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How To Properly Ask A Pathologist To Dinner

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“You have remarkably good taste in clothing.”

Molly jumped slightly at the sound of the woman behind her. Normally she heard the clicking of Irene’s heels when she paid a visit to the morgue to see her, though why she did Molly really had no idea. They weren’t exactly friends. Irene was Sherlock’s...problem, she supposed. Penance, perhaps? She had faked her death for a time, but now that Moriarty’s network was gone and Magnussen was dead, Sherlock’s brother had need of Irene’s...unique brand of services...and Sherlock was her babysitter. Caretaker.

Whatever.

It was all so very complicated, especially with the implication she and Sherlock had had some sort of relationship at some point…

...and Molly wasn’t sure these days who she was more jealous of if that was the case, Irene or Sherlock.

She wouldn’t deny a part of her still fancied Sherlock. A part of her probably always would. But they had settled into something that was much closer to a true, actual friendship, and it was nice. She enjoyed it. It was rather meaningful and pleasant. And it was special to her. But Irene...if she wasn’t sure, Irene might be flirting, in her own way. And it made her feel...vibrant. Rather sexy. Much sexier than when Moriarty had flirted, or than Tom. A woman like Irene noticing her? There was something to that that was a boost to the ego.

And she was gorgeous. She didn’t wear her hair up all the time in that rather posh hairstyle. It was down now more or in French twists, or ponytails or low buns. And sometimes Molly would daydream about running her fingers through it while her other hand did...things. And her lips did...other things.

Maybe she was getting a crush. She didn’t know. But it felt strange. Not bad strange, not entirely. But...different. And she’d wanted to figure out what it all meant, so she’d avoided Irene.

But Irene just was not going to avoid her, apparently.

Molly turned and saw her holding up the Barts newsletter, with pictures from the holiday party the month before. She’d gone alone and decided to make a splash. Bought a designer gown at discount from a website, a red Herve Leger bandage gown in a colour called Lipstick Red that hugged her body in all the right places. She’d worn her hair in a sleek French twist and worn a diamond necklace that belonged to her mother and simple diamond studs. She’d felt beautiful, for a bit.

Until the men got pissed and began pawing at her.

Then she just felt that there was no reason to have gotten all dolled up. They just wanted to get in her knickers. That was all men wanted, wasn’t it?

“I suppose,” she said, turning back to her autopsy report.

“I have the same dress, in black. It feels divine, doesn’t it?” Irene said, parking her arse on the edge of Molly’s desk. “Tight where it should be tight. The flowing skirt that goes down to the floor, making you need to wear heels that give you a few inches height and leverage on men. The scoop back and neckline showing just enough flesh to satiate, to titillate, but still keeping secrets.”

“Unfortunately,” Molly said.

Irene leaned forward. “Men don’t deserve a dress like that. Women...women deserve that dress. Another woman will appreciate it, the feel of it, the look of it. They’ll unzip it slowly, peel it off slowly, caress the skin that shows with their fingers and their lips...”

Molly felt herself warm and nearly jumped out of her skin when Irene’s fingertips brushed Molly’s hair away from her shoulder and grazed the skin at the nape of her neck. “So you would appreciate it?” she asked, barely getting the words out.

“Wear it for me, and you might find out,” Irene said. “Tonight, at eight. Alain Ducasse. I’ll be waiting.” With that, she got off the desk and walked away, leaving the newsletter on the desk in her place. Molly blinked, then looked down at the picture of her in the dress before smiling a bit. Apparently, tonight she just might get an answer to everything she had been thinking and wondering about...