Author's note:
Hello everyone!
As I now have to return from the holidays, I won't be able to update as often as I have this week, but I will try my best, I promise. To compensate, here is a big chapter. I really hope you like it, I was very nervous posting it.
In case you were wondering, white roses are usually presented at the beginning of a courtship, the colour gradually moving to pink and then finally to an intense red on the night before the wedding as passion increases. Yellow, on the other hand, is the flower colour for jealousy.
There really is a spoon technique for eyeliner!
Thanks to:
Mrspencil, SammyKatz, almightyswot, MarBre582, Renaissancebookloer108, Crimson and Chrome and Rocking the Redhead for the lovely reviews!
On to the story…
.
.
"Do you hear that?" John asked, frowning, as the sound of footsteps grew louder. He noticed Ascanio discreetly unsheathe his gun.
Sherlock listened carefully, counting the individual strides as he heard them. "You can put your weapon away." He finally nodded. He had been hoping for this. Rigamonti relaxed when he saw who it was.
James Bailiff, ambassador in Italy, was marching towards them smilingly, surrounded by bemused officers and protesting diplomats.
"Rigamonti has told me the latest news." He grinned. "I thought I would come and thank him personally, save him the trip to the consulate."
The consulting detective and the ambassador nodded at each other.
Sherlock saw Ascanio staring suspiciously at Ginevra, the ambassador's assistant. The officer quietly walked to the other agenti, whispering something in their ear. Ascanio then returned to his original position by the door, whilst two men stood closer to Ginevra, a third held his ground and a fourth moved closer to the ambassador. All this happened discreetly, ignored by everybody except maybe James Bailiff, who glanced quickly at Sherlock and Ginevra. The consulting detective smiled slightly.
"Your excellency." One of the diplomats complained. "Why have you insisted on coming here? There is more security at the consulate."
"If my friends are not safe, neither am I." James replied frankly. "These people are under my protection, and as long as I am here, they will not be harmed. If there aren't the 'resources' to give them a scorta, they can share mine."
"You cannot be serious, your Excellency! You can't possibly stay here!" the diplomat continued to beg, looking around uneasily.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
The smell of disinfectant gel… gloves, despite the mild weather…no hair product… Slight OCD behaviour, considering the erosion of his coat due to excessive steaming and brushing…
Secret Germophobe.
"I will stay as long as is needed." James shrugged stubbornly. He walked into the lab.
Ginevra, the ambassador's assistant, looked around unperturbed. She smiled at Sherlock. "Nice coat."
.
.
"Hello, Molly."
"James! What are you doing here?" Molly exclaimed, pleased.
"I just came to keep you company and see how things were going." He replied good-naturedly. Sherlock stayed in the corridor, but he left the door open.
"What are you doing?" The ambassador asked, moving closer to the pathologist. She realised she still had her hair down.
She left it that way.
"I was just….Doing a DNA test on this..."
"Oh. Do you think it might belong to the killer?" He inquired, mildly curious, as he stood behind her, inspecting the hair.
"I…I can't say for sure. Sherlock doesn't always give me details."
The consulting detective smiled. Good girl.
James lost interest in the hair. "How did you get into pathology, Molly? I know you became a doctor because of your father but…"
"How did you…Oh, never mind. Well, I think I first started to…"
"Sherlock." The consulting detective stopped listening and turned to John's softly reproachful voice. The doctor looked at his friend, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's go and deduce somebody."
.
.
Soon James and Molly left the lab and joined the others in the corridor.
"Your excellency." The germophobe pleaded. "The order has been reversed. Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson and Doctor Hooper have guaranteed protection."
Apparently, this had come about after desperate calls made by all the diplomats in the corridor while Sherlock made his deductions. Sometimes there can be too much truth…Especially in Politics.
Sherlock stepped forward and whispered something to Ascanio.
James smiled. "I am glad the matter has been resolved. Well then, let us return to the consulate."
"Someone needs to guard the lab, should anybody try and destroy the evidence." The consulting detective pointed out.
"Giovanni." Ascanio called firmly, pointing at the man who had stood his ground. "And Pietro." He added, and the wizened officer nodded in response. "Francesco, you take Holmes and Watson. Michele, you watch Doctor Ooper. Stefano, you will stay with me and protect the ambassador tonight. We will debrief later."
The men moved to stand closer to their appointed charges. Like shadows, the Italian scorta is trained to be present but discreet, vigilant but unobtrusive, noticed only by those who wish they weren't there.
"Excellent, well done." James said, then turned to the pathologist. "Tonight I am invited to the Armani party at the Hotel Galleria. I would be honoured if you were to come with me."
Sherlock and John would be going anyway, that was part of the plan. This was something else... Molly hesitated. Then her eyes fell on the consulting detective, and she placed her hand in James'.
"I would love to." She smiled.
.
.
"What was I thinking?" Molly gasped rubbing vigorously. Her left eye was going red as she kept wiping wonky eyeliner off after every failed attempt at a straight line.
She had left the lab and was now facing the daunting task of getting ready for a date at a black tie event.
Because this was a date, right? Sort of? Maybe?
"The spoon technique." She muttered under her breath, remembering some advice a Roman woman had given her in the shop. Molly went to the small table in the corner of her room where the kettle was. Sure enough, a little spoon stood by a dainty teacup. Well, this cutlery would be used for make-up, today!
Placing the small metal item against her lower lid she muttered "Here goes nothing"…
After a few minutes, she breathed a sigh of relief: the tip had really helped!
After adding another layer of blush and a touch of mascara, she inspected herself in the mirror.
Well, she was no model, and the dress would have looked better with some jewellery, but she had done her best….
There was a knock on the door. "Come in!"
"Ginevra walked in with a bunch of flowers and a big smile. "Oh, doctor Ooper, you look lovely!"
"I keep asking you, Ginevra: please, call me Molly."
Ginevra shook her head. "These are for you. I have been asked to deliver them." She put the flowers on the table.
"Thank you…" Molly exclaimed, admiring the delicate blossoms.
"You were making tests today?"
"Yes."
"Is it of the killer? What did you find?" The assistant asked, enthralled. "This is so exiting!"
"Oh it's…A hair." Molly shrugged. "Black hair, long. It will take a couple of day for the results…"
"I have black hair!" Ginevra cried out, holding a dark lock in her fingers. "Am I a suspect?"
"Is it your natural hair colour?"
The assistant nodded solemnly.
"Then no."
"Ah, menomale." Ginevra sighed in relief. "There is a note, I forgot. We see you later!"
"Bye." Molly said distractedly, barely noticing Ginevra quietly slip away.
The flowers were white roses, with pink tips. A single, yellow blossom stood among them. Molly read the note: "Open the door. I have a surprise. XXX James."
The pathologist breathed in the scent of the flowers. Nobody had ever bought her roses before… in trepidation she opened the door to her bedroom and looked up at James' smiling face.
"Wow, Molly. You look stunning." He held her hand in one of his, the other behind his back.
"Ginevra described the dress you might wear. I took the liberty of borrowing this from a favourite little place of mine…" James revealed a small box. "I hope you like them." He opened it to reveal a pair of pendant diamond earrings and a diamond tennis bracelet . Molly's hand went to her chest. "James, I…"
"Do you like them?"
"Of course! But I couldn't possibly…"
The ambassador simply leaned over and kissed Molly on the cheek. "We should leave in a few minutes, come down when you're ready."
.
.
"Sherlock, don't you think it might be more productive if the two of you just sat down and talked?" John sighed.
"Tried that. Didn't work." Sherlock muttered, straightening his bow tie. "But it doesn't matter anymore." He stepped back from the mirror. "And I would like you to not bring it up again."
"Fine." John shook his head. "But you're being a stubborn ass."
"John…"
"Fine! I'll change the subject!" The doctor paused, then grinned. "I know I'm spoken for, but...Do you think I would have had a shot with that model?"
"She's gay."
"So that's a no, then?"
They walked downstairs and into the hall, where the ambassador was already waiting for them along with various officers in formal, civilian attire. Ascanio actually looked very comfortable in a tuxedo, although he still maintained his rather foreboding demeanour.
Sherlock turned to face the stairs when he heard the familiar rhythm of her footsteps.
Wow these heels are high.
Molly held on to the bannister for dear life with one hand, a smile frozen on her lips.
Don't fall down the stairs, don't fall down the stairs.
Oh my God, everyone is looking at me.
Don't fall down the stairs!
Molly was wearing a long, backless burgundy dress. She had been to the hairdresser nearby for some flattering waves and, for once, her eyeliner was impeccable.
"How lucky am I?" James murmured softly in appreciation.
"You look great, Molly." John nodded in earnest.
Molly avoided Sherlock's gaze, although she could feel his eyes upon her like the glare of a magnifying glass.
As she walked off with the ambassador, John nudged his friend. "You could have said something."
Sherlock shrugged. "It's ok."
"What do you mean 'it's ok'? She looks great!"
"She looked better before, in her blue cat jumper, flats and her knitwear."
The doctor frowned slightly "Because that's what you're used to?"
Sherlock pulled his coat collar up. "Because that's who Molly is."
John gave his friend a pat on the back, and they walked out to the awaiting cars.
.
.
Maybe I didn't think this through.
Molly looked around nervously. Of course, it was a 7-star hotel party, it was organised by Armani, it was fashion week…
But did there really have to be so many models?
Molly had difficulty spotting any, well… Normal-looking women in the room. Even those who clearly were not models themselves were still impeccably dressed, coiffed and manicured.
Molly began to feel frumpy by comparison, despite everything.
James squeezed her hand comfortingly. She looked up at him and his warm smile reassured her.
The ambassador had to talk to a few people, and occasionally Molly would find herself separated from him. She made the most of the situation by chatting with the other people she met at the consulate.
At one point of the evening, however, she couldn't see anyone she knew. The ambassador was discussing the Albania issue with and Italian diplomat, and it seemed too important to disturb him.
At the other side of the hall, out of her sight, a doctor pushed his friend. "Go! Now! Say something nice to her and don't be a git!"
Molly walked around the hall, admiring the sheer decadence of the décor, listening to the string quartet and sipping her red wine.
"You look lovely, Molly."
She turned to see Sherlock smiling widely at her.
Molly knew that smile. He would use it when he wanted something from her.
"Thank you, but…You don't need to flatter me, Sherlock." She attempted a smile. "It isn't necessary. What can I do for you?" She said. Then Molly saw a stunning model with luscious red hair admiring the consulting detective.
Sherlock's smile wavered.
"I just wanted to say…You look lovely."
"Oh. Thank you." Molly replied, confused. Her eyes met with the model's defiant green eyes and Molly lowered her gaze. Here she was, surrounded by painfully perfect models...Who did she think she was?
When Sherlock didn't say anything, she looked up at him.
His smile had vanished, and he was frowning slightly.
When their gaze met, the same memory crossed their mind.
Thin lips
Small breasts…
Suddenly, Sherlock gripped Molly's shoulders firmly and spun her around so that her back was against his chest. He lowered himself without letting go of her and a small chill ran down her spine when she felt his breath against her skin as he whispered in her ear.
"Twelve o'clock. The model in the green dress. Her nose is slightly askew and points to the right because she broke it during a photo-shoot. The one in the red has one leg shorter than the other by half an inch."
"Sherlock, what are you doing…" She gasped softly.
"Shh. One o'clock. Blue dress. Acne scars she tries to hide with make-up." He guided her, gently but firmly, a few inches to her right. His hands moved from her shoulders, sliding down her skin to hold her arms as he directed her. "Three o'clock, black dress. One ear is bigger than the other."
He moved her again. Just for a moment, she felt his lips brush against her neck.
Or did she imagine that?
"Five o'clock, redhead. Teeth shortened by years of Bulimia. She is recovering but the damage is permanent and she will have veneers put in."
That was enough. Snapping out of that…well…Snapping out if it, Molly pulled away and faced him angrily.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? Do you think hearing bad things about others will make me feel better? I'm not like that…"
"I know. That's not what this is." He nodded. "Listen to me: look at them, Molly, really look at them. Now that you see them for what they are, now that you see them as I do, look at them and then tell me..."
Sherlock paused, his icy eyes boring into her, his expression unreadable.
" …Are they any less beautiful?"
Molly gaped at him for a second before turning around and watching the models.
After he pointed them out, she could now see all those flaws and little defects as clear as day, so much so that she wondered at having not noticed them before. One would think that their image would be marred but, somehow, each imperfection made those models unique, special, more…Real… And infinitely more beautif…
Oh.
Molly turned back to Sherlock, who had silently been watching her the whole time.
He opened his mouth to speak, but….
"Molly! There you are!" James exclaimed, descending upon the two of them. "I'm sorry I got into that boring discussion, but after those killings some politicians have gone paranoid. Thank you so much for keeping Molly company, Mr Holmes." The ambassador smiled. "Come, it's time for the toast."
James put his hand on the small of her back and guided her away, throwing a parting glare at the consulting detective. Molly took a couple of steps, turned to look at Sherlock…
But he was gone.
"Interesting man, that Sherlock Holmes." James mused.
"Yes…" Molly nodded pensively.
"How is working with him?"
"It can be…challenging. He is temperamental, unpredictable, inconsiderate, demanding," She smiled softly. "he's also a genius, exiting, brave, and the most brilliant man I know. Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth as she realised what she'd just said. "I didn't mean…"
The ambassador raised his hand to tranquilize her. "Don't worry, I know what you meant."
"I don't really work with him anymore now, though." Molly exclaimed.
Strange. She had forgotten.
"I moved to Manchester, you see. I wasn't supposed to come here at first..."
Her face sank as a terrible thought, one that had tormented her for the past few days, escaped from her mind to her lips.
"If I had stayed in London, doctor Paten would still be alive."
"Because you would have been in that hospital instead of him?"
Molly nodded silently.
"I didn't know this doctor Paten." James mused "But I believe the measure of a man can be seen in his friends. He appears to have been a great man."
"Of the best kind." She whispered.
"Do you think, had he known, he would have let you take his place?"
Molly laughed. "Not a chance. He would never have allowed it."
"So." The ambassador wrapped his arm comfortingly around her shoulders. "Is it safe to say he would have chosen this outcome, given the choice?"
Molly could hear her mentor's voice in her head, the memory of when he told her off for apologizing for things that were out of her control. "Don't feel guilty, Molly. Guilt helps nobody, not you nor any people you've wronged. Just promise yourself to do better next time and try not to make the same mistakes: don't feel guilty, learn. And never, ever apologise when it isn't your fault! The only person I ever do that for is my wife, and I probably shouldn't." Then he laughed…Suddenly Molly heard words he never said, but that she knew he would have, given the chance: I encouraged you to go to Manchester, you silly thing. I want you to live your life and be happy, so go on and do so. Don't you worry about an old sod like me, I'll be fine.
Molly smiled. In a way, he was still her teacher.
"You're right, James." She conceded.
The ambassador smiled. "Why did you move to Manchester, anyway?"
"I…" Molly hesitated. "I just needed a change."
"Ah." James nodded knowingly. "I imagine one can only take so much of Sherlock Holmes and his intimacy issues."
"Pardon?"
He turned to her, his brow raised. "Surely you must have noticed it, Molly? Sherlock is a great actor, and has no problems doing anything if in danger or to solve a case… But, when it comes to real, personal intimacy, it's obvious he's out of his comfort zone." The ambassador pondered. "He might cope with a hug, a peck on the cheek…." James held Molly's gaze, and something in his eyes made her blush. "… But as for a languid embrace, or a lingering kiss…"
A loud applause erupted and the conversation halted when Giorgio Armani walked into the room.
Ginevra approached Sherlock. "Molly told me about the hair." She whispered urgently. "There is a woman there, in the red. Could it be her?"
"Maybe." Sherlock shrugged.
"I keep an eye on her for you." She nodded determinedly, offering a knowing wink and then tiptoeing, rather conspicuously, towards her personally appointed suspect.
Ascanio Rigamonti kept an eye on her from a distance, but maintained his appointed position for the evening, close to the ambassador.
"There are a lot of women with black hair, in Italy." John mused.
"True." Sherlock conceded. "But, as you know, we are looking for a very special type of woman."
"Will the killer make an appearance tonight?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Unlikely, they can't rely on an ally, tonight." His eyes followed two people as they left the hall to stand on the balcony.
"It's so beautiful here." Molly sighed, her cheeks flushed.
All right, so she wasn't used to that much wine.
"I am glad you came." James said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"I don't understand." She shook her head, bemused.
"What don't you understand?" He turned slightly to study her face.
"It's stupid."
"Go on."
"Well…I just." Molly hesitated. "Why me, James? I see some of the women here and I can't help but wonder, why me?" She looked away, ashamed. "I mean, I'm nothing special."
"Not true." James said firmly, pulling her closer.
"So, you want to know why I am pursuing you. That's not a stupid question. The thing is..." James took a strand of her hair and curled it around his fingers. He had the feeling he was about to express not only his own motivation, but also that of one other man.
"People like me, Molly, perceive things…Differently. We notice things other people don't. Very often it translates into seeing truth that people try to hide. We become experts in seeing people's lies." His face saddened for a moment. "I live in a world of liars, Molly. "
He took a deep breath. "Then you come along, and no matter how hard I read you, there is nothing you hide. You are so…Obvious. And it's not a bad thing!" He cried as she tried to pull away in embarrassment. "Everything about you is true and honest and sincere. I don't have to deduce you to rob knowledge of you, because you display it openly for the world to see, even if you don't know it."
He smiled warmly. "And that makes you…Wonderful."
James tenderly stroked her hair, his deep green eyes warm and sincere.
He kissed her softly, one hand still holding hers.
A cough interrupted them.
"What is it, Ascanio?" James muttered gruffly.
"I'm very sorry, your Excellency, but there is a call for you from the prime Minister…" Ascanio apologetically held up a mobile phone.
"Please excuse me, Molly." James grimaced, taking the phone from the Italian officer and walking to a more secluded spot, still under the watchful eyes of the scorta.
Molly, feeling rather flushed, walked off the balcony, then froze.
Sherlock stood alone and perfectly still, in the middle of the hall, staring right at her.
Hesitantly she walked up to him.
"Sherlock, about earlier, I…"
Molly stopped talking when he lifted his hand to hold her chin, his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched.
Sherlock delicately passed his thumb under her bottom lip.
"Your lipstick was smudged." He said quietly.
Then he turned around and walked away.