#loobrealey

 ŧħere is a garden in her ƒace,                             where Ʀoses and white Ḻillies grow                                                                                                                               ― Thomas Campion

Sherlock had been keyed up throughout Watson’s reception but the best/worst moment was his violin solo for the Watsons first dance as Mr&Missus.

As he began the crowd blurred and melded into a shapeless mass but slowly as the Watsons executed a almost flawless waltz Sherlock began to settle in, and as he did his focus settled on the tiny figure of Molly Hooper.

The bright smile on her face spoke volumes, although he doubted she realized the implications of what her body language and expressions revealed to him. His mind did and responded, pouring a wistfulness into the sound that was now evocative as well as technically correct.

At the completion of his performance, Molly was the first to clap and continued to do so enthusiastically. Janine was louder in her acclaim but it was Molly whose gleam of genuine honest pleasure was unmistakable and instantly brought a gratifying joy.

As he removed his boutonniere, a thought crossed his mind and his fingers almost as swiftly responded; his last minute check ensured the boutonniere went within Janine’s reach instead of his original recipient. Hurt Molly was ten times better than a Molly humiliated by Tom’s public reprimands.

And so he stepped down into the gyrating mass coming to a stop. A frisson of Mycrofts jibes rankled him and for a brief moment he sought to prove Mycroft wrong. A query to Janine established her intentions clearly. A wish to seek Molly out was swiftly thwarted, propelling him out instead into the chilled night.