He noticed her toenails were painted a rather alarming shade of pink as she slipped her feet into bronze heels. Her hair was thrown up in a stylish bun, complimenting the low neck line of her black dress. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Out. On a date,” she replied distractedly, and he tried not to analyze the strange feeling that gave him in the pit of his stomach. “Do you know where my shiny clutch is? The one that matches these shoes?”
“Haven't the faintest,” he told her, even though he knew precisely where it was.
Braidy kicked the shoes off, retreating to Sherlock's room for another pair and emurging in a pair of deep red pumps. In her hand she held a matching clutch, her other hand fixing a diamond earring in her ear. She fastened the other one quickly before examining herself in the mirror over the mantel. “Does this look all right?”
He knew she was feeling self conscious, but something inside him didn't seem to care at this point, not when she was going out with a man. “Sure.” He saw that this answer made her feel worse, and guilt rose. “You always look lovely, Braidy,” he told her, exasperated. “Might want to change into the strapless bra, it looks better on you.”
“How the hell do you...” she started, shooting him a glare, but didn't finish the sentence. “Strapless bra then? All right.” She turned to head back to the bedroom, but stopped short and turned to face him again. “Do you have a personal opinion about all of my bras?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you stared at my chest.”
“What man wouldn't?”
She waved that comment off, ignoring the flip it made her stomach do. “Which one looks best on me then?”
“The blue one, but with that dress, best go with the strapless.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you.”
“Who is it that you're going out with?” Sherlock called to her through the flat as she changed.
“You don't know him. Sally introduced me,” she called back. “His name is Ryan.” She flounced back into the room, arms thrown skyward. “So? Better?”
Braidy tried not to let Sherlock's eyes raking up and down her body affect her, but it did. When his eyes finally met hers again, she thought she saw a hint of something in his eyes, but he quickly looked away and back down to his book. “Better.”
She deflated. “Thanks, Sherlock. You make me feel so wonderful about myself.” She checked the clock and yelped. “Shit, I'm going to be late! Don't wait up!” She snatched up her coat and hugged Sherlock briefly before dashing out the door, leaving him staring after her, that feeling surging in the pit of his stomach once again.
When Braidy returned that night, very drunk, it was to find Sherlock had in fact waited up and was playing something on his violin that sounded distinctly like a strangled cat. He hadn't noticed her entrance until she fell against the coat rack, giggling madly. “Braidy,” she heard him say, and then he was at her side, helping her back to her feet. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Just had a few drinks, Sherly-locks.” He cringed at her nickname for him and hauled her over to the couch. “You have the most adorable way of murdering your violin. Did you know?”
He was alarmed at her forward tone, and even more alarmed by her hand coming up to tangle in his hair. “Braidy, you're drunk. You don't know what you're saying, and you'll regret it all in the morning,” he said as he pushed her hands away. “If you even remember it in the morning...”
“You are just sooo precious,” she continued, her voice very slurred. “Your face physically hurts me with how gorgeous and adorable you are.”
He had to laugh at that. “Sleep, Braidy.” He tucked a blanket around her on the couch, slipping off her shoes for her. She was already half asleep when he placed them delicately at the end of the couch, crossed over to the chair he'd been sitting in, and picked up his violin once more to play a soft lullaby.
Sunlight filtered in through the window, stabbing at her eyelids and waking her from her alcohol induced slumber. She cringed, moaning pitifully and curling up into a self-pitying ball. A hand ran softly over her hair and she forced herself to glance up. John was there, hand outstretched with two pills in his palm. On the coffee table he'd sat a glass of water.
“Thanks,” she mumbled and swallowed the pills, chasing them with the water John handed to her. She groaned once she'd finished, but sat up properly and rubbed her eyes.
“How was your date?” John asked.
Before she answered, she glanced around the room. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. “It was complete rubbish,” she admitted. “Why do you think I got so knackered?”
John chuckled. “So I suppose it's safe to say you won't be having a second date?”
“Not at all,” she said with a grimace. “You couldn't pay me to go back out with him... Well, maybe I'd do it for money. As long as there was no touching involved. I almost had to hit him! He was so damn handsy. On the first date!”
Sherlock chose this unfortunate moment to enter the flat. “Handsy?” he asked, and Braidy buried her face in a pillow. “Sounds like you had a fun night.” He laughed.
“I did not!” she protested in as close to a shriek as she could get without her head ripping apart. To emphasize her displeasure she threw the pillow at him, completely missing him.
He merely grinned.
“It was just completely horrible,” she sighed. “If I never date again, it will be no skin off my back. Last night reminded me what it's like and I certainly don't miss it.”
“You should also think about not drinking excessively,” Sherlock chimed in from the kitchen where he was checking an experiment. “You get a bit handsy yourself.”
She looked horrified. “Oh god, I didn't.”
“Afraid you did,” Sherlock grinned maliciously. John looked eager for the story.
“Please tell me you're just having a go,” she begged, but the look on his face said otherwise. “Oh god, what did I say?”
“You told me that the way I 'murdered' my violin was adorable. And then said the gorgeousness of my face physically hurt you.”
She buried her head back in her hands while John roared with laughter.
