Scenes from a date: a full and complete conversation held at one of London's most exclusive restaurants

John rang off with Mrs. Hudson as he walked into the restaurant, only to see Molly seated alone at a table for five, switching her own mobile off with a concerned look on her face. She raised an eyebrow at him, and said, "Yow. John, really… you look handsome."

Molly stood up and he kissed her cheek hello. Then John tugged awkwardly at the waistcoat of the three-piece houndstooth check Sherlock and the tailor had ultimately crammed him into.

"Thanks. Sherlock got it for me for a case next week, said I should wear it out to get comfortable in it and 'stop looking like a corpse who's never been properly dressed.' I'm just glad he paid, I'd like to be able to send Rosie to university someday. You look great too."

She really did, wearing a soft blue number that showed off her slim curves and good legs, with her hair done… up, but with bits of it falling down 'round the nape of her neck. There was probably a name for that sort of bun but John was damned if he knew what it was. Plaits were about as far as he'd got in the women's hairstyle category yet.

Molly flushed prettily and said, "Thanks. That was Greg, though… he got called out to a triple homicide in Mayfair. He can't make it."

"Bugger," John said, "I was just on the phone with Mrs. Hudson. An old chum of hers from Florida came into town unexpectedly for the evening. She's out too. And Sherlock just texted me that he's got a case."

Molly frowned.

"Shall we call it off, then?"

"For ze guests of Monsieur 'Olmes, I would be 'appy to switch you to a more intime table por deux. Zere ees no need to cancel! It would be tragique not to savor ze artistry ov ze chef!"

John glared suspiciously at the waiter who had silently oiled up behind him, but the man was quite a bit shorter than Sherlock. Plus black. So he was probably actually a waiter, though there was no bloody way that accent was authentic. He looked over to Molly.

"The nanny's going to have to get paid extra anyway. Free posh dinner for two, Molls?"

Molly laughed.

"You know what, it's been a hell of a week, I'd be delighted, sir."

The waiter squired them over to a smaller candlelit table, pulled out Molly's chair for her, and then came back bearing a dusty-looking bottle.

"Weez ze compliments of ze 'ouse," he said, "Ze Petrus Pomerol. Ze 1988."

Experiencing true and sincere regret, John put his hand out over his glass when the waiter made to pour him a sample. Then again when Molly drank said sample, exclaimed, "Oh my God that's amazing," and the waiter began to pour him a full one.

"Just water, please."

When the waiter had oozed off, Molly cocked her head and asked, in a quiet voice, "John are you… not drinking? Not just now, but in general. I noticed you didn't have any champagne when we were on the Eye..."

John rubbed his chin, shrugged.

"My shrink says, given my history and my family's history, that I should 'reevaluate my relationship with alcohol,'" he answered, making air quotes, "So I did and that relationship is 'bad.' But never mind me, drink up. If that bottle is what I think it is it'd be a crime to let it go to waste."

"Never fear. Do you think they'd do a doggy bag if I can't finish it?"

John laughed, and raised his waterglass in a toast to her. They clinked. And something about the lovely woman in the candlelight across the table from him switched on the defunct-but-not-quite-dead "smoothie her up a bit" part of his lizard brain.

"You know, Doctor Hooper," John said, "A few more evenings like this and people will start thinking we're dating."

Molly batted her eyelashes at him.

"We're raising a child together and not having sex, Doctor Watson," she purred, "People will think we're married."

He nearly did a spit take with his water, laughing.

"I will say, though," Molly kept on, "That I was always a bit offended that you never tried it on with me. It's been years, and you never hit on me once."

Oh shit, John thought.

"Molly, you're… amazing. Beautiful, and, and brilliant, and-"

Molly chuckled.

"Calm down, John, I don't actually want you to hit on me. But there've been times when it was practically a reflex for you and you never went for it. Doesn't make a girl feel her most appealing to be neglected."

"Oh, well-"

The waiter came back with "un amuse-bouche," which consisted of a poached quail egg on some sort of puree on a cartoonishly oversized silver spoon. When he'd gone again and they'd taken their single (excellent) bites, John resumed.

"I don't try it with you now because… well, because you're my friend. A proper mate, and I don't want to wreck it. I never actually had a friend who was a woman before."

"You weren't friends with Mary?" Molly frowned.

"Not really," John shrugged, "I mean, obviously I liked her, I liked talking with her, but that was never totally separate in my brain from the sex and the love and the... angst bits. And before you and I were friends…"

He hesitated.

"Well, I also always sort of thought it would be a violation of the bro code."

"Ahh," Molly exhaled, a soft sigh.

"And it's absolutely none of my business," John hastened to add.

"No, no, it's fine. I mean you were with him at Sherrinford, you saw that whole phone call…"

She sighed again, ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass.

"We did talk, afterwards. And the long and the short of it is that Sherlock didn't lie to me but he doesn't think he's capable of giving me what I would want out of… you know, out of a boyfriend, partner, whatever. And that he thinks it'd be best if we stay more or less as we are, and that I be free to find my own happiness where I can."

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Not capable my arse. He's so full of shit."

"It's a wonder his eyes aren't brown," Molly agreed, "But I think it was all tied up in his head with everything going on with Mary and Eurus and it's not like you can argue somebody into a relationship with you. So that's where we've left it."

She shrugged.

"It's honestly okay. I've not given up or anything… I still date, and if another true love walks in my door I'll be taking it, but I'm not settling for anything less. Tried that once, didn't work."

John shook his head. Sherlock was such a waterhead sometimes. Then he lifted a hand to his collar, and with a warning, "Don't be alarmed, this isn't a come-on," undid his top two buttons.

"I always wondered why Sherlock does that but it's because he can't breathe otherwise," John said, running a finger around the loosened collar, "His shirts are cut like a corset."

"One time he yawned and stretched in the lab and one of his buttons just… gave up. Shot off two meters and broke an Erlenmeyer flask. Best day of my life," Molly said dreamily.

Then she took a sip of her wine and toyed with the tassel on her menu, before fixing John with her deep dark gaze and asking the awful but increasingly commonplace, "So how about you? Any new prospects in that line? It's been…"

"It's been four years, yeah. And no, there's not. I-"

John hesitated.

"I was really thinking about it, a while ago. Because Rosie's finally eased off on the separation anxiety and she's in school all day so I've got some time on my hands and… I mean I'd like to, you know? So I thought I'd clean the rest of Mary's stuff out of the flat and get on tinder or something and give it a go."

He looked down at the plain gold band on his left ring finger.

"I was going through the closet sorting it into trash, keep, Oxfam… and I came across this stupid purple dress. And I'd completely forgotten about it, I don't think she even liked it much, I never saw her wearing it again… but BAM. I saw it and I was right back on the night we got engaged. Full on sensory flashback, it was actually kind of impressive"

John twiddled his wedding ring, saying, "So then I cried for an hour, had panic attacks every day for a week, and decided to go back to therapy instead. Apparently I've been delaying some of my grieving process until the moment was more opportune."

"You don't watch out, John, you're going to end up being well adjusted."

John snorted and had a drink of his water.

"Can't help but notice that when I was badly adjusted I got laid one hell of a lot more."

Molly sparkled at him, and murmured seductively, "Well, I'll tell you what, let's make a deal. Since us being a couple does technically work on paper… perhaps you and I could come to some arrangement. If nothing else really works out for us…"

John raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. Was she suggesting-?

No, she wasn't. He sighed.

"You're going to say suicide pact, aren't you?"

"Suicide. Pact," Molly said triumphantly, "I know just how to do it too. Really theatrical and gory and mysterious. Keep Sherlock Bloody Holmes guessing for years."

"Madwoman," John laughed fondly, "What are you thinking for the first course?"

And so it went. Three hours later, stuffed like a foie gras goose (though sadly, lacking any sapphires) and slightly squiffy (he'd broken down and split the £1400 bottle of wine, it wasn't like he was really on the wagon) John decided to walk Molly back to her flat. It was a lovely night, Islington was only one tube stop further along than he'd be taking anyway, and it was nice to feel like a gentleman.

Her posh conversion was at the end of a dim, tree-lined street, and when they got to her door Molly said, digging through her purse for her keys, "I had a really good time tonight, John."

"Yeah, me too," he said, smiling, "We should do it again."

"You're on," Molly smiled in return. John leaned in to give her a goodnight kiss on the cheek-

That's when a flapping black shadow detached itself from the dim and punched him square in the mouth.

Imaginary love triangles

John staggered towards his dark assailant, shouting, "Molly, run!"

But she didn't run, because it was Sherlock.

He grabbed Molly firmly by her upper arms and exclaimed, "Molly! Molly! Don't be in love with John!"

"Uh… okay, I won't," Molly said, confused.

"Oh, what the bloody buggering fuck, Sherlock," John said, straightening up, lifting a hand to his mouth and drawing it back to see blood.

"Be in love with me instead."

"What?"

"You fucking sucker punched me- wait, what?"

They stood in silence at the points of a triangle for a moment. And the penny dropped.

"Sherlock," Molly asked gently, looking up into his wild eyes, "Have you been trying to get John and me together?"

"I thought that was a weird prize for a classic rock station to give out. The guy who won the morning before got ZZ Top tickets. Was I supposed to get ZZ Top tickets? I would have enjoyed some ZZ Top tickets," John grumbled.

"And you were talking John up to me in the lab-" she murmured.

"Oh, oh, very nice, you didn't talk Molly up to me," John bristled, stepping up to Sherlock, "I got a forty-minute sermon on the sanctity of the monogamous relationship while your tailor felt me up."

"I didn't need to talk Molly up," Sherlock said softly. He hadn't let go of Molly's arms, and he was staring straight into her eyes, "She's perfect and complete, exactly as she is. Anyone can see it."

"Did you arrange a triple homicide in Mayfair so Greg wouldn't be able to come?"

"What?" Sherlock said, blinking and finally tearing his eyes away from Molly, "No, of course not. The citizens of Mayfair arranged that. I had his car stolen."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said, tucking her keys back into her handbag and reaching her hand up to stroke his chin, "Why would you, of all people, do something like that?"

"Because, it's logical. You're alone, John is alone… and Rosie said-"

"Wait, hold on," John growled, "You got my daughter involved in this, Sherlock?"

"It was her idea."

"I don't care if it was her idea, she's five, you dick. Remember all those little chats we've had about redirecting her rather than acting as her henchman?"

Molly frowned, because Rosie hadn't seemed at all keen on the idea of Molly dating anybody, least of all her father. It was possible she wanted that… but you also had to consider she was a miniature Svengali with the cynical perceptiveness of a forty-year old master criminal. And John and Sherlock, clever men that they both undoubtedly were, were totally her bitches.

God, she did love that little girl. Even when Rosie dropped her into situations like this one.

"Sherlock, you don't need to handle my love life. I know…"

Well for one Molly knew that she wished John weren't, again, here to witness one of these discussions.

"I know how we both feel. We said it, and it w-was true, and that's settled. That won't change, even if I do find somebody else, who won't be John. So you don't need to worry, and everything is just… fine."

She was damn well not going to cry over this. She'd done far too much of that over the years. Everything was fine. Admittedly it would be easier not to do that if the love of her life wasn't towering over her, the sharp scent of his cologne filling her senses, the heat of his hands burning though the fabric of her sleeves.

"Molly," Sherlock said, chewing over each word and speaking slowly, "I told you, before, that I'm not capable of being a good partner-"

"Literally nobody thinks that about you except you, Sherlock," Molly interrupted him, not without a hint of bitterness.

"As the other version of 'partner,' I might," John said, rubbing his rapidly-bruising jaw.

"Not helpful, John," Molly snapped.

"But I've reevaluated that of late, and I think I may well have been incorrect. But… if it's too late-"

All right, Molly wasn't going to cry. Hysterical joy? Maybe.

"No, of course it's not," she stammered, "Oh, God, it's not too late."

He flexed his fingers on her arms, and smiled disbelievingly, continuing, "And I know it's selfish of me and not considering the needs of Rosie-"

"Fuck's sake," John rolled his eyes, "Get over yourself. You're twenty-five percent of my childcare arrangments, Sherlock. I didn't do that because you're good at solving crimes. I did it because you're… good. Mostly, though it's really a dick move to punch somebody without letting him get his hands up first. But you're allowed to want to be happy, so shut up."

Sherlock raised his hand and ever-so-carefully brushed his knuckles over Molly's cheek.

"I'm sorry I hit you, John. I panicked."

"Yeah, well," John rubbed his jaw, and smiled sadly, "You probably owed me one. Now go kiss the pretty girl. Unless of course Molly would prefer to drop your scrawny arse and have me take her upstairs, give her a good rogering, in which case I'm happy to oblige. No?"

He shrugged theatrically and walked away, whistling softly in the dark. Molly and Sherlock were alone on the quiet street.

She stepped closer to him, his arms coming around her, her arms slipping 'round his waist.

"Do you want to kiss me, Sherlock?" Molly asked quietly.

She couldn't stop smiling.

"I've waited far too long… and yes. Very much. More than almost anything."

Epilogue: Grace adieu

After paying Violet, John swished salt water in his mouth, spat pink into the kitchen sink. Not that he wasn't really happy for his friends and everything, but if he lost a tooth Sherlock was damn well paying for the dentist. Blood had ruined the collar of the overpriced and over-snug shirt, too.

"Daddy?" a sleepy little voice called down the stairs, "I'm thirsty."

She was no such thing, John knew. Rosie was always a night owl and wanted some company. It didn't sound like a bad idea, though, so he called up, "Just a minute, pumpkin."

In his bedroom he pulled off his bloodied shirt and put on a clean one before bringing Rosie her drink of water. She was sitting up in her bed, her blonde-and-purple ringlets curling madly around her face, and took one token sip in an attempt to make him think her summons was legitimate.

"Did you and Aunt Molly have fun?" she asked hesitantly.

"We did," he said, "And we saw your uncle Sherlock, too."

"I'm not to call him Uncle Sherlock," Rosie recited, "Because it's a ridiculous affectation to imply that we're biologically connected, both overstating the importance of the genetic relationship and minimizing the far more important bonds between people who have chosen one another.

"I know," John said, chuckling at her expert mimicry, down to the Old-Harrovian accent, "But he only says that cause he's a tit. You call him Uncle Sherlock, if you like."

"'Kay," Rosie said.

John paused. He didn't want to hurt Rosie's hopes, but it was best not to drag these things out.

"Pumpkin, Sherlock told me that him and you have been trying… well, that you've been wanting me and your aunt Molly to be… a couple."

Rosie averted her gaze guiltily and John kept on, "And I'm not mad, it's okay… but even though Molly and I both love you very much, and we love each other-"

"It's not in the way where you want to put your penis inside her," Rosie said decidedly, "That's good. I was worried when you held hands with her."

Bloody Sherlock and his bloody detailed answer to the question of where babies come from. She'd been the hit of her infant's school for a week after that incident.

"That's... that's not the only thing grownups do when they're in love, Rosie. But no, I don't love her in the way that people love each other when they get married."

Hopefully in their mid to late thirties, and/or when their fathers have already died. Also to some unimpeachable person who can pass the inspection of the entire might of the British government and the Baker Street Irregulars.

"I know. But Sherlock does."

She said this quite calmly and with absolute certainty.

"Yeah," John said, squinting down at her, "Yeah, I think he does."

"Of course he does, Daddy," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose, "But sometimes he doesn't realize that he can do things until he's done them, and that's when we have to help him, or he won't do them and everything will just be silly."

John chuckled, despite himself.

"You… Rosamund Watson… you are just like your mum. In all the best ways."

"Can we have ice cream, then?" she asked, as if the one followed on the other. John frowned at her, mock-sternly.

"And what did you eat for dinner, then?"

"Well," Rosie considered, "Sherlock said to tell you it was candyfloss. But it was not. Violet made dinosaur nuggets and beans."

John mused, arms folded across his chest, before saying, "Clearly that calls for a midnight feast."

He carried her down the stairs to the kitchen. Rosie was getting big enough that it was a bit of a haul, but it wouldn't be long before she stopped wanting him to… or before his back stopped letting him, so he did it anyway.

They sat at the battered old table in the kitchen and tucked into their Chunky Monkey. John watched her, this little person he'd helped make, carefully separating the chocolate bits out to eat last. She'd got that from him, he realized. Just like she got her unstoppable curiosity from Sherlock every Wednesday and her cast-iron stomach from Molly on Thursdays and Saturdays and her passion for terrible American TV from Violet on Fridays.

Rosie had an unusual amount of people to love her, now that he thought of it.

But was she still missing someone?

"Rosie," he asked, suddenly, "Do you feel bad that… that I'm not in a couple? Not with your Aunt Molly, but… that you don't have…"

"A mummy?" she asked. And there was just a little bit of Mary's archness creeping in around the edges.

"No, your mum will always be your mum," John told her, firmly, "But at some point, maybe… a stepmum?"

Rosie thought it over for a minute. Then carefully she said, "I do feew bad that I don't have a puppy. I don't feew bad that I don't have a stepmum."

John chuckled. It was so cute when Rosie glided over her "l's" that he really hadn't bothered that it was technically a speech impediment.

"A puppy, hm?"

"A beagwe puppy."

An hour later, having committed to adopting a mixed-breed puppy that certainly looked beagle-ish (Rosie had been able to find a relevant website quite quickly, she was very clever that way) John prepared for bed. He hesitated for a moment in the closet, before taking down a simple purple dress from its hanger.

There wasn't any scent of Claire de la Lune, when he buried his face in the silky fabric. Nothing sentimental like that… just the faint dusty smell of something left in a closet, untouched and unneeded, for four years.

"You never know what might walk in the door," John murmured to himself.

Carefully, he folded the dress up and put it into the "Oxfam" box that he'd shoved under the bed. It was pretty.

Maybe it could do somebody some good.