A/N: Hello, pretties! I am very sorry for the delay. I've been a bit ill and school took more time than usual with this class… anyways, part II should be up by the end of the weekend. After that, the story is REALLY gonna pick up speed plotwise, so please stay around!
A whole lotta love to everyone who reviewed chapter 59: Xanna1999, Calicar, MollyHooperRules, Stella McLaughlin, puravita, celeryy, Mrs Dizzy, BritMel, naughtynyx, CumberChelz, chocolatequeen, MuteBanana, wholockedfan13, BeatnikFreak, Dizzybunny, eccentricpetal, coloradoandcolorado1, superlc529, MorbidbyDefault, Heartgrater and ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe: THANK YOU ALL for sticking with me!
In today's chapter: Sherlock has a meltdown at dinner and Moriarty has to intervene.
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There were, admittedly, much worse things than being on a double date.
At that moment, however, Sherlock was hard-pressed to remember what they were.
He was sitting in a restaurant with Molly, John, and Mary, trying to decide if he should be himself or make an attempt to pretend he wasn't bored.
Pretending took effort, but John was his best friend.
Conclusion: make an occasional attempt not to look bored.
Compromise wasn't normally his area. Or it hadn't been.
A lot of things that didn't use to be his area were becoming his area.
Everything he used to believe, endorse and practice about relationships, sentiment, was being altered with alarming velocity.
It had begun years ago with John. The first chink in the armor, the first fly in the ointment. Oh, he'd had a certain level of affection for Mrs. Hudson and some grudging semblance of respect for Lestrade. And well… something for Mycroft. And mummy, of course. But it was John who had gotten him to truly care, who had taught him about friendship and sacrifice and to actually be a (slightly) better person.
Now Molly had been added to the mix, and it was both perfectly clear and puzzlingly confusing at the same time. He couldn't explain exactly how he felt about her, because separating where Sherlock ended and Moriarty began was rapidly becoming harder to define.
He could tell himself none of it was him, but that would be dishonest. Regardless of whether or not it made sense, or was reasonable, the affection was there and it was not all a performance. He knew what faking emotion was like: he'd done it plenty of times. Even a few times to Molly early on to ensure her help with bodies and lab work for cases.
Sherlock gave it some thought, and a moment later concluded that he did not care for irony one bit.
"Sherlock?"
He jerked his head up in John's direction. "Yes?"
"I said, the butler did it? In the Sheffield case?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock said, waving one hand absently. "I suspected it from the start, but the evidence confirmed it soon after."
"You never think the clichés are true, but there you go," Mary remarked.
"The clichés are, in fact, usually the truth," Sherlock said dryly, and widened his eyes as Molly lightly stepped on his toes with hers.
John frowned for a second, then changed the subject. "Well, this is a lovely restaurant, Mary. It was a great choice. Don't you think so, Molly?"
"Oh, yes," Molly said. "I've never been here before."
"Not usually the type of place you'd go," Sherlock said.
"Why not?" Molly asked.
Sherlock looked surprised. "You are very frugal, despite your wages at Bart's. A place this expensive wouldn't cross your mind, or if it did, you'd talk yourself out of it. Likely a vestige from your parents' working class background. You were raised thrifty, and you continue to be thrifty."
Molly wasn't sure if this was a compliment or an insult. Then she realized that since it was Sherlock, it was only matter-of-fact like many other things he deduced. It really would do her well to remember that.
"And no one has asked me what I think of this restaurant," Sherlock said, managing to sound both apathetic and sulky at the same time.
"That's because no one fancies a buzzkill," John quipped, and Mary and Molly laughed.
Sherlock glowered. "I am not a buzzkill."
John nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes, you are."
"Preposterous." Sherlock turned to Molly. "Molly, am I a buzzkill?"
Molly looked flustered. "Oh, well…"
Sherlock frowned. "Really, Molly? I thought girlfriends were supposed to defend their boyfriends."
"Only when they're right," Mary said with a grin.
Sherlock glowered again. "I am always right."
Three people raised their eyebrows.
"Fine, I am almost always right," Sherlock said stiffly, and everyone else laughed.
After they paid the bill, the four of them sat finishing tea. "So where to now?" Molly asked.
"Well, we thought we'd go to Source Below," Mary answered. "They have a live band tonight and karaoke as well."
Sherlock opened his mouth to ask why on Earth they would have made such a ridiculous choice of venue when he saw the gleam in Molly's eyes. Of course. Molly loved to sing and liked to dance. Mary liked to dance as well: he remembered John telling him that. Why he hadn't deleted that information was interesting. Did he care about what Mary liked? Keeping up with her preferences was John's area, after all, not his. That information should have left his brain immediately. Sherlock had his own girlfriend to keep up with, after all…
His own girlfriend.
Somehow, this innocuous thought hit him like a ton of bricks.
He wasn't supposed to have a girlfriend. Relationships were not his area. He wasn't supposed to care about singing and kissing and long soft hair and who liked to eat what. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He wasn't supposed to be a boyfriend, a lover. He wasn't supposed to have feelings. Now here he was, playing this game, this game that wasn't a game anymore…
"Sherlock?"
He jerked his head up. They were all staring at him. "Are you all right?" Molly asked.
He managed to nod. "I'll be back," he said shortly, heading towards the back of the restaurant.
Mary frowned. "Is he all right?"
Molly and John both shrugged. "He gets that way sometimes," John said.
Sherlock went not to the lavatory, but to the back door. He made short work of the fire alarm attached to it, stepping out into the cool night air. He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to block out the roar of his own blood in his ears.
He hadn't felt this frustrated since Moriarty had shot himself on the roof, leaving him with no choice but to jump.
The mobile rang.
Sherlock opened it but didn't speak.
"Problem?" Moriarty asked quietly.
Sherlock was silent.
"I realize the dinner conversation was unstimulating, but it was hardly anything for you to get in a lather over," Moriarty continued. "It's just ordinary conversation from ordinary people. You knew that when you took John in years ago. Is it too much for you? Are you cracking under the strain of being a boyfriend?"
Sherlock still didn't answer.
"I told you that you had no chance of winning," Moriarty said. "I knew you couldn't handle it. Is that it? Do you want to give up? Poor Sherlock, beaten again…"
Something snapped in Sherlock then. "I am not beaten."
"You could have fooled me," Moriarty jeered.
"Then you're as easily fooled now as you were then," Sherlock spat.
"So what's your problem? Was sex not to your liking? Somehow I doubt that. You may be a brilliant man, Sherlock, but in the end, you're still a man. Like me."
"I am tired of this," Sherlock said in disgust.
"Then end it. Give me what I want, and you'll get what you want. We made a deal, Sherlock. Are you trying to back out of it? Should I order some flowers for Molly's grave now? I bet she'd love some pink roses-"
"That's enough!" Sherlock snarled.
"You sealed your fate the moment you showed that you were my equal, Sherlock. You and I are on this ride until the end. So pull yourself together, my dear, and go back to your sweet girlfriend and Doctor John and Nurse Mary. Have Molly stay over at 221B tonight. You should start getting used to that, shouldn't you? I think so. Well I'd best be off before they come looking for you. Good night, loverboy."
Sherlock closed the mobile slowly, shutting his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, calming the chaos in his mind. He wasn't about to lose. There was too much at stake. And this time, he would make sure that Moriarty was stopped for good.
He threaded his way through the tables back to where everyone was waiting for him. All three of them locked eyes on him as he returned. Molly frowned as he sat down, but didn't ask him again if he was ok.
He knew she was thinking it though, and the last thing he wanted was a round of questions. Sherlock leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'm fine," he said with a tight smile. "Now, shall we go?"