Molly's feet were throbbing and her cheeks hurt from all the fake smiling she had done today. It seemed like she couldn't get through a single paragraph of the paperwork she was working on without someone else dropping in to express their "sincerest condolences" or handing her some sort of mystery casseroles so she "wouldn't have to worry about dinner." It was with about six of the said casseroles that she now made her way up the stairs to her flat, the rest having conveniently found their way to a nondescript bin outside the mortuary.
As she approached her door she remembered this morning and her rather brave move to give Sherlock a kiss before leaving.
That was new.
She wasn't really sure where all this confidence originated, but she felt empowered and was defiant towards her mousy usual self, determined to keep the new her going.
Before she placed her key in the lock, she mentally prepared herself for what she was going to find behind the door. She assumed that leaving Sherlock at home alone would be somewhat similar to that of a pack of rabid wolves tearing through her flat-books and papers everywhere, broken dishes, and the like. What met her instead was completely unsuspected.
Silence. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Everything was in the exact same location as it had been when she had left this morning, with the exception of the telly remote and an opened package of biscuits on the kitchen counter.
"Sherlock? Where are you?"
"Right here," said a voice from behind her, causing her to jump nearly a foot in the air. He was wearing the same outfit as the one he escaped the mortuary in-hoodie, jeans, trainers.
"What the hell are you doing outside the flat?!" she squeaked, pushing him inside and looking over her shoulder as she slammed the door. "Someone could have seen you!"
"I can't understand why no one has reported on the death of Moriarty. Not a whisper of it in the news, at Scotland Yard, or at Bart's. Seems as if the blood and body have been removed rather professionally, and the door to the roof isn't even closed off."
"You went…to…" she couldn't fathom the idea of the dead man waltzing through the streets of London, making his ridiculous deductions and inciting panic when spotted.
"Please, Molly. I obviously disguised myself." He pulled a tan bucket hat out of his hoodie pocket and Molly instantly recognized it as the one she wore on fishing trips with her father when she was young.
"Where did you get that?"
"Your closet of course."
Closing her eyes and shaking off the idea of Sherlock rummaging through her things, she resolved to continue her confident streak.
"Listen here, Mr. Consulting Detective-if you are going to carelessly go gallivanting around town with no respect for what I'm going through to keep what happened a secret, then you can go stay with your bloody brother!"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, seemingly at a loss for words. Knowing this had to be impossible, Molly realized he was carefully choosing his words, which greatly surprised her, considering his past consideration of tact. He started to speak twice, but stopped. Finally, he seemed to make a decision.
"I'm sorry."
Hold the phone. What did he just say?
"But I had to see it myself. I think Moriarty's men are trying to keep his death a secret and it kills me that I don't know why. I assure you, I wasn't seen. I greatly appreciate what you're doing and will continue to appreciate every moment you don't send me to stay in my own personal version of hell known as Mycroft's home."
Molly was shocked. "I don't think I've ever heard you apologize before. Aside from Christmas last year."
"Again, I find myself not wanting to upset you."
Sherlock took a single step towards Molly, making the distance between them very slight. His brow was crinkled in a way that made him look as though he were trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword.
"What are you doing?" said Molly, raising one eyebrow suspiciously as he closed the gap between them.
"Experiment." Sherlock reached up and gently brushed a strand of Molly's hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. Molly felt her heart speed up and begin pounding in her chest at the contact, and she did everything in her power to not release the involuntary squeak that was rising in her throat. As he removed his hand, he allowed his fingers to delicately brush the skin on her cheek, and his facial expression lightened to one of subtle amusement.
It was at that moment Molly dropped the six casseroles she had completely forgotten she was holding.
Smooth, Hooper. Really got this confidence thing down.
"Oops, sorry!" She immediately broke eye-contact with him and dropped to the floor to salvage what she could of the mess.
Sherlock smirked as he leaned over to help her.
"What is…all of this, exactly?"
"Well, I think that's some sort of chicken," she said, pointing to a reddish-brown patch, "and I think that's tuna. Or maybe turkey?"
"Let me rephrase. What is the purpose of all this?" He rose to his feet, broken glass in-hand and walked to the bin.
"Oh, you know. When a loved-one d-"she caught her words and quickly changed them, but they did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, "when a friend dies, you cook food for the people who are mourning. It's a social convention. I know you're not familiar with those."
Sherlock nodded, having to agree. He was just about to make a vindictive comment about the uselessness of social convention when he heard Molly shout behind him.
"What's wrong?" he asked, genuinely concerned by her fright.
"Nothing-just cut myself on a piece of the glass. Clumsy." She held one hand cradled in the other, trying to keep a fair amount of blood from dripping into the already-ruined food.
Sherlock reached her in two strides, reaching for her injured hand and gently wrapping it in his. She was shocked by his apparent concern, as he examined the deep gash on her palm.
"I don't think you'll need stitches, but I won't be able to tell for sure until you wash off the beef au gratin."
She smiled as he led her to the sink, still holding her hand in his. Together, they washed the sticky attempt at dinner off her hands and cleaned the cut, deciding silently that he was indeed correct-it wouldn't need stitches.
"Back in a tic. First aid kit?"
"Bathroom. Under the sink."
He returned in a moment, peroxide and bandages in hand.
"Sherlock, really, I can handle this-it's just a cut."
"Now, now. I wouldn't dream of missing out on the opportunity of playing doctor with you."
Molly's head snapped up, her eyes meeting his at the exact moment he realized the implications of what he had said. What she saw in his face surprised her to the point of laughing.
Sherlock Holmes was embarrassed.
"I just mean, you tended to me so-delicately-last night with your frozen vegetables-it would go amiss for me to not return the favor."
Molly chuckled lightly as he focused on wrapping her hand in a bandage, trying to hide his blush unsuccessfully.
"There-all squared away." He stood up straight, inspecting his work, but was very careful to not make eye contact.
"Why thank you, Dr. Holmes. If this consulting detective thing doesn't work out, I believe you would do fine as a consultant for minor boo-boos and ouchies."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and disposed of the bloodied bandages in the bin.
"Well, I'd better be off to bed. Early day tomorrow."
"But tomorrow's Saturday. You don't work on Saturdays. What sort of droll activity does Mycroft have you tending to now?"
"Your funeral. It's tomorrow."
"Oh."
Molly looked at the floor, uncertain what to say next. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him appearing to experience the same conflict. She knew which part of the idea of his own funeral bothered him the most.
"He'll be fine, Sherlock. I'll keep an eye on him."
He looked at her with an obvious question in his eyes.
"Please, it doesn't take a genius to deduce how you feel about John right now. He's going to hurt for a while. And when he finds out you're alive. He'll be fine again. He may punch you. But then he'll be fine."
Sherlock smiled and looked back down at the floor. Molly thought she could feel that confidant girl coming back.
Oh, what the hell.
She stood up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips lightly to Sherlock's. He made no move to reciprocate, but he also made no attempt whatsoever to stop the action. She counted that as a victory.
Baby steps.
She broke the kiss, coming back down flat on her feet, relishing the look of complete shock on Sherlock's face before she turned and walked back to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood completely still for thirty whole seconds before releasing the breath he was holding. His hand free of bandages slowly came up to his lips, feeling the remnants of his first kiss. A smile worked its way out.
"Goodnight, Molly," he whispered to the empty room.