Deductions and Declarations

Molly was drunk.

Well, not exactly drunk, but she was definitely tipsy. Tipsy enough for the majority of her inhibitions to have disappeared. She didn't exactly have many inhibitions, which may be a surprise to most; especially since she appeared as a rather quiet, shy, and mousy sort of woman. There was though, one particular inhibition of hers that she absolutely abhorred. And the cause of this inhibition was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

The World's Only Consulting Detective.

Damn the man.

Damn his perfect suit (it fit him so tightly!).

Damn his purple shirt (why did he look so delicious in that colour?).

Damn his curls (what would it feel like to run her fingers through them?).

And damn that smirk. Molly gulped down the last bit of wine in her glass when she suddenly realized that she had been staring out right at him, and that he had noticed.

Damn him.

Yes Molly, great way to start off the season's festivities by making an utter fool of yourself at the Annual Christmas Party at Bart's! She poured herself another glass of wine, cringing as an obnoxious Christmas song blasted out through the nearby speakers. It wasn't that she didn't like Christmas music, she rather enjoyed it, but there were certain songs that she couldn't stand. She took slow, small sips of her wine, making sure now to pace herself.

"Hello Molly."

Shit.

Forcing a smile that she was certain would not reach her eyes; she turned, almost bumping her wine glass, nearly causing it to spill. Why was he standing so close?

"He-hello Sherlock."

And there's the stammer. Damn him.

He smiled down at her, appearing to be rather amused by the fact that he could make her so flustered. His smile slowly turned into a frown as he studied her face.

Yes, deduce me like you always do. There's no stopping it, is there?

"You're not enjoying yourself, are you?"

She paused with her glass mid-way to her mouth.

No use lying to him. He's probably figured it all out anyway. Rather surprised he hasn't just gone and blurted it out like he always does.

"No. I'm not. I would love nothing more than to not be here right now. I would much more prefer to be at home, curled up on my sofa with Toby, watching telly."

She took a large sip of her wine.

So much for pacing myself.

"I thought you liked parties."

She took a few more sips before answering, "Usually, yes. This year, no. Ever since breaking off my engagement with Tom I haven't felt in much of a festive mood. I only came because—"

"Mary forced you to."

Her eyes met his. Several moments passed in silence.

"I know for a fact that you're not one for social gatherings."

He hummed in agreement.

"Did John force you to come?" She hid her smile as she took another sip.

"Threatened actually."

She raised her eyebrows, "Threatened? That would be a sight."

"He may be short but he knows how to throw a punch."

Sherlock rubbed his nose in remembrance of the pain and gush of blood.

Silence fell between them again. The music shifted, from obnoxious to slow and soothing. There weren't often moments where she felt relaxed in his presence, but she did now. Perhaps though, that was simply because of the warmth of the wine rushing through her veins.

Suddenly she got an idea. A rather ridiculous idea. It was a stupid and foolish idea. An idea that would surely end with her feeling even worse about herself. But the alcohol coursing through her veins had put a damper on her ability to reason. So the words left her mouth before her conscience could stop her.

"How about you do me a favor Mr. Holmes?"

He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at her, before leaning a hip against the table that they were standing in front of. He clasped his hands together.

"What sort of favor?"

With one final sip of wine she put down the empty glass, turning so that she was facing him fully.

"You've torn down every single boyfriend that I have ever had. And more or less scared off any potentials. You've told me that I'm better off on giving up on choosing one myself … so … why don't you put your deduction skills to use and see if you can find me a man." She swept her hand over the room, "I know that there are quite a few single men here, let's see if you think that any of them are good enough for me."

He stood there for several moments, blinking rapidly. Then he stood up to his full height, shoving his hands into his pockets. Tearing his eyes away from her he began to scan the room. He nodded his head towards a tall, gangly, rather pale looking young man.

"Lives with his mother. She's completely immobile, due to a stroke. He's not looking for a relationship, but would gladly have sex with anyone, even if it means paying them."

"Uhm … okay … moving on?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, a small smile starting to form. She could tell he was beginning to enjoy himself. This was a terrible idea.

"He has a foot fetish. Of the living and the dead."

Molly blinked, "He doesn't work in the morgue. He's three floors up, Cardiology."

Sherlock gave her a look, then continued on.

"Porn addict. Doesn't believe in cleansing. Religious. Sterile."

She huffed slightly as he continued to rattle off. He had nothing good to say about any of them.

"I think you've made your point. You've shot down every single guy here."

"Molly, I simply told the truth. No one here is worthy of you. Least of all … me."

She froze, her eyes widening. Slowly she turned to look at him. His stare was intense.

"Are you … are you saying, what I think you are saying?"

He swallowed, "Molly … I … I'm not good with talking about feelings and … sentiment …" He spat out the last word, "But I … I've come to find that I can't go on like this anymore. Every single man that you've dated, especially 'meat dagger,' hasn't remotely deserved you. That's why I always did … what I did …"

"You scared them off because you were … jealous?"

He huffed loudly.

"Molly … don't interrupt me while I'm trying to confess how I feel about you!"

Her eyes grew wider.

"But … every time I tried to ask you out, you always …"

He fidgeted, tearing his eyes away from hers, "I didn't want to hurt you."

"But you did. You always did, you always do. Throwing insults at me, deducing every little thing. You can't possibly have feelings for me."

He rested his palms on the table behind him, leaning against it, "That was a cover. I used the insults to mask my true feelings. Because … I didn't like it. I didn't like the way you made me feel. I had always believed that love was just a chemical defect, and then suddenly you showed up and began to prove me wrong." He brought his eyes up to meet hers, "The more I was around you, I came to realize how wrong I was. You were so selfless, always willing to help me even if you got nothing in return. That's when I began to enjoy how you made me feel. But Moriarty had to go and ruin it."

He stood up to his full height, turning to face her. Her lips were parted, her breaths coming in short even gasps. Sherlock knew that if he reached out to take her wrist, to feel her pulse, he would feel her heart racing.

"I meant what I said to you that night. I did need you. I think actually, I can thank him, because he made me realize how much I was in … love … with you."

Before Sherlock could say anything else Molly had reached up and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him down to her level so that she could press her lips to his. He hesitated for a moment, before slipping his hands around her waist and pulling her up against him, deepening the kiss.

They were both oblivious to all that was going on around them. Neither taking notice that both John and Mary had spotted them and we're smiling happily.

"About bloody time." John muttered under his breath, making Mary giggle.

Molly and Sherlock finally broke apart for air. Her hands were still fisted in his lapels; his arms were still about her waist. He stared down at her, a smile slowly creeping up on his face. She smiled up at him as well. He leaned forward again, but this time to press his lips to her neck, the tip of his nose brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Come home with me to Baker Street…" He panted.

She gave a nod in reply, unable to do anything else. Her ability for speech seemed to have left her. She felt him smile against her skin.

Taking her hand in his he gently tugged her towards the exit. She willingly followed, unsure if she was dreaming, if this was really happening. Had she drank so much that she had fallen into a stupor? No. This was real.

He smiled down at her while putting on his coat and scarf, as she did the same. They walked outside, the cold, bitter air hitting her in the face. She felt her head clearing, the effects of the alcohol slowing ebbing away. She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. She was going home with Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes flew open as she heard the sound of a car stopping in front of them. Sherlock had opened the cab door, waiting for her. She slid in, he behind her. After giving his address he leaned back into the seat, looking at her. They stared silently at each other the entire ride.

The cab stopped outside of Baker Street. Sherlock paid the fare and got out. He then turned around and held his hand out to her. She placed her hand in his, sliding out of the cab. As the car drove away they stood there, before the door of 221, looking at each other.

"Are we really doing this?"

He reached out to her, pulling her close, before leaning down and kissing her deeply. His hand snaking up to rest on her jaw line as the other held her waist, pressing her to him. He pulled away, his lips hovering directly above hers, as he breathlessly whispered his answer.

"Yes."