She'd put on the lipstick, adjust straps, re-do her mascara, pull on her dress, put on her heels, as he poured over her computer.
He had his back to her, gazing at her reflection, which bounded off the picture frame in front of him.
This was their song and dance - their ritual.
She pretends she doesn't care for his opinion.
He pretends he has no opinion.
This had been going on for months, the dating – besides the scheming, pretending and just general lying through her teeth - Molly had been having fun.
She was entirely entitled to, as men seemed to be drawn to her more – due to her evasiveness.
The more mysterious she was the better.
She assumed Sherlock read her like an open book.
When all the changes came in, he thought she was just a good actress, but he noted that it kept continuing besides work.
The whole thing became a part of daily life – change, more or less.
He'd always known where he had John.
He always knew his reactions beforehand and what to expect of him, which was why John needed not to know.
Molly on the other hand was a puzzle.
She'd been an open-book before.
But when she had just said yes to him, to this whole thing, everything changed.
"Where is Lestrade taking you?" he asked, as a matter-of-factly.
He'd always ask this question.
He'd say it was because he needed to know how long it would take, know her route, ensure he could calculate her return and more or less know everything was "secure".
"Some restaurant in Soho," she said eyeing him.
Despite not telling him, he'd know anyway, and she could even see him raising his brows at the choice.
"He isn't getting a divorce quite yet," said Sherlock with a hint of a smile on his lips.
"No, I wouldn't call this a date anyway. He's quite lonely," she said with emphasize on the last sentence, despite herself.
For Lestrade had more or less been demoted after the fiasco with Sherlock, which of course wasn't something Sherlock enjoyed being reminded of.
"You seem to. You're wearing your favourite dress,"
She'd ask why he deemed it her favourite – "It's the one you keep on a hanger, instead of tossing it over your chair. You care for this dress, it's less frayed than the rest." – but she knew he'd inform her anyway.
He'd told her she looked good in that once.
"It doesn't mean I'm wearing it for him," she said.
"Well, who else then," he said.
"A girl can dress up for herself, Sherlock," she said crossly.
"No, they don't. You're a woman. A woman specifically dresses to impress," he said.
"Well, let me then," she said putting on her coat heading for the door.
"You're sighing, did I express something you didn't like?" said Sherlock standing up from the computer, holding the door impressively open for her.
"You always express something I don't like," she said.
He snorted.
She just stood there, lingering on the doorstep looking at him, tilting her head – a smile creeping up on her face.
"You've always been so handsome to me you know, I suppose it has to do with something in you, which I admire-," she started.
"What is that?" he said sounding a bit hoarse.
"That even how hard you try, you'll always care," she says, and with that she trots off in high heels and all.
He stands there holding the door open, before finally shutting it.
He sat down on the sofa. He had not expected that. That it was obvious to her. She'd always seen him. Yet, again he'd never expected to be jealous.
Lestrade was holding up doors.
He was pulling chairs.
He was making jokes and pokes.
She was nodding and grinning.
She'd just turn around once to wipe away at her eyes.
The apartment was empty when she returned.
Toby spent the rest of the night in her bed.
Her lips were distracting though, despite their smallness.
Eyes were focused, not perfect, form small, breasts minor, laugh annoying, gaze infuriating and smile childish.
Everything was a nuisance.
From the way she smelt, to the way her hair curled on her pillow, and the way she wouldn't know of her unconscious effect on other men.
It was the lack of a proper case, yet he had myriads to think about, and to be interested in.
He did indeed have loads to do, except there he sat well placed in a chair right by her bedside.
He was fascinated over what change does.
Her smile had gone from sweet to seductive, her smell became an intoxicating fragrance, her form beautiful.
He never gave compliments without an agenda.
He needed to get away.
She didn't see him for months.
She stopped seeing Lestrade.
She stopped seeing anybody.
She'd focus on her work.
Her focus was entirely on that.
She tried at least, especially when she'd see John who'd try to convince her that Sherlock was still alive.
It was gruesome.
She'd hoped he was convinced that she thought Sherlock was a fraud.
Of course writing that on her blog didn't convince John of anything, and neither did it when she stood in front of him either.
"He's still alive, I've been hearing things, rumours running around," said John, as he stood in her office, holding his cane.
He'd gotten the limp back, and she knew why.
"I saw him John, he was dead on my slab – it would take a lot to fool me," she says not meeting his eye.
He looked sad.
"It would take Sherlock."
He was right, except it took her and Sherlock.
A pairing no one would ever assume could happen, and probably wouldn't.
Who was she kidding?
Soon enough, he'd reveal himself, and everything would go back to what it was.
She would just look at him, and he would look at her in the same way again.
Nobody would ever need to know that she helped him.
It came out.
Everyone knew.
Everyone knew the truth.
There was some speculation at her work, but she feigned that he'd fooled all.
No more questions were asked, as she played that she was equally in the dark about the whole thing.
He didn't seem to announce that he had any help either, but then again he didn't say much about the thing.
The newly reinstated Lestrade did that instead.
Everything went back to normal, as normal as it could.
He didn't show up at her work, but she'd notice the movement of some of her things.
She was almost under the impression that he was avoiding her.
"You've been avoiding Barts," says John.
"Why would I avoid Barts?"
"You tell me. Molly didn't believe in you, but she knows the truth like everyone else now," said John.
"She did," he says, looking thoughtful with his violin in his arms.
"What?"
The pillows of her bed were neatly stacked, the sheets looked barely used, and it was true.
Her sofa was her common sleeping place, she'd fall asleep there while the television was on, and it was silly.
She wouldn't even watch, she'd try, but her mind would wander.
What was her life really – if not a big endless time of waiting – of staying alive.
Keeping on pretending was difficult, keeping on pretending that she didn't care was even worse, and trying to comprehend what she actually felt was horrendous.
There was a knock.
She blinked.
Someone here now?
There was another knock.
It was quite desperate to knock on her door after midnight.
She climbed out from under her blankets.
Someone knocked again.
She opened the doors.
"John?" she said puzzled.
She'd half-expected it to be him.
Of course it wasn't.
"Can I come in?" he says, peering inside and looking at her with furrows between his brows.
"Sure, what's wrong?" she asks, as he settles down on her sofa, pushing off pillows to the side, and petting Toby who jumps on him.
"Sherlock, actually, and from what I can see – you," he says with a grim expression whilst eyeing her worn-down pyjamas and dishevelled hair.
She hadn't dressed for the occasion entirely.
"Oh," she says automatically boiling some water, trying to keep her hands busy, as she knows where this will go.
"He told me, or well he didn't really say anything. So you've known all this time-," he says looking a bit disappointed.
"I'm sorry-," she said a bit flummoxed.
"You don't have to apologize, I just wanted to thank you for what you did. It must have been hard. I can barely stand him at times, and I can only imagine how it would've been for you," he said.
"Yes, well, it worked out didn't it?"
"Molly – do you love him?" he asks.
She turned around and pushed her sleeve into her eye.
"No," she says.
"I'd love to think you weren't lying, but I don't believe you for a second,"
"I think you better go-,"
"He's miserable you know. He thinks I don't see it, but I do."
"How can he be miserable? Nothing ever happened between us."
"Exactly," he said and left just as she put out the cups of tea on the table.