of biscuit to stall, "After Greg's divorce was completely finalized, I noticed that he began to look…interested in me. At first I wasn't sure what to make of it, since I'd never really felt anything for him, but after a second look I realized how bloody gorgeous he is. His eyes, his smile, and the lovely contrast between his tanned face and salt-and-pepper hair…not to mention the delicious muscles he has hiding beneath his shirt sleeves…" Molly sighs and melts back into the couch, the biscuit held loosely between her fingers. Sherlock smirks at her antics, quite pleased with her obvious happiness.
"Deep breathes, Molly," he instructs, amused.
She shoots a smile in his direction, and continues. "Anyway, it started out as a really casual thing; you know, coffee here and there, maybe an occasional lunch. Then one day he said, 'Molly Hooper, it's about time I take you on a proper date. How does dinner and a film sound?' Jokingly, I said, 'sounds a bit like a high school date to me', and the most adorable blush spread across his face. He started babbling about all of the different things we could do instead if I didn't like the film and dinner idea, until finally I stopped him and said I did love his idea and had only been kidding," Molly laughs, eyes sparkling. "Gosh, Sherlock, I wish you could've seen him; it was so bloody cute. He can be so sweet and thoughtful sometimes."
Sherlock examines all of his knowledge of Gav—Greg Lestrade and cannot match a single memory of the man with 'sweet' and 'cute'. His furrowed brow seems to demonstrate his internal confusion quite clearly to Molly, who wastes no time in explaining. "Okay, I'm sure he hasn't been 'adorable' around you and John or any of the Yarders, but trust me, Sherlock, he is. In fact, look at this," she tugs down the high neck of her sweater to reveal a sparkling heart pendant. A proud look glows on her features as she pulls the necklace into full view. "Lovely, isn't it?"
Sherlock's immediate thoughts are 'trite, overdone, and cliché', but ever since acquiring his close friendship with Molly, he has learned the immense value in biting his tongue. It isn't a measure of control that he can perform often, but he doesn't want to hurt Molly, so for her sake he puts on a smile and tells her it looks nice.
The self-restraint is well worth it when Molly's face splits into a grin and she squeals, "I know! I nearly fainted when he gave it to me last Friday. God, Sherlock," she puts a hand over his and beams, her cheeks rosy and eyes bright. "I am so, so happy with him."
Sherlock finds himself uncharacteristically unbothered by the contact, and smiles in return. Usually a mere brush of shoulders with someone who isn't John is enough to make him recoil in disgust, but he is finding that the more time he spends with Molly, the less he minds her friendly touches. That isn't to say he'll be ready to hug her any time soon—though perhaps by the end of the month he'll give it a try—but he's certainly no longer opposed to their hands or shoulders touching. It even feels somewhat comforting.
What he finds even more comforting, though, is Molly's blatant happiness. Lestrade is a good man who is clearly head over heels for her, which is excellent because an intelligent, kind girl like Molly deserves that sort of man. However, amidst the secondhand happiness, Sherlock feels the smallest shred of sadness. To see a thriving couple so close to his and John's plane of existence is somewhat disheartening, since his own love life is nowhere near as prosperous.
Admittedly, this morning felt considerably closer to "romantic behavior" than "platonic behavior", but that hardly means anything since John is innately flirtatious and playful. Unintentionally, he allows his inner turmoil to show in the form of a frown. Molly stops smiling and gives him a concerned look. "Sherlock?"
"Molly, when you said Lestrade seemed interested in you, what were the signs?" asks Sherlock.
Molly considers her answer. After a minute she replies, "Well, he began loitering around the lab a lot, often with weak excuses, so I knew he must've been coming 'round to see me. Then, he would make any excuse for us to touch; he would walk very close so our shoulders brushed, or he would reach for something the same time I did so that our hands overlapped," she smiles at the memory, "there was also a certain look in his eyes, a bright, eager look—kind of like an excited puppy, for lack of a better term—whenever he saw me in a crowded room. Some of our conversation were lighthearted, flirtatious banter, but we were also comfortable enough with each other to discuss deeper topics such as family life or our childhoods. It all just felt quite natural and not at all forced."
Sherlock considers this. He and John certainly spend a lot of time together—Sherlock spends nearly all of his available time with John, and John spends about half of his time with Sherlock. As for touching, they've always lacked the boundaries a male-male platonic friendship usually entails, but lately they've become especially close, physically speaking. This morning's cuddle is a perfect example of that. As for the look in John's eyes…well, he can sometimes see fondness and affection there, but they look warm and inviting most of the time anyway so it's hard to tell. Molly's last bit about conversation certainly applies, because he's always felt comfortable speaking with John about a plethora of subjects. John was the first person in his life to actually take an interest in his deductions and make him feel like a genius instead of a freak because of them. John was the first person that didn't judge him. Hell, John was the first to actually care about what he had to say. For that reason, he knows he can talk to John about anything from his plasma experiment to the ridiculous plot holes in one of John's James Bond movies. The two of them certainly share enough banter too—again, this morning is a perfect example—and never once has it felt forced or uncomfortable.
That being said, he still is not sure how John feels about him. He places his half-eaten biscuit in a napkin, drops his head into his hands, and verbalizes his internal frustration. "Molly, we have all of that to some extent, yet John's feelings remain a mystery."
Molly huffs and sinks back into the couch. "You know, I don't understand why you two aren't already involved. It's clear to everyone else that you're both mad about each other, yet there is still reluctance! I mean, according to Greg, the whole Yard thinks you've been shagging for months now. He said last week at a crime scene, you two were sitting on a bench and you were leaning against John while he stroked your hair back, apparently in the middle of a debriefing!"
Sherlock glosses over the shagging rumor for the time being and focuses on Greg's anecdote. "Ah yes," he recalls, "well, it was because I had to explain something particularly tedious to Gregson and John warned me beforehand not to snap at him—which, as you know, is no easy task—so to pacify me—for lack of a better term—he, er, was touching my hair."
Moll gives a stuttered laugh of surprise. "So, basically, John was petting you so you'd play nice?"
Sherlock glares, but finds the intent of the gesture ruined by the undeniable blush staining his cheeks. "Not 'petting'. Just…running his fingers through my hair," at her delighted expression, his frown deepens. "I have a sensitive scalp, okay?" he snaps defensively.
"Mm-hm," she says, a smug smile stretching her lips.
Evidently, glaring is getting him nowhere, so he opts for sullen silence instead. Since his left hand is occupied with holding the biscuit, he uses his freehand to absently stroke over Draco's head. He isn't even aware of his actions until Molly squeals and procures her phone to snap a picture; immediately, he removes his hand from the creature and scowls down at its mellow, unperturbed face.
"Please tell me you're deleting that."
"Nope!" she chirps in response. "In fact I just emailed it to Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure she'll be pleased to see proof of your growing fondness for small animals."
He scowls. "I have no such fondness. I was merely tolerating the creature."
She smiles at him and stands up. "Mm-hm, of course you were. Now I believe I just heard the oven timer ring; dinner's ready!"
. . .
Even though Sherlock has never been a culinary enthusiast to any degree, he has to admit that Molly is a superb cook. Dinner is a savory lasagna made with three types of Italian cheeses and a hearty, vegetarian tomato sauce spiced with oregano and basil leaves. As a side dish, Molly whips up a quick garden salad filled with colorful, diced vegetables and almond slices.
He takes the seat across from her and raises his eyebrows at the spread. "I must admit, Molly, I am impressed."
She beams at the praise and spears a bell pepper slice, bringing the bright yellow wedge to her mouth with a grin. "Thank you, Sherlock," she replies graciously.
Dinner passes in a companionable silence that is only broken by the occasional sound of clinking dinnerware. Every now and then, Sherlock steals a glance at Molly and each time he finds that she is deep in thought. Eventually, Molly exits her reverie, dabs at her mouth, and says, "You know, isn't it funny how drastically some people can change your life? I mean, it was only chance that allowed me to end up working at Bart's, where I met you and John; if I hadn't met you, Sherlock, I would have never met Greg. That is so strange, isn't it? We're always on the precipice of a great change that may or may not occur to us; it all depends on numerous unnamable factors."
Sherlock has never cared much for talk of 'fate', but Molly has a point. There were so many little, seemingly unimportant occurrences in his life that have led him to where he is now; a thirty-five year old consulting detective with a kind, albeit cat-obsessed friend and a wonderful best mate/flat mate/current love interest. If just one thing in his past were altered, then he might have never met John. That thought is extremely troubling, though, so he decides against contemplating it too deeply. "I suppose that's true," he admits, "but there's no use in worrying ourselves over it, because the fact is we did meet those people and our lives are the way they are because of it."
"Yes, you're right." She smiles down at her plate as she speaks her next words, "I just…I really cannot express how happy I am to have found Greg. After years of fruitless dating, I have finally found someone who is kind, compassionate, strong, caring, good-humored, patient, intelligent—"
"Shall I grab a thesaurus so you can continue?" asks Sherlock teasingly.
"Oh shut up," she replies good-naturedly. "If I brought up John you'd ramble on for decades, alright? You've no room to criticize."
Sherlock smirks and takes a bite of salad, silently conceding her point: he would ramble on for decades. His running internal monologue on John has not ceased since the day they met, and in that time he has had the chance to formulate mountains of lovely adjectives to describe him. In all honesty, it's best that they don't open his reservoir of affection and praise; he'd probably never stop talking.
Across the table, Molly looks like she's about to burst with the desire to rave about Lestrade. Taking pity, Sherlock amends, "Alright, you can have thirty seconds of uninterrupted time to talk about Lestrade. Then, we are moving on to another topic, agreed?"
She laughs gaily, a large grin spreading across her features. "Yes, yes, of course. Okay," she takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize it at first, but Greg's arms are positively pornographic in a short sleeve shirt—or, better yet, shirtless!—and that lovely tan…mm. Gorgeousness aside, he is just the most darling man I have ever met. God, Sherlock, on our first date he was so sweet! He took me to this wildly expensive place with chandeliers and classical music, and at the end of the night when he kissed me I swear I felt as lightheaded and wooed as a bloody teenager. It was a heavenly night and the kiss—god, the kiss—it was wonderful enough to inspire poems and novels and a bloody film adaptation. He was and is an incredible boyfriend and these past few weeks have been an incredible bliss I would've previously equated with nothing less than Heaven itself." Completely out of breath ad rosy-cheeked, she practically collapses onto the table once she's finished.
Sherlock can't help the smile that plays across his features, as it appears her happiness is infectious. "All done?"
She chuckles breathlessly and takes a sip of water. "Yes. We'll definitely need to periodically revisit the subject, but for tonight I think I'm okay."
Several minutes pass before she has calmed down enough to change the subject. "Speaking of kisses, what was your first kiss like, Sherlock?" asks Molly, as she sections off a piece of lasagna with her fork.
On any other occasion, Sherlock would never even entertain the notion of divulging his personal history with another, but the good food and relative ease he feels around Molly have softened his resolve; without thinking, he says, "I've never kissed anyone."
She lifts her eyes from her plate to stare at Sherlock. The silence thickens as she continues to stare at him wordlessly, trying and failing to come up with a response. After she's made her way through a slew of facial expressions and half-started replies, she finally cries, "What?"
His face heats, to his annoyance, but he shrugs to show he doesn't care. "Yes. It hardly matters, though."
At this point, her eyebrows have nearly reached her hairline. "It 'hardly matters'?!" She takes a sip of water, a frown of genuine bafflement marring her features. "How is that even possible? You're—you're you. Intelligent and as bloody beautiful as a Greek statue!"
He scoffs. "Hardly. Beauty is a construct based on childhood role models, significant events during adolescence, and numerous supplementary factors. As for my intelligence, I'm sure you'd know better than anyone that it tends to inspire animosity more often than friendship." He sighs, absently shifting leaves of lettuce around his plate. "Kissing requires two parties that like each other, Molly. Prior to John, no one's ever liked me, nor I them."
She stares at him, still visibly alarmed, but seems to be slowly coming to terms with the information. After a beat of silence, her expression morphs into disbelief as something else occurs to her, "So then you're a…?"
He purses his lips. "Yes."
Molly blinks. "A virgin. You are a virgin."
"Yes," he repeats, annoyed. Is it really such a difficult concept to understand?
She raises her eyebrows. "Wow, I mean…I would have never guessed. But…you know you could have anyone—male, female, and everything in between—if you wanted to, right?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Perhaps. But I don't want males, females, and everything in between—I want John. He's the only person I've ever felt close to, attracted to, in love with…before John, sex and relationships were below "dusting furniture" on my list of important matters. But now those things have been propelled nearly to the top of the list. As you know, such an adjustment has not been particularly easy."
Molly nods in understanding. "Yes, yes, I'm well aware. I've been right beside you for the whole ordeal, remember? So, how do you feel about having those previously unimportant things at the top of your 'list'? Do you feel better or worse?"
Now that is a good question.
The snooty, pretentious genius on one metaphorical shoulder firmly says that this entire experience has made him worse; he can no longer coolly detach himself from emotions, he now has a fatal Achilles heel—John—and his priorities, which have always been focused on the Work, now rest almost entirely in relationships and matters of love. On his other shoulder, there is a mellow, humbly intelligent man who firmly says this experience has made him better; not only has his relationship with John grown stronger, but his relationships with others in his life—Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft—have warmed considerably as well. It's almost as if when John walked into his heart, he left the door ajar and everyone else sort of just slipped in when he wasn't looking; in truth, the idea doesn't bother him as much as it once would have.
He has spent his entire life trying to convince himself that being alone is what he wants, but now that his world is bursting with Molly's friendship, John's courtship, love, and a slew of acquaintances-turned-friends, being alone is the last thing he'd like to endure.
With a look of complete certainty, Sherlock replies, "I am better for it, I believe. Even though matters of emotion and sentiment are still bothersome and perplexing at times, I would not wish them away."
Molly smiles at him, pleased with his answer, and the two continue eating in comfortable silence. When Sherlock has made his way through half his meal, he notices that Molly is no longer eating. He looks up and sees she is staring at him with a poorly hidden smile that is a touch too knowing for his liking. "Yes?" he asks, with a frown.
Molly's (bad) poker face immediately breaks into a grin as she says, "Sherlock you realize what this means, right?" She waits a beat and then continues, "Your first kiss will be with John! That is the most adorable, lovely thing I've ever heard."
That is what Molly was trying not to grin at? He rolls his eyes and resumes eating. Honestly, society is far too concerned with the sanctity of 'firsts'. It hardly matters if he's kissed a thousand people or no one; besides, who's to say John is going to kiss him at all? "Molly, I believe you're getting far too ahead of yourself. For one, I couldn't care less about the supposed sacredness of my 'first kiss', and secondly, isn't it a bit presumptuous to think John will kiss me at all?"
She takes a sip of water and shakes her head. "No, of course not. It's really only a matter of time, Sherlock. Very soon, you are going to reach a pivotal point in which the two of you will have to make a final decision; whether you'd like to engage in a full blown romantic relationship or a platonic friendship. Either way, things cannot continue drifting in grey area; it's going to have to be one or the other. Personally, I am placing my bets on the former."
. . .
After dinner, the two make their way back over to the sitting room, Molly clutching a bottle of red wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"I don't drink," he says, settling back onto the couch.
"Come on, detective. Throw caution to the wind," she tells him with a grin, filling his glass with the dark liquid.
He peers at it and considers his options. He's never really cared for alcohol and he already knows for a fact that his tolerance for it is embarrassingly low, but…why not?
He nods his head and accepts the drink. "Okay. One glass"
As it turns out, "one glass" actually means "let's get completely pissed", because an hour and a half later, the two of them have collectively consumed the entire bottle.
From his position on the floor, Sherlock stares at his empty glass and frowns. "More," he slurs, holding the flute high in the air. Always, the obliging host, Molly staggers into the kitchen to grab a fresh bottle. When she returns, she pours them both a new glass and stands up, as if to make a toast.
"I propose," Molly slurs, holding her sloshing wineglass high in the air, "that we have a girl's night in. A sleep over! Movies, red wine, ice cream, bemoaning our love lives—all of it!"
Sherlock takes an elegant sip from his own glass, managing to spill only about a quarter of its contents down his front, which is quite impressive in comparison to Molly whose shirt is currently burgundy red, despite that fact that it was white two hours ago. "Molly Hooper," he begins, drawing out the O's and popping the 'P' with a flourish. "If you haven't noticed, I am not a girl therefore this cannot be a 'girl's' night in."
She nods soberly at that, staring into the depths of her glass as if the answers to the universe rest at the bottom. After a thoughtful pause, she snaps her head back up at him with a wide grin. "Oh! I got it! How 'bout instead of calling it a 'girl's' night in, we call it somethin' really great, like 'Sherlock and Molly's Really Great Night In'?"
Sherlock considers this soberly for a moment before nearly swooning from the sheer genius of it. It's perfect. What a perfect, wonderful thing! It's even got their names in it and everything!
"Oh, yes, that is brilliant." He starts to applaud, but quickly stops because it turns out applauding requires more than one hand—which he simply cannot afford, since one hand must be holding his wine glass at all times.
"Wait, wait, wait," he says, waving his free hand about. "I need to call my lovely John and tell him I won't be coming home tonight. Gimme' one minute, Miss Hooper," he slurs, fumbling around for his mobile. After locating it in the couch cushion, he presses 'one' on speed dial and waits. Meanwhile, Molly tips her head back and stares in amazement at the ceiling fan. He would join her, but then he'd be too distracted to speak with his darling John and that is not okay because John deserves all of his attention, not just part of it.
"Hello?" asks a wonderful voice.
"John!" he cries earnestly. "John, I'm afraid I'm staying at Molly's tonight, okay? It's a sleepover, you see," he grins to himself at how sober he sounds. Oh goodness, he is talented indeed. Even Molly sounds impressed; though, those "ooh" and "aah" sounds could be directed at the fan.
"Sleepover? Really?" He sounds dubious, which isn't as nice as how he sounds when he's happy. Sherlock frowns at that.
In his most consoling voice, Sherlock says, "Don't worry John, I'll be home tomorrow morning, okay? Goodnight for real this time!"
"Well…alright. Goodnight, Sherlock." Sherlock practically melts at hearing his name from John's mouth. It just sounds so lovely! He hangs up and shakes Molly from her fan-induced stupor. "Molly! I've informed John, now on to our great night!"
The first event for "Sherlock and Molly's Really Great Night In" is movies. Molly glides over to her endless collection of DVDs and sweeps an entire shelf into her arms, calling over her shoulder that they are her favorite "rom-coms", whatever that means.
. . .
Rom-coms, he soon discovers, are films in which a man and a woman are thrown into a series of wacky situations and occasionally one flimsy obstacle, before ending up in their inevitable, Hallmark relationship. If he wasn't absolutely drunk off his arse, he probably would have lost interest two minutes into the movie. However, alcohol has a tendency to alter certain perceptions; Sherlock experiences this firsthand when he finds himself practically sobbing right along with Molly as the film's leading male delivers some cliché line in the rain. Then, he and Molly cheer when the two main characters share a passionate kiss and exchange gooey sentimental lines that have no doubt been quoted endlessly. When the credits roll, he puts his wine down—just for one second, though!—and claps in a quick succession, before immediately plucking his glass back up and taking a reassuring sip.
"God," gasps Molly, rubbing at her puffy eyes with a tissue. "That is my favorite movie of all time. Wasn't it just lovely?"
He bobs his head even though he's already forgotten the entire thing. He supposes he can chalk that up to his subconscious stubbornly filtering what stays and what doesn't stay in his Mind Palace. Even completely drunk, his mental filter refuses to allow something as banal as a 'rom-com' linger in his mind for more than a moment.
Oh well. There are about ten more films for them to go through; perhaps one will stick.
. . .
After Sherlock has endured about six "Feel-Good Movies of the Year" and four "Triumphs of the Human Race", he and Molly decide it's time to move on to the next phase of their Really Great Night In: ice cream.
After sliding off the couch and surmounting the obstacle of standing upright, they stumble into the kitchen giggling like school children. Molly places her glass down on the counter and twirls over to the fridge, where she removes a tub of vanilla ice cream, a can of whipped cream, and an assortment of sweet, gooey toppings.
"So, detective, what can I get ya'?"
Sober Sherlock has very little interest in food, least of all sugary treats, but it turns out Drunk Sherlock is absolutely mad for banana splits.
He's actually not quite sure how he even knows what a banana split is—hell, if the solar system isn't important enough to remain in his Mind Palace, why is an ice cream dish floating around in there?—but somehow he finds himself expertly nestling two banana-halves on either side of his three scoops of ice cream, and then drizzling hot fudge and caramel over the whole thing. He sprinkles the peanuts liberally—perhaps too liberally, since a fair amount end up scattered across her counter as well as the dish—and finishes it off with a bright-red maraschino cherry.
Once Molly has organized her simple Neapolitan dish, the two of them make their way back into the living room.
"Sherlock Holmes," begins Molly, as she contemplates her reflection in the roundness of her spoon. "You know what you should do?"
"Hm?" he asks around a mouthful of fudge and banana.
"You," she points at him with the spoon, "should text John. Right now. You really, really should."
He swallows thickly and begins fishing for another spoonful. "Why's that? I already said goodnight to him, remember?"
She bobs her head, "Yes, yes, but I think you should ask him a question over text so that we can see how he feels about you without actually asking him. It'll be, like, a code question, you know?"
By the time she's finished speaking Sherlock has already completely warmed to the idea. What a brilliant method of figuring out John's feelings! A trick question! Goodness, why didn't he think of something like that? He reluctantly sets his dish aside and grabs his phone from the coffee table. "Alright," he says, straightening his shoulders, "what do I say?"
She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Well, John will be more comfortable if we talk about stuff he's familiar with, so we'll start with women, even though the whole time we'll be hinting at you. Hand me your mobile."
He hands it over, resumes his eating, and watches as she taps out a message. "Sign it with my initials," he reminds her. After a minute, she presses send and hands the phone back.
Sent at: 12:30am
John do u like women w/ curly hair or straight hair? SH
Sherlock looks it over and huffs. "Molly, I would never use so many abbreviations. John's going to know something's strange."
She waves him off. "Don't worry, everyone abbreviates at some point. And it doesn't even matter because the objective is to figure out if he finds you attractive, not to use proper grammar."
He's about to say something else, but then his phone buzzes and they both dive for it. His reflexes are faster, so he ends up with the mobile triumphantly tucked in his hands.
Sent at: 12:33am
Curly hair…why? JW
"Ha!" Molly shouts in victory. "I knew it, Sherlock! I knew it!"
He ignores Molly along with the hopeful fuzz building in his chest, and thrusts the phone back at her. "More."
She grins in triumph but says nothing.
Sent at: 12:35am
Just curious. Brown eyes or piercing gray-blue eyes? SH
Sherlock scans the text then snaps his head up to stare at her. "Really, Molly? As if I would describe my own eyes that way."
"Remember; he doesn't know we're talking about you yet. As far as he knows, you're just being very descriptive."
Sent at: 12:37am
Gray-blue I guess. Is this for some kind of experiment? JW
Gray-blue. Not brown. Gray-blue; John chose his eyes. The fuzzy feeling starts to grow and Sherlock can no longer suppress the wide grin that is spreading on his face. "Here, I'll send the next one," he offers, grabbing the phone back before Molly has the chance to say something smug.
Sent at 12:38am
Ideal day: Dinner and film or a dangerous case? SH
Sent at: 12:39am
Case, of course. You didn't answer my question, is this for an experiment? JW
Molly snags the phone back and scrutinizes Sherlock's face briefly. "Cheekbones," she murmurs under her breath, before quickly typing up a reply.
Sent at: 12:40am
Of sorts, yes. Sharp cheekbones or soft features? SH
Sherlock blanches. "Molly that is not subtle in the slightest. You may as well have written 'Sherlock or women'! He's definitely going to know what we're doing now!"
Sent at: 12:42am
Is this a survey or something? JW
Sherlock stares at the new text and wilts. "I told you the last one was too obvious." He hands her the phone to see for herself and morosely picks at his banana split. "He didn't answer for a reason, Molly. He knows what we're doing and he isn't pleased."
Molly frowns at the screen, then glances up with an apologetic look on her face. Just as she is about to say something consoling, the phone buzzes. Her eyes widen and she looks down. Sherlock watches in nervous anticipation as her features morph from surprised to ecstatic.
Wordlessly, she holds out the phone and turns it to face him.
Sent at: 12:45am
Cheekbones. JW
Before he has the chance to make any kind of response—physical or verbal—Molly is already typing a new text. His brow furrows and he moves towards her to grab the phone, confused by her eagerness to reply when they've yet to properly celebrate the "cheekbones" message.
"Molly, what are you doing?"
She doesn't look up as her fingers continue to dance furiously across his phone's screen. "Sherlock, we have enough tentative data at the moment to complete this experiment. There's just one big question left that we need to ask and then we're all done here."
It takes his typically lightning-fast mind three long seconds to comprehend the meaning of her words. As soon as he realizes her intentions, his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and he dives across the couch, practically tackling her. Thanks to the element of surprise and the considerable strength of his tall, leanly-muscled frame, he manages to tear the phone from her grasp. As he is pulling himself off of her, phone in hand, Molly retaliates by squeezing the sensitive flesh of his sides, causing him to drop the phone and make a rather embarrassing sound. Wasting no time, she grabs the phone from the carpet, tucks it in her pocket, and then ghosts her hands threateningly over his sides. Still looming over her, he stares down with an incredulous look.
"Did you just…tickle me?"
She smirks. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sherlock. And it hardly matters what you do since I already sent the text a minute ago."
"What?" He scrambles off of her in an instant. "Molly, what did you say?"
She offers only an infuriatingly serene smile in return. "See for yourself," she suggests airily, holding out the phone in offering.
He swipes it from her hand and rakes his eyes hungrily over the screen.
Sent at: 12:48am
The last part of the experiment requires an answer to this Q: am I attractive? SH
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says slowly, in what he hopes sounds like a murderous tone. "What happened to 'tricks questions' and 'subtle hints'? This is horrible. John…John doesn't like men, Molly! So of course he's going to say no. It's only logical, okay? We needn't waste our time waiting around for an answer, in fact we might as well just shut the damn thing off and call it a night."
Feeling restless, he jumps off the couch and begins pacing, his mind a jumbled mess of (stupid!) hope and (unpleasant!) nervousness. It's ridiculous, but the reason he has never bothered to ask John something as simple as this—a question of one's physical beauty is trivial, really—is because of the stubborn, deeply rooted fear of rejection stirring in the back of his mind. It's illogical to expect anything less than rejection from John—at least in regards to Molly's question—yet there is still some foolish part of him that hopes the answer will be perhaps…yes.
Molly watches him wear a path in the carpet, her disposition silent and calm. Eventually, she plucks a ginger cat from the floor and sets it in her lap to pet. "Sherlock," she begins soothingly, "everything John has done in the past few weeks—hell, in the past few years—indicates that at the very least he finds you attractive. You say he won't because he's "straight", but what you have to understand, Sherlock, is that one's sexuality does not have to be black or white. Sure, John has only dated women, but that doesn't mean the right bloke couldn't catch his eye; and in this case, love, that right bloke is you. I am quite confident in what John's answer will be, so kindly stop marching across my carpet, take a seat, and resume eating your ice cream." Seemingly in agreement, the ginger creature mews loudly.
Sherlock frowns, but does as Molly asks and resigns himself to the couch once more. The half-melted banana split no longer looks appetizing, so he forgoes eating and instead busies himself with imbibing even more wine. He watches Molly's expression contort into disapproval.
"Are you sure you want to drink more? We've had quite a lot already," she reminds him, punctuating the statement with a little hiccup of proof.
He frowns into the glass, hazy eyes fixated on his wobbly, blood-red reflection. "That may be true, but I am feeling far too sober at the moment."
Molly purses her lips. "Well…" After a moment of indecision she finally reaches over and pours herself a fresh glass. "Might as well keep up with you, I suppose." She takes a long sip, gathering her thoughts as she savors the wine. "Sherlock, you really shouldn't feel so down. For one, John hasn't even given an answer yet. For all we know he could've fallen asleep."
Sherlock places the glass on the table and curls himself around one of the kitten-pillows, squeezing the cushion tightly to his chest for comfort. "Yes, perhaps," he intones, though his voice lacks any semblance of optimism. The two fall into a semi-comfortable silence that is only disturbed by the occasional purr or meow.
Minutes pass before Sherlock's mobile—finally!—buzzes. He stares at it on the coffee table with wide eyes and frozen muscles. When he glances at Molly, she is in a similar state; however, she recovers from the shock much quicker than Sherlock and hastily leans forward to pluck it up. Guarding the screen with her palm, she looks up at him. "Shall I read it aloud or look at it first, then show you?"
He digs his nails into his palm, producing a neat row of angry, red crescents all across his hands. "Read it then show me," he manages.
He watches in frustration as she slowly reads the entire thing with an unchanging, mild expression. If he were in any state to deduce, he could probably figure out if the text is good or bad based on her little, nearly imperceptible 'tells', but at the moment his brain is practically pickled with wine, so the most he can manage is the weak conclusion of 'I don't know'.
Finally, she hands the phone over, face down. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing, which is actually quite impressive; he must remember to commend her for it later. With a shaking, nerve-wracking breath, he flips the phone over and reads John's response.
Sent at: 1:00am
Is that what all of these weird texts have been about? Why didn't you just ask me that Q in the first place? And yeah, of course you are, with your bloody cheekbones and designer suits and whatnot. JW
Sent at: 1:01am
I'm positively knackered. Goodnight, I'll see you tomorrow. JW
Sherlock blinks at the phone's screen in incomprehension, his features blank and expressionless. However, once the meaning of the words sink into his mind, an irrepressible grin spreads across his face. This is grand, this is bloody magnificent. He is drunk, happy, filled with ice cream, and to make it all even better, John thinks he's attractive! He doesn't care for stupid, soft feminine features, he likes Sherlock's features. Whether he has said so outright or not is irrelevant because Molly's genius plan worked! Molly raises her half-full glass to his, "Cheers!"
Happiness bubbles inside Sherlock's veins like champagne foam spilling over the lip of a bottle; bright, lazy joy flowing through his chest, his heart, all the way out to his tingling fingertips and toes. It's such a delicious, dreamy feeling that he finds himself grinning with his teeth on display and eyes crinkled at the corners. It's such a rare contraction of muscles that for a moment he wonders if he's even doing it properly.
It is only then—after immense relief and happiness have drained him of all energy—that he realizes how bloody drunk he is. He flops down on the couch beside Molly and feels suddenly exhausted. "I think I may have a quick kip…" he tells her around a yawn. She nods drowsily in return and mumbles something indiscernible back.
The last conscious thought he has is somewhere along the lines of 'John thinks I'm pretty too', and then oblivion swallows him whole.
In all of his life, Sherlock has never wondered what it would feel like to have a giant, periodically-pounding drum located inside his head. However, he quickly finds the answer upon waking the next morning, because his skull is throbbing as if an entire percussion ensemble spent the previous night and subsequent morning thrashing about his brain. With a groan he sits up as slowly as possible, taking care to move only as much as is strictly necessary. After his sore, bloodshot eyes are greeted with overly-bright lights and an ensuing migraine, he takes in his surroundings:
He is currently draped across the couch, wrapped in a blanket—normal—and Molly's winter coat—not as normal. His nice, expensive, eggshell-colored button-down is now stained irrevocably with a bib of wine and a wide variety of ice cream toppings, and his hair is no longer curly and wild, it is a matted, black bird's nest. Sherlock winces at the sickeningly sweet smell of wine that is lingering—everywhere—and the arid, tacky feeling inside his mouth. He needs a toothbrush now and there is no way he'll make it all the way back to Baker Street to retrieve his—even the thought of trekking to the kitchen is daunting at the moment.
Without really thinking it through, he clumsily pats down his pockets for his mobile. When he locates it and switches it on, he hisses at the painfully bright screen, recoiling to the point that he nearly drops the phone entirely. With squinted eyes, shaking hands, and a pounding migraine, he manages:
Sent at: 10:15am
Jon, need toothbrsh pls. mollys. sh
The thought of maintaining proper grammar and spelling at a time like this would be utterly laughable, if only the notion of sound did not make him feel anything but humorous.
He drops his head onto the arm of the couch, blearily surveying the room. Molly is slumped over in the loveseat, all four cats wedged around her, with Sherlock's coat and what looks like a tablecloth draped over her lap. She's still sound asleep, blissfully unaware of the dreadful awakening fate has in store.
As Sherlock slowly massages his throbbing temples, he marvels at the fact that some people live the better part of their lives in this horrid state. John's sister being one of them, of course. Sherlock is no stranger to the messy aftermath of a binge—cocaine wasn't always brilliant and lovely—but a drug-induced hangover is absolutely nothing compared to this hell. That conclusion could be due to his recent unfamiliarity with drugs—he's lived several solid years of sobriety, now, so his memories of the experience are starting to fade. Still, he remembers cocaine hangovers being messy, yes, and certainly unpleasant, but mostly they just left him feeling jittery and desperate for more. This alcohol-induced hangover however, makes him feel sluggish, drained, tired, and nauseous. Merely collecting these sensations into a conscious thought is enough to deplete him of half his energy.
The other half is briskly used to aim his mouth towards the conveniently place trash bin beside the couch as he begins retching unexpectedly. After several long, disgusting heaves, he emits low groan and rolls on his back to ease the rising nausea. Once he feels it's safe to reopen his eyes, he shakily picks up his phone again and sends out another few texts.
Sent at: 10:20am
Jhn toothbrsh now and brng meds 2 pls. sh
Sent at 10:21am
also sum clothes. sh
He rests the mobile on his chest and drapes a forearm over his eyes, attempting to expel the headache with sheer force of willpower. Unsurprisingly, this method is rather ineffective. Decades or perhaps minutes later, his phone buzzes. With one eye open he lifts the phone, angling it so he can see the smallest amount of blinding brightness possible.
Sent at: 10:25am
Sherlock, are you okay? Why are you typing like that? JW
Sent at: 10:25am
And what do you need medicine for, are you hurt? I'm on my way over to Molly's right now, I'll be there in ten minutes. JW
He smiles briefly at that. John; reliable, concerned, lovely John. Something in the back of his brain—a memory of last night perhaps—stirs at the thought of John, but straining his mind to any extent hurts like hell so he doesn't bother. There will be plenty of time to think everything over once his sobriety and cognitive functions have returned to him.
In the meantime, he drags himself over to the kitchen. He half-remembers something beneficial about hydration, so he hunches over the sink and angles his mouth underneath the tap, messily drinking water for five minutes or so. With a thoroughly wet shirt and sated thirst, he trudges back into the sitting room to check on Molly.
The process in which she wakens is morbidly reminiscent of a damp-winged butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Only, Molly looks anything but fresh.
She opens her eyes blearily, wincing at the migraine that has no doubt just assaulted her vision. Her little entourage of cats arise with her, stretching luxuriously in all of their sober, untainted glory. She starts to yawn but then the motion and sound of it arouse another wave of painful throbs in her head, causing her to cringe and reflexively press a hand to her forehead. After a low groan and more cringing, she mutters, "I feel like utter shite."
He makes a sound of assent in the back of his throat since verbal responses surpass his current skillset, and tentatively lowers himself back onto the couch. Sherlock frames his face with his hands, his thumbs at his chin while his index and middle fingers rub slow, methodical circles to either temple. At some point, Molly leaps up and dives into the bathroom, where the wine, ice cream, and lasagna make their reappearance in the form of loud, unpleasant retching.
Sherlock tries to calm himself with his usual method—organizing all one hundred and eighteen periodic elements by electronegativity, atomic radii, and metallic character—but the mental exertion is enough to make him clench his jaw and cringe in pain. After that, he resigns himself to the idea that focusing on anything in this state is nearly impossible. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and thinks of blissful, blank nothingness.
. . .
"Sherlock?"
Somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness, a lovely, warm voice floats into his ear. There is a hazy visage hovering over him, all tan skin and blue eyes and feathery grey-blonde hair that he fleetingly wants to run his fingers through. The smell of cinnamon trails through the air like lazy plumes of smoke, shrouding the room and engulfing his senses. After ten minutes or ten years—he can't quite tell—the wonderful voice repeats itself, and this time its wonderful hand reaches out to touch his—what is it called? Oh yes—shoulder, shaking him gently. He feels himself rumble something in reply, but he's only aware of it because he can feel the vibrations in his throat. Coherent thoughts are a bit ambitious at the moment, as everything seems to slip away as soon as it occurs to him. The visage blinks its beautiful cerulean eyes at him and he wants to just dive right in; swim around and tread water in those bright blue pools.
"Sherlock!"
"Ah!" Sherlock cries involuntarily, scrambling awake, his limbs flailing about. Now fully conscious, he realizes it is John standing over him, not a mysterious hazy figure. "John?" he croaks.
John nods and kneels beside him. It is then that Sherlock realizes he is lying on a couch, meaning that they're still at Molly's. With an expression that is equal parts amused and caring, John reaches out a cool palm to stroke back Sherlock's messy, tangled curls. Past the point of coyness, Sherlock audibly sighs and relaxes back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut in peace and comfort.
"Had quite a bit to drink, I see," John observes, purposefully keeping his voice low for Sherlock's sake. "You and Molly are probably the last people I assumed would get pissed like this."
He makes another ambiguous noise in the back of his throat; something between a groan and a hum. John rolls his eyes, but his hand does not cease in petting back Sherlock's hair, much to Sherlock's relief. "I took care of Molly. She told me to call Greg; did you know they were dating? Anyway, he's on his way over to take care of her, so you and I can head back home now. Do you think you'll be able to stand or will I have to carry you to the cab?" John's voice sounds partially joking, but there is an underlying tone of seriousness. Sherlock knows in an instant that if he says so, John Watson will somehow find a way to carry his six foot tall, eleven stone frame all the way out of this flat, down the stairs, and into a cab, despite his significantly smaller stature. Just the thought that John would willingly do something like that is enough to inspire Sherlock's muscles to work in unison and make him stand.
With John's arm looped around his waist, he hobbles to the front door. "Molly!" he shouts at the door, because he can't afford to waste the energy is would take to turn his head. From somewhere within the flat, she responds with croaking noise that sounds somewhat like his name. "Call you," he hollers back, hoping she understands that although neither of them are currently in any state to converse, he'd definitely like to do so once they're both sober.
After the perilous, endless journey from Molly's flat to the cab out front, Sherlock is bone-tired and his head is absolutely killing him. The moment they slide into the cab, he leans over and allows his head to fall unceremoniously into John's lap. Unperturbed, John continues to soothingly run his fingers through Sherlock's hair while he hums something quiet and lulling under his breath. Eventually, as he grows even more relaxed, Sherlock tosses on his side and nestles his face into John's jumper-clad abdomen, hooking his free hand around John's back and pulling him closer. John just chuckles to himself, fondness heavy in his tone, and allows the detective to melt against him and fall into a brief, but much-needed slumber.
A/N: So, what did you think? Let me know in the reviews, please and thank you! I love you guys so much and it means the world when you give your feedback and opinions :)
Summer's getting really busy right now, so I can't promise it'll be updated by this Sunday but I'll try my best! (just remember, even if I don't update 100% on time that doesn't mean I'm abandoning the story; I fully intend to finish this!:))
Guys, check out the poll I've just posted about this story! Feedback there will help just as much as a review! But, if you're like me and are too lazy to look at the poll, then answer this important Q:
Johnlock smut yay or nay? How are you guys feeling about that? At most, It'd be T-rated stuff like kiss smut and some over the clothes action. OR are you guys completely opposed to it? The alternative would be chaste descriptions of kissing only and no 'action' whatsoever. Tbh, I'm fine with either. This is really important, though, so let me know what you think!
Until next time, darlings! X0X0