Ghost of Christmas Past - Part 2
Jun. 30th, 2022 11:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: It was a valid reason to have the small holiday gathering at Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t understand why Molly might find it objectionable. She’d been enthused about the party idea, even offering to help Mary figure out decorations, up until the moment John mentioned that they would be using Sherlock’s rooms.
His mind raced as he tried to deduce what could have possibly changed her mind in a span of seconds.
Oh.
Rating: G
A/N - No Beta - we die like men
Part Two
Molly began to relax the longer she was there. He knew because his gaze kept returning to her over and over, and once or twice he had caught her looking back with the same soft smile she often wore when they worked together in the labs. A glass of wine and a plate of hors d’oeuvres shoved into her hands by a grinning John certainly seemed to help; although Dimmock’s red-faced retelling of a ‘humorous’ anecdote about a case from the week before seemed to make Molly’s eyes glaze over and her attention wander more than once.
He did step in when Dimmock started what promised to be another boring story, only because he wanted to save Molly the trouble of feigning interest. At least, that’s what he told himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way the other man had begun to encroach on Molly’s personal space in a frankly overly familiar way. He made a mental note to have a word with Graham about the behaviour of his colleagues.
It didn’t take much. Simply a not-so-gentle nudge and a pointed suggestion that Mrs Hudson could use a refill to send Dimmock on his way.
Molly waited until they were alone, or as alone as two people could be in a small sitting room crowded with people, to laugh. “That wasn’t particularly subtle. Even for you, Sherlock.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was trying to be.” She rolled her eyes and he huffed. “Would you like me to call him back?”
“Oh God, no.” Molly bit her lip in a futile attempt to hide her grin. “Sorry. He seems sweet enough, but-“
“A bit dim.”
“Sherlock!” She glanced around to make sure no one had overheard, then backed even further away from where Mrs Hudson was chatting with Hopkins and Mary’s friend while Dimmock hovered nearby.
“It’s good that you came tonight.” Sherlock stared into his mostly untouched glass of Scotch as he spoke.
She shrugged. “I almost didn’t. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he agreed. “Mary is happy that you stayed. Everyone is.”
Molly’s cheeks pinkened ever so slightly. “Even you?”
He took a sip of the Scotch and cleared his throat. “Even me.”
She opened her mouth, and Sherlock braced himself for whatever she was about to say; but Mary chose that exact moment to remember that Molly had not been there when presents had been exchanged earlier.
Something Sherlock had managed to avoid for the most part, although Mary had cornered him and pressed a small box into his hands with a steely glint in her eye that warned him not to say anything that wasn’t strictly “thank you”.
Molly’s gift was in a similarly sized box. Even Dimmock would have been able to make an educated guess as to its contents. Sherlock’s deduction was proven correct when Molly held up an ornament decorated with a child’s footprint that had been painted to resemble a snowman. The back was inscribed with “To Aunt Molly from Rosie” in Mary’s carefully precise lettering. His own ornament had been addressed to “Uncle Sherlock” but was otherwise identical in appearance.
After what was probably a socially acceptable amount of sentimental cooing later—although it felt like an eternity to Sherlock—Molly reached for her bag of presents and slid the gold wrapped package free. For a split second, his heart rate sped up in unwarranted anticipation
And then she handed the gift to Mary.
“For Rosie. It’s only a teddy bear; but I saw it and immediately thought of her.” She bit her lower lip. “I kept the gift receipt, just in case.”
“She’ll adore it,” Mary assured her. “Doubly so when she finds out it came from Auntie Mowwy.”
They both smiled at the way Rosie still butchered her favourite aunt’s name. Even though Molly continued to gently coach the little girl in the proper pronunciation, Sherlock knew she was secretly dreading the day Rosie worked it out.
Molly reached into the bag again and pulled out a festive tin. She passed it to Mrs Hudson. “They’re not nearly as good as the gingernuts you’d made last time I was here; but I remember you said it had been ages since you’d had shortbread, so I found my mum’s recipe and gave it a go.”
Mrs Hudson set it in her lap and patted the top. “Thank you, dear, I’m sure they’ll be delicious. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“Oh, it was no trouble. I made some for myself, too. Really,” Molly rushed to reassure her. She folded up the empty decorative bag and set it upside.
The tightness in his chest was disappointment. There was no point in lying about it any longer.
Why he should be upset that Molly hadn’t brought a gift for him completely escaped him. He hadn’t bought one for her, wouldn’t have anything to offer in return if she had.
And yet . . .
“You brought this on yourself,” John’s voice echoed through his mind palace.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Molly’s cheeks were rosy with wine and laughter when she finished her second glass. He watched her tell Hopkins and the woman from Mary’s clinic that she was going to get some water and be back in a moment.
In truth, he’d been watching Molly most of the evening. His eyes never strayed from her for too long, even when Mrs Hudson had talked him into playing another song on his violin.
At one point he noticed that Mary is watching him just as intently. He saw her glance toward Molly, and then back to him. Then she tilted her head in a silent indication that he should . . . what? Approach Molly in a room full of other people and do what, exactly?
“Tell her you’ve been an idiot and you want a second chance to do things right this time,” mind palace John hissed. “That would be a good start.”
Molly had barely made it into the kitchen doorway before Mary was calling her name and pointing upward. “Mistletoe! It’s tradition, you’ve got to do it.” Molly froze. She looked around the room, and their gaze met for a split-second.
A rabbit caught in the headlights.
He wasn’t sure which one of them he meant.
Sherlock wanted to cross the room and rescue her. Wanted to press his lips to her cheek and appease Mary and the rest of their audience. No, that was a lie. He wanted to press his lips to hers and satisfy the urge to kiss her, really kiss her, as he’d imagined in the darkest of nights when he could no longer hide his feelings from himself.
However, his feet remained still, keeping him firmly in place as Dimmock dramatically pulled her into his arms and planted an obnoxiously loud (but thankfully close mouthed) kiss against her lips.
He was definitely going to have to speak to Graham about his colleagues.
Everyone laughed. Even Molly giggled. Sherlock forced a fake smile to his lips.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
He had expected her to leave first, fully prepared to keep his deductions to himself when she offered some feeble excuse for her early departure.
Instead, it was Graham who pulled on his coat a few minutes before nine. “Most of you lot may have tomorrow off, but not me.”
There was a chorus of goodnights and Happy Christmases, pats on the back, handshakes, and hugs. Including a hug from Molly that Graham returned just a shade too enthusiastically for Sherlock’s comfort.
Was everyone at NSY incapable of keeping their hands to themselves after a few glasses of alcohol? He cast a suspicious glare toward Hopkins.
An hour later, Sherlock had finally reached the end of his patience and his ‘gentle’ nudges that the night should come to an end became far more clear when he began shoving empty plates and glasses into people’s hands with a curt, “Drop these off downstairs on your way out.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head and admonished him with an indulgent, “Sherlock.”
“You’re right. How thoughtless of me.” He handed Dimmock another plate. “Make sure to give them a rinse before you leave them next to the sink.”
“Sherlock!” again, only this time it came from John. Sherlock ignored him in favour of listening to Molly’s soft giggling coming from the kitchen. “Don’t listen to him. Leave everything and we’ll take care of the clean-up.”
The guests that weren’t regulars at Baker Street took the hint and gathered their belongings. There was another round of Happy Christmases that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge; then it was finally down to John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Molly.
Even though Molly was a guest, she jumped into helping gather plates and cups with John and Sherlock while Mrs Hudson and Mary sorted out the last of the nibbles and biscuits. She even insisted on washing the dishes; and if anyone thought it odd that Sherlock volunteered to dry, they didn’t say a word.
Soon enough, his flat had been cleared and Mrs Hudson’s kitchen had been put back to rights. Molly gave Mrs Hudson a final hug and goodnight, then headed upstairs with John and Mary to gather her things. Sherlock paused long enough to thank his landlady and endure her quick kiss on the cheek and a tipsy Happy Christmas.
He made it upstairs to find the other three pulling on their coats.
John checked his watch. “Cab should be here any minute now. You sure you don’t want to a lift, Molly?”
She hesitated for a second, her eyes briefly meeting Sherlock’s before darting away. “Actually, if the offer is still open, that would be great. Let me get my bag,”
Mary pulled Sherlock into her arms. “Another inebriated display of affection, lovely. Remind me to hide the wine before we have another one of these gatherings,” he groused as he returned her embrace.
“You know you like it.”
He pushed her away in mock outrage. “How dare you utter such slander, Mrs Watson.”
“Hush. Your secret is safe with me, Mr Holmes. For now.” She finished buttoning her coat and held her hand out to John. “Ready?”
Molly joined them; her bag clutched to her chest. He held his breath, willing his fingers to unclench at his sides in preparation for the hug that was sure to happen. Sherlock had been anticipating this moment for most of the evening. A socially acceptable excuse to hold her in his arms; a brief preview of what could be, if only he’d take that final step and tell her what he’d finally admitted to himself.
Except there was no hug.
Instead, Molly smiled and thanked him for inviting her to the party. Then she wrinkled her nose and laughed as she turned to John and Mary. “Sorry, I suppose I should really be thanking you, shouldn’t I?”
A car honked out front. “That’s probably us,” John, once again, stated the obvious.
Sherlock wondered if Molly might linger behind. Perhaps she’d only been waiting for a moment of privacy . . .
She was the first to bound down the stairs, tossing one last “Happy Christmas, Sherlock” over her shoulder as if she suddenly couldn’t wait to leave.
Mary and John quickly followed, but something made John pause at the landing and glance up at his friend. His expression morphed into one of confused concern. “Are you all right, mate?”
Sherlock waved him off. “Thinking of a case. Go on, you don’t want to leave them waiting in the cold.”
He waited at the top of the stairs, still as a statue, until he heard the cab pull away; then stepped back into his rooms and quietly shut the door.
Part 1 / Part 3
His mind raced as he tried to deduce what could have possibly changed her mind in a span of seconds.
Oh.
Rating: G
A/N - No Beta - we die like men
Part Two
Molly began to relax the longer she was there. He knew because his gaze kept returning to her over and over, and once or twice he had caught her looking back with the same soft smile she often wore when they worked together in the labs. A glass of wine and a plate of hors d’oeuvres shoved into her hands by a grinning John certainly seemed to help; although Dimmock’s red-faced retelling of a ‘humorous’ anecdote about a case from the week before seemed to make Molly’s eyes glaze over and her attention wander more than once.
He did step in when Dimmock started what promised to be another boring story, only because he wanted to save Molly the trouble of feigning interest. At least, that’s what he told himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way the other man had begun to encroach on Molly’s personal space in a frankly overly familiar way. He made a mental note to have a word with Graham about the behaviour of his colleagues.
It didn’t take much. Simply a not-so-gentle nudge and a pointed suggestion that Mrs Hudson could use a refill to send Dimmock on his way.
Molly waited until they were alone, or as alone as two people could be in a small sitting room crowded with people, to laugh. “That wasn’t particularly subtle. Even for you, Sherlock.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was trying to be.” She rolled her eyes and he huffed. “Would you like me to call him back?”
“Oh God, no.” Molly bit her lip in a futile attempt to hide her grin. “Sorry. He seems sweet enough, but-“
“A bit dim.”
“Sherlock!” She glanced around to make sure no one had overheard, then backed even further away from where Mrs Hudson was chatting with Hopkins and Mary’s friend while Dimmock hovered nearby.
“It’s good that you came tonight.” Sherlock stared into his mostly untouched glass of Scotch as he spoke.
She shrugged. “I almost didn’t. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he agreed. “Mary is happy that you stayed. Everyone is.”
Molly’s cheeks pinkened ever so slightly. “Even you?”
He took a sip of the Scotch and cleared his throat. “Even me.”
She opened her mouth, and Sherlock braced himself for whatever she was about to say; but Mary chose that exact moment to remember that Molly had not been there when presents had been exchanged earlier.
Something Sherlock had managed to avoid for the most part, although Mary had cornered him and pressed a small box into his hands with a steely glint in her eye that warned him not to say anything that wasn’t strictly “thank you”.
Molly’s gift was in a similarly sized box. Even Dimmock would have been able to make an educated guess as to its contents. Sherlock’s deduction was proven correct when Molly held up an ornament decorated with a child’s footprint that had been painted to resemble a snowman. The back was inscribed with “To Aunt Molly from Rosie” in Mary’s carefully precise lettering. His own ornament had been addressed to “Uncle Sherlock” but was otherwise identical in appearance.
After what was probably a socially acceptable amount of sentimental cooing later—although it felt like an eternity to Sherlock—Molly reached for her bag of presents and slid the gold wrapped package free. For a split second, his heart rate sped up in unwarranted anticipation
And then she handed the gift to Mary.
“For Rosie. It’s only a teddy bear; but I saw it and immediately thought of her.” She bit her lower lip. “I kept the gift receipt, just in case.”
“She’ll adore it,” Mary assured her. “Doubly so when she finds out it came from Auntie Mowwy.”
They both smiled at the way Rosie still butchered her favourite aunt’s name. Even though Molly continued to gently coach the little girl in the proper pronunciation, Sherlock knew she was secretly dreading the day Rosie worked it out.
Molly reached into the bag again and pulled out a festive tin. She passed it to Mrs Hudson. “They’re not nearly as good as the gingernuts you’d made last time I was here; but I remember you said it had been ages since you’d had shortbread, so I found my mum’s recipe and gave it a go.”
Mrs Hudson set it in her lap and patted the top. “Thank you, dear, I’m sure they’ll be delicious. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“Oh, it was no trouble. I made some for myself, too. Really,” Molly rushed to reassure her. She folded up the empty decorative bag and set it upside.
The tightness in his chest was disappointment. There was no point in lying about it any longer.
Why he should be upset that Molly hadn’t brought a gift for him completely escaped him. He hadn’t bought one for her, wouldn’t have anything to offer in return if she had.
And yet . . .
“You brought this on yourself,” John’s voice echoed through his mind palace.
Molly’s cheeks were rosy with wine and laughter when she finished her second glass. He watched her tell Hopkins and the woman from Mary’s clinic that she was going to get some water and be back in a moment.
In truth, he’d been watching Molly most of the evening. His eyes never strayed from her for too long, even when Mrs Hudson had talked him into playing another song on his violin.
At one point he noticed that Mary is watching him just as intently. He saw her glance toward Molly, and then back to him. Then she tilted her head in a silent indication that he should . . . what? Approach Molly in a room full of other people and do what, exactly?
“Tell her you’ve been an idiot and you want a second chance to do things right this time,” mind palace John hissed. “That would be a good start.”
Molly had barely made it into the kitchen doorway before Mary was calling her name and pointing upward. “Mistletoe! It’s tradition, you’ve got to do it.” Molly froze. She looked around the room, and their gaze met for a split-second.
A rabbit caught in the headlights.
He wasn’t sure which one of them he meant.
Sherlock wanted to cross the room and rescue her. Wanted to press his lips to her cheek and appease Mary and the rest of their audience. No, that was a lie. He wanted to press his lips to hers and satisfy the urge to kiss her, really kiss her, as he’d imagined in the darkest of nights when he could no longer hide his feelings from himself.
However, his feet remained still, keeping him firmly in place as Dimmock dramatically pulled her into his arms and planted an obnoxiously loud (but thankfully close mouthed) kiss against her lips.
He was definitely going to have to speak to Graham about his colleagues.
Everyone laughed. Even Molly giggled. Sherlock forced a fake smile to his lips.
He had expected her to leave first, fully prepared to keep his deductions to himself when she offered some feeble excuse for her early departure.
Instead, it was Graham who pulled on his coat a few minutes before nine. “Most of you lot may have tomorrow off, but not me.”
There was a chorus of goodnights and Happy Christmases, pats on the back, handshakes, and hugs. Including a hug from Molly that Graham returned just a shade too enthusiastically for Sherlock’s comfort.
Was everyone at NSY incapable of keeping their hands to themselves after a few glasses of alcohol? He cast a suspicious glare toward Hopkins.
An hour later, Sherlock had finally reached the end of his patience and his ‘gentle’ nudges that the night should come to an end became far more clear when he began shoving empty plates and glasses into people’s hands with a curt, “Drop these off downstairs on your way out.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head and admonished him with an indulgent, “Sherlock.”
“You’re right. How thoughtless of me.” He handed Dimmock another plate. “Make sure to give them a rinse before you leave them next to the sink.”
“Sherlock!” again, only this time it came from John. Sherlock ignored him in favour of listening to Molly’s soft giggling coming from the kitchen. “Don’t listen to him. Leave everything and we’ll take care of the clean-up.”
The guests that weren’t regulars at Baker Street took the hint and gathered their belongings. There was another round of Happy Christmases that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge; then it was finally down to John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Molly.
Even though Molly was a guest, she jumped into helping gather plates and cups with John and Sherlock while Mrs Hudson and Mary sorted out the last of the nibbles and biscuits. She even insisted on washing the dishes; and if anyone thought it odd that Sherlock volunteered to dry, they didn’t say a word.
Soon enough, his flat had been cleared and Mrs Hudson’s kitchen had been put back to rights. Molly gave Mrs Hudson a final hug and goodnight, then headed upstairs with John and Mary to gather her things. Sherlock paused long enough to thank his landlady and endure her quick kiss on the cheek and a tipsy Happy Christmas.
He made it upstairs to find the other three pulling on their coats.
John checked his watch. “Cab should be here any minute now. You sure you don’t want to a lift, Molly?”
She hesitated for a second, her eyes briefly meeting Sherlock’s before darting away. “Actually, if the offer is still open, that would be great. Let me get my bag,”
Mary pulled Sherlock into her arms. “Another inebriated display of affection, lovely. Remind me to hide the wine before we have another one of these gatherings,” he groused as he returned her embrace.
“You know you like it.”
He pushed her away in mock outrage. “How dare you utter such slander, Mrs Watson.”
“Hush. Your secret is safe with me, Mr Holmes. For now.” She finished buttoning her coat and held her hand out to John. “Ready?”
Molly joined them; her bag clutched to her chest. He held his breath, willing his fingers to unclench at his sides in preparation for the hug that was sure to happen. Sherlock had been anticipating this moment for most of the evening. A socially acceptable excuse to hold her in his arms; a brief preview of what could be, if only he’d take that final step and tell her what he’d finally admitted to himself.
Except there was no hug.
Instead, Molly smiled and thanked him for inviting her to the party. Then she wrinkled her nose and laughed as she turned to John and Mary. “Sorry, I suppose I should really be thanking you, shouldn’t I?”
A car honked out front. “That’s probably us,” John, once again, stated the obvious.
Sherlock wondered if Molly might linger behind. Perhaps she’d only been waiting for a moment of privacy . . .
She was the first to bound down the stairs, tossing one last “Happy Christmas, Sherlock” over her shoulder as if she suddenly couldn’t wait to leave.
Mary and John quickly followed, but something made John pause at the landing and glance up at his friend. His expression morphed into one of confused concern. “Are you all right, mate?”
Sherlock waved him off. “Thinking of a case. Go on, you don’t want to leave them waiting in the cold.”
He waited at the top of the stairs, still as a statue, until he heard the cab pull away; then stepped back into his rooms and quietly shut the door.
Part 1 / Part 3