A.N: Hi guys! Sorry for the late update, exams and graduations and whatnot. But here it is, the 6th exciting installment, brought to you mostly by my amazing beta, Lauren. Thanks for all the wonderfully kind reviews thus far, and enjoy! :D
"I keep telling you, Molly, he's fine."
"I know, I know," Molly assured him, biting her lip anxiously. "I just wanted to make sure, that's all."
"Has anyone ever told you that you treat this cat like it's your child?"
Molly chose to ignore this. "And he's got a vet appointment on Tuesday, would you mind terribly taking?"
Greg groaned. "I know, Molly, you've told me three times. When are you coming home?"
She paused, absentmindedly scratching at the embroidery on the motel pillow. "I don't know."
"Where are you?"
"Poland?"
"Jesus. You're not alone, are you?"
"Of course not." Well, technically she was alone in the motel room, but she was pretty sure that wasn't what he was asking. But she didn't even know where to begin about Irene... how do you describe someone who's practically a storm wrapped up in a person's body? "I'm with a friend. Look, I've gotta go... say hi to Toby for me, please? And thanks so much for everything you're doing..."
Greg sighed. "Just take care of yourself, okay?"
"Okay." She hung up and stared at the pillow some more, noticing that the threads in the corner were fraying. She wondered if that was her fault. Probably.
As if on cue, the door swung open and Irene flew in, carrying loads of bags and two travel cups of coffee. "Get up, get dressed," she sang, dumping the suitcases unceremoniously beside the bed.
"Get dressed?" Molly asked. She was already dressed- maybe not very elegantly, but she was at least presentable. "For what?"
Irene's eyes sparkled mischievously as she handed Molly a coffee. "We, my dear, are going on a date."
Molly's jaw dropped. "A... date?" she repeated stupidly. "But-"
Irene rolled her eyes. "Of course. We're engaged, aren't we? That's what people do."
Engaged. Right. So this was all part of the act. Not a real date at all.
Molly felt an inexplicable twinge of disappointment.
"I don't have anything to wear," she mumbled.
"Oh don't be silly," Irene laughed. "That's why I brought this!" She reached in the first bag and pulled out something shiny and blue and tossed it at Molly, who flailed and failed to catch it.
Embarrassed, Molly climbed over the bed to where the dress had landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Upon closer inspection, it was practically perfect- a simple blue evening dress made out of the sort of vaguely shimmery material that Molly had always begged her mother to buy for her.
It was, in short, too good.
"I can't wear this," Molly protested.
"Of course you can," Irene scoffed, pulling out her own dress. Molly felt the beginnings of panic welling up inside of her and turned to face Irene.
"Really, I can't," she said.
Irene looked up and seemed to notice Molly's distress. Her eyes softened and she lowered her voice. "You can," she insisted, "and you'll look beautiful. Please. My treat."
And Molly knew that she couldn't say no to that.
As she dressed in the bathroom she heard Irene ranting about the merits of the location of the date ("You'll love it, dear, there's a cat painted on the sign") and tried to quench her mounting anxiety. She hadn't been on a real date since Jim and, well, that wasn't an experience she wanted to relive. But this was going to be insanely fancy, if the dress was any indication, and Molly wasn't sure she was ready for that. Especially when things were so tense between her and Irene.
Because things weretense, despite Irene's easygoing manner. Ever since the kiss, the car had been filled with a suffocating awkwardness that Molly, who had always been especially susceptible to such things, was unable to ignore. When she'd asked Irene if they could start over she hadn't realized the implications of going slowly. Sometimes she glanced over at Irene and felt a sudden urge to reach over and kiss her, to meld their lips together and stay that way forever.
She really didn't understand how Irene had managed to have such an effect on her.
Irene was banging on the bathroom door now, asking "Aren't you done yet?" impatiently, and so Molly checked her hair in the mirror one last time and then opened the door.
Irene was dressed in a strapless red gown and looked absolutely breathtaking (well, more so than usual, Molly's brain added), yet what stunned Molly the most was not Irene's appearance but the expression on her face.
"Is this okay?" she asked worriedly.
Irene closed her mouth and whispered, "You're gorgeous."
Molly felt her face go red and a sense of pride creep up inside of her. She'd rendered Irene Adler speechless. That, in and of itself, was quite an achievement.
The restaurant was, indeed, a monumental establishment. As they waiting in the capacious hallway outside the dining room, Molly heard the hum of conversation and the faint chords of a violin.
"Reservation for Undershaw?" Irene asked.
"Certainly." The waiter, a rather young man with a kind smile, offered them gold-tassled menus and guided them to a table. As they meandered between tables full of chattering couples, Irene slipped her hand into Molly's, interlacing their fingers. The waiter gave them a knowing wink as he seated them beside a large window.
The moment he left Molly leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, "This place is really posh."
Irene laughed at that, filling Molly with the same gratification she always felt when she'd managed to amuse her. "And they've even got live music!" she replied, pointing at a pudgy old man crouched in the corner. Despite his inelegant appearance, his bow danced lightly across the strings of his violin, twisting and sliding to its own beautiful choreography.
"To be honest," Molly admitted, gazing up at the twinkling chandelier above them, "I've never been anywhere as fancy as this." She'd dreamed about it, of course, when she was little- ballrooms and princesses and such nonsense, but she'd always imagined such places to be otherworldly, to belong to a culture that wasn't hers. Though looking at Irene, who sat in the hand-carved chair as if she belonged there (unlike Molly's awkward perching on the edge of the cushion), it seemed very likely that Irene was quite used to this kind of thing. She felt suddenly out of place, like she didn't belong in the restaurant and certainly not across from Irene, who could've just walked off of the cover of some celebrity magazine, judging by her looks and class. If Irene noticed her discomfort she didn't say anything, but merely looked down at the wine choices listed on her menu.
The food came in multiple courses, all served in ridiculously small portions on disproportionately large white plates. Molly decided not to comment on the absurdness of it all, but instead politely nibbled at the tiny foods and wondered why they were so expensive.
Finally Irene lifted a small disk of meat on her fork and wiggled it. "This is not nearly enough food to feed a person."
Molly snickered, but she felt a wave of relief at not being the only one surprised by the serving sizes of their meal. She looked up at Irene, who was daintily dabbing at her mouth with a white napkin, and felt a sudden surge of affection for her, for this ridiculously attractive and unnecessarily mysterious woman who still was able to laugh at ritzy restaurants just as much as Molly did. Without thinking she blurted out, "What are we?"
Irene stopped, her napkin halfway back to her lap. "What do you mean?"
Molly flushed and cursed herself for starting this topic of conversation. "Us. Um. Where do we stand?"
Irene's grin stretched across her face. "Why, we're engaged, Jenny darling," she purred.
Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes and persevered forward. "No, I mean us. Irene and Molly."
The smile disappeared. "I don't understand."
Feeling stupid and awkward and childish all at once, Molly asked, "Are we a thing?"
Irene laughed and for once, rather than feeling pleased, Molly felt annoyed. "I thought you didn't want that."
"I... I might not mind," Molly mumbled, fumbling with the hem of the tablecloth.
"What do you mean by 'thing?' As in, casual sex thing or relationship thing?"
Molly felt her face go crimson at the mention of the word "sex" (stupid Molly, you're not a child anymore, grow up) and, glaring at the tablecloth as if it had personally wronged her, whispered, "I don't know."
"Look," Irene sighed, leaning across the table and tilting Molly's head up. "I don't do the whole sweethearts thing. Last time I fell in love I was nearly killed, and I'm not stupid enough to repeat dangerous mistakes."
"Right," said Molly, not feeling all right at all. "I'm just going to go get some air, if you don't mind." She stood up abruptly, almost knocking her chair over, and stumbled out into the hallway of the building.
"Everything okay?" a small voice asked, and she turned around to see the same man who had seated them.
"Yes, mostly," she replied politely, trying to regain her composure. "We might be almost done though, I think."
"Right. Should I send the check to your table then?"
"Erm, yes. That'd be lovely."
He looked at her more closely and then quietly asked, "Do you need to talk about it?"
"About what?" Her attempt at obliviousness was blindingly obvious, and she felt a bit stupid for even trying.
"Oh, you don't have to, I just... I'm good at listening, is all."
Just as Molly smiled at him gratefully, Irene strode in, glanced between the waiter and Molly and quickly wrapped her arm tightly (and surprisingly protectively) around Molly. "Thank you so much for a lovelymeal," she gushed. "But we really must be going."
She dragged Molly outside, where Molly finally managed to disentangle herself. "What was that?"
"I should be asking you the same question," Irene huffed, and Molly noticed that for the first time in their brief acquaintance Irene was sincerely angry.
"What did I do?"
"What did you do? Molly, we have to at least maintain the pretense of a happy relationship, you can't go around flirting with every boy who winks at you!"
Molly gaped. "I wasn't flirting."
"Yes, you were. Why were you talking to him?"
"How's it your business anyway? You don't even care about me, you said so."
"No, I said that I wasn't going to fall in love with you, there's a difference."
"Well, it still hurt, because you know bloody well that I'm in love with you and-" Molly broke off and covered her mouth with both hands. Stupid, stupid Molly, why'd she have to go and ruin everything? And now she'd told Irene how she felt and there was no going back on that one... and the worst part was, she hadn't even realized how true her statement was until it came flying out of her mouth. She'd been aware of her own startling attraction to Irene, yes, but it wasn't until she admitted it that she realized she'd spent the past few days falling madly in love with her companion.
Irene, for the second time that day, was speechless. She stared at Molly as if she'd just had some kind of extraordinary revelation and then, eyes flickering over Molly's shoulder, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the alleyway.
"What-" Molly managed before Irene clapped her hand over her mouth. With her other hand Irene fumbled in her purse and pulled out a gun. Molly's eyes widened.
It happened in a flash: the man rounded the corner and Irene sprang upon him, her gun coming solidly into contact with his head and knocking him to the ground. He sprang back up, though, and launched himself at Irene, sending her gun flying. Survival instincts kicking in, Molly dropped to the ground and scrambled for the gun, but a heavy black boot landed on her hand with a crunch. She looked up and the man was leering predatorily at her.
"Nice try, sweetheart," he cooed.
"Don't call her that," Irene gritted out from somewhere to Molly's left, out of her peripheral.
"Here's the deal," the man said triumphantly. "You tell me where our dear friend Sherly is."
"Or?"
Irene, thought Molly, you really shouldn't sound so cocky when this man is probably armed and neither of us are.
And yep, as if confirming her fears, there was a click and suddenly cold metal pressed against her neck. She heard Irene gasp softly.
"Or else," he threatened simply.
"I don't know where he is," Irene lied, and Molly detected a tremor of fear in her voice.
So either Molly was going to die or Sherlock was. Well. In Molly's opinion, that left her one choice. She felt sweat on her palms and knew that in reality she was a terrified mess, but tried to keep her calm for at least two more seconds.
One.
Two. And she swung her free hand up and grabbed the wrist of the man and twisted. He yelped and jumped back and she reached for the gun and sprang onto her feet and the shot rang out in the otherwise empty alleyway.
It took a second for the pain to register on Irene's face, but then she crumpled to the ground.
It took two seconds for Molly to turn on her heel and pull her own trigger, firing directly at the unguarded torso of the man who'd just shot the woman she loved.