Molly blinks at him. Touches her hair self-consciously.
Sherlock wets his lips, unable to look away.
“Am I…? Is it falling down?”
And she turns to look in the mirror above her mantle-piece, checks her hair. The thick, dark tresses are wound into a single braid, pinned against her head in an up-do that it is taking all of Sherlock’s will power not to pull asunder.
Damn but she looks lovely like this.