You are seeing true, my dears. I've updated (again!)
To those (both new and old!) that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc you guys are awesome! Seriously amazing. I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think.
Reviews and sharing your thoughts really do spur me into writing (I know it may not seem like it because of how long it takes to update but it truly does. I re-read y'all's reviews constantly.) I smile every time I get an e-mail notification (when FFN sends out notifications…). I appreciate the time you guys take to write reviews. So please do so if you can.
Also, this isn't beta-ed at all so any mistakes or roughness is all mine. I've looked it over several times but I'm sure I missed something.
"How'd it go?" John didn't even deign to look up from his crossword when the door opened, signaling Sherlock's arrival.
"You liked my fan page?"
This did cause him to look up. "What? The Facebook one?" How in the hell did he find out about that? Sherlock didn't have Facebook or any internet presence besides his website.
Sherlock collapsed into his chair. His eyes were narrow slits of ice as he glared at John. "Is there more than one?"
John cleared his throat, averting his eyes from his flat mate and back to the crossword puzzle. Sherlock had the look that John had only seen during impromptu visits from Mycroft. Best not tell him about the other fan communities lurking on the Internet. "No, no, of course not. What brought this up?"
"Molly told me during dinner. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you," John defended himself. He just happened to conveniently be in his mind palace at the time and unaware of the world.
Sherlock let out a snort of disbelief.
John shrugged. It was true and he knew Sherlock could see it on his face. The doctor may have some tricks from hiding things from his annoyingly brilliant flat mate but most of the time Sherlock saw right through him. Seriously, what does his yawn have to do with what he wants for dinner?
Sherlock's slumped into his chair, letting his head rest against the back of the chair. "The date was fine. Fairly standard from what I've read. Saw a show, ate dinner, escaped a mad cabbie-"
John's eyebrows rose at that. "Another mad cabbie?" Sherlock may tease him about being kidnapped (which was only once, thank you very much. He went willingly with Mycroft's and Irene's minions) but Sherlock had a serious cabbie problem. For a man so observant, he really did not know anything about the people who chauffeured him around.
Sherlock waved his hand languidly. "Not important. Where was I? Oh, escorted her home, using my usual cab company, had some tea and came back. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"I didn't ask what you did, I asked how it went. Did you enjoy it? Are you and Molly still speaking to each other? Did you cause yet another divorce?"
Poor couple hadn't even seen superstorm Sherlock coming or else they probably would not have asked him to take their photo. And Sherlock would never have revealed that the bloke was shagging the gardener behind his husband's back.
"That only happened once," Sherlock defended. "Well, once in the time you've known me. To answer your question, it was diverting enough. Dinner was more enjoyable than sitting silent at the show. Though Molly has no problems with talking to her shows, apparently she frowns on talking in the theater. I picked up a few tricks that may be useful in the future."
"So not as interesting as a triple murder?"
Sherlock's head shot up, his body tense with anticipation. "Why? Has that happened? Did Lestrade phone?"
"No, I was just using it as an example."
Sherlock sunk back down into his chair. "Ugh. It's been too long since I've had a case-"
"You had one yesterday!"
"-I can feel my brain dying from misuse."
Oh honestly. "Why don't you plan what you're going to do with Molly for your date? That'll keep you occupied."
"No it won't. I already know what I'm doing."
Sherlock hopped out of the chair and stretched, sending shivers down John's back as Sherlock cracked his back and neck. Like nails on a chalkboard. "Of course, I do. It's not exactly brain surgery, John."
John just shook his head and went back to his crossword. If it wasn't for that fact that it would probably end up with Molly getting hurt, he would have wished for Sherlock to fail spectacularly at this. He could use a mouthful of humble pie.
A hand fell on his shoulder, startling John. "Number 9 down is 'wiseacre'"
"Oi!" He hated when people told him the answers to the crossword he was working on. Something that Sherlock knew and therefore tried to do as frequently as possible.
Molly carefully balanced her flannel wrapped bag of frozen peas on her ankle. It was a mild sprain, most likely fixed by some rest and painkillers but no harm in being careful.
Besides, who knows how old these peas are? Probably not suitable for consumption. Molly peeked at the expiration date on the bag. Oof, September of 2011. Well, at least it's getting some use now.
Molly fluffed the pillow under her ankle and settled herself into bed. Tomorrow was her day off and she was treating herself to a nice long lie in. Bless Toby and his love of sleep that keeps him from waking her at obscenely early hours for a feeding.
Molly reached over and grabbed her mobile off the side table. Best make sure her alarm is off now and her phone is on silent. She didn't want any calls from her boss asking her to come in nor did she want to be bombarded with questions from Sam and Meena. If those two were cats, their curiosity would have killed them long ago. They can wait until they and few of their other mates go out to dinner on Saturday. The interrogation was going to happen, even she knew better than to try and stop it, but it was going to happen on her terms and at one time.
The light on her mobile was flashing, indicating that she had a text. Sweet Jesus, Meena and Sam wasted absolutely no time. Molly tapped her message app open.
Sherlock: Noon Friday. 221b. Dress comfortably and weather appropriate. I'll provide trousers-SH
"What?" What the hell were they doing that Sherlock felt he had to provide her appropriate trousers? Obviously something outside. A hike? Molly immediately dismissed the idea. She had never met a man less suited for a serene nature hike.
Molly: You're getting me trousers? Why?-Mx
Sherlock: For our next outing and no I'm not going to tell you in advanced. -SH
She sank into the pillows, tucking her duvet under her chin. There's a chance that she may be in over her head.
His experience in staying at Molly's flat after faking his death proved to be quite helpful when it came to dating Molly. Besides learning some of her likes (perfumes: mostly spicy and floral) and dislikes (dogs dressed as humans and chickpeas), Sherlock had also filed away more precise information regarding Molly's size. Her shapeless clothes concealed her figure, making it difficult to accurately deduce her measurements. According to his research (mostly lad's mags), buying a woman the wrong size of clothing, it didn't matter if it was too small or too large, can lead to an uncomfortable interaction at best and an emotional outburst at worst.
Thankfully the required trousers were very forgiving in sizing. Sherlock took the trousers out of the parcel, examining it carefully. Satisfactory quality and size, indeed. He ripped the tags off the breeches, tossing them over his shoulder, and threw the garment on the bed. Molly should be here soon enough.
"So, I'm off to meet Mike. I'll make sure not to return until-What the hell are you wearing?" John paused in the middle of putting on his coat to stare at his flat mate.
Sherlock glanced down the hall. "What do you mean?"
"You're wearing a tartan shirt!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly, he did own casual clothes. He wasn't Mycroft. "It would be inappropriate to wear a suit to where I'm going. It'll just get ruined. Besides. I hate polos."
John shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. "Right. Well, I'll make myself scare, I suppose. Good luck with…whatever you're doing."
"Unnecessary, but appreciated I suppose."
Molly bounced on her feet, waiting to be let into 221. It was a touch too chilly, as the weather began to flirt in earnest with winter. Maybe she should have worn a coat instead of just a puffer vest and a zip up.
Well, that's the price she paid for trying to be fashionable.
The door swung open at the same time she started debating whether or not she should knock again (the doorbell was apparently disabled with a note taped above it saying, 'if your case is interesting enough, you'll find a way to get my attention.') when the door swung open. "Ah. Right on time, excellent. C'mon then." Sherlock spun on his heel and jogged back up the steps.
Molly followed him at a more leisurely pace. Mostly because it gave her time to admire Sherlock's bum in his jeans. Just because he was gay doesn't mean she can't admire. "So what's this about trousers?" she asked when she stepped into the sitting room.
Sherlock shrugged on a short vaguely military styled jacket. "They're on my bed. Our appointment is in half an hour. We should leave in the next ten minutes since traffic will be horrific." He peeked out the front window. "Wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft started another war."
"Okay… now why did you buy me trousers?"
"Oh that." Sherlock whirled around to face her with a grin. "You don't have anything appropriate. The jeans you own are too tight to be comfortable and likely to rub in, let's say uncomfortable, places. Any suitable trousers you have are what you consider to be fancy dress trousers. You'd be reluctant to wear them despite the fact that you rarely have the occasion to wear them. It seemed more expedient and practical to just obtain appropriate trousers for you."
"Well," Molly started awkwardly, "I'll just go put them on then."
Sherlock's room was not how she imagined it would be. Molly figured it would be an extension of the madness that was the rest of 221b. In contrast it was rather clean, the mess confined to the one bookshelf where busts, books, and beakers were tossed together haphazardly.
The gray garment lay innocently on the bed, a dark blot on the duvet. She fingered the soft stretchy material. "And here I always figured that the first piece of clothing a bloke bought me would be more sexy and lace and less tracksuit and cottony."
Molly kicked off her shoes and quickly changed, keeping an eye on the door. Sherlock probably wouldn't barge in on her but he did have problems with boundaries sometimes. All right, a lot of times. Okay, he always had problems with boundaries.
She made her way back out, jeans thrown over her shoulder. "I'm ready."
"Good, the cab's here. You can just leave your jeans here, we'll be back later to eat."
"You going to tell me what we're doing?" Molly asked. The trousers were more form fitting than not and rather comfortable. However the snugness of the trousers made her trainer clad feet look disproportionately large.
"Oh you'll see." Sherlock opened the door with a flourish, motioning her to head downstairs.
Oh she has a bad feeling about this.
Molly did a rather good job on organizing their previous date, all things considering. She put thought and effort into choosing the events and venues. After hearing about the other dating possibilities she picked out, such as an exhibit on life and death in Pompeii, it was clear that she carefully selected each one keeping in mind his need to keep his brain stimulated.
When his mind was stimulated and used to its fullest ability, he can ignore his body's needs and conserve his energy, delegating even the simplest tasks to others, usually John. However, when his mind was not sufficiently challenged, he often turned to physical activity to make up the difference. Boxing, singlesticks, fencing, all helped keep his mind and body sufficiently occupied to stop him from going mad with idleness.
Which lead him to today's activities.
"Sherlock!" Molly called. Sherlock turned around to see Molly jogging to catch up. In his excitement, he forgot to wait for Molly to exit the cab before he started down the mews. Damn, not a good start. He halted immediately, allowing her to come abreast.
"Our destination is right up ahead." Sherlock couldn't see it yet but he certainly could smell it. The pleasant smell of earthy wood chips and sweet hay mixed with the not so pleasant aroma of sweat and defecation. Sherlock inhaled deeply, a smile creeping on his face. It smelled of childhood and the precious afternoons his father would spend with him, and only him. Afternoons of riding double, urging Daddy to make the horse go just a little bit faster. Afternoons where his father was an admiral hunting down the dread pirate Sea Shark Holmes or Sea Shark Holmes' rival, Red Bellied Robin. Afternoons cut short by a ruptured cerebral artery. An artery that shoved an adolescent Mycroft into the role as parent, while their mother spiraled into a depression that took months for her to crawl out of. Sherlock shook his head, clearing away the unwanted memories.
"Oh my God." Molly stared at the white washed building. "Are you serious?"
"Yes." Sherlock stepped aside, allowing a skewbald to pass by into the stable. "Are you ready?"
Molly just nodded, her eyes wide in childlike excitement. "I've never ridden before."
"Good. You'll have no bad habits to break."
Sherlock either had Mycroft pull strings (unlikely) or someone at the stables owed him a favor (more likely). Either way, the requirement for an employee to accompany them about the park was waved. Sherlock assured her that with he was more than capable of teaching her the basics of riding.
"The horses here are extremely docile, almost boringly so. You'd have to try to make them misbehave. When you improve, I'll introduce to horses with more spirit. They're far more interesting. For now," Sherlock checked the tape on the back of the bay's saddle, "Guinness should be sufficient."
Molly looked at the brown horse nervously. It was huge. Ridiculously so. The top of its head was over a foot above hers. Molly knew that horses were big but standing next to it, her excitement was quickly being replaced with anxiety. Sherlock actually wanted her to ride that thing? Did he know that it could think and move all on its own without her direction?
"Maybe I should just pet Guinness and call it a day?"
Sherlock stroked Guinness's neck and leading him around the paddock, ignoring her all the while. "Horses can sense anxiety, so act comfortable and relaxed around him. And no, you can't just pet him; you're going to ride him. Come over here and trust me."
Molly took a deep breath and walked over as confidently as she could. "I'm confident. I'm relaxed. I can do this. I am confident."
Sherlock chuckled as she finally walked up beside him. "First off, you're going to mount him. Put your left foot," Sherlock tapped the stirrup, "in here and you'll stand up, grab the saddle, swinging your other leg over and into the other stirrup."
"Right." Molly stuck her foot in the stirrup and tried to stand. And failed. "I think it's the boots." The stable provided riding boots that made her trousers; excuse herjodhpurs not trousers, look less ridiculous.
"No it's not. Try again."
Molly tried again, clawing at the saddle but unable to get past the critical point. The horse was just too damn high. Didn't they make smaller horses? How the hell do people get on this thing? Despite all her activity in the morgue, she still lacked the upper body strength to hoist herself up. "Isn't there supposed to be like a huge knob for me to hold onto?"
Molly turned bright red when Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. "Not that type of knob. You know what I meant."
"The uh, knob," Again with the smartarse laugh! "you're talking about is a western pommel. English saddles, like this one, are styled differently. Now, do it again, this time let's try to actually get on the horse."
Molly gritted her teeth and stood up again, this time getting a boost from Sherlock, and swung her foot over. "Hey! I'm up! Oh my God, I'm up."
Sherlock patted her calf and handed her the reins. "Remember: calm and confident. I'm going to mount Syd. I'll be right over."
"Syd? Your horse's name is Syd?" Molly turned in the saddle to watch Sherlock. Her stomach lurched as she watched him effortless mount his piebald gelding. The horse didn't look anything like a Syd. Maybe an Oreo but certainly not a Syd.
Sherlock ruffled the horse's mane affectionately before walking him over to her. Oh, she could definitely get used to riding if it meant seeing Sherlock like this. Molly shook her head, sending her helmet sliding to the right.
"You need to tighten your helmet," Sherlock scolded.
Molly glowered at him, as she pulled on the strap. "You're not even wearing a helmet!"
"I've been riding since I was three years old," Sherlock shot back.
"So? Safety first." Molly sat straight up in her saddle, trying to look as haughty as possible. An effect ruined when Guinness danced a little beneath her, making her grasp the pommel in terror.
"I'll put a helmet on as soon as we ride out into the park. Now, let's work on your alignment and holding the reins."
Molly furrowed her brow and looked down at her hands. "There's a wrong way to hold the reins?"
Forty-five minutes later, they finally headed towards the park proper. Sherlock taught Molly how to position herself, direct her horse, stop her horse, and walked with her around the enclosure until she was comfortable.
"Later, I'll teach you how to trot."
"What? I literally have a ton of animal under me and you want me to make it run?"
"It's just trotting, not a canter or a gallop. You'll be fine. Sit up straight. Heels down."
Molly immediately altered her position. Molly had a feeling that she would be hearing 'heels down' a lot this afternoon. "Did you choose this just so you can boss me around?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," Sherlock said, turning onto the wide dirt path hallmarking Rotten Row. "I boss you around even when we're not riding."
Well. She couldn't really deny it, now could she?
"What do you know about Rotten Row?" Sherlock asked.
"Besides it being a popular place in romance books? Nothing really, except for the fact it goes to the Serpentine." She wondered what it would be like, riding down this path a hundred and fifty years ago, decked out in a riding habit and surrounded by the upper crust. It must have looked lovely, all the different colors of ladies dress and the variety of horses.
"It's over a kilometer long. We'll walk down to the Serpentine and on our way back I'll teach you how to trot. Do you know why it's called Rotten Row? Heels down."
Molly scowled. She hated not being good at things immediately. It was one of the reasons she never excelled at drawing, no patience for it. She didn't have to be an expert immediately but she liked activities where she showed potential at least. "I have no idea." She assumed it smelled bad. All the horse poop and people sweat. Not to mention who knows what the sewage system was like back then?
Sherlock launched into an explanation. "'Rotten Row' was originally called Route du Roi before being corrupted…"
Molly sat back and let Sherlock talk. He liked showing off his knowledge, as well as showing off in general, and there was little he did not know about London. She was content to let his voice wash over her, giving her the history of Rotten Row as they rode leisurely down the path.
…first artificially lit highway in England-heels down, Molly."
"I am going to be hearing 'heels down' in my dreams tonight."
Sherlock handed Syd off to a stable hand, with an affectionate pat on his neck. Though more docile than he preferred his mounts, he was a good horse. "I didn't have to say it as much near the end." Sherlock spotted her dismount as another worker held Guinness's reins.
"Whoa," Molly exclaimed, stumbling, her foot caught in the stirrup.
He quickly grabbed her waist, steadying her. "It's all right. I have you."
"Thanks." Molly looked up at him and he involuntary tightened his grip. "This was absolutely brilliant, Sherlock."
"I look forward to taking you out riding again." Watching Molly grow more confident in her riding, knowing he taught her, was one of the best parts of the ride. He couldn't wait until she was confident enough to go beyond Hyde Park and their tame, docile horses.
Molly blinked suddenly and pulled away. "I think John will enjoy this also. It's a good idea for a date. Maybe the three of us can go riding once you two have settled in." She turned away to stroke Guinness. "Thanks for not killing me you smelly beast."
Guinness snorted as he was lead away to his stall to be taken care of.
Sherlock took off his helmet, running his fingers through his flattened curls. This façade has truly become tedious. Tonight he will explain everything to her. How he was going to do it remained to be seen. Hopefully, an opportunity will present itself.
"I have to admit, you were more patient with me than I expected." Molly unbuckled her helmet but didn't remove it. "I thought you would have given up on me after I kept dropping the reins."
Sherlock shrugged. He was a bit surprised at how patient he was too. Probably because Molly's mistakes weren't from carelessness but inexperience, he had little patience for careless or stupid people. Molly's mistakes were mostly made when she was concentrating on correcting some other issue such as her posture. "A cab's waiting to take us back to Baker Street."
"For food?" Molly looked at him, hope written across her face. "I am a bit peckish." As if on cue, her stomach rumbled loudly. "Okay, I'm more than a bit peckish."
"I'll order some takeaway while you return the boots. The food be waiting for us when we return, though I do have other meal plans." Sherlock pulled out his mobile, ready to text the nearest Chinese shop. Dumplings and some egg rolls will take the edge off and they were always quick with his order. No need to ruin her appetite for dinner. For the first time in ages, he was actually excited to prepare a meal.
Molly walked slowly up the stairs behind Sherlock. Her arse and back were killing her. Every step made her muscles throb. Stupid Guinness and his stupid bouncing walk. There was a reason horses were replaced by cars and Molly was fairly sure the aches she felt right now was the reason. The moment she got home tonight she was going to take a long, hot bath. Oh yes, that sounded brilliant. Pour herself a glass of wine or perhaps a cuppa, depending upon her mood. Grab a magazine or a book for entertainment. Maybe she'll even pull out one of those bath bomb things she keeps getting from people at assorted holidays. No candles though, some cliché boundaries were not to be crossed.
Hopefully the bath bomb won't turn her blue or anything. That would be embarrassing.
Sherlock was bustling through the kitchen, pulling out ingredients and instruments and throwing them on the table when Molly finally made it up the stairs. Molly gingerly sat down on the stool, opening the styrofoam container that was holding her dumplings. True to his word, the food was waiting for them as soon as they arrived.
She breathed in deeply. Oh yes. The smell of ginger, pork and oil tickled her nose. This was just what the doctor ordered. Molly picked up the plastic fork and dove in. She just barely kept from moaning in appreciation. This was the most delicious thing she could imagine right now.
"Want one?" She asked, offering up a dumpling after inhaling half the order. Molly really hoped Sherlock would say no but it seemed polite to at least offer.
Sherlock grabbed the dumpling off her fork and popped it into his mouth with a nod of thanks. He turned his attention to straightening the supply-laden table.
Molly held up a pipette and a syringe. "What exactly are we eating tonight?" Was that a bottle of distilled water on the table?
"We are creating and then eating some molecular gastronomy masterpieces. Food and science." Sherlock bent to the side and placed a metal dewar on the table with bright yellow 'Caution: Liquid Nitrogen' sticker on the side on the table.
"Oh my God. This is going to be amazing." Molly didn't mind cooking but she wouldn't say it was something she looked forward to doing. However cooking with liquid nitrogen might just change her mind.
Sherlock grinned boyishly at her. "My thoughts exactly."
"This is so incredibly weird," Molly said, taking a bite of her warm maple ice cream.
"More so than the arugula spaghetti?"
"Oh yeah. Ice cream that's hot? It's really screwing with me."
Several hours of experimenting had passed and they were finally on the dessert portion of their meal. The food wasn't what Sherlock would consider satisfying but it was certainly different and definitely not boring. Creating the variety of dishes lead to arguments of the science and processes behind it. Sherlock loved debating with Molly about chemistry. Mostly because he tended to win as Molly's strengths leaned more towards biology.
"This is better than the shrimp." Skewering shrimp on pipettes filled with cocktail sauce was quite the cop out, in his opinion. It was a disappointing start to their venture.
"The shrimp wasn't bad, it was just boring. I really liked the egg foam though not as much as the potato gnocchi foam."
"That one was satisfactory." Much more interesting than the shrimp. Creating alginate baths and whipping the potato into foam was rather enjoyable. If all cooking was done with pressurized containers and graduated cylinders, he would do this much more often. Though the labor intensive process with little output was a bit off putting.
"Are you still disappointed that you couldn't use the liquid nitrogen?" Molly rested her head on her hand and gave him a knowing look.
Sherlock took another bite of his dessert, refusing to answer her. He was not going to admit how annoyed he was to learn that the chocolate dessert had a 12 hour wait before it could be placed in the liquid nitrogen. He was prepared to ignore the wait time but Molly had threatened to call Mrs. Hudson if he tried it. Perhaps after Molly leaves and Mrs. Hudson takes her soothers he'll do it.
"Don't worry, tomorrow you can play with the liquid nitrogen."
"Cut the tone, Molly," Sherlock said sullenly. There was no need to tease him.
Molly gave a short good-natured laugh, the way she always did when she managed to provoke him. "Do you want to see how our desiccated raspberry caramel crisp which is not actually a crisp is doing?"
"Might as well," Sherlock said, pulling the Tupperware towards him. The raspberry dessert was not exactly difficult but it was tedious. He very nearly threw the whole thing across the room in frustration. There were only so many times can he could cock up the isomalt process before losing his temper. Especially since he didn't even fancy raspberries. The only thing saving the concoction from being smeared across a bullet ridden smiley face was Molly shooing him off to figure out the whipping siphon. She took over making the dish while he injected the gnocchi foam into the calcium bath. The raspberry crisp was the only dish she solely created. She very politely, and later not so politely, had him bog off every time he tried to lend a hand.
The self satisfied smile on her face when she snapped the lid on its contain along with the desiccant packets was all he needed to see to know how proud she was of it. Molly scooted her chair over next to him for a better view. Sherlock slowly undid the lid, knowing that every second of delay would annoy her. Molly huffed as he took his time opening it up.
Molly let out a cry of delight. "Perfect! Look at it!" She reached over and pulled out the thin crisp sweet. She examined it carefully, grinning all the while before breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. Molly let out a moan of delight. "It even tastes good." She held out a piece for him to take.
Sherlock leaned forward and ate the piece out of her hand instead, keeping his eyes locked on her. The sweet thin caramel threaded through the crisp mixed with the tart raspberry perfectly. Molly's breath hitched when his tongue brushed her finger. He closed his lips around her fingers, sucking on them as he pulled off her fingers. His mind was telling him that this was not the way he wanted to tell Molly that he never wanted to date John. He was going to lead her through his logic process, letting her know exactly why he did what he did.
Molly would understand why he did it. She would see through his explanation and know that this was his way of dealing with his inexperience, to gather and sort data. Molly may think it was misguided but she knows he's not like other men. She accepted that he was not like other people and that he would be no different even in the mundane ritual of dating.
"Sher-" His name was cut off when his hand slid up to cup her cheek, urging her towards him. Sherlock leaned in and placed a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.
Her skin tasted of the bitter camphor of moisturizer and the talc of her make up. Where his lips met hers, the sticky raspberry and caramel of her crisp still lingered. Sherlock pulled away slightly to smell her hair. Tea tree oil, most likely because of her eczema, and the faint vaguely metallic scent of sweat and earthy horse, a souvenir of their ride. The faintest aroma of her perfume; fresh and vaguely fruity clung to her. He wanted to whisper her name but was afraid it would shatter the scene. Explanations would be given soon enough but presently he wanted to hold on to this brief moment.
The bang of a door flying open caused Molly to jerk away.
"John," she gasped, her eyes wide in horror at the grocery-laden doctor's startled face.