Getting the Hang of Thursdays

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly meets an old friend of Sherlock's, Irene Alder; who has a lot of interesting things to share with her new acquaintance, much to Sherlock's discomfort.

Rating: T

A/N - Written for the 2017 Sherlolly Fic Exchange; for Sabis_dream_world, who wanted "Happy ending please!
I'd be happy with a threesome of Irene, Sherlock, and Molly, whether sexual or romantic, whether long-term or one-off."

Getting the Hang of Thursdays




Molly’s legs ached as she trudged up the stairs to 221b. She’d been on her feet all day, non-stop, and had been extremely tempted to head straight home and hop into a hot bath. Only the promise of Sherlock’s boyish grin when he got a look at the file she’d brought him—unique and currently unidentified fungal mutation found on a corpse recently discovered in the country, brought to Barts just that morning—kept her moving.

She could have called with the news, she supposed, but she really wanted to see him. Even if it was only for a few minutes. He had been gone on a case for nearly a week and had only returned to London. Molly hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him until he’d sent a text to let her know he was home at some point just before dawn.

They weren’t dating or anything like that. Molly wasn’t exactly sure what they were doing, but she was fairly certain it wasn’t dating. They had settled into a comfortable routine since the Phone Call Incident. He said he meant it, she said so had she, and then . . . nothing really changed. Oh, there were more evenings spent together at her place (reading or watching telly, and then she’d inevitably wake up to find that Sherlock had crawled into bed next to her during the night) or his (take-away and experiments and a kip on the sofa if it got too late; he’d started to offer her the use of his bed once but she had cut him off with a very firm and slightly panicked “no thank you” and he’d never brought it up again). But there were no kisses or fumbles in the dark, nothing that ever indicated that Sherlock wanted to take their relationship from good friends who loved each other to actual lovers.

It was frustrating at times; but on the whole, Molly was content with what they had.

Her steps slowed and came to a complete halt when she realized that the person sitting in Sherlock’s chair, as comfortable as if they owned the place, was not Sherlock Holmes.

It was a very attractive brunette with vibrant red lips and an expensive dress that probably cost more than seventy percent of Molly’s entire wardrobe. Her legs were demurely crossed and tilted just so, the better to showcase her equally expensive designer shoes. (There went the other thirty percent, Molly thought.)

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Sherlock had a client. I can come back.” Molly started to back her way out of the sitting room when Sherlock called her name from the kitchen.

He finished setting a pair of delicate tea cups on a tray and tilted his head to look at her. “Is it Thursday already?”

“Thursday?” Molly gave the other woman an apologetic smile and edged around the partition into the kitchen. “What happens on Thursday?”

“Dinner.” He frowned when she continued to look confused. “You have Thursday afternoon off. You prefer to go out to eat after your afternoons off rather than cook an evening meal.”

Somehow she wasn’t surprised that he knew her schedule, it made it easier for him to use the labs if she was the supervisor on staff. “I’m sorry, did we have plans?”

He froze for several seconds, then blinked. “No. I . . . must have been thinking of something else.”

“Okay. You know what, I’ll just send you a text, and if you have any questions you can call me or whatever.” Molly turned, intent on apologizing to Sherlock’s client once more and leaving, only to yelp when she realized the woman had left Sherlock’s chair and moved to stand directly behind her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The client put her hand on Molly’s arm, and Sherlock visibly bristled. “Please, don’t leave on my account. Sherlock was just making tea. I’m sure it wouldn’t any trouble to add another cup. Would it, Sherlock?”

Before he could futter a response, the client slid her hand down Molly’s arm to grasp her fingers and led her to the sofa. “Here, sit with me.”

Molly perched on the edge of the sofa cushion, more than a little uncertain as to what was going on. She could hear Sherlock opening a cabinet in the kitchen—presumably to fetch a third cup—which meant she really was supposed to stick around for tea, apparently.

The woman folded herself onto the sofa with a graceful elegance that Molly momentarily envied.

“Molly. May I call you Molly?” the client asked as she once again put her hand on Molly’s arm.

“Yeah, yes. And you are?” Molly was overly conscious of the feel of the woman’s index finger rubbing small circles against the sleeve of her soft jumper.

The other woman smiled. “Irene Adler. I’m an old . . . friend of Sherlock’s.”

I’m sure you are, Molly thought rather uncharitably. She glanced toward the kitchen just in time to catch the uneasy look on Sherlock’s face as he darted back around the partition. Less than a second later, the kettle whistled.

“Sherlock has spoken of you so often I feel as if I already know you.”

The man in question appeared with a tray and set it down on the table in front of the sofa with a cup-rattling thump. “I wouldn’t say often.”

“I would.” Irene’s smile grew as she watched Sherlock add three sugars to a cup, and then wordlessly passed it to Molly.

“All good, I hope,” Molly laughed, more than a little self-consciously. She couldn’t help but feel as if there was an entirely separate conversation going on to which she wasn’t privy.

Irene hummed as she took the cup Sherlock offered her; silently prepared with one sugar and splash of milk. “Mmm, very.”

Molly thought Sherlock’s cheeks might have pinkened ever so slightly as he quickly took his own tea back to his chair and sat.

“Now that we all know each other, could we get back to the matter at hand? You said you had a case for me?”

Seeing as no one else seemed interested in the small plate of chocolate biscuits on the tray, Molly leaned over and snagged a couple of them as Irene detailed why she’d come to Baker Street.

Suddenly Irene was intensely focused. She detailed how someone had been sending her threats about exposing her clients and the more intimate details of her work. Irene rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s smirk. “Yes, I understand the irony, but it’s still bad for business. Are you going to help me, or not?”

He seemed to be considering it, which Molly found strange. She was used to Sherlock making split-second decisions about which cases he wanted to pursue, often declining simply because he didn’t find the case challenging enough to waste time on.

Almost before she realized she was speaking, Molly blurted out, “What do you do, Irene?”

Oddly, Sherlock rushed to answer her question. “She’s . . . She is a-a-“

“Dominatrix.” Irene supplied the word Sherlock seemed to be stumbling over, amusement colouring her voice.

Molly blinked and looked toward Sherlock to make sure the other woman wasn’t joking.

Sherlock set his tea to the side, virtually untouched. He started speaking in the pedantic ‘I know something you don’t’ tone he most often used around John or Greg. “A dominatrix is-“

She interrupted him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I know what they are.” The two women shared an amused look. Really, in this era of ‘Fifty Shades’ and more women publicly reclaiming their sexuality, how sheltered did he think she was?

“I assume you want me to observe your employees and deduce which one is the extortionist,” Sherlock continued; attempting, once again, to pull the conversation focus back to Irene’s case.

“It won’t be as easy as you make it sound, I’m afraid.” Irene turned as if she were speaking solely for Molly’s benefit. “Unfortunately, Sherlock is memorable enough that he’s not going to be able to walk in and pretend to be, let’s say, a Vicar asking to use the phone, and not be recognized straight away.” Irene winked at Sherlock, causing him to flush and look away.

“If he can’t get close to them, how is he supposed to figure out which one is the culprit?” Molly asked.

“Oh, I’ll get close to them,” Sherlock huffed. He leaned toward them and put his elbows on his knees. “What Irene is alluding to, in her own convoluted way, is that a simple disguise won’t be enough. I’m going to need a distraction.”

Irene moved her hand to Molly’s leg, just above her knee. Molly wondered if the other woman were this handsy with everyone she met, of if Molly were somehow special. “He’ll need to hide behind someone attention grabbing, someone vibrant enough to draw all eyes away from those exquisite cheekbones.”

Molly’s eyes widened as she understood what Irene was getting at. She glanced toward Sherlock, fully expecting him to have a dozen objections ready on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he was absentmindedly nodding.

“Oh no. If you want someone that stands out in a crowd to distract people from him, then you have the wrong girl. I’m not . . . I couldn’t . . .”

The fingers on her leg tightened slightly; not enough to be painful, just enough to remind Molly that they were there. As if she could forget.

Irene’s red lips curled upward in a slow, seductive smile. “I think you’re just the woman we need. A little war paint and a suitable battle dress, and you will be perfection. Don’t you think, Sherlock?”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

She had no idea how it happened. One moment she had been shovelling chocolate biscuits into her mouth, and the next she had agreed to pretend to be a bisexual heiress with a penchant for being tied up and told she’d been a very naughty girl. Sherlock was going to play the part of her silent bodyguard, hired by her extremely overprotective father.

Molly continued to doubt there was anything that would make Sherlock blend into the background, but Irene and Sherlock seemed to feel otherwise.

In two days’ time, she was supposed to show up at Irene’s—with Sherlock in tow—for cocktails, a light meal, and the ‘getting to know you’ vetting that Irene required for all of her new potential clients.

“I don’t accept just anyone,” Irene had explained. “Sometimes my services aren’t the best fit for a client’s needs. And sometimes I find that a potential client is simply not someone I wish to work with.”

That seemed perfectly understandable to Molly.

Even though she wasn’t an actual client, the blackmailer would be expecting her to go through the same vetting process as everyone else. And it was during that meal that Sherlock would have his chance to observe and deduce without being the centre of attention, assuming Molly could pull off her part.

She considered the contents of her closet and worried her thumb nail between her teeth. Sherlock had assured her that he would make sure she had something suitable to wear, but that had been days ago and he had caught a case not long after she’d left Baker Street. A seven, according to the text she received asking her to come straight to the lab as soon as she went into work the next morning.

There was the Infamous Black Dress that had been shoved far into the darkest corner of her closet ages ago. Her frugal nature kept her from tossing it into the bin, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear it again after that nightmare Christmas party.

There was the pretty yellow dress she’d worn to the Watson wedding. Or the sun dress from Rosie’s Christening.

Molly was just considering pulling both out to try on when the doorbell rang. She frowned and made her way to the front door, wondering who could possibly have stopped by. Sherlock would have just let himself in, so it clearly wasn’t him.

Irene Adler stood on her doorstep. Her hair was down in soft waves around her shoulders in the sort of casual hairstyle that took ages to perfect, and several bags discretely bearing the names of an exclusive clothing store that Molly had never set foot in were piled near her feet.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

She realized she’d been standing there, staring, for long enough to be awkward. “Sorry. Right. Please, come in.” Molly stepped back, then quickly moved forward again to help Irene gather up the various bags.

“Been shopping?” she asked, just to fill the moment.

“Mmhmm,” Irene replied as she moved through the entryway and made her way down the hall. “This way to your room?”

Molly followed, utterly bemused. “Second door on the left.”

By the time she made it to her bedroom, Irene had already begun arranging articles of clothing and matching accessories across Molly’s bed. “One of these should be perfect for Saturday.”

There was a pair of black linen trousers surrounded by an assortment of blouses, all in different styles and jewel tones. Two dresses - one emerald green with a neckline that went far lower than Molly was used to, and one in navy blue that looked positively prim and proper in comparison to the emerald one until Irene lifted it to show her the deep plunge in the back.

“No bra with that one, obviously. Speaking of.” Irene pulled the lid off a box full of tissue paper and passed it to Molly with a wink.

Molly carefully unfolded the tissue paper and gasped. Inside the box was a matching set of the most decadent looking undergarments she had ever seen outside of the cinema. Dusky rose lace and silk, demi-cup bra, barely-there knickers, and a garter belt. Irene held up another box with the tissue paper already folded aside, this time the undergarments were the same emerald green as the dress.

“Pretty, aren’t they? Silk always feels so divine against your skin.” Irene drew in a breath, and released it in a way that almost, almost, resembled a low moan. “I had to guess at your measurements, but I’ve got an eye for that sort of thing. If you’d like to try them on now, we’ll have plenty of time to exchange anything you don’t like. Sometimes the stockings can be a little tricky to keep straight. Would you like my help?”

“No! I’m pretty sure I can manage on my own. Thank you, though,” Molly added as an afterthought, not wanting to sound rude.

“It was worth a shot.” Irene smiled and picked up a yet another bag, then headed straight for the bathroom. “Makeup first, then.”

Molly trailed after her, thankful that there weren’t any damp towels on the floor next to the tub, and that she’d scrubbed everything down the day before. “Why do I need to put on makeup just to pick out an outfit?”

The other woman stopped and grabbed Molly’s hand, playfully dragging her the last few steps. “Humour me.”

She wibbled for a moment, but couldn’t think of a valid reason to refuse; so Molly allowed herself to be guided to sit on the closed toilet while Irene lined up cosmetics and brushes along the bathroom counter.

Irene tilted Molly’s face into the light and plucked and prodded. The cosmetics Irene had brought were far more expensive than the name brand stuff Molly usually bought. They hardly spoke while Irene worked; but when she leaned close to feather powder across Molly’s closed eyelid, she paused and titled her head. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you. But the credit should go to you and all this.” Molly gestured toward the makeup spread across her counter.

Irene perched on the edge of the tub and shook her head. “I’m just gilding the lily, luv. I’ve got clients who would sell their soul—and do—for skin like yours. Pale and soft. The marks I could leave on you.”

Molly looked away, unsure of what she was supposed to say in reply. She ended up settling for a hesitant, “Thank you?”

“And I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I?” Irene tutted. “I apologize. That was absolutely not my intention for this evening.”

Molly wondered about her odd phrasing. She was tempted to ask for clarification as to what Irene’s intentions were for the evening, but she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to know.

“If you’re worried about Sherlock being upset, I could send him a text,” Irene offered. “Let him know I’m here. I suspect he might be willing to share if we ask very, very nicely.”

Molly had reflexively jerked at the mention of Sherlock’s name, and it took her a moment to process the rest. “Why would . . . Share what? Are you two? Of course you are.” She closed her eyes and hung her head to keep Irene from seeing the extent of her flushed cheeks and neck. “That was a stupid question. Please pretend I didn’t say anything.”

She felt Irene’s fingers under her chin, gently lifting her face until she could meet the other woman’s eyes. Irene looked at her with a soft, knowing smile. “Don’t tell me he’s still playing shy?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for years, and I know what he likes. He likes me. But you . . .” She sat back again, and Molly thought she saw a hint of sadness cloud the other woman’s expression, but it disappeared in less than a second. “He loves you.”

“How do you know?” Molly didn’t like how small and pathetically hopeful she sounded in that moment.

“I told you, I know Sherlock.” Irene tapped the end of Molly’s nose with the wooden end of the makeup brush. “Don’t fret, luv. It’s nothing serious between him and I. We text, we flirt, we have the odd weekend of passionate sex, and then nothing for six or seven months at a time. Until the other day, I hadn’t even heard from him since his birthday. That what worked for us. That’s how we both preferred it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Irene turned Molly’s face further into the light and resumed her work. “Because now that I’ve met you, I’m beginning to understand why Sherlock hasn’t tried to lure you into his bed yet.”

Molly would have laughed if she wasn’t trying to hold as still as possible to keep from getting powder in her eye. “I could have told you that. We’re friends, and he loves me, but he’s not physically attracted to me. He doesn’t want me that way.”

“Oh no, pet. It’s because he wants you so much that he’s afraid once he’s had you, he won’t be able to let you go if you ever wanted to leave. And that terrifies him.”

“I still don’t understand.” Molly reached up and wrapped her fingers around Irene’s wrist, stopping the other woman’s movements. “You two are together, so why are you telling me any of this?”

“Perhaps I’m trying to figure out if you want him as badly as he wants you?”

“Of course I do!” Molly released Irene. She rubbed her palms against her worn jeans and fought the urge to stand up and pace. “Who wouldn’t want a man like him?”

Irene shrugged. “To be honest, my preferences generally run more toward petite . . . long, soft hair . . . porcelain skin . . . female.”

“Oh.” Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh?”

The peal of Irene’s laughter filled the bathroom, and it made Molly smile in spite of herself.

“If you’re . . .”

“Gay,” Irene clarified.

“Gay,” Molly echoed. “Then why Sherlock? I mean, he’s as far from your type as you can get.”

The eye makeup was traded for a lip pencil. “Do this.” Irene demonstrated how she wanted Molly to open her lips.

“You’ve heard his voice. It rumbles up the spine like brushed velvet, doesn’t it? And those curls. Who wouldn’t want to run their fingers through those curls?” Irene reached for a tube of lipstick and continued. “And his mind. Smart as a whip.”

She leaned back to admire her handiwork. “I find intelligence stimulating. You know, brilliant consulting detectives. Pathologists.”

Molly blushed and rubbed her hands against her thighs again, her nails digging into the denim. “I’m flattered, but . . .”

“Pity. I think you and I could be magnificent, given the chance. I’ll leave my card, in case you change your mind.” Irene stood and picked up Molly’s brush. “Can you imagine what it would be like if we convinced Sherlock to play with us? The three of us together? Explosive.”

“You are very direct.”

Irene tapped the brush against her palm, then gestured for Molly to turn around. “Sometimes. I’ve found that subtlety can be lost on some people. Hairpins?”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The navy blue dress had fit like a glove. Irene had told her that it really needed to be worn without any undergarments at all, but Molly couldn’t quite bring herself to step into her sitting room without at least a pair of knickers. Her hair had been twisted up and pinned; and the cool air against the nape of her neck and bare back had made her shiver almost as much as the heat in Irene’s eyes when the other woman had looked at her.

The linen trousers were perfect, as Molly knew they would be. The blouses were each beautiful in their own way, although Molly thought the ruby red one was her favourite.

And underneath the trousers and various blouses, Molly wore the dusky rose bra and panties. Irene had been right, the feel of silk and delicate lace against her skin had been deliciously sinful.

Soon enough there was only the green dress left to try on. Irene insisted that Molly needed to change into the emerald green undergarments as well, in order to get the full effect.

The doorbell rang while she was undressing.

“I’ll get it. You finish what you’re doing. I still want to see you in that dress,” Irene called through the bedroom door. “We saved the best for last.”

Molly didn’t have to wonder who was at the door for very long. The voices of Irene and Sherlock quickly grew louder as they moved down the hall toward the bedroom.

“Always lovely to see you, Sherlock. Quite a coincidence that we both decided to visit Molly tonight, isn’t it?”

“I very much doubt that. You knew I was-” His voice dropped low enough that Molly couldn’t hear him. She hurried to slip on the knickers in her hand, hoping to get dressed as quickly as possible to find out why Sherlock had stopped by.

“Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something like that.” Molly could actually hear Irene’s teasing smile in her words.

“I thought we agreed I would make sure she was prepared for this weekend, and you would go back to bedevilling your clients.”

“Did we? No matter, we’re all here now. As a matter of fact, Molly is just trying on another potential outfit for Saturday.”

Molly fastened the bra and spared a moment to look in her vanity mirror. She marvelled at what a really well-made bra could do with a small pair of breasts like hers. “Damn. I don’t care if I have to work overtime for a month of Sundays. I’m getting one of these in every colour.”

She snapped out of her moment of awe when she heard the doorknob turn and Irene’s voice once more. “Why don’t we go in and take a look? You can give us your opinion.”

Sherlock barged into the room and whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips as he met her eyes in the mirror. She briefly saw Irene’s reflection wink at her and then the door was pulled almost entirely shut once more, leaving just her and Sherlock in her bedroom.

“Oh God,” Sherlock groaned as Molly slowly turned around to face him.

She was naked except for the emerald green underwear, but the dress was only a few steps away on the bed. The urge to dive for it was there, but something in his gaze held her frozen in place. “I-I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Yes?”

“I was going to . . . You prefer to go out to eat on Thursday evenings. I was going to ask you to dinner.”

Suddenly the strange conversation the other day at Baker Street started to make a bit more sense. “You were?”

He nodded and took a step toward her. “Nothing fancy. Just fish and chips.”

Molly smiled. “The shelf guy?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Still gives me extra portions. They were really sturdy shelves.”

His eyes slid lower, observing everything. The way her skin prickled, how her respiratory rate increased, the flush that spread from her cheeks down to the tops of her breasts. She had no idea what sort of deductions he was making; but Molly knew that if he continued to look at her like that she was going to say or do something reckless.

“I, uh, I should get dressed?” Why, she wondered, did that come out sounding like a question rather than the statement she had meant it to be?

“No.” He closed the remaining distance between them in two long strides. She would have been able to touch him if she reached out her hand.

“Pardon?”

“You’re fine. As you are.” He swallowed hard. “More than fine.”

“To go out to dinner?” Molly knew she was teasing him, but he looked so adorably flustered at the moment. “You want me to stay in my underwear?”

“Yes! No,” he quickly corrected. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” Irene sing-songed from the hall.

Sherlock yelled over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Molly. “Woman! Go away!”

Irene laughed and stuck her head around the door. “And that is my cue to leave. I’ll lock up on my way out, shall I? Wear the green on Saturday, Molly. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you, believe me.”

“But what about all the other things?” Molly had to ask.

“Keep them. My treat. Enjoy yourselves.” Irene blew them a kiss, then pulled the door closed behind her.

They stood there, unmoving, for several seconds.

Molly had been hyper-aware of her own body since Irene had made it crystal clear that she found Molly attractive. The other woman’s attentions had made her feel confident. Sexual. She could still feel that low thrum of excitement rushing through her blood now, growing warmer and more powerful with each moment.

Sherlock reached up and took her face between his hands. She felt one of his thumbs brush back and forth against her cheek. And then he bent his head and took her mouth with his and Molly lost all ability to think.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Two months later and Molly still felt her stomach clench every time Sherlock looked at her with heat in his eyes. Which was surprisingly often, considering how focused he tended to get when he was on a case.

Molly smoothed the wrinkles out of her linen trousers and tried not to fidget. “Are you sure she said she’s coming?”

“I sent a text yesterday to confirm we were still on for this evening.” Sherlock wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “She’ll be here.”

She smiled as he pulled away, but her hands moved on to fuss with the collar of the ruby red blouse she was wearing.

“Molly, relax.”

“Easier said than done.” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m just a little nervous.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Shut it.” Molly grinned as he leaned down to kiss her again.

She had no idea how long they stayed like that, sharing soft kisses and whispered words of affection and love. Soon enough, her nerves were gone.

Which was convenient because when they finally parted, Irene Adler was leaning against the doorframe of Sherlock’s sitting room. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Irene,” Molly warmly greeted the other woman. “I know Thursday night isn’t the most convenient time to pull you away from your work. Thank you for coming.”

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to fetch the bottle of wine they’d chosen for the evening, but he stopped to throw a wink her way. Molly suspected his amusement was due to her word choice, considering the matter they wanted to discuss with Irene.

Irene sashayed into the room. She raised an eyebrow when Molly indicated she should sit on the sofa rather than the chair—Sherlock’s—that she’d been heading for, but did as Molly asked.

Molly accepted two glasses of wine from Sherlock, offered one to Irene, and then perched on the cushion next to the other woman.

“I’m pleased to see you’re wearing my gifts. The red suits you.”

“It seemed appropriate. I love your dress.” From the corner of her eye, Molly saw Sherlock quietly pull the door shut and engage the lock. Then he deliberately sat on the other side of Irene.

“No one’s going to comment on what I’m wearing? Oh well.” Sherlock shifted so that he was partially turned toward them and took a sip of his wine. He casually stretched his other arm across the back of the sofa.

Molly cleared her throat and took a slightly larger drink of her own wine for liquid courage, then set the glass on the coffee table. “We wanted to thank you for your . . .” Even though she and Sherlock had discussed this several times before, she still tripped over how, exactly, she wanted to broach the subject.

“Interference in our personal lives.” Sherlock also set his glass on the table. “I would have approached her eventually, I was merely waiting for the right moment.”

Irene huffed in amusement. “You would have both died of old age first, if I hadn’t given you a nudge.”

Personally, Molly thought the other woman might have had a point. But that wasn’t what they were there for tonight. “As I was saying, we wanted to thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Irene’s red lips—a shade that almost perfectly matched Molly’s blouse, as if she’d anticipated what Molly would be wearing—curved into a satisfied smile.

“We would also like to know if you’re still interested in-in, uhm-“ Again, Molly sought the right word and came up empty.

Sherlock deftly removed the wine glass from Irene’s hand and put it with the other two. “Molly likes you, and you are already aware of my regard for you. Therefore, we have a proposition.”

Irene half-turned to face him. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

He licked his lips and met Molly’s eyes long enough for her to nod. Then he returned his attention to Irene. “Something similar to the arrangement you and I used to share; only this time it’s you and I and Molly. I believe you mentioned an interest in the three of us ‘playing’ together at one point?”

Irene studied each of their faces in turn. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it because she stood and held out a hand to both of them. “Dinner, then?”

Sherlock grinned as he and Molly stood almost as one, and took the offered hands. “I thought we might have an actual meal first. How do you feel about Italian?”