Been here, done dating.
She feels hoards of butterflies, what am I saying, if they are butterflies, they are huge, clogging her esophagus, making her feel lightheaded. It must be the new surroundings, it must be the poignant setting. She walks down the platform in her half
First, you arrive to find a parking place in one of the biggest cities in Scotland, with a couple of universities and a lot of traffic and you forget how crazy it is for people that have to do this on a regular basis, how maddening and angering. She is glad she lives in a city with so much public transport, with easy options, She is also glad that she is not working, that she left early, that she does not need to rush. She has all the time in the world because the nerves didn't allow her to sit still and wait. She decides to use her contacts and park at the university. It's a nice walk back into the train station and she can marauder through the old streets, have a coffee, walk about until she gets the text.
- The train will be in the station in 15 minutes, I'd say. SH- I'm around the corner. Text me when you arrive.
She feels hoards of butterflies, what am I saying, if they are butterflies, they are huge, clogging her esophagus, making her feel lightheaded. It must be the new surroundings, it must be the poignant setting. She walks down the platform in her half hazardous outfit with more colours than the average population of the train station right now, where blacks and whites prevail with a few other monotonal items of clothing flapping in the wind. There's always a difference between how we think things are going to turn out and how they actually happen. This is one of those times. In the last few days, she had had the time to conjure up a million scenarios for a first 'date' with Sherlock. All in London. She had imagined them going together to some classical concert, or to a restaurant, or just for a walk down the river and some chips, or even just at home, at hers. Her imagination hadn't dared run free this time. It was something that made her curious about how imagination works after all. So before, all those years, she had fantasized wild ideas, scenarios in which one way or another Sherlock confessed his deepest love for her, his atraction, his unconditional love. She knew they were all impossible and so she gave her imagination the reins of her fantasies, but now... things were different. There was an actual possibility, the door was open to a real date and for that reason she couldn't, she wouldn't dare imagine how it would go completely. She had limited her projection as to where and when it would be, what she would wear, what he would pick, but she hadn't dared project any outcomes, any real conversations. And once again, even that had failed, because here she was, in a busy station, surrounded by people rushing somewhere or from somewhere, with the smell of bad coffee and greasy pasties waiting for him. She had to remind herself that he wasn't specifically coming about the date. He was also coming because he wanted her expertise, to consult her on some case that Lestrade had and Steve wasn't being helpful enough, or that is what he said, and he had never lied or tweaked the truth to see her, why would he now?
She craned her neck over the different passengers and waited behind the barrier. The train had come in and there were many passengers leaving from London.
He had spotted her, her small frame, her green coat, and the explosion of colours underneath that no one else would dare to wear and still muffled enough not to make her jump in the crowd, subtle yet colourful. She looks nervous. He smiles. He's going to take his time leaving the carriage, first because he doesn't like pushing through crowds, but also because it is interesting to see how her eyes scan the crowd for him. He feels a little cruel with that game and he texts her.
- I'm waiting for the people to clear the aisle. I can see you from where I'm sitting. You look lovely.
She puts her hand in her pocket and reads, a small smile that he thoroughly enjoys forming in his face.
- That's not fair. I should have brought my binoculars.
Sherlock laughs. She would. Trust Molly to look as comfortable doing something as out of place as carrying a pair of binoculars in a busy train station.
- Never took you for a birdwatcher - Sherlock texts backs grabbing his bag and joining the queue exiting the train but a few metres behind the last person. Molly is now leaning against the wall waiting for him.
- Never owned a pair, never will, probably. But I am willing to bet that you own a few and even you would be able to give advice about the size of the lens or some such. - she is distracted while texting and doesnt immediately notice that he is right in front of her.
- I am sure we had some when we were little but god knows if our mother still keeps them in the attic.
Molly looks up. He is there. He is actually there. She smiles. He smiles down at her.
- Welcome to Edinburgh. I am sure it is not the first time you have been.
- That is correct.
- Are you hungry...
- Not particularly no, but I would not say no to a pint
- Which means you want to show me the photos of the case that Lestrade has commissioned.
- Commissioned is a loose term, but yeah...
- All right. - She leads the way outside of the station through the crowd avoiding the taxi rank and walking up the hill towards the city centre. At this hour of the day most of the pubs are quiet, but she keeps walking ahead towards the north of the citymany tourists around either, finally finding a small pub. Sherlock follows. The silence between them is not uncomfortable. He is taking in the surroundings and following her confident step in the city.
- You grew up here. - it is not a question, more than an affirmation - in the city I mean.
- My secondary school is two streets up that way. Where mom used to teach.
- All girls.
- Yup - she says ordering their round. Both ales. She will not be driving till much later, so she allows herself the luxury of a pint this early. She has not done a wet lunch of the kind since the days in which she had to prove her own worth to her bosses at Barts.
- I see.
She gives him a look.
- Is this a game of guessing?
- Sure.
- I don't need to guess. You stink of Eton.
He has to laugh at the way she puts it.
- I didn't last very much.
- You didn't complete your A-levels there?
- Nope.
- Private tutoring. At home, with your mother breathing down your throat.
- Almost correct. She was on sabbatical and she had to take a few fortunate trips abroad. But yes, she could have saved herself the trouble and the money.
- Because you did not last much at Cambridge later.
- And you guessed that how?
- I cheated. John told me that you started chemistry and dropped out.
- Ah... You could have just lied and impressed me.
- I have definitely observed you doing deductions for long enough to have tried, but why bother?
- Ah, we are there already. - he's infinitely more playful than he's ever been with her in London. It must be the Scottish air.
- What do you mean by that?
- You won't bother with trying to impress me.
She laughs taking a long sip.
- We are well past that stage. I think my opportunities to impress you fell on a pit of quick sand rather early in our relationship.
He frowns at that statement.
- How so?
- I embarrassed myself enough all throughout the first year of knowing you really?
- I actually thought you held yourself rather well to my constant ...
- rudeness.
- I was going to say corrections.
She smiles.
- Rude corrections.
He smiles and takes a drink.
- Shall we look at those photos so? - Sometimes she seems just as eager as he is to work. He's not sure if she does it to please him or if she simply is his match in this regard.
The next few hours are spent on discussing the state of the bodies, the possible theories and it is not one round but several that happen to be shared by then in this bubble of forensic science in this secluded spot in a tiny pub in the middle of Edinburgh. This is their safe space. The one that they have shared for years in the lab in silence or chatting, bouncing ideas, this feels like the time that he asked her to fake his death, to help him do that, and they sat down and figured it all out, several days, in several sessions. This is what makes them a great team, in this milieu. The discussion takes longer than they both expected and they order food while chatting like that. Would you call it a date? You probably would not. Most normal people would not if they knew what they were talking about, the terminology that was being thrown around the table with an ease that would turn most stomachs, but not Molly's or Sherlock's. But from the outside it does looks like a date, completely. From the outside there are two people completely embedded in the conversation, focused on each other, sharing their ideas, their expertise and completely into the topic of conversation, the smiles, the constant dance of hands that almost touch, of smiles, of staring into the same photos, and then into each other's eyes, completely lost in thought, on the case or otherwise, it is not possible to say because who knows what is going on in their minds through the case, most likely the case, just the case, as they flow inside this bubble that has not built consciously or effortfully. It is a bubble, a safe space that they share and they share only between them.
- Let me call Greg - Sherlock says finally getting up to make the call from outside the pub because the usci is a bit loud in here. When he gets up he notices that they have drunk a little bit more than they should, but he's not drunk enough not to be able to report succesfully to the DI.
Molly nods and stays at the table. Their plates of food are empty and so are their third pint for her, fourth for him. She feels like someone has punctured the bubble and she's not sure if the wet drops with soapy water in her eyes are tickling her or stinging. Not yet. Is this the date that he asked her out for? Will he decide to go now that they have cracked the case? She wished for a second they hadn't. She looked at the door, her eyes fixed on it. It would not be the first time that her expectations had been crushed. And after all it was all her fault for having any.