#I have these black velvet bell bottoms and I yearn to wear them

[witchydykebitch]

I would wear nothing but velvet and leather if I could

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

‘The Adventure of Philip Anderson’ Chapter 5: There’s No Good in Goodbye

Sherlock and Molly attend the dinner party to keep an eye out for any suspects, instead finding an intended victim. Things get heated with them and the upstairs corridor. And Anderson comes along for the ride. What could possibly go wrong?

FFN | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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When Anthea caught on to what Philip Anderson was trying to pull, she wanted a part in his game. Thankfully, Mycroft had tasked her with picking up the evening gown Molly would be wearing. It had to be sexy, but simple. As Coco Chanel once said, “Elegance is refusal.” Just as both Holmes brothers instructed, she had the dress sent out to Molly that afternoon. She wished she could see the look on Sherlock’s face when he saw Molly in that dress.

“Anthea?” Mycroft called to her as he stepped out of his office. “Has the gown been sent to Miss Hooper?”

“Yes sir, everything is done as you asked,” Anthea informed him.

Mycroft grumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that sir?”

“Nothing,” he smiled demurely. “I just hope my brother and Miss Hooper can work something out. He has been alone much too long.”

“If I may speak out of turn, sir, I think you have too,” she told him. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was enough for him to see he had her love.

Mycroft appeared to be taken aback by her remark—not in horror, but genuine surprise. Perhaps she was right.

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Molly had never worn anything so extravagant in her life. Every which way she turned in the mirror, the fact remained that it was as if this gown had been specifically tailored to her measurements. And if that were true, how exactly did Sherlock know her measurements? Surely somebody had to know in order for this gown to fit her like a glove. He probably figured it out when she wore that dress to the Christmas party at his flat all those years ago.

The gown was simple, all black. It had an off the shoulder neckline with shoulder strap accents, and a sweetheart bust with padded cups. The material hugged her curves, cascading all the way down to her ankles. If it hadn’t been for the strappy silver heels, the dress would have been dragging the floor considering her short stature. There was high side-slit exposing her left leg, giving off a sexy, but sophisticated look. Molly had her hair swept up in a chignon bun, loose tendrils framing her face. Her eyes were done up with eyeliner on the top and bottom of her eyelids, and winged from the corner of her eyes. Her lips were stained with wine coloured lipstick that gave her look the pop of colour it needed. 

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Startled from her thoughts by a knock on her door, Molly took a deep breath. She slipped on the lacy black bell sleeve shrug over her shoulders and made her way to the door. To say she was nervous about tonight was an understatement. Fake married to Sherlock? The thought made her laugh in disbelief. It sounded like a storyline in one of Anderson’s dreams. Okay, maybe her dreams too, but that was aside from the point.

She answered the door to find Sherlock down on one knee, a ring sparkling from within a velvet box. It was golden and gorgeous, a blood red ruby cut into the shape of a heart in its center with two small, rounded diamonds on either side of it. Beside it was a matching wedding band—an endless circle of the utmost significance. “Molly Hooper.” He breathed out her name as if she had stolen the breath from his lungs. “You are radiant. I shall perish if you reject my proposal.”

“A bit dramatic, that,” Molly remarked, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s theatrical approach.

“It is only the truth,” he replied, desperately wishing for her to see his heart the way she once did.

Molly nodded her head, a smile on her face. “Then I accept your proposal, Mister Holmes. I couldn’t very well be happy in a world without you.” And that was her truth. Could he see that she meant it? But still, she wondered, was the trust she needed there? She certainly felt safe with him, but did she feel safe with him?

Sherlock stood, revealing to be dressed as dapper as a Victorian gentleman, complete with a brocade waistcoat, a pocket watch tucked into it. He had tamed his unruly curls, now slicked back in such a distinguished way. He gently slid the rings on her finger, surprising her when they fit perfectly. It was as if they were made for her…just like the gown she wore. Brown eyes looked into cerulean ones, searching for truth and answers. His eyes darted to her lips, making him yearn for the chance to kiss her. If all went well, perhaps she’d allow him to do so.

“We should go,” he told her, offering his arm. One of Mycroft’s hired drivers had been waiting for them in one of the ever-so-inconspicuous black cars. Sherlock opened the door for her, following right behind as she climbed in.

Molly was silent, unsure of what to say, let alone if she should say anything at all. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t all too comfortable either. She blamed it all on her nerves. Sherlock’s voice cut through her inner turmoil, but she hadn’t heard what he said. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if you were alright,” Sherlock told her. “You look as if you’ve become ill.” He was berating himself for having dragged her into this. It was crossing a very fragile line. They loved each other, but she wasn’t ready to give her heart to him—at least not completely. He feared that this would halt whatever progress they had made, if any.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Just a couple of well-timed snogs, right?”

So, that’s what had her so nervous. He took her hand in his. “Molly, we don’t have to. Not every married couple expresses PDA. We’re convincing enough with our chemistry.” His eyes met hers intensely. “I would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

The relief was now plain on her face; nothing to worry about now. She could focus on enjoying her night, dancing with Sherlock and catching a murderer. What could be better?

               In the front seat, the driver smirked in satisfaction. He had no doubt those two would find a way through the rubble. Nobody ever paid attention to the driver—a fact that comforted him. If he was found out, however, Mycroft Holmes would have his head for sure. Philip Anderson blanched at the thought.

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The manor of Sir Archibald Blackwood was grand, of course. Hundreds of people were in attendance, mingling as they arrived. When Sherlock led Molly through the doors after giving their false names to the guard, she admired the Baroque architecture. She could feel Sherlock squeezing her hand affectionately as they wove their way through the crowd. They were headed to the ballroom—a perfect place to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Archibald was a suspect, but Sherlock did not believe the man capable of such an act, though he wouldn’t put it past him to at least puppeteer the entire thing. Speaking of which…

“Mister and Mrs. Lexington!” Archibald greeted them with enthusiasm, clapping his hands together. “A pleasure to finally meet you both! Mycroft Holmes speaks very highly of you!”

“How surprising,” Sherlock remarked flatly. A sharp jab from Molly, and he got his act together.

“He means to say it is a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Mister Blackwood,” Molly smiled. “I admire your choice in architecture—you have a lovely home.”

“Why, Miss Lexington, would you care for a tour?” An awkward silence ensued. “That is, if your husband won’t mind,” he added quickly.

“Just a quick one,” Sherlock told him sharply.

Molly turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “I promise we’ll have plenty of time to dance.” She leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, surprising him.

“Be careful,” he whispered in her ear. “Now giggle as if I’ve said something naughty.”

Molly did just that, her cheeks even flushing from the notion. She then went along with Blackwood as he gestured to the high ceilings. Sherlock had to remember to breathe. He knew Molly could take care of herself, but it didn’t stop him from worrying over her safety. Though it may not look like it, Molly was a damn good fighter. No one would ever see her coming.

He moved on through the corridors until finally arriving at the ballroom. Already, so many couples were dancing to the music performed by the live orchestra. It was like a scene ripped right out of a fairytale. He scanned the room, looking for anyone who stood out. There, high above on the balcony overlooking the room was a man of average height, a top hat covering his features.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. He carefully climbed the stairs that led up to the balcony, stopping in front of the man, removing the hat from his head. “Anderson, you are going to blow our cover!” he quietly berated him. “What were you thinking!?”

“I wasn’t going to interact with you, promise,” he assured him. “You’re making a scene by speaking to me at all.”

“Look, this isn’t time for you to play matchmaker. This is very serious business I’m dealing with,” Sherlock argued.

Just then a shout reverberated through the open doors behind them that led to a darkened hallway. Sherlock and Anderson looked at each other in shock. “Molly,” they spoke in unison. Before they had a chance to reach the door, Molly came storming through, her hair and dress slightly askew.

“Blackwood isn’t a murderer,” she panted. “Just a bloody dirty old man!”

Sherlock’s blood boiled. “Did he touch you!?” he demanded. “Did he harm you in any way!?”

“Started pulling on the top of my dress, but I took care of it. He’ll be in pain for some time,” Molly informed him. “I’m fine, honest.” She turned to Anderson, his mustache and beard bushier than ever. “Why’s he here?”

“Molly, meet our driver,” Sherlock grimaced.

“How did you—“ Anderson spluttered.

“You, stay inconspicuous,” he ordered Philip. He then turned to Molly, offering her his arm. “Shall we have a dance, darling?”

“We shall,” she smiled, taking his arm and letting him lead her down to the ballroom. He intertwined one hand with hers, placing his other on her waist. Molly followed his lead as they waltzed through the room.

“Are you truly alright?” Sherlock asked, his tone gentle.

“I am, I promise you,” she replied. “We need to be careful now—we can’t slip up and use our real names.”

“Well, technically—“

“Yes, I know, you get to use your actual first name, William, but I don’t,” Molly pointed out.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk at the snark in her tone when she spoke his name. He spun her around, re-connecting their interlocked fingers when she faced him again. His heart ached despite their closeness, wishing they could just be together—that it didn’t have to be so difficult. He lowered his head so that his lips were near her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a flutter in her stomach. “Molly,” he whispered. “What can I do?”

“About what?” she spoke softly, finding it hard to breathe with him so close.

“How can I prove to you that you can trust me?” he asked. “I would never intend to hurt you. I know I have in the past, but I never intended to, though I know it’s not an excuse.” Sherlock traced the side of her jawline with the tip of his nose. “I ache for you, darling. I will do anything and everything to fix what I’ve broken. Tell me what you need.”

Her brown eyes were filling with tears that she fought from releasing. “Sherlock,” she spoke in a whisper, her voice breaking. Molly wasn’t all that sure it was an issue of trust anymore. Somewhere, deep down, she knew there was more to it, but what?? “I wish I knew—believe me, I’m just as lost as you are.” She let out a shaky breath. “I want to be with you more than anything,” she admitted, “but every time I feel I’m ready, there’s a voice telling me that it’s too dangerous, and I just…don’t.”

He closed his eyes at her admission, hating how much trouble he was causing her. It pained him to know she was so conflicted. “Everything in you is warning you not to make that leap,” Sherlock realised. “Because deep down inside, we both know the truth.” He straightened up, meeting her eyes with his.

“And what truth is that?” Molly asked, keeping a grip on him though they had stopped dancing.

“Regardless of how we feel, I’m no good for you,” Sherlock told her. He stopped her before she could argue this point. “I know you don’t think that of me, Molly, but it’s the truth. The sooner we accept it, the better off we’ll be.”

Just like telling a child they can’t have a biscuit, making them want it all the more, Sherlock basically telling Molly she shouldn’t love him made her love him all the more. “No,” she told him. “I can’t accept that.”

“We need to be discreet, Lyla,“ he hushed his voice, placing emphasis on her fake name.

“William,” she spoke firmly, her eyes keeping a hold of his, her gaze intense. “Kiss me.” Molly hadn’t a clue what she was doing—everything in her head was warning her not to do this, that it would only break her heart, but she no longer cared.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, his brows knit together. It happened so fast. His lips were on hers, softly sliding against her own. He lowered his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer against him, hearing her hum pleasurably at the contact. He felt her tears, finally falling from her eyes—or were they his? He could no longer tell. This was far from a joyful kiss. It felt bittersweet and heartbreaking as if they were saying goodbye.

Why were they even here at this party? The most suspicious people here were them and Anderson. Blackwood was more likely to be the victim than the murderer. Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head as he deepened their kiss, his tongue now dancing with hers. The saltiness of their tears remained even as he tasted her mouth. God, it was so explosive, the blood in his veins electrifying with every second the kiss went on. Explosive. He suddenly pulled away as a thought dawned on him.

“What?” Molly asked, clearly out of breath, her lips deliciously swollen. “What is it?” She looked around the room and back at him. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

“We need to go back upstairs—Blackwood is still there,” Sherlock told her. He took her hand and flew up the stairs with her. Anderson followed the two of them in case backup was needed. “He’s the intended victim, not the murderer.” As much as he was pissed at him for what he tried with Molly, he was still going to save the bastard. He pounded furiously at the door Molly pointed at.

“What is all this incessant noise, Mister Lexington??” Blackwood asked. He took a look at Anderson. “And who’s this mangy fellow?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I believe you are the next victim on our murderer’s kill list,” he informed him. “Get out of this corridor; get your guests to leave—NOW.”

Blackwood did as he was told without question.

“Uh, we’re still in the corridor,” Anderson pointed out. “Are we about to die?”

“Sherlock, honestly, what’s going on here?” Molly asked.

“Something’s not right here,” he told them as he searched the area. “It has to be here.”

“What has to be here!?” Anderson and Molly shouted in unison.

The beeping began, leading Sherlock to the source. It was a bomb. Only forty-five seconds left.

“Balcony,” Molly told them. They ran down the corridor to the balcony that led outside. Below them was a massive pool, and before Anderson could object, he was heading over the railing with them as the bomb went off. They made quite a splash in the pool, water stinging their eyes.

“A bit James Bond, that,” Anderson remarked, feeling a bit woozy.

Molly looked at Sherlock. “I think he’s going to faint.”

Anderson had to admit he wasn’t cut out for this kind of action, blacking out shortly after. They dragged him out of the pool, settling him in the back of the car whilst they took the front seats. Sherlock drove Philip home first who eventually woke just before they arrived at his flat. The drive back to Molly’s flat was met with silence. What happened back there, the searing kiss that they shared—it had been too much, and it was all her fault. Sherlock gave her the control of whether they kissed or not, but instead of doing it as their false identities, she made it personal. There was no way their first real kiss was going to be anything but.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Sherlock told her when they walked up to her flat. “You only told me to as an act of rebellion—because I told you I was no good for you.” He sighed. “I knew that, but I did it anyways. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she told him. “The jumping into the pool thing was fun, though, huh?” Molly attempted to lighten the mood.

A short, quiet laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It was.” Sherlock brought her hand to his lips, just barely pressing them to her knuckles. “Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

She could feel her heart cracking further. He said goodnight, but why did it feel like goodbye?

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Molly’s Dress