Valentine's Day Fics! (Part One)
VALENTINE'S DAY FICS FOR SOME OF MY FAVORITE LADIES:
FOR ISH:
Molly leans into the mirror, frowning in concentration as she tries to fix her makeup instead of smearing it. Lipstick, she thinks fiercely, should not be so difficult. She pulls a tissue and blots her lips on it and then pulls back, crinkling her nose as she examines herself. Ugh. Well, David's going to be here soon, and she's still barefoot, so she leaves the tissue on the counter and half-trips over Toby as she rushes back to her bedroom, the slinky dress making her feel two parts nude and one part vulnerable. Which is when there's a knock on the door, of course, and she tugs on her heels as she turns and goes back to the door, trying to fix her hair on the way, because he's early, which is completely unfair, because her purse is still spread out on the kitchen table and shit is that condom in sight? She yanks the door open, a little breathless, and then falls back in confusion.
“Sherlock?” she says. “I have a date, I can't get you into Barts or whatever right now, I have to finish getting-” she breaks off, because he's swept past her into her flat and he's clearly too busy looking around to be listening to her. “Look,” she tries again, “David will be here any-”
“I called David and canceled,” Sherlock says. She vaguely realizes she's staring at him with her mouth open, because the nerve of that, and how dare he and-“I brought you chocolates,” he says awkwardly, sweeping a painfully pink box out from beneath his coat. “John said I should,” he adds, somewhat petulantly. “And Mycroft made reservations,” he says, somehow sounding both nervous and completely derisive of the entire ordeal.
“What?” she finally says, but this isn't making any sense at all, and now she's evidently alone on the most awful holiday of the year because Sherlock-well, actually, she's not at all sure why.
“Get your coat,” Sherlock says, impatiently, and it's not until she's actual sitting down in one of the best restaurants in the city that she finally realizes what he's been refusing to say.
FOR MAURA
Malfoy's not precisely having the best of days. It's pouring out, and he's paired with Granger for this stake out, and just because he didn't have plans for the night didn't mean he wanted to be spending the day here. Besides, her hair smells weirdly good and it's distracting, and of course trust Granger to distract him when they're on an important Auror mission. This is probably all her fault anyway. At least he's out of those offices, with the red hearts plastered everywhere and the sickening exchange of chocolates and candies and if he had to stumble upon one more couple ducking into cupboards and empty rooms to make out-
Still. It doesn't mean he wants to be stuck out here with Hermione and her good-smelling hair. Granger. Granger. She glances over at him, frowning at the utterly disgruntled look on his face.
“Malfoy?” she asks, because see, she remembers that they're Malfoy and Granger, and her and her stupid hair and her stupid smile should never be Hermione, not even in his mind. “You all right?”
“I'm fine,” he practically growls, and he sees her suppress a smile with an almost fond look, and it just ticks him off more. Just because they're always getting stuck working together, because they might happen to make an excellent team, and he might have noticed that they have a better instinct and teamwork than he's had with any other Auror (or possibly person) does not mean she ever gets to send him fond looks.
“I can see, what with that throbbing vein in your forehead,” she says, full out smiling by now, and he makes some sort of choking noise deep in his throat that he didn't even know he was capable of making. Enough is enough, he thinks, and braces himself to let her know exactly what he thinks of her, and completely tear her down, but somewhere along the line he leans into her instead, his eyes meeting hers, his fingers curling into the edge of her cloak as if to ground himself.
“Hermione,” he says, and her eyes have gone wide, but there's something else there, too, something besides amusement and grudging affection, and it's enough for him to lean in that little bit more, and enough for her to meet him in the middle, her eyes fluttering shut as he kisses her.
FOR AL
Sherlock glances up at John and then pauses with a frown. Something is off.
“Sherlock?” John says, his eyebrows going questioning, but his mouth-his mouth is trying for innocent! He starts to look at the rest of him-at his coat that-
John lets out a put-upon sigh and then lunges forward, slipping a bag over Sherlock's head. “Sherlock!” he yells, as soon as Sherlock starts struggling, “would you just be still and trust me for a moment?”
“You just put a bag over my head!” Sherlock says, outraged, but his hands fall away from John's, and he crosses his arms sulkily across his chest. “What's this about, then?”
“I just wanted to surprise you, which is impossible because you always ruin surprises, so. Please, Sherlock? Just coopearate this once?” John can just picture Sherlock's thinking face, bag or no.
“It hasn't anything to do with Anderson? Or Donovan? And not Mycroft, I'd hope.”
John snorts, which Sherlock carefully files away. “No,” he says, “definitely not. Not even Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson.”
“And today looked to be boring,” Sherlock says, an amused note to his voice. “Very well, John.” John grins, and suppresses the very real urge to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, because it's not very often (or ever) that Sherlock acquieses like this, and it's got him feeling even more affectionate than he already was.
There's a slow clinking of dishes, and Sherlock can hear matches being lit, and then what smells like Italian food, and clearly John's setting up dinner, but...? At last, John crouches down in front of Sherlock and takes his hands in his.
“Do you know what today is?” John asks, and bites back a smile as Sherlock cocks his head to the side.
“It's a Tuesday,” Sherlock says. “The fourteenth of February, but it's not either of our birthdays or any sort of anniversary-John?” John squeezes Sherlock's hand.
“It's Valentine's Day,” he says softly, pulling the bag off of Sherlock's head. There's a round table behind him, and Sherlock frowns. “I figured, the first time we had dinner..?”
“You recreated it,” Sherlock says. His eyes skim the scene, but when he looks down at John's eager face, he just smiles. “It's lovely, John,” he says.
FOR LAUREN
Wil leans in against the doorway, glancing down to make sure he looks perfect before he opens the door. The things he does for this man, he thinks, and has to quickly force the smile back on his face to cover up the grimace. (This doesn't make him some sappy lovesick idiot.) (It doesn't.) Sheldon yanks the door open, and then freezes, his mouth falling open in surprise, and oh yes, Wil thinks, now he remembers why he's doing this, because of those eyelashes and those forearms and wrists and the way Sheldon gives in (shakily) to any surprise to his routine when it's Wil doing the surprising.
“Ensign Crusher, reporting for duty,” Wil says, fighting the urge to tug against the collar of his uniform.
“Wil,” Sheldon manages, flushing, “what-what're you doing here?”
“Wesley” Wil corrects, pushing Sheldon back into the room. Sheldon makes a noise deep in his throat, and isn't that interesting. “You didn't think I'd let you celebrate Valentine's alone, did you? I thought I finally wrangled an officially dating out of you.”
“But the uniform-” Sheldon breaks out, his eyes a bit glassy.
“Oh,” Wil practically coos, “do you not like it? Should I take it off?”
Sheldon shoves him up against the now-closed door, pawing at him, and Wil thinks, in between kissing Sheldon senseless, that he might just keep the uniform forever.
FOR ROBYN
Jon leans in to Stephen's office, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand. “Hey, you got a sec?” he asks. Stephen looks up and grins when he sees him.
“Oh, I don't know,” he says. “I guess I can stop playing solitaire for a minute since it's you.” Jon smiles, and steps gingerly into the room, one hand behind his back.
“I ah-”
“Oh, just give it to me already,” Stephen laughs, practically bouncing in his seat. Jon looks up, surprised, and Stephen rolls his eyes. “You've clearly got something behind your back and you're being awkward which means it must be fore me so give it.” Jon laughs and shakes his head and hands it over.
“It's just something small,” he warns. “I just, uh...well.”
Stephen pulls open the pink-hearted wrapping paper and opens the box and then stops, wide-eyed. It's a drawing of Stephen dressed as a Harry Potter wizard, cloak and wand and Gryffindor scarf and all. Behind him is the TARDIS, and to the left of him kneels a figure proclaiming, “You have my sword!”
“Is that you as Aragorn?” Stephen asks, a little breathless. Jon grins.
“It is,” he says.
“Can I give you my gift, now?” Stephen asks, and Jon laughs, and nods. Stephen sets the framed drawing carefully on his desk and then lunges around it, almost knocking Jon over as he throws his arms around his neck. “Kick the door shut,” he orders, and as soon as Jon does they're kissing, Jon's hands slipping beneath the back of Stephen's shirt and Stephen's cupping the back of John's neck and tangling in his shirt.
“Does that mean you liked it?” Jon asks when they pull apart for breath. Stephen just goes back to kissing him, which Jon's fairly sure is an affirmative.
FOR SIN
“Miss Hooper.”
Molly jerks around, glancing first one way and then the other way down the sidewalk. At last, she glances at the road, and frowns at the man in the back seat of the car, his window rolled down.
“Hang on,” she says, “Mycroft, what are you doing here? And no, I won't help you keep tabs on Sherlock, I've told you that before.”
“I remember,” he says, frowning. “You were very...adamant.”
“I was terrified,” she scowls. “You can't just go sneaking up on unsuspecting people!”
“I have learned my lesson,” he says. “Trust me, I've no wish to be maced again.” She blushes prettily, and he mentally shakes his head at himself. “If I ask politely, might I convince you to get in the car?”
“Is it about Sherlock?” she asks. “Because I don't feel like spending my Valentine's talking about him, even if I've nothing better-I mean, I just-” she flounders for a moment, turning redder, and then stops talking entirely.
“It's not about Sherlock,” he assures her. She crinkles her nose up a bit and then shrugs.
“All right,” she says. She starts to move to the car, but he's already swept out and opened the door for her. She startles slightly, but gets in nonetheless, and he walks around and climbs in the other side, telling himself in no uncertain terms that he's turned into a giant sap and Sherlock must never ever find out about this. Opening car doors. Good Lord, what's next?
“Where-where are we going?” she asks, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes, and he pulls himself together.
“You'll see,” he says, and she narrows her eyes at him but stays quiet. When they pull up to the restaurant, though, her eyes go wide.
“Oh,” she says, “oh we can't go here, I'm not dressed for it, I can't-”
Mycroft looks at her for a long moment, and then deliberately undoes his tie, throwing it on the seat. Next, he pulls off his jacket, and Molly's gone wide-eyed, and Anthea tosses Mycroft one of the most horrendously hideous sweaters Molly's ever seen in her entire life. It's hand-knitted and it's got too many kitten and hearts on it, and she bites at her lip as Mycroft puts it on, his face one of a man steeling himself before batttle.
“Oh Mycroft,” she says, and can't quite get out more than that. He gallantly gets out and walks around the car and opens her door.
“Molly Hooper,” he says as he pulls her to her feet. “There's nowhere in the world you can't go if you act like you can.” And with that, he pulls her into the restaurant.
FOR ISH:
Molly leans into the mirror, frowning in concentration as she tries to fix her makeup instead of smearing it. Lipstick, she thinks fiercely, should not be so difficult. She pulls a tissue and blots her lips on it and then pulls back, crinkling her nose as she examines herself. Ugh. Well, David's going to be here soon, and she's still barefoot, so she leaves the tissue on the counter and half-trips over Toby as she rushes back to her bedroom, the slinky dress making her feel two parts nude and one part vulnerable. Which is when there's a knock on the door, of course, and she tugs on her heels as she turns and goes back to the door, trying to fix her hair on the way, because he's early, which is completely unfair, because her purse is still spread out on the kitchen table and shit is that condom in sight? She yanks the door open, a little breathless, and then falls back in confusion.
“Sherlock?” she says. “I have a date, I can't get you into Barts or whatever right now, I have to finish getting-” she breaks off, because he's swept past her into her flat and he's clearly too busy looking around to be listening to her. “Look,” she tries again, “David will be here any-”
“I called David and canceled,” Sherlock says. She vaguely realizes she's staring at him with her mouth open, because the nerve of that, and how dare he and-“I brought you chocolates,” he says awkwardly, sweeping a painfully pink box out from beneath his coat. “John said I should,” he adds, somewhat petulantly. “And Mycroft made reservations,” he says, somehow sounding both nervous and completely derisive of the entire ordeal.
“What?” she finally says, but this isn't making any sense at all, and now she's evidently alone on the most awful holiday of the year because Sherlock-well, actually, she's not at all sure why.
“Get your coat,” Sherlock says, impatiently, and it's not until she's actual sitting down in one of the best restaurants in the city that she finally realizes what he's been refusing to say.
FOR MAURA
Malfoy's not precisely having the best of days. It's pouring out, and he's paired with Granger for this stake out, and just because he didn't have plans for the night didn't mean he wanted to be spending the day here. Besides, her hair smells weirdly good and it's distracting, and of course trust Granger to distract him when they're on an important Auror mission. This is probably all her fault anyway. At least he's out of those offices, with the red hearts plastered everywhere and the sickening exchange of chocolates and candies and if he had to stumble upon one more couple ducking into cupboards and empty rooms to make out-
Still. It doesn't mean he wants to be stuck out here with Hermione and her good-smelling hair. Granger. Granger. She glances over at him, frowning at the utterly disgruntled look on his face.
“Malfoy?” she asks, because see, she remembers that they're Malfoy and Granger, and her and her stupid hair and her stupid smile should never be Hermione, not even in his mind. “You all right?”
“I'm fine,” he practically growls, and he sees her suppress a smile with an almost fond look, and it just ticks him off more. Just because they're always getting stuck working together, because they might happen to make an excellent team, and he might have noticed that they have a better instinct and teamwork than he's had with any other Auror (or possibly person) does not mean she ever gets to send him fond looks.
“I can see, what with that throbbing vein in your forehead,” she says, full out smiling by now, and he makes some sort of choking noise deep in his throat that he didn't even know he was capable of making. Enough is enough, he thinks, and braces himself to let her know exactly what he thinks of her, and completely tear her down, but somewhere along the line he leans into her instead, his eyes meeting hers, his fingers curling into the edge of her cloak as if to ground himself.
“Hermione,” he says, and her eyes have gone wide, but there's something else there, too, something besides amusement and grudging affection, and it's enough for him to lean in that little bit more, and enough for her to meet him in the middle, her eyes fluttering shut as he kisses her.
FOR AL
Sherlock glances up at John and then pauses with a frown. Something is off.
“Sherlock?” John says, his eyebrows going questioning, but his mouth-his mouth is trying for innocent! He starts to look at the rest of him-at his coat that-
John lets out a put-upon sigh and then lunges forward, slipping a bag over Sherlock's head. “Sherlock!” he yells, as soon as Sherlock starts struggling, “would you just be still and trust me for a moment?”
“You just put a bag over my head!” Sherlock says, outraged, but his hands fall away from John's, and he crosses his arms sulkily across his chest. “What's this about, then?”
“I just wanted to surprise you, which is impossible because you always ruin surprises, so. Please, Sherlock? Just coopearate this once?” John can just picture Sherlock's thinking face, bag or no.
“It hasn't anything to do with Anderson? Or Donovan? And not Mycroft, I'd hope.”
John snorts, which Sherlock carefully files away. “No,” he says, “definitely not. Not even Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson.”
“And today looked to be boring,” Sherlock says, an amused note to his voice. “Very well, John.” John grins, and suppresses the very real urge to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, because it's not very often (or ever) that Sherlock acquieses like this, and it's got him feeling even more affectionate than he already was.
There's a slow clinking of dishes, and Sherlock can hear matches being lit, and then what smells like Italian food, and clearly John's setting up dinner, but...? At last, John crouches down in front of Sherlock and takes his hands in his.
“Do you know what today is?” John asks, and bites back a smile as Sherlock cocks his head to the side.
“It's a Tuesday,” Sherlock says. “The fourteenth of February, but it's not either of our birthdays or any sort of anniversary-John?” John squeezes Sherlock's hand.
“It's Valentine's Day,” he says softly, pulling the bag off of Sherlock's head. There's a round table behind him, and Sherlock frowns. “I figured, the first time we had dinner..?”
“You recreated it,” Sherlock says. His eyes skim the scene, but when he looks down at John's eager face, he just smiles. “It's lovely, John,” he says.
FOR LAUREN
Wil leans in against the doorway, glancing down to make sure he looks perfect before he opens the door. The things he does for this man, he thinks, and has to quickly force the smile back on his face to cover up the grimace. (This doesn't make him some sappy lovesick idiot.) (It doesn't.) Sheldon yanks the door open, and then freezes, his mouth falling open in surprise, and oh yes, Wil thinks, now he remembers why he's doing this, because of those eyelashes and those forearms and wrists and the way Sheldon gives in (shakily) to any surprise to his routine when it's Wil doing the surprising.
“Ensign Crusher, reporting for duty,” Wil says, fighting the urge to tug against the collar of his uniform.
“Wil,” Sheldon manages, flushing, “what-what're you doing here?”
“Wesley” Wil corrects, pushing Sheldon back into the room. Sheldon makes a noise deep in his throat, and isn't that interesting. “You didn't think I'd let you celebrate Valentine's alone, did you? I thought I finally wrangled an officially dating out of you.”
“But the uniform-” Sheldon breaks out, his eyes a bit glassy.
“Oh,” Wil practically coos, “do you not like it? Should I take it off?”
Sheldon shoves him up against the now-closed door, pawing at him, and Wil thinks, in between kissing Sheldon senseless, that he might just keep the uniform forever.
FOR ROBYN
Jon leans in to Stephen's office, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand. “Hey, you got a sec?” he asks. Stephen looks up and grins when he sees him.
“Oh, I don't know,” he says. “I guess I can stop playing solitaire for a minute since it's you.” Jon smiles, and steps gingerly into the room, one hand behind his back.
“I ah-”
“Oh, just give it to me already,” Stephen laughs, practically bouncing in his seat. Jon looks up, surprised, and Stephen rolls his eyes. “You've clearly got something behind your back and you're being awkward which means it must be fore me so give it.” Jon laughs and shakes his head and hands it over.
“It's just something small,” he warns. “I just, uh...well.”
Stephen pulls open the pink-hearted wrapping paper and opens the box and then stops, wide-eyed. It's a drawing of Stephen dressed as a Harry Potter wizard, cloak and wand and Gryffindor scarf and all. Behind him is the TARDIS, and to the left of him kneels a figure proclaiming, “You have my sword!”
“Is that you as Aragorn?” Stephen asks, a little breathless. Jon grins.
“It is,” he says.
“Can I give you my gift, now?” Stephen asks, and Jon laughs, and nods. Stephen sets the framed drawing carefully on his desk and then lunges around it, almost knocking Jon over as he throws his arms around his neck. “Kick the door shut,” he orders, and as soon as Jon does they're kissing, Jon's hands slipping beneath the back of Stephen's shirt and Stephen's cupping the back of John's neck and tangling in his shirt.
“Does that mean you liked it?” Jon asks when they pull apart for breath. Stephen just goes back to kissing him, which Jon's fairly sure is an affirmative.
FOR SIN
“Miss Hooper.”
Molly jerks around, glancing first one way and then the other way down the sidewalk. At last, she glances at the road, and frowns at the man in the back seat of the car, his window rolled down.
“Hang on,” she says, “Mycroft, what are you doing here? And no, I won't help you keep tabs on Sherlock, I've told you that before.”
“I remember,” he says, frowning. “You were very...adamant.”
“I was terrified,” she scowls. “You can't just go sneaking up on unsuspecting people!”
“I have learned my lesson,” he says. “Trust me, I've no wish to be maced again.” She blushes prettily, and he mentally shakes his head at himself. “If I ask politely, might I convince you to get in the car?”
“Is it about Sherlock?” she asks. “Because I don't feel like spending my Valentine's talking about him, even if I've nothing better-I mean, I just-” she flounders for a moment, turning redder, and then stops talking entirely.
“It's not about Sherlock,” he assures her. She crinkles her nose up a bit and then shrugs.
“All right,” she says. She starts to move to the car, but he's already swept out and opened the door for her. She startles slightly, but gets in nonetheless, and he walks around and climbs in the other side, telling himself in no uncertain terms that he's turned into a giant sap and Sherlock must never ever find out about this. Opening car doors. Good Lord, what's next?
“Where-where are we going?” she asks, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes, and he pulls himself together.
“You'll see,” he says, and she narrows her eyes at him but stays quiet. When they pull up to the restaurant, though, her eyes go wide.
“Oh,” she says, “oh we can't go here, I'm not dressed for it, I can't-”
Mycroft looks at her for a long moment, and then deliberately undoes his tie, throwing it on the seat. Next, he pulls off his jacket, and Molly's gone wide-eyed, and Anthea tosses Mycroft one of the most horrendously hideous sweaters Molly's ever seen in her entire life. It's hand-knitted and it's got too many kitten and hearts on it, and she bites at her lip as Mycroft puts it on, his face one of a man steeling himself before batttle.
“Oh Mycroft,” she says, and can't quite get out more than that. He gallantly gets out and walks around the car and opens her door.
“Molly Hooper,” he says as he pulls her to her feet. “There's nowhere in the world you can't go if you act like you can.” And with that, he pulls her into the restaurant.