Mrs. Hudson had offered to help cleaning up and dusting the flat, but John had outright refused. It was his responsibility, for one, but he also didn't want Mrs. Hudson's bustling to ruin the sort of sanctification of the place John had built up in his mind. It was clear that she was elated to have him back, for she offered him tea each time he arrived back from work and started to clean. He devoted his evenings to cleaning for 5 days, of which he had cleaned most of the flat from top to bottom: apart from Sherlock's room. The door still remained shut, with a likely meticulous room preserved behind it. Besides, there was no need to open it. If, for some reason, he needed to know the atomic number of rubidium, he would take the effort to open his laptop and look it up – instead of looking behind Sherlock's door.
John's sleeps weren't graced with any more visages of Sherlock, which he was disappointed about. The one thing that seemed to be looking up in his life was Molly: at their Sunday coffee date, he had asked her if she wanted to come over to the flat and have dinner. He figured it was a safe proposition, since she had only been over once before and would not have poignant memories of the place. John was caught as much off-guard at actually asking the question as Molly was receiving it, but she graciously accepted and did not make things awkward, to John's relief.
That Sunday evening, Molly appeared at the door to the flat wearing a knee-length evergreen skirt and a tucked-in black and white striped chiffon top with an unbuttoned smoke grey jacket over top. Her hair was tied up in a perfectly coiffed ponytail, and she has little gold earrings dangling from her lobes. When John saw her, he was rendered speechless for a moment before saying hello, because he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she looked even if she was purposely trying to be understated. If he had not been so distracted by her, he would have sent a silent curse to Sherlock for still making him notice certain things about people – in Molly's instance, he could tell she had attempted the fine balance between looking unintentional with wanting to be elegant for the unusual occasion.
"Uh, you look great, Molly," he stumbled out. "Is that a new skirt?"
"What? Oh, yeah, I just bought it this afternoon. Thanks," she coyly replied.
"So I have everything set out, I was figuring we should eat now," John said with false confidence, motioning to the already set table.
"Yeah, that would be great." Molly walked to a dinner table set with a centrepiece of a single white candle with a tossed salad, warm garlic bread, chicken parmesan and wine set out around it.
"Sorry it's not extravagant," John rambled, "but I wasn't quite sure what you liked, and to be honest, I wasn't planning on asking you over for dinner tonight. But I'm glad I did." Molly beamed at him. A few months back, Molly had been going on about her favourite foods for some reason or another, and had mentioned that she adores "chicken parmesan – but only if it's loaded with freshly grated parmesan," and thought that "garlic bread is a gift from the heavens." John had kept the ingredients on hand that week in case he did happen to be courageous enough to ask Molly over. She's just a friend, he assured himself, she'd only be coming over for a friendly supper – no need to get worked up.
John was nervous about making a recipe he had never tried before, but to his immense relief, both he and Molly were delighted with it. Their conversation was as easy as it was to pour glass after glass of the well-aged wine, which they finished off in 2 hours. Immersed in conversation, John took the empty bottle as an excuse to clear off the table. Finding the wooden dining chairs increasingly uncomfortable, they moved to the sofa, and to lighter subjects.
"I remember a time when I was a waiter, I must have been 18 or 19 and going to school – medical school – at the time, and I was waiting this table with 2 women at it. I don't really remember a whole lot about my time at the restaurant, Café something-or-other – I don't remember the name – but this one experience. So, these 'ladies' were in having lunch, and one was ordering a dessert. I'll tell you now, they didn't seem like the friendliest lot, but then again most people weren't. So the one woman had ordered warm cherry pie a la mode, and it started with her not being happy with the time it took her to get it. A couple seconds too long, I guess. I leave, and then a minute later she calls me back to the table in a rather loud voice, and she had an expression of disgust on her face. She says to me, "Uh, listen here bloke, you know that there's a bug in this pie?" and she points to the pie, and I really don't see anything except cherries and the goo that goes in the pie, but I offer to get her another piece anyway. But instead, she starts raving on about how it wasn't warm enough and how she thought she had already eaten a bug 'cause she felt something crunchy, and she's worked herself up and is positively freaking out. I'm trying to be calm, but then – God, ha, she stands up, with the plate in hand, and rubs it in my face. Thoroughly. I just stand there, don't have a clue what to say or do, and then they just walk out. And I'm thinking, Blimey, what the hell is stuck up your ass, miss? Yeah, you laugh Molly, but it wasn't funny at the time. It wasn't, at all! My – my ego was hurt!" By now the two of them are roaring with laughter, and while they're still calming down Molly immediately jumps on to a funny story of hers.
They take turns telling funny or ridiculous stories of things that have happened to them or someone they knew for hours, until Molly finally notices that it's been dark out for a while, and checks the time.
"Eleven twenty-three!" she exclaims. "I would've had my evening tea and been in bed an hour ago, already!" she giggled in her shock.
"Well, I bess – I mean I guess we better get you home then, right?" John stares at her with a look she hasn't seen before, and can't decipher.
"Yeah, I guess. If you were thinking of riding me home in the cab –," she blushed, "no, I mean riding in the cab, to my home, with me, um, you really don't have to. I'm ok." They were now standing face to face in close proximity of one another, and John raised his eyebrow in a weak protest.
"Fine," he conceded, "I'll just make sure you get into your cab safely, how about that? We don't want you getting in with a mad cabbie, now, do we? London seems to be full of them."
"No, we don't." Neither of them moved, but searched each other's faces, watching to see if there was a sudden muscle movement that would indicate that they both wanted the same thing. John, throwing any caution to the wind, launched himself a bit too forcefully at Molly's soft pink lips. They settled into a tender kiss – as tender as two intoxicated adults can get. John pulled her closer, holding her in a kissing embrace, allowing his hands to finally feel her shape; feeling like they were locked in a glass case protected from time. But John couldn't keep the blissful moment for long; his mind started to think for the first time that evening: to think about the fact it was Molly he was kissing; think about whether it was wrong, even though it felt so right; think about whether she truly liked him or whether it was just the expensive wine; and regrettably, think about his unrequited emotional attachment to Sherlock – something he may never resolve. He broke away from her, hoping she couldn't read his troubled thoughts on his face.
"That was ... nice." Molly seemed at a loss for words, none the wiser, and John half hoped she would forget about it or deem it a drunken mistake the next day. But for now she gazed at him with unfocused eyes, and John went around her and reached for her jacket, helping her into it, unable to face her any more. He took her arm and helped her down the stairs and out onto the curb.
"I just want to say that I quite enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you."
John managed an earnest smile and replied, "Yeah, I did too." He hailed a cab, and they said their goodnights. John was a flurry of emotions, and decided it best to simply go to bed, where his head would be clearer in the morning. Something inside of him felt like he was betraying Sherlock by moving on with Molly, even though he had grown to have some romantic feelings for her. No, stop thinking. Sleep, he ordered himself. For being a captain, he couldn't follow his commands well at all. The last time he glanced at the clock, it was 3:11, and resolved not to look at it any more. He didn't know how long he had lay in bed awake after that; all he knew is that his 7:00 alarm came too early. He groggily scolded himself for being such a teenage boy on the matter while clumsily trying to dress, still half asleep.
Molly called on Tuesday, asking if John would like to have dinner with her again. He made up a quick lie saying that he was going to visit Harriet that night, and sorry, he couldn't back out of it. Molly sounded a bit dejected, but John reassured her that they would definitely have lunch on Sunday, and maybe even tea too. He knew he would need as many days as he could before facing her again.
John knew things would be so different if Sherlock were alive. He might not be having these guilty feelings, or they might even be worse. Or, he might not have any feelings for Molly at all. He would have to tell her that if they were to have a romantic relationship, he would need to take things slow. He hoped she would understand without having to spell Sherlock out for her. After all, she was the one who recognized his feelings for his flatmate and helped him recognize them, too.
Saturday evening, John placed forget-me-nots on Sherlock's grave, resolute to not let a dead man enter his mind when he was spending time with Molly.