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It was almost like her life had taken a page from “Sixteen Candles,” and it would have been rather funny if she hadn’t been turning forty and everyone forgot her birthday. Not that she expected anyone to remember; John and Mary were off on their sex holiday, Sherlock was...well, he was Sherlock, she wasn’t sure Lestrade and her friends at the Yard even knew the specific date of her birthday...but her own family?
That was a blow she hadn’t wanted to be dealt.
Still, she made the best of it. She dressed up a bit for work (because of course she had to spend her day at Barts flitting in and out of an office barren of gifts and flowers and balloons and hoopla), she treated herself to a nice lunch, and she was going to get dressed in her prettiest dress and go enjoy a night at the opera followed by dinner at a swanky restaurant.
Just because no one else would be there didn’t mean she should look a milestone like this in the eye and prove she was still viable, still alive, and not some spinster maiden now that Tom was out of her life.
So maybe she gave herself a little cry near the end of her shift in the solitude of her office. Everyone forgot her fortieth birthday! Didn’t that deserve just a little pity? At least she got off shift early so she could get her hair professionally cut and colored before her big solo night out. When she was done she was sure she would look, and feel, like a whole new woman.
So it was with some surprise that there was one of the government’s big black cars waiting outside of Barts with the back window. She sighed, just knowing that Anthea was in the back, waiting for her to do...something...for her boss. And she would refuse, of course, because her life no longer revolved around his brother, damnit.
She got to the window and was about to speak when a hand pushed through a dozen white roses. She was cut off before she could even speak by the roses in her face. Once she took them away from the hand, smelling them for a moment, she realized Mycroft was in in the back seat of the car instead of Anthea, but he looked…nervous.
“Happy birthday, Dr. Hooper,” he said quietly before opening the door and stepping out.
“Shoving a dozen roses in a woman’s face is a lovely way to express those sentiments, though it’s a tad bit awkward,” Molly said with a smile. “And please, I’ve told you before, it’s Molly.”
“Molly,” he said quietly, as though he was testing how her name felt on his lips. “I saw that the day has not been celebrated to its full potential. I thought I could change that.”
“Oh?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Your chosen salon has been changed to one with spa treatments. Whatever you’d like, you may have done. And there’s a new dress waiting for you there. A limousine will pick you up at the salon to be taken to a box seat at the opera, which is better than the seat you had.” He paused. “And, if you don’t mind, I...wouldliketoaccompanyyou.” He sped through the last bit, turning a bit red in the cheeks at the implication that he was horning in on her solo celebration.
She thought for a moment, then stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, causing him to blush even harder. “I would love for you to accompany me tonight, Mycroft, as long as you agree to join me for dinner afterward and you let me pay.”
“I believe I could be amenable to such an agreement,” he said. “The car is set to take you to the spa. I’ll meet you at the opera house.”
“Why don’t you come with me? You’re in fine enough attire for the opera, aren’t you?”
Mycroft shook his head. “No, I think it’s best if I let my nerves settle before I see you in your finery. If I’m able to, at least.”
“If you say so,” she said. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.” He moved out of the way of the open door and she slid into the seat, clutching the roses as though they were a precious bundle and burying her nose in them again once he shut the door behind her. Suddenly her day seemed so much better...