though his face is so distracting i must admit

sherlolly-is-jolly  asked:

Molly And Sherlock swing dancing.

I think I might have taken “too long to fill a prompt” to an entirely new level. I keep writing this and changing it, so I thought I would just post it. I’m really sorry if you don’t like it. Doesn’t really have much of a story, and actually doesn’t have very much swing dancing… It’s not all that great, actually! But it’s done now, at least. Here you are:

“Molly, that dress is entirely too short.”

Earlier that evening:

Sherlock storms into the laboratory, and looks around until he catches sight of Molly looking through a microscope. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly at the focused look on her face, and he goes to stand behind her, clearing his throat. There is no reaction.

He clears his throat again. “Molly.”

“Hmm?” Molly’s eyes remain glued to the lens.

He rolls his eyes, and taps her on the shoulder.

She finally lifts her head and turns around. “What is it Sherlock? I’m a bit…”

She trails off when she sees his attire. His Belstaff and scarf has been abandoned and his immaculate suit has been replaced by a plain white shirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and braces to hold them up. Perhaps the most surprising element is the top hat, which is currently adorning his head, and his curls are attempting to break free.

He grins at her when she finally finishes examining his clothing and meets his eye.

“Case. Need your help.” She raises her eyebrows at him and his grin dims slightly, as he swallows nervously. “Erm, I mean, Molly, I was wondering if you’d be willing to spend a few hours with me solving a crime?”

“I’d be delighted.” Really, all he needs to do is ask.

“Brilliant. I’ll pick you up at six. Wear a dress. ’20s themed. We’re going dancing.” With that, and a slight crinkle of his eyes, he stalks back out of the lab.

Present:

“Molly, that dress is entirely too short.”

Stood at the side of the large hall, the venue of a private party, Sherlock is eyeing the bottom of her dress through the corner of his eye, whilst at the same time glaring daggers at any male guest who so much as looks in her direction.

“Ok, mum,” she mutters. “You didn’t seem to mind so much when it was just the two of us in the taxi.”

At her words, he directs his glare towards her, and she just sips her drink innocently, her lips turning up at the corners.

“Excuse me, Miss?” comes a voice from the side, and both Molly and Sherlock turn towards the source, a young man. “Would you like to dance?”

Sherlock stares at him, and his frown deepens when he notices Molly doing the same.

The man is fairly attractive, his blond hair out of place from the exertion of dancing. His broad shoulders are accentuated by the silver waistcoat he is wearing. Muscled arms, tanned skin. Some sort of outdoor work then.

Interesting. Smuggler, perhaps. Although his face doesn’t have the most intelligent expression. Might just be a petty thief. Ah, but no. Perfectly clean fingernails, no callouses on his hands and the distinct lingering smell of disinfectant - damn. Paramedic.

Sherlock sighs. In all honestly, the man is probably a perfectly appropriate dance partner. And the way Molly is looking him over, it seems she has come to the same conclusion.

So naturally, she decides to -

“I’m sorry, I would, but my date here has just asked me for a dance.”

- refuse? Why would she refuse?

But before Sherlock can think more on that, she abandons her drink somewhere, grabs his hand and drags him out onto the floor.

He attempts to look bored and annoyed, but only succeeds at mildly bemused (and he hopes she didn’t see the smug look he gave to the idiot who had dared to ask her to dance).

“I didn’t realise you had such a desire to dance, Molly,” he says, with a slight smirk.

She purses her lips, but remains silent as they bop gently along with the music.

“Of course, if the desire was simply to dance,” he continues, smirk in place, “then you would not have rejected that poor man. No, I think this is some more deep rooted desire.”

He is pushing her, the smirk plastered to his face, and he can see she is just about to retort, when her expression changes. Her lips curve upwards into an evil smile, and his step falters slightly when he sees it.

“Molly, what are you doing?” he asks, the slight clench of his jaw the only sign of his apprehension. She just continues to smile at him.

“Dancing, Sherlock.”

Before he can say anything more, Molly grabs both his hands, and spins him around, whilst doing intricate footwork. He just freezes. Well, freezes as much as he can whilst being swung around madly, by a woman half his size. Where has she gotten this strength, anyway?

She continues in this vain, his awestruck expression seemingly motivating her on, and as their dance becomes more enthusiastic, the dancers begin to crowd round the two, clapping along to the saxophone.

This spurs him into action, and he suddenly takes lead of the dance.

He thinks back to those lessons he had as a child, and suddenly he is there again, in that small parish hall, not a care in the world, simpy losing himself to the music and dancing his heart out.

He spins her around, and lifts her, and she clutches onto his hands. She moves her feet intricately between his, and given her usual clumsiness, he is taken aback that she is managing to avoid stepping on his toes.

As the song draws to a halt, there is an intense expression on her face, and he tells himself that the sudden flush of his cheeks and his breathlessness is from the exertion of the activity, nothing else.

The crowd has erupted into tumultuous applause around them, cheering, and Molly curtseys slightly. Sherlock only rolls his eyes, as he pulls her to the side. He pulls out his phone, and checks it, before turning to her again.

He opens his mouth, about to say something, but as their eyes meet, the words seem to catch in his throat. Strands of her hair seem to have escaped from her ponytail, her usually pale skin has taken on a pinkish hue, and there is an unfamiliar brightness in her eyes.

He swallows at thought that he was the one to make her look so ruffled. Although perhaps not exactly the way he would have preferred, his traitorous brain adds, and he ruffles his hair to get rid of the thoughts.

Their eyes are locked for what seems an infinity, before the moment is broken at the sound of the musicians resuming playing, and they immediately look away from each other.

“Miss?” It is the man from before, and this time Sherlock outright scowls at him. “I know I’ve already been rejected once, this evening, and at that point, I wasn’t even aware that you had dancing skills to match your beauty! Forgive me, I can’t allow fear of rejection a second time let me pass up the opportunity to ask you again. Would you do me the honour?”

She giggles slightly at the flattery, and this time, Sherlock knows she is just about to accept, so pre-empting her move, he grabs her hand and begins dragging her towards the room.

“I’m afraid we have to go. We have a taxi waiting for us, and you know how difficult it is to get taxis these days. Especially at this time of night.” He almost shouts the last part, as they are walking so quickly away from the man that they are almost out of the door before he has finished speaking. She attempts to wriggle her hand out of his grip, but he does not let go until they are outside.

When he finally does let go, she flexes her fingers. “Well, where is the taxi?”

“Were you going to say yes?” he asks, ignoring her question, and at her confused look, he elaborates. “To that man. The dance.”

“Oh, him. Yes, I was. I love dancing, and you were hardly going to dance with me again. Besides, I think one rejection was enough for that poor man, wasn’t it?”

He scoffs. “He was hardly poor, Molly. A rich man used to getting his way. Married and divorced five times already. Looking for a sixth, from the way he was complimenting you. Molly, need I remind you that you already have a boyfriend?”

She laughs at this. “No, you need not, although I thought you hated that term?” He grunts, non-committally. “Besides, it was only a dance. I was hardly going to get married to him!”

He mutters to himself under his breath, about “lewd looks” at “my Molly” but before it can descend into a full blown rant, she thankfully decides to change the subject, asking him again where the taxi is.

“There isn’t a taxi,” he responds, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, and her eyes widen, before she sighs.

“Of course there isn’t, you possessive git,” she says, rolling her eyes. He is worried he has angered her, but he cannot stop the ridiculous grin sneaking onto his face, and her expression lightens too. “Well, how are we going to get home, then?”

“Lestrade has managed to apprehend the suspect,” he tells her, as they walk home hand in hand, “thanks to the distraction we provided. Though I must admit, I am surprised you managed to keep up with me.”

I managed to… You arrogant… I’m surprised you -“

He halts her indignant protests by stopping abruptly and pulling her back, a confused frown on his face.

“Molly, I was joking,” he says slowly. “Anyone who witnessed what just happened would agree that your dancing is nothing less than exquisite. And if they do, then they are wrong. Because it is. Exquisite, I mean. As are you.”

There is silence for a moment, as they resume walking, and he wonders when he became so sentimental. Molly’s influence, no doubt. He can hear his brother’s scoff already.

“You were joking?” she asks him, just as they reach her flat. She is unable to keep the incredulity from her tone, and he stops himself rolling his eyes at the fact that this was the part of his declaration which she found most surprising.

“Just giving it a go,” he murmurs, removing his hand from hers, before staring at the ground intently. “Obviously won’t be trying that again.”

She just stares at him, before giggling slightly.

"What?” he asks, looking up at her again, wishing he sounded more annoyed, and less ‘whiney’.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, nonchalantly, placing a hand on the back of his neck and pulling his face down to give him a peck on the nose, “just don’t make jokes, Sherlock. It’s not your area.”

She turns and walks towards her flat, but before she can get very far, he whirls her around and takes her lips between his own.

It never fails to please him when, even after being in a relationship for nearly a year now, he can still make her revert to her old ways with just a well timed kiss.

He, himself, doesn’t get affected, of course. The quickening of his heart rate can be put down to the cold. Dilation of his pupils is just his body’s natural attempt to absorb as much light as possible, in the dark. Of course, the heavy breathing is due to the kiss, but that’s only because of the restricted oxygen.

“Incidentally,” he says, once he has caught his breath, fingers toying with a loose strand of her hair, “where did you learn to dance like that?”

"Mum and dad used to go,” she mutters, her expression falling in that way it always does when she mentions her father. “It just rubbed off on me, I guess. Let me guess, you learnt it on YouTube?”

“Hmm,” he responds, neither agreeing to it nor denying it, but she knows.

“Oh my god. You didn’t, did you? The way you danced, I thought you must have been dancing since you were a child but I just put it down to your usual genius,” she says, giggling. “Oh, don’t tell me you and Mycroft had dancing lessons every Saturday?”

“It was Sunday,” he mumbles, ears turning pink, and this seems to delight her even more, as she drags him down again to kiss his cheek.

“Good night, Sherlock. I had a lovely time. We should do that again,” she tells him.

He utters “goodnight” and watches her walk into her flat. Just as the door closes after her, he grins, and shouts through the keyhole “What about Sunday?”

She doesn’t respond, but he swears he can hear faint laughter, and he walks back home, with a smile on his face.