Matchmaker, Matchmaker...
It had, for Watson, been an uncomfortable cab ride, though he was trying not to show it. Though Miss Morstan, beside him, was as charming and sweet and friendly as she ever was, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being unforgiveably cruel, that he was encouraging her in the belief that he had some interest in her. This entire plan was foolish, mad, and doomed to failure, he was sure.
Still, it was straightforward enough. They woud go out to dinner; Holmes would accompany them, as a friend and as a chaperone (not that Watson had ever any serious need of a chaperone in the past, or that Mary was so deicate she needed her virtue protected, which was one thing he liked about her), and Lestrade would be fortuitously present for them to invite along. It might come to nothing, but it was at least worth a try.
If only Mary would lose faith in him first, Watson thought grimly as he ascended the steps to their sitting room. "After you," he said, graciously.
Mary was feeling troubled; she could not quite grasp whether or not she was wasting her time with Dr. Watson. Oh, to be certain, she enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy hers, but he had yet to make any firm strides towards deepening their relationship. He had not attempted a single kiss, not a romantic embrace, nothing. And yet he seemed so warm. Was he that much of a gentleman? Did he really think her that... pristine, that virginal? She was beginning to think that, as out of place as it might have been for a young lady, she might have to be the one to force his hand.
She was, though, beginning to lose hope.
She smiled at him as she entered the sitting room, glancing around to see if Mr. Holmes was in sight. This room brought back memories, not all of them good, but she would be genuinely glad to see the detective in any case. "You haven't mentioned where we're going," Mary said, conversationally. "Or is that supposed to be a surprise?"
Still, it was straightforward enough. They woud go out to dinner; Holmes would accompany them, as a friend and as a chaperone (not that Watson had ever any serious need of a chaperone in the past, or that Mary was so deicate she needed her virtue protected, which was one thing he liked about her), and Lestrade would be fortuitously present for them to invite along. It might come to nothing, but it was at least worth a try.
If only Mary would lose faith in him first, Watson thought grimly as he ascended the steps to their sitting room. "After you," he said, graciously.
Mary was feeling troubled; she could not quite grasp whether or not she was wasting her time with Dr. Watson. Oh, to be certain, she enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy hers, but he had yet to make any firm strides towards deepening their relationship. He had not attempted a single kiss, not a romantic embrace, nothing. And yet he seemed so warm. Was he that much of a gentleman? Did he really think her that... pristine, that virginal? She was beginning to think that, as out of place as it might have been for a young lady, she might have to be the one to force his hand.
She was, though, beginning to lose hope.
She smiled at him as she entered the sitting room, glancing around to see if Mr. Holmes was in sight. This room brought back memories, not all of them good, but she would be genuinely glad to see the detective in any case. "You haven't mentioned where we're going," Mary said, conversationally. "Or is that supposed to be a surprise?"