Wearing a Different Clothing Style

Sherlock finished reading the programme of that evening's theatre play, and turned his head towards the door, John's voice greeting someone who was making an entrance into the theatre's lobby.

Sherlock's mouth fell open when he saw Molly, whose eyes turned immediately to him, despite the fact that she was till complimenting John, and it struck Sherlock that her expression as she saw him, mimicked his. He blinked and assumed his ordinary nonchalant face, trying to take his eyes off her, focusing again on the programme.

The theatre play was a Victorian act, and a private one at it. Tickets had been sent out to a set of specific people, one of which was Sherlock. He had been able to invite a few more people, at will. The host of that rendezvous was a very important client, and would be forever thankful to Sherlock after he had helped acquitting him from a triple murder accusation. The only request of the host for those attending the play was that everyone should be wearing Victorian clothes, to match the performance they would have the pleasure to watch on stage, and no one had let him down. Walking into the theatre felt like walking into a different age, like travelling back in time. There were no lights on, only candles spread all over the place, in fancy, old style candlesticks.

When he casually mentioned the play to Molly she had been so excited about it that Sherlock did not have the heart to keep her out of it. So he had retrieved four tickets: one for himself, one for John, and two more, for Molly and Lestrade. John had taken care of their clothes and hats, and looked forward, much more than Sherlock, for the evening ahead.

Sherlock realised now that this had been a terrible mistake. Molly, in her long dress and Victorian hairdo, looked stunning, and he really didn't want to deal with the torrent of thoughts taking over his mind right now. He was supposed to come here and enjoy an out of the ordinary event, not fall in love with Molly Hooper. He took a deep breath, and approached them.

"Molly," he said, realising that he loved the way her name sounded on his lips, "Lestrade."

"This is great," Lestrade said, looking at him, and Sherlock tried to focus on what he was saying, rather than Molly's infatuated smile, "Literally everyone is dressed up for the evening."

"The programme seems interesting, too," Molly said, an excited energy in her voice, "There's dinner after the play in one of the rooms here. This is all very fancy."

She looked at Sherlock, as if waiting for his agreement, but Sherlock throat was too dry for him to speak.

They were rushed along by an employee of the theatre, and they sat on leathered sits, in the front row. John changed sits with Molly to talk to Lestrade, leaving her and Sherlock sitting side by side.

"Thank you for inviting me," Molly said, looking at him again, "This is almost magical. I had a bit of trouble to find a dress though, couldn't find the right bra to wear underneath it," she shut up, taken aback by the excessive information she was providing Sherlock with, and changed the subject, "It all turned out okay in the end, though. I haven't been to the theatre in ages."

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, staring at her now.

"I do, yes. Do you?"

"I find it quite fascinating," Sherlock admitted, "The whole spectacle of lights and shadow. There's a lot you can see when the curtain opens. A lot you can study. People's emotions, how they react differently to certain lines depending on their own experiences."

Molly nodded, once again scrutinizing his features, "You look very dapper," she blurted out.

Sherlock blushed, which was uncommon. He was not used to be embarrassed, "Thank you," he said, "You look very," he searched for the right word, "Exquisite."

Molly smiled, and their eyes met as the lights of the room were dimmed, and everyone went silent.

Everyone invited enjoyed a delicious dinner in a dimly lit room, with candles and flowers decorating the centre of the tables, and men and women wore hats and chatted the evening away. When the evening programme came to an end John and Lestrade went for a pint at a bar, and Sherlock offered to walk Molly home. It was a pleasant night; no rain, not a cloud in the sky even, a chill breeze that was not enough to make them cold, and a full moon illuminating the streets of London.

The two of them walking together in their outfits provided a curious contrast with the modern architecture of the city.

Molly waved her dress slightly as she paced, and Sherlock had his hands behind his back, his usual long coat replaced for a tuxedo over a waistcoat.

"The play was nice, don't you think?" Molly asked, looking at Sherlock sideways, smiling.

Sherlock turned his gaze to her, "Yes, I found it quite interesting." he paused. "Molly," he said her name out loud, his intonation marking the start of a question that he did not finish.

"Yes?" Molly asked, looking at him again.

"Would you like to do this again?"

Molly stopped in the middle of the pavement, clutching her small purse in her hands, "How do you mean?"

"Dress up, attend a play, have dinner, walk home."

"Oh, you have more invitations? You're quite well-related, the tickets for this must have been expensive and-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, turning his body to stand face to face with her now.

The light of the streetlamp cast its shade over them, accentuating Molly's features. Sherlock blinked and then cleared his throat.

"I mean, just the two of us."

Molly frowned, trying to understand if he was asking her what she thought he was.

"You mean you want to go out, just the two of us?"

"Yes," Sherlock choked out, "But you know, like this. To do this again. If you like."

"Dressed up?" she giggled, using her palms to stretch the fabric of her dress, looking at herself, "Like this?"

"You seem to have enjoyed it. I am sure I can book the theatre just like today."

Molly smiled, "Yes. Of course. I'd love to."

Sherlock returned the smile. Then, he faced away from her, and they started to walk together again, in the same direction as before, side by side.

Molly was expecting a full room, the same buzz of the week before; instead, they had a full theatre for themselves, and a play performed for them alone. Not the same as before, but it took her breath away all the same.

Sherlock observed Molly, hardly paying attention to the play, and the way her lips moved as the lines were delivered, and her hands pressed together at dramatic scenes. She was all into it, lost in it, mesmerized by it.

The actors left and the theatre was abandoned again, their murmurs echoing in the room. The curtain had closed now and another was about to open.

He had meant to wait for dinner, but the way Molly's eyes were shinning, happiness spread all over her face, changed his instincts. He leaned over the seat and he kissed her in the lips.

Molly placed her right hand over his chest and she could hear Sherlock's heart beating under it, a constant rapid pulse that matched her own.

They kissed again when Sherlock delivered Molly safely at her house, fulfilling the tradition of a first date good-night kiss. And as they walked away from each other – Molly up the stairs to her flat, Sherlock towards Baker Street – there were many more promises lingering in the night air, and they could hardly wait to consummate them all.

They put on their costumes several times, two Victorian shadows walking in the streets of modern London, but there were no more masquerades. Molly had managed to pierce through the breaches of Sherlock's armour, and she loved what she had found there. Sherlock was more than glad to let her discover him, because it allowed him to discover himself in the process. Mostly, he was happy to be loved by Molly, and to realise with satisfaction that he was, in fact, capable of loving her too.