The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor: Mycroft was the perfect gentleman. Molly had no idea how much so. Written for the sherlockmas 2012 Holiday Fic Exchange.
Rating: G
Word count: 2662
Pairing: Molly/Mycroft
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Warning: Victorian morals, silliness
"My card."
Molly blinked up at the tall, elegantly dressed man in front of her. A cream-coloured card with actual engraved writing was being extended by two long gloved fingers. She took it dumbly and read it.
Mycroft Holmes
Undersecretary to the Minister of Transport
the Diogenes Club
“Oh! You're Sherlock's brother!” she exclaimed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She hated sounding like a schoolgirl with a crush. (Drat the man.) “I, oh, I'm so sorry about what happened, I-”
“Dear Miss Hooper, I do believe this will go more smoothly if the two of us do not keep secrets from one another, hmm?” Mr Holmes leaned forward with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye and beckoned her closer. “Someone must keep the accounts open.”
“I...don't know what you're talking about,” she said gamely, attempting to act innocent.
He chuckled. “Ah, of course. Well. If you happen to encounter our mutual friend, tell him the blue account remains for his usage, although I will require receipts.” Picking up his umbrella, he turned to go.
“Oh! Um, Mr Holmes, here,” she said, fumbling one of her business cards out of her pocket. “In case you, ah, need anything.”
Molly had fully expected him to dismiss her card with a casual tut - after all, he had just walked into her private office, why would he need her card? (Stupid, stupid!) However, his head turned, as if surprised, and the rest of him followed, until those dark eyes peered down at the slightly crumpled card she held out to him.
“Why...yes, of course,” he said slowly. The long, agile hand (like a composer's, she thought muzzily) extracted the card from her small one with not an ounce of wasted movement. “With your permission, I may call upon you in the future, then.”
A small titter escaped her at the formal tone, and she blushed. “Anything I can do,” she got out.
“Excellent,” he smiled, and then he was gone.
Sitting down a bit more heavily than she had expected, Molly took a moment to breathe. (Why had she said that? “Anything I can do”? God, it was Sherlock all over again.) She felt peculiarly flattened, as if a strong wind had blown in and pressed her against the wall.
Clearly, the term “a force to be reckoned with” was invented to describe the Holmes family.
~~~~~
“Meddling busybody!”
In the beginning, Sherlock's outburst would have made Molly quail, but he had been staying with her for days now, and she'd adjusted with a rapidity that would surprise anyone who hadn't gone to med school with her. Now she pulled out the small teapot she'd designated hers and not for Sherlock to touch (or look at, or breathe near), pursed her lips as she considered her small collection of tins, and selected the Sakura blend to go with her berry scone. (No point in paying attention to him when he was in a mood, and besides, the water was almost ready.)
A fumph from the living room made her grin. (Did John think his sulks were funny, too?) “You were only just complaining about not having financial resources yesterday, Sherlock, I'd think you'd be more grateful,” she scolded, assembling her tea on a tray and double-checking the butter knife for Unfortunate Items before adding it and the pot of clotted cream next to her scone on the tray. She carried the tray to the tiny dining area next to the sliding glass door that led to her patio, and incidentally next to the sulking detective on the sofa.
“I thought you were on another diet,” he muttered into the arm of the sofa.
“It's only one scone, and whole wheat,” she said primly. “I thought you were going to eat breakfast.”
There was a guilty silence from the sofa. (Ha!) Smiling, Molly split open her scone and put a very small amount of cream onto the bottom half, smearing it almost invisible. A bit of lemon-ginger marmalade followed, and the top went back on. The silence deepened.
“...I had a cup of coffee,” Sherlock said grudgingly.
“Coffee is not breakfast,” Molly replied sternly.
“What are you, my nanny?” Sherlock rolled over and huffed out of his aristocratic nostrils.
Raising her eyebrows, Molly looked down her nose at him. “I believe I'm the one who helped you fake your own death and then gave you a place to hide.”
“Touché,” he said, then frowned again. “How did Mycroft find you?”
“Just because I'm hiding you doesn't mean I stopped going to work. I expect he figured it out as quickly as you'd have done. He's not exactly stupid,” she said, pulling the strainer out and pouring her tea. “And I'm not exactly hard to find.”
The frown became a scowl. “That should be changed,” he said, the words almost a growl.
“Absolutely not,” Molly replied at once. “If I drop off the radar so soon after your 'death' it looks entirely too suspicious, and you can't afford questions on that front, not until you're secure elsewhere. Don't be a clot because you have walloping great sibling rivalry issues.”
Sherlock smiled slightly against his will. “You were much easier to deal with before I went undercover.”
“You were much more overwhelming before I got to see what a giant five year old you are,” she shot back, and they both grinned.
~~~~~
It had been half a week since the other Holmes brother had strolled into her office and Molly had very nearly convinced herself that her reaction had simply been end-of-shift exhaustion. However, this particular midmorning he'd strolled back in again, impeccable suit, tightly-furled umbrella, leather gloves, and - yes - a pocketwatch in his waistcoat. Sherlock staying with her seemed to have improved her composure, however, because instead of blurting out, “Oh my god you have a pocketwatch?!” she managed, “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Not too much of one, I hope?” Mr Holmes ('Mycroft' seemed too familiar) inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Nnno, not entirely,” she confessed, having badgered Sherlock into letting her talk to Mr Holmes about what was going on. (It was nice to think she had somebody she could talk to about this whole mess, and possibly one who could help, at that!)
“Splendid,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels. “I am informed you have a break in precisely three minutes, would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Just let me finish this bit of paperwork, and I'm all yours,” Molly said, then nearly bit her tongue in half.
~~~~~
The tea had been excellent, a surprise for cafeteria brews, and the company quite congenial. Instead of the expected not-quite-interrogation about Sherlock, Mr Holmes had been most curious about her small activities. Before she knew it, they'd gotten deeply embroiled in a debate about particular tea types, and upon hearing that Molly had a bit of a thing for high-end (for her, any road) flavoured black teas, Mr Holmes had insisted that she allow him to bring a small tin of a blend he particularly favoured the next time he dropped by.
“Oh, look at the time,” she gasped, having turned around to pick up a dropped spoon (casualty of a particularly vigorous gesture on her part) and spotted the clock. Mr Holmes looked mildly embarrassed, and apologised for monopolizing her time. He helped her back into her lab coat (one too many Tea Malfunctions made her paranoid about taking it off) and walked her back to her office before wishing her a good day.
This became a twice-weekly ritual between the two of them. Mr Holmes arrived precisely three minutes prior to her midmorning break, always during her day shift, and after the first day had always made certain to have her back into her office at the end of her break. He held doors for her, pulled out chairs for her, and was every inch the perfect gentleman. (Quite a refreshing change from his impossible brother - her infatuation had been long since crushed under childish temper tantrums and ridiculous behaviour.) After three weeks, Molly had twigged to the tea quality on those days being better than usual, and the half-dozen tiny tins of what Mr Holmes dismissed as “merely fitting your palate” that were knocking about in her desk drawer had been identified as teas that were far beyond her usual price range.
“I think your brother is pleased at the idea of you having a keeper,” Molly announced one day after work, tossing her jumper over the armchair nearest the door. She had finally brought a bag for the gifts of tea to come home with her (all fifteen of them - how on Earth did an undersecretary afford these?), and Sherlock looked up at the clink of the tins. “He certainly makes sure I'm well-compensated in tea, at least!”
“Tea?” Sherlock asked, a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, and today he brought me a daffodil too, isn't that sweet of him? Said he'd gotten a bouquet for his assistant, but the vase he'd gotten for it was too small for all the flowers, and he thought I'd like it. Brightened my whole day!”
“Molly,” Sherlock said slowly, “show me the tea-tins.”
“He hasn't poisoned them, Sherlock, you're too suspicious,” she said, but brought him the bag anyway. He extracted them one by one, the curious expression on his face getting stranger and stranger until he groaned and then burst out laughing. “What?”
“Molly,” Sherlock laughed, putting a hand over his eyes, “did I ever tell you Mycroft has a weakness for Victorian books?”
“Nnno, and I fail to see why you're laughing at my teas,” she said, a bit crossly.
“Did he give you his card, and did you, perchance, give him one of yours?”
“It seemed the polite thing to do.”
“Did you happen to look at the flowers painted on the tops of the tins?”
Molly blinked. “Of course I did, they're exquisitely painted.”
“Do you know what they mean?” Sherlock was positively roaring with laughter now; he was beginning to have a hard time talking.
“They're flowers, I don't know!” she half-shouted. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and counted to ten, backwards, in Latin; again in Greek, just for good measure. When she opened her eyes she saw Sherlock holding his stomach and wiping tears out of his eyes, beginning to calm down.
“Oh, Molly,” he sighed, still grinning hugely, “You have no idea what he's been doing, do you.”
“I would if you would explain it to me.” She did not stamp on her way into the kitchen to start the kettle. (Much.) “I may be smart, but unlike some people I study cadavers, not flowers.”
Sherlock got up and carried the tins to the tiny table by the sliding glass door. “Please line these up in the order he gave them to you, will you?”
“All right,” Molly said uncertainly, and started lining them up to the best of her memory. The grin on Sherlock's face became more and more smug as she did so, until she thought he'd never looked more like Toby with a dead bird.
“Well, well, well. Sentiment, dear brother, how delightfully unexpected of you,” he chortled to himself. “What you fail to understand, dear Molly, is that Mycroft absolutely does not give away his teas, to anyone. They're his private passion, and I daresay using them as his conveyance of courtship makes perfect sense in that regard. The flowers on the tins are ones with particular meanings in the Victorian language of flowers.”
“Oh,” Molly said, starting to understand where this was going.
Sherlock grinned at the look on her face. “Their meanings, in order: gladiolus, he admires your strength of character and conviction. Presumably for putting up with me. Laurestine, a token, of his regard no doubt. Apple blossom, preference, at first for your company, I'd expect. Cowslip, winning grace - he's clearly never seen you before your first pot of tea.”
Molly swatted him on the shoulder. “I'm not clumsy, it's just the floor hates me, the table and chairs are bullies, and the wall gets in the way.”
“Ah, Facebook, depository of Internet witticisms,” Sherlock drawled. “Gardenia, you're lovely. Honeysuckle, devoted affection; he's becoming attached, dear me! Plum blossom, beauty, heliotrope, devotion, and at last he realises - red chrysanthemum, 'I love'.”
“What?!” Molly sank into the sofa, incredulous.
“Indeed, and he grows increasingly more eloquent!” Sherlock looked about to dance with glee. “Blue rose, love at first sight, attaining the impossible; he was completely gobsmacked when he figured out what had happened to 'the Ice Man'. Balsam, ardent love, red daisy, beauty unknown to the possessor - oh god, it's practically juvenile poetry! Clove, undying love, mallow, consumed by love, and finally red carnation, 'Alas for my poor heart!'”
He capered about the room giggling in madcap glee as Molly attempted to make her stubbornly frozen brain function again. How could Mr Holmes - (Mycroft) - ever like her? Love her? She was mousy Molly, who nobody ever wanted to date, and this dashing gentleman was proclaiming himself to her? (Well actually he was giving her flowers on tins. Holmeses were definitely infuriating.)
“So, so what is he doing giving me tins of tea if he wants to...I don't know, take me out?” she finally managed to ask.
“I told you, he's addicted to Victorian novels. I imagine he thinks he's being terribly blunt, possibly even rude - no one to ask permission to take you to tea, no formal chaperone - he's probably writhing in embarrassment over not observing the proper forms.” Sherlock finally sat down, the grin fading to something Molly could accept without wanting to smack him. “This is the best way he could think of for not making his interest too obvious, but still allowing his intentions to be known. I suspect he thought these tins came straight home, so that even if you couldn't read the flowers, I could for you. He knows I'm still here, I've seen his little cameras when I go out.”
“That is...possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” Molly said. “He expects you to read flowers on tins to me proclaiming his love? Has he ever heard of a pick-up line?”
“I honestly think he'd rather walk through Trafalgar Square starkers.” Sherlock scooted precariously onto the edge of the dining chair and leaned on his knees, eyes intent on her. “The daffodil is the proof; obvious excuse aside, an actual flower is his version of a shout.”
“What does it mean?” she asked, staring at the bright yellow flower in its vase on the table.
“Uncertainty, chivalry, respect, unrequited love, and a request for affections to be returned. He can't tell if you don't understand, don't care for him, or are stringing him along; he's trying to be chivalrous, but he wants you to return his feelings or tell him otherwise. Molly, my brother has fallen ridiculously, archaically in love with you. The question is, what do you plan to do about it?”
Slowly, Molly began to grin.
~~~~~
Mr Holmes (Mycroft!) arrived precisely three minutes before her morning break two days after Sherlock and she had sat down together to plot her response. For two days running there had been a vase brim-full with tiny, fragile flowers on her desk, which she replaced each morning. (One of the best things Sherlock had done for her, that “floral consultant” of his.) As he walked in, the scent of lime blossoms rushed over him, and the debonair man she had never seen with so much as a hair out of place looked as if she'd hit him over the head with a board.
Which she had done, so to speak. She couldn't resist a tiny smile of triumph as his eyes met hers in an incredulous question.
“Good morning, Mycroft,” she said demurely. “Fancy a shag after work?”
Rating: G
Word count: 2662
Pairing: Molly/Mycroft
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Warning: Victorian morals, silliness
"My card."
Molly blinked up at the tall, elegantly dressed man in front of her. A cream-coloured card with actual engraved writing was being extended by two long gloved fingers. She took it dumbly and read it.
Mycroft Holmes
Undersecretary to the Minister of Transport
the Diogenes Club
“Oh! You're Sherlock's brother!” she exclaimed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She hated sounding like a schoolgirl with a crush. (Drat the man.) “I, oh, I'm so sorry about what happened, I-”
“Dear Miss Hooper, I do believe this will go more smoothly if the two of us do not keep secrets from one another, hmm?” Mr Holmes leaned forward with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye and beckoned her closer. “Someone must keep the accounts open.”
“I...don't know what you're talking about,” she said gamely, attempting to act innocent.
He chuckled. “Ah, of course. Well. If you happen to encounter our mutual friend, tell him the blue account remains for his usage, although I will require receipts.” Picking up his umbrella, he turned to go.
“Oh! Um, Mr Holmes, here,” she said, fumbling one of her business cards out of her pocket. “In case you, ah, need anything.”
Molly had fully expected him to dismiss her card with a casual tut - after all, he had just walked into her private office, why would he need her card? (Stupid, stupid!) However, his head turned, as if surprised, and the rest of him followed, until those dark eyes peered down at the slightly crumpled card she held out to him.
“Why...yes, of course,” he said slowly. The long, agile hand (like a composer's, she thought muzzily) extracted the card from her small one with not an ounce of wasted movement. “With your permission, I may call upon you in the future, then.”
A small titter escaped her at the formal tone, and she blushed. “Anything I can do,” she got out.
“Excellent,” he smiled, and then he was gone.
Sitting down a bit more heavily than she had expected, Molly took a moment to breathe. (Why had she said that? “Anything I can do”? God, it was Sherlock all over again.) She felt peculiarly flattened, as if a strong wind had blown in and pressed her against the wall.
Clearly, the term “a force to be reckoned with” was invented to describe the Holmes family.
~~~~~
“Meddling busybody!”
In the beginning, Sherlock's outburst would have made Molly quail, but he had been staying with her for days now, and she'd adjusted with a rapidity that would surprise anyone who hadn't gone to med school with her. Now she pulled out the small teapot she'd designated hers and not for Sherlock to touch (or look at, or breathe near), pursed her lips as she considered her small collection of tins, and selected the Sakura blend to go with her berry scone. (No point in paying attention to him when he was in a mood, and besides, the water was almost ready.)
A fumph from the living room made her grin. (Did John think his sulks were funny, too?) “You were only just complaining about not having financial resources yesterday, Sherlock, I'd think you'd be more grateful,” she scolded, assembling her tea on a tray and double-checking the butter knife for Unfortunate Items before adding it and the pot of clotted cream next to her scone on the tray. She carried the tray to the tiny dining area next to the sliding glass door that led to her patio, and incidentally next to the sulking detective on the sofa.
“I thought you were on another diet,” he muttered into the arm of the sofa.
“It's only one scone, and whole wheat,” she said primly. “I thought you were going to eat breakfast.”
There was a guilty silence from the sofa. (Ha!) Smiling, Molly split open her scone and put a very small amount of cream onto the bottom half, smearing it almost invisible. A bit of lemon-ginger marmalade followed, and the top went back on. The silence deepened.
“...I had a cup of coffee,” Sherlock said grudgingly.
“Coffee is not breakfast,” Molly replied sternly.
“What are you, my nanny?” Sherlock rolled over and huffed out of his aristocratic nostrils.
Raising her eyebrows, Molly looked down her nose at him. “I believe I'm the one who helped you fake your own death and then gave you a place to hide.”
“Touché,” he said, then frowned again. “How did Mycroft find you?”
“Just because I'm hiding you doesn't mean I stopped going to work. I expect he figured it out as quickly as you'd have done. He's not exactly stupid,” she said, pulling the strainer out and pouring her tea. “And I'm not exactly hard to find.”
The frown became a scowl. “That should be changed,” he said, the words almost a growl.
“Absolutely not,” Molly replied at once. “If I drop off the radar so soon after your 'death' it looks entirely too suspicious, and you can't afford questions on that front, not until you're secure elsewhere. Don't be a clot because you have walloping great sibling rivalry issues.”
Sherlock smiled slightly against his will. “You were much easier to deal with before I went undercover.”
“You were much more overwhelming before I got to see what a giant five year old you are,” she shot back, and they both grinned.
~~~~~
It had been half a week since the other Holmes brother had strolled into her office and Molly had very nearly convinced herself that her reaction had simply been end-of-shift exhaustion. However, this particular midmorning he'd strolled back in again, impeccable suit, tightly-furled umbrella, leather gloves, and - yes - a pocketwatch in his waistcoat. Sherlock staying with her seemed to have improved her composure, however, because instead of blurting out, “Oh my god you have a pocketwatch?!” she managed, “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Not too much of one, I hope?” Mr Holmes ('Mycroft' seemed too familiar) inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“Nnno, not entirely,” she confessed, having badgered Sherlock into letting her talk to Mr Holmes about what was going on. (It was nice to think she had somebody she could talk to about this whole mess, and possibly one who could help, at that!)
“Splendid,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels. “I am informed you have a break in precisely three minutes, would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Just let me finish this bit of paperwork, and I'm all yours,” Molly said, then nearly bit her tongue in half.
~~~~~
The tea had been excellent, a surprise for cafeteria brews, and the company quite congenial. Instead of the expected not-quite-interrogation about Sherlock, Mr Holmes had been most curious about her small activities. Before she knew it, they'd gotten deeply embroiled in a debate about particular tea types, and upon hearing that Molly had a bit of a thing for high-end (for her, any road) flavoured black teas, Mr Holmes had insisted that she allow him to bring a small tin of a blend he particularly favoured the next time he dropped by.
“Oh, look at the time,” she gasped, having turned around to pick up a dropped spoon (casualty of a particularly vigorous gesture on her part) and spotted the clock. Mr Holmes looked mildly embarrassed, and apologised for monopolizing her time. He helped her back into her lab coat (one too many Tea Malfunctions made her paranoid about taking it off) and walked her back to her office before wishing her a good day.
This became a twice-weekly ritual between the two of them. Mr Holmes arrived precisely three minutes prior to her midmorning break, always during her day shift, and after the first day had always made certain to have her back into her office at the end of her break. He held doors for her, pulled out chairs for her, and was every inch the perfect gentleman. (Quite a refreshing change from his impossible brother - her infatuation had been long since crushed under childish temper tantrums and ridiculous behaviour.) After three weeks, Molly had twigged to the tea quality on those days being better than usual, and the half-dozen tiny tins of what Mr Holmes dismissed as “merely fitting your palate” that were knocking about in her desk drawer had been identified as teas that were far beyond her usual price range.
“I think your brother is pleased at the idea of you having a keeper,” Molly announced one day after work, tossing her jumper over the armchair nearest the door. She had finally brought a bag for the gifts of tea to come home with her (all fifteen of them - how on Earth did an undersecretary afford these?), and Sherlock looked up at the clink of the tins. “He certainly makes sure I'm well-compensated in tea, at least!”
“Tea?” Sherlock asked, a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, and today he brought me a daffodil too, isn't that sweet of him? Said he'd gotten a bouquet for his assistant, but the vase he'd gotten for it was too small for all the flowers, and he thought I'd like it. Brightened my whole day!”
“Molly,” Sherlock said slowly, “show me the tea-tins.”
“He hasn't poisoned them, Sherlock, you're too suspicious,” she said, but brought him the bag anyway. He extracted them one by one, the curious expression on his face getting stranger and stranger until he groaned and then burst out laughing. “What?”
“Molly,” Sherlock laughed, putting a hand over his eyes, “did I ever tell you Mycroft has a weakness for Victorian books?”
“Nnno, and I fail to see why you're laughing at my teas,” she said, a bit crossly.
“Did he give you his card, and did you, perchance, give him one of yours?”
“It seemed the polite thing to do.”
“Did you happen to look at the flowers painted on the tops of the tins?”
Molly blinked. “Of course I did, they're exquisitely painted.”
“Do you know what they mean?” Sherlock was positively roaring with laughter now; he was beginning to have a hard time talking.
“They're flowers, I don't know!” she half-shouted. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and counted to ten, backwards, in Latin; again in Greek, just for good measure. When she opened her eyes she saw Sherlock holding his stomach and wiping tears out of his eyes, beginning to calm down.
“Oh, Molly,” he sighed, still grinning hugely, “You have no idea what he's been doing, do you.”
“I would if you would explain it to me.” She did not stamp on her way into the kitchen to start the kettle. (Much.) “I may be smart, but unlike some people I study cadavers, not flowers.”
Sherlock got up and carried the tins to the tiny table by the sliding glass door. “Please line these up in the order he gave them to you, will you?”
“All right,” Molly said uncertainly, and started lining them up to the best of her memory. The grin on Sherlock's face became more and more smug as she did so, until she thought he'd never looked more like Toby with a dead bird.
“Well, well, well. Sentiment, dear brother, how delightfully unexpected of you,” he chortled to himself. “What you fail to understand, dear Molly, is that Mycroft absolutely does not give away his teas, to anyone. They're his private passion, and I daresay using them as his conveyance of courtship makes perfect sense in that regard. The flowers on the tins are ones with particular meanings in the Victorian language of flowers.”
“Oh,” Molly said, starting to understand where this was going.
Sherlock grinned at the look on her face. “Their meanings, in order: gladiolus, he admires your strength of character and conviction. Presumably for putting up with me. Laurestine, a token, of his regard no doubt. Apple blossom, preference, at first for your company, I'd expect. Cowslip, winning grace - he's clearly never seen you before your first pot of tea.”
Molly swatted him on the shoulder. “I'm not clumsy, it's just the floor hates me, the table and chairs are bullies, and the wall gets in the way.”
“Ah, Facebook, depository of Internet witticisms,” Sherlock drawled. “Gardenia, you're lovely. Honeysuckle, devoted affection; he's becoming attached, dear me! Plum blossom, beauty, heliotrope, devotion, and at last he realises - red chrysanthemum, 'I love'.”
“What?!” Molly sank into the sofa, incredulous.
“Indeed, and he grows increasingly more eloquent!” Sherlock looked about to dance with glee. “Blue rose, love at first sight, attaining the impossible; he was completely gobsmacked when he figured out what had happened to 'the Ice Man'. Balsam, ardent love, red daisy, beauty unknown to the possessor - oh god, it's practically juvenile poetry! Clove, undying love, mallow, consumed by love, and finally red carnation, 'Alas for my poor heart!'”
He capered about the room giggling in madcap glee as Molly attempted to make her stubbornly frozen brain function again. How could Mr Holmes - (Mycroft) - ever like her? Love her? She was mousy Molly, who nobody ever wanted to date, and this dashing gentleman was proclaiming himself to her? (Well actually he was giving her flowers on tins. Holmeses were definitely infuriating.)
“So, so what is he doing giving me tins of tea if he wants to...I don't know, take me out?” she finally managed to ask.
“I told you, he's addicted to Victorian novels. I imagine he thinks he's being terribly blunt, possibly even rude - no one to ask permission to take you to tea, no formal chaperone - he's probably writhing in embarrassment over not observing the proper forms.” Sherlock finally sat down, the grin fading to something Molly could accept without wanting to smack him. “This is the best way he could think of for not making his interest too obvious, but still allowing his intentions to be known. I suspect he thought these tins came straight home, so that even if you couldn't read the flowers, I could for you. He knows I'm still here, I've seen his little cameras when I go out.”
“That is...possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” Molly said. “He expects you to read flowers on tins to me proclaiming his love? Has he ever heard of a pick-up line?”
“I honestly think he'd rather walk through Trafalgar Square starkers.” Sherlock scooted precariously onto the edge of the dining chair and leaned on his knees, eyes intent on her. “The daffodil is the proof; obvious excuse aside, an actual flower is his version of a shout.”
“What does it mean?” she asked, staring at the bright yellow flower in its vase on the table.
“Uncertainty, chivalry, respect, unrequited love, and a request for affections to be returned. He can't tell if you don't understand, don't care for him, or are stringing him along; he's trying to be chivalrous, but he wants you to return his feelings or tell him otherwise. Molly, my brother has fallen ridiculously, archaically in love with you. The question is, what do you plan to do about it?”
Slowly, Molly began to grin.
~~~~~
Mr Holmes (Mycroft!) arrived precisely three minutes before her morning break two days after Sherlock and she had sat down together to plot her response. For two days running there had been a vase brim-full with tiny, fragile flowers on her desk, which she replaced each morning. (One of the best things Sherlock had done for her, that “floral consultant” of his.) As he walked in, the scent of lime blossoms rushed over him, and the debonair man she had never seen with so much as a hair out of place looked as if she'd hit him over the head with a board.
Which she had done, so to speak. She couldn't resist a tiny smile of triumph as his eyes met hers in an incredulous question.
“Good morning, Mycroft,” she said demurely. “Fancy a shag after work?”