Ghost of Christmas Past - Part 3

[darnedchild]

Summary: 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 Three

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as he looked around his sitting room. The rubbish and dishware had been removed, but the ‘festive’ decorations Mrs Hudson and Mary had insisted upon remained.

Twinkling lights, garland and tinsel, an overly burdened tree, and—he checked the kitchen doorway to be sure—the accursed mistletoe.

The urge to take it all down was there, but the knowledge that Mrs Hudson would tut in disappointment in the morning stilled his hand. He could endure it until Boxing Day—or perhaps sometime shortly after the new year—simply for Mrs Hudson’s sake.

He drew the line, however, at leaving the multitude of fairy lights aglow.

He was so intent on unplugging the string of lights on the tree that he almost walked right past the box on the coffee table.

Small and inconspicuous. Wrapped in plain silver paper. No bow or ribbon. Matching silver matte gift tag taped to one corner.
Even without looking inside the folded tag, Sherlock knew who it was from.

The memory of soft brown eyes and trembling lips the colour of a perfectly wrapped gift momentarily tormented him.

He had used Molly’s present, an expensive monocular telescope, often over the last few years. Sometimes in her presence. But neither one of them had ever mentioned the circumstances of how he’d acquired it.

This time would be different.

The package hadn’t been there earlier, so when had she . . .

Ah.

She had gone to collect her bag and he’d been accosted by Mary. Molly must have taken advantage of his distraction to slip it onto the table. No wonder she’d been in such a hurry to leave.

If the opportunity hadn’t arisen, would she have worked up the courage to push the box into his hands before she left? Or would it have remained in her bag until she got home and shoved it into the back of a drawer, to eventually be forgotten?

“Does it really matter?” a phantom Mary whispered in his ear. “This is your second chance, Sherlock. Possibly your last. Don’t waste it.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

It was nearly midnight when Sherlock knocked on Molly’s front door. He briefly considered the possibility that she might have already gone to bed; but he knew that if he waited until morning, he’d absolutely overthink every possible outcome from their next meeting and lose himself in doubts and insecurities.

He heard movement from inside the house, saw the twitch of the curtain covering the closest window as she confirmed the identity of her late-night visitor. And then she opened the door. “Did you lose your key? You don’t usually bother to knock.”

Molly had already changed into her pyjamas. One of the soft sets she tended
to gravitate toward at the end of a stressful day.

She took one look at his expression and sighed. “You found it.” Her gaze fell to his wrist, as if she were trying to see through the thick wool of his Belstaff.

“I did.” He shifted his sleeve just enough for her to see the black leather band and pristine silver rimmed watch face. The timepiece was a near duplicate of the watch he’d favoured for years, until he’d lost it during a case two months prior. He hadn’t mentioned the loss to anyone, intending to replace it eventually, but trust Molly Hooper to notice.

“I don’t know why I actually thought there was a chance you wouldn’t. Not tonight, I mean.” She turned to head straight for the sofa. Molly flopped down and made herself comfortable across most of it. She rearranged the blanket that had been tossed aside when he’d knocked, making sure to tuck the edges around her bare toes. “Obviously, you’d see it eventually.”

Sherlock took note of the half-full glass of red wine on her end table, the actors in period clothes frozen in mid-kiss on the telly, and Rosie’s ornament already hanging on the small tree in the corner. It didn’t appear as if she had been planning to go to bed anytime soon, which made him feel marginally less remorseful for arriving unannounced in the middle of the night.

She gestured to the third of the sofa not currently occupied by her legs. “I’m nearly done with the movie; but I’ve seen it before, if you’d rather watch something else.”

He remained standing. “Molly.”

“I’ve got a murder mystery you probably haven’t seen. This older writer gets his throat slit on his birthday, and everybody who was at his party is a suspect,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Molly.”

She sighed and reached for her wine glass. “Do we have to do this right now? Can’t this wait until the morning?”

“No,” he insisted. “It can’t. Tomorrow might be too late.”

“Too late? That sounds overly dramatic, even for you.” Molly winced.

“Sorry. Sorry. It’s just that there’s really nothing to talk about. I simply wanted to give you a gift. It’s not that complicated.”

He opened his mouth to reply that it was very complicated, as far as he was concerned; but Molly shook her head. “Could you sit? You’re making me nervous, looming over me like that.” She tapped the empty cushion until he huffed and sat beside her.

“I know I probably should have handed it to you,” she acknowledged with a shrug. “But I didn’t want anyone else to get involved. You know John would have pulled a face and made a big deal of it.”

She wasn’t wrong, John would have done exactly that. But discussing the specifics of her chosen gift delivery method wasn’t what Sherlock was there for. “Molly.” He reached out and took her hand. “I want to—No, I need to say . . .” Now that it was time, the words he’d practiced in the cab were gone.

She took pity on him and wrapped her fingers around his. “If you really need to say anything, you could say thank you.”

His answering smile was small but grateful. “I believe you’ve told me something like that before.”

“It’s good advice.” Molly’s voice took on a teasing quality. “Helps you make new friends.”

“I don’t want new friends. I prefer the ones I’ve already got.”

She giggled and affectionately bumped her shoulder against his. “Helps you keep the old ones, then.”

“And if I want to be more than your friend? What should I say then?” She tried to pull her hand free, but he held on to it tighter.

“Sherlock.” Molly sounded disappointed.

No, not disappointed. Distrustful.

Could he really blame her?

He reached his free hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box, twice as long as it was wide. The hideous elves cavorting across the wrapping paper were childish; but he’d been desperate and willing to take anything Mrs Hudson had on hand when he’d frantically banged on her door earlier in the night.

Sherlock wrapped her fingers around the box and sat back. The beginning of their future, whatever it would be, was in her hands now. Quite literally.

Molly hesitantly picked at the gift tag, which was simply a strip of the ridiculous wrapping paper folded in half. No more than two seconds later (although it felt like an eternity to Sherlock), she opened the tag. Her lips parted in a silent gasp before she looked up at him, visibly confused. “This is—I wrote this.”

“Obviously you didn’t. That’s clearly my signature.” Her confusion quickly morphed into irritation. Sherlock smiled awkwardly to show he’d been trying to lighten the mood—and failed—before nodding toward the tag. “Three kisses.”

“What?” Molly looked down at the short message he’d written once more.

Dearest Molly

Love Sherlock xxx

“Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment.” He cleared his throat. “You used three, before. I should have known—No, that’s a lie. I did know. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it.” He knew he was stumbling over words, but he couldn’t seem to rein them in. “Couldn’t. Not then. I wasn’t ready. But now, assuming you still feel the same, even if you don’t—Three kisses.”

Molly’s lips fell open in a whisper soft gasp as she fully processed everything he’d said. “Do you mean-?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “Do you still?”

“Always,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation.

He nudged the box in a silent reminder that she still held it in her hand. “Open your gift, Molly.”

Her fingers trembled as she pulled the wrapping paper apart, then slowly lifted the lid.

Inside, cradled on a nest of tissue paper, was a familiar looking sprig of mistletoe.

The End



Part 1