Chapter Text
John – and she's sure it's him doing so this time, phone call, difficult to fake - invites her to their Christmas gathering. This is the first time since that fateful dinner party she's entered the flat and she finds 221B is returned to its chaos now; Mrs Hudson has to move five stacks of assorted stationary to make room for everyone to sit down comfortably.
Sherlock stands, gazing out of the window. He doesn't take any wine, flashing John evidence of four nicotine patches in use as his excuse not to partake of the mulled wine. Midway through the party, he abruptly picks up his violin and starts a sweet, if haunting, tune. No one seems sure what to make of this. Sherlock is facing the window, facing no one and possibly playing for no one but himself. He could have forgotten anyone else is around for all they know.
Lestrade gets guessing composers. Sherlock neither confirms nor denies any of the names, simply plays, with an increasing passion building in the song. What began tender and a touch broken evolves into a racy whirlwind of string and it sounds like nothing she has ever heard. Lestrade stops his musings, looking thoughtful. John has been so all through out the song, eagle eyed upon Sherlock like he's seriously contemplating the meaning of this.
“Bravo, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson claps once it is over, “Not very Christmassy but unique, that's for sure.”
With that Sherlock leaves them be, retiring to his room without a word of goodbye. He hasn't in fact spoken a single word in the time anyone has been there, which she thinks could be an attempt not to ruin the cheer by uttering any socially ill-advised observations.
Mrs Hudson waves it off as typical Sherlock and goes to the tree, a complaint about her hip as she bends down. John and Lestrade rush to help but Mrs Hudson bats them off, insisting she can manage. The compromise of a chain for handing out presents is formed, with Mrs Hudson staying kneeling down now she's there and passing the gifts one by one to the men who in turn pass them in the right direction along the rough circle of guests in the living room. There are more presents being passed around than people, some for people not here right now – she spies one for Harry and there is no one of that name attending the shindig. She is pleasantly surprised to find one with her name on it.
To Molly,
Happy Christmas,
From John and Sherlock
The card is obviously written by John. Though it bears his name it is not Sherlock's signature.
“Go on, unwrap them why don't you,” prompts Mrs Hudson, already well on the way to having hers opened.
There's some weak resistance to the notion but Mrs Hudson is insistent. Molly has never been bothered about having her presents early, she'd always liked to save them for the day, but she is curious what's inside. There's a care evident in the wrapping that makes her not want to spoil the pretty paisley silver foil paper and she can't bring herself to fully unwrap it. Instead, she delicately unties the dark blue ribbon bow ontop and peels some of the selotape off, unfolding the flap on one side carefully. Anticipation builds as she slides the box partially out of the wrapping and reveals...a Boots toiletry set.
If Sherlock were in the room he would likely find it hard not to comment on the practicality of the gift. Ginger scented, a strong scent, powerful enough to overcome the distasteful disinfectant stench that tended to cling to her from Barts. She could imagine his voice, not deliberately scornful but coming out biting anyway, 'It should do a better job of masking the smell than what you tend to pick'.
She looks up to see John studying her. Depending on how long he's been doing so he probably knows she's disappointed at the gift.
“Thanks, I needed more bubble bath, ” she lies and smiles, faking the gratitude she ought to feel whilst she's thinking social nicety does indeed get bothersome and envying Sherlock that he so often gets away with lacking any tact.
What she'd really like to say is why did you write his name on it, why did you make me think he cared. John smiles back at her and seemingly genuine, says “I thought you might like that.” Problem is she doesn't know if he's lying, whether it was actually Sherlock's suggestion for the sensible reason she has assumed or if it is really John's lacklustre gift buying abilities.
The present sits under her tree at home, the wrapping crisp around the edges of the box, the same as it had been. It may be silly but she doesn't consider it proper to leave an unwrapped present under her tree so she'd slid it back into the then unspoilt paper, taped the side she'd opened and redone the bow on it with a flourish.
Toby likes to rub up against it as the one gift with good corners meaning it is rather more loosely wrapped come Christmas day, including a multitude of scratches on the once pristine foil. He's having another good go at it, searching for the illusive best scratching angle, when she sits down next to him, sipping white wine. Cross legged on the floor in her pajamas she notices something odd about where it's torn – it's not exposing the expected plastic box underneath but some other kind of paper. She kneels in front of the tree, putting her wine down and picks up the present, hastily untying the bow and scraping the torn wrapping paper away from around the package.
Toby loses all interest in his prior pursuit now there's a dangling ribbon above him but her cat is foiled in his attempt to catch it by the parchment that falls out on top of him, sliding from between the double layer of wrapping she hadn't spotted previously.
Toby mews at her in indignation before he shakes them off him and jumps for the ribbon above him again. She stares at the sheets resting on her carpet. Thick composers stationary, notes scrawled in fountain pen. The pages are devoid of lyrics. Plain but for a title “Carrisma”.
She gathers them up and trundles along unsteadily to her keyboard, pushing aside the cover. A flick of a switch later and she is rustily playing the song a few notes in a row, building it up. It takes her longer than she'd like to work out the first few bars. When she does she recognises it. Another few bars and she can tell why.
This is the piece he had played for them. His own composition. Hidden for her eyes only. He hadn't hinted, he hadn't stayed to see for sure she would find it. There wasn't any guarantee she would have noticed it nestled in between the layers of wrapping, she could have just as easily torn it up if she'd opened the gift with abandon. The significance was for him in the giving of it, not the reception of the gift. That was the meaning of the song John would miss through no fault of his own.
Molly could honestly say she'd never had a gift like this and probably wouldn't ever again. So she sat and sipped her wine, and teased out the song on her cheap keyboard. It couldn’t touch the beauty of hearing the piece on his violin, played by him no less, but it invigorated the memory in her mind.
When he comes into the lab next, a few days into January, he is all business. Mainly upon Mrs. Morgan who faces a hammer – literally, to check whether residual indentations left on the clothing would be enough for identification of the make of tool. Molly preps the appropriate room and has to force him to wear a splatter guard. He is done in 45 minutes, sauntering through the morgue stripping his latex gloves off.
“How would Tuesday at 7pm would work for you?”
“Excuse me?”
The momentary bafflement of Sherlock is priceless. There's exasperation at her vagueness merging into wonder and shock, replaced a split second later with his deadpan calmness. So he's not unflappable then. Just as well she didn't get her camera out as it's gone before she could snap a picture and that would have been rude of her, as well as shown her hand. He throws the gloves perfectly into the bin to one side of him without looking to aim and proceeds to place his hands in his pockets, swivelling around and ambling back to her.
“Why the change of heart?” he asks and she thinks she can hear confusion in his tone, mixed with the curiosity.
“I made a New Years resolution.”
She leaves it at that.
“What fortune cookie phrase has precipitated the formation of a rule to live your life by for, oh, let's say, the next 28 days? Statistically speaking. 80% of resolutions don't survive to February.”
He casts his eyes down, feigning interest in the body below her since she knows there is nothing at all remarkable about the corpse. She smirks a little at seeing him probably nervous and can't resist a touch of teasing.
“Oh Sherlock, are you worried I'll change my mind and give up on you?”
“Are you likely to?” he replies, snapping his head up abruptly to search her eyes.
He seems keen for the answer, twitchy as she pauses before she replies.
“I don't know, you tell me. It half depends on you. Takes two to tango.”
He pauses himself for a few seconds and she wonders if he understands what she is implying. It can't be like before, but then she doesn't think either of them are the same as they were most of two years ago when he'd first gotten the idea into his head that they should date.
All he says is, “Under no circumstances am I dancing.”
Things are different now by default, she feels like he listens to her, treats her equally. If anyone has the upper hand here she reckons it is her for a change.
“I guess we'll have to see,” she replies, smirking more obviously at him, enjoying making him squirm just a bit.
That doesn't go unnoticed by him clearly. It results in Sherlock stepping closer, invading her personal space under the guise of peering over her shoulder at her autopsy.
“See things you may, if this goes anywhere, but not dancing” he says leaning in further to practically whisper it in her ear, “Never dancing.”
Her breath catches at the feel of his hot breath on her neck as he stands so incredibly close to her. She has to force herself to count to ten and keep calm, to not turn around to face him because if she does she knows what she wants to do and that would be moving too fast. Not to mention unprofessional if anyone were to walk in and find her snogging Sherlock over a dead body.
“Let's start with dinner and a movie shall we – you do do films don't you?” she asks, not actually sure of the answer and trying to steer the conversation back to light and teasing.
She senses him step back and twists to face him now the temptation has passed. She swears she sees a flush upon his cheeks before he quickly turns away. Sherlock switches to pacing the lab and studiously avoids looking at her.
“On occasion I watch them. It's rarer I enjoy them,” he admits dryly.
The reply isn't exactly encouraging. Still, she has a plan and she intends to present it to him, see what he thinks.
“There's one my friend was raving about, has Robert Downey Jr in.”
She looks up. There's no change in his pacing, no pointed glare at the suggestion so maybe it isn't a lost cause.
“That could be bearable,” Sherlock says laconically, “But first, I must know, what was the resolution you spoke of?”
She glances up again from the notes she's taking and finally he is looking back at her from across the room, able to meet her gaze again. His scrutiny is fierce, like he thinks the reason will be shown upon her face if not in her words should she feel compelled to answer him. Sometimes she still gets that deer in the headlights feeling just as she used to around him. The difference is it doesn't last anymore. She swallows nervously but she holds her ground with him.
“You'll have to figure it out. I'm not telling. It wouldn't come true if I did and I think you have a vested interest in me not breaking it.”
“That's wishes, not resolutions,” he corrects.
“Who said it was only a resolution.”
He scoffs at that, breaking his stare momentarily and when his eyes return to her she reads fondness in them, replacing the intimidating intensity they'd had.
“I'm leaving before I discover you have any more superstitious beliefs that challenge the wisdom of this venture. The cab will arrive at 7pm sharp tomorrow, I don't abide tardiness.”
“You mean you don't like waiting...” she dares to point out, but the door swung shut and she found she was speaking to an empty morgue.
Few people had the patience to wait, generally only the dead ones waited here for her and they had no choice. Everyone else in her life, everyone who was alive, rushed by. Including Sherlock. She'd waited for him to notice her, she'd waited for him to care and then when she'd stopped waiting finally, his own wait had begun, along with an entirely new one for herself. She'd expected he'd give up, waited paradoxically for his interest in her - in the challenge of her - to wane. When there was the drop back to his 'normal' self and behaviours it seemed to be the inevitable indicator the chase was of no consequence to him.
Deep down perhaps she'd been waiting to believe he'd meant any of it. So when it had seemed his endeavour was finished, she'd felt a twinge of sadness at the apparent proof of his deception, wondering if she would regret passing the chance over, and yet it hadn't been over really. Sherlock had been biding his time, patient for the right moment if it would ever come and being uncharacteristically not pushy about what he wanted, surprised when his gesture had made a difference.
She wondered if organising the date tomorrow was a mistake, it didn't leave much time for her to get ready after her shift ended. No, it was better like this, to get on with it. Life was for living. No more letting it pass her by. Dating Sherlock was a risk. It might backfire tomorrow, three dates in, a month or years down the line. If so, she could say she'd tried, she could say she'd been there and done that and move on with, hopefully, no regrets.