Whoo, the chapter we've been waiting for! Thanks so much for all the reviews and kind words, it makes it so worth it! And thanks to my beta There's A Time Lord In Lima, you're awesome! Oh and a quick note, I've decided that posting will be every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mostly because that's what works best with my schedule and it gives me and my beta a day to double check on each chapter before I post it. Now with all my rambling aside, please enjoy!
Ducks in a Row
Nineteen weeks old
After a long day at the surgery, John comes home to a thankfully quiet flat.
At first he's worried, because nothing Sherlock does is quiet but he's so utterly exhausted that he pushes the thought to the back of his mind and moves instantly to the kitchen to boil water for his tea. He moves slowly around the kitchen, tidying up some of the stuff Sherlock has left out and when the kettle begins to hiss he makes his tea.
With his cup in hand he moves to his chair by the fireplace in hopes of relaxing, and for the first two minutes that's exactly what he does. But when he picks up the newspaper from the table where Sherlock has left it he's only able to open to the first article when he hears his name.
"John." He holds his breath and hopes that if he stays quiet Sherlock may just forget. But of course the detective is not about to give up on whatever it is he's doing and John curses under his breath and starts to wonder if he should have stayed at Mary's tonight.
"John," Sherlock calls him again, louder and seemingly more agitated than the first time. And when John doesn't move immediately from his seat he hears thundering footsteps as they come down the hallway and an exasperated Sherlock stops in front of him with arms folded over his chest.
John looks up warily. "What is it?"
"I need your help," Sherlock says, grabbing John's wrist and trying to tug him up. John however, is not budging and he yanks his hand back to rest in his lap.
"For God's sake Sherlock, I've just gotten home! Can't this wait?"
Sherlock throws his hands up in exasperation and shakes his head, sending his curls into a frenzy. "Of course not, John. I've only an hour until Molly arrives, and we can't afford to waste any of it!"
As Sherlock resorts to pacing the floor in front of him, realization suddenly dawns on John and he understands his needy flat mate's new behavior.
"What am I supposed to wear?" Sherlock calls loudly from his room, peering around the corner and fixing John with a pleading stare that makes him look like a panicked teenager. John, who is perplexed and slightly amused that Sherlock is suddenly worried about his appearance, rises from his chair and joins the other man in front of his closet, looking inside with curiosity.
As long as they'd been living together John has yet to actually be in Sherlock's room for more than a brief moment or two and he would be lying if he said he had never wondered what the detective kept in there (although in his mind he imagines body parts and beakers of suspicious liquids), he admits he's slightly disappointed to only see a few racks of clothing.
Either way he inspects the closet thoroughly, finding various button ups and pressed slacks, and even a coat or two. He doesn't, however, see anything that doesn't resemble what he wears every day. It all looks the same, dark colors and simple lines and cuts. John may not be a fashion expert, but he's almost sure there's supposed to be some kind of variety in any person's wardrobe.
He glances at Sherlock who fidgets and waits eagerly for his advice but all John manages to do is chew his bottom lip and look helplessly at the rows of clothes. Finally he sighs and tugs out a deep purple shirt he's seen Sherlock wear only a few times and some black slacks that look like they're in pretty good shape. He hands them to Sherlock and points across the hall to the bathroom.
"Go on then and try this. We'll see what it looks like and go from there." Dutifully, Sherlock grabs the pile of clothes and practically sprints to the bathroom.
After careful inspection John takes a seat on the end of the bed and waits for Sherlock to re-emerge. When he does he looks nice, the shirt fits him somewhat snuggly and the pants seem to do him well, so
John reaches back in the closet and pulls out a nicer jacket and has Sherlock put it on. Stepping back to inspect his work he smiles victoriously.
He thinks about taking a picture as proof of his success as a onetime stylist.
"Well, I guess I can't say that your fashion sense is completely hopeless anymore," Sherlock sniffs while he looks at his reflection, straightening his jacket and catching John's glare in the mirror. The doctor opens his mouth to retort but Mrs. Hudson's voice floats up the stairs and he clamps it shut instead.
"Boys, company's here."
John gives Sherlock a smile, meant to comfort but he can see his friend is nervous and John actually understands why. It's probably not a long shot to say Sherlock hasn't been on many dates.
As both men trudge down the stairs they see Mrs. Hudson holding Annabelle and when Sherlock comes into view she immediately hands her off and he kisses the top of her head as he holds her close to him. When he turns around to ask John something he sees Molly instead and he stops, his breath hitching almost instantly.
"You look… lovely," he manages to say, although the words feel like cotton in his mouth. Molly's cheeks blush and she thanks him quietly before an awkward silence falls and the two of them seem to be in a staring match.
Feeling his presence may be needed, John steps in and quickly intervenes.
"Um, why don't Mrs. Hudson and I go ahead and take Annabelle upstairs and you two run along," He suggests, taking the baby and ushering Mrs. Hudson up the steps, looking back and winking at Sherlock. When they've gone, Sherlock blows air out between his teeth and offers Molly his arm.
"Shall we get started then?"
…
For the most part, dinner goes smoothly.
They settle on a quiet Italian restaurant a few blocks away and find themselves tucked away in a quiet corner ignited by candlelight. They talk while they wait for their food, mostly about work and Sherlock's case he recently closed, but eventually Molly steers the conversation away from work and onto the subject of them.
"Sherlock?" she asks around a mouthful of pasta. The detective looks up from his plate where he's pushed most of his food around, and he cocks an eyebrow in interest.
"Yes?"
Molly fixes her dark eyes on him and he sees questions hidden deep within them, fear mixed in and making it almost impossible for him to read her. It's clear there's an internal struggle and finally she has enough of teetering on the edge and instead blurts out: "What are we doing?"
And for once, Sherlock understands exactly what she means.
Folding his hands and resting his chin on them he sighs. "Honestly Molly? I've no idea. I've absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I was actually hoping you did, it would make this so much easier."
He's pleased when she giggles at his response and leans back in her chair. He takes this moment to look at her, and not just for a deduction but to actually look at her. Her brown hair is down, falling in waves over her shoulders and standing out against the soft red color of her dress.
Any other time he would consider it a moment of weakness, but right now all he could think about was how beautiful she looked and how her eyes seemed to look right through him. She was the only one who could do that, the only one who seemed to know what he was thinking besides himself and for that he's grateful.
"Sherlock," she says warily, pulling him back into reality to see her looking at him with a curious glance. Apparently he's been watching for a bit too long but she quickly pushes the issue aside and stands up to push her chair in.
Holding out a hand she urges him to follow her. "Come on, I think we should take a walk before we go home."
Never one to pass up a possible adventure, Sherlock slaps his money down on the table and slips his hand inside of hers.
And before he knows it he finds himself in the park, running down an empty side walk with his hand in Molly's and his mind completely void of anything else. He hears her laughter slowly subside as they reach a bench plop down on it, chests heaving slightly while they catch their breath.
"God, I feel like I'm seventeen again," she tells him, still holding on to his hand, "only this time I doubt my father will be waiting for us on the front porch when we get back." She looks up at him and giggles, the sound bringing back memories he feared were long forgotten.
"You know Sherlock; even though we don't know what we're doing, I'd rather not know with you than anyone else. It feels right, if I can even say that."
Sherlock is silent for a few seconds but he manages to open his mouth and ground out the words, "Me too."
Carefully, as if testing the waters Sherlock puts an arm around Molly and pulls her closer, feeling the heat of her body soak into him and bring with it comfort he doesn't remember ever being so desperate for. For some reason she feels right, like she's always belonged there and he can't shake the feeling no matter how hard he tries.
Bringing his lips closer to her ear and letting his breath travel the back of her neck he whispers, "I may not have a clue, but if you help me I'll do whatever I can to make this work."
And he will.