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"There's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," mumbled Sherlock Holmes slouching on the sofa in 221B Baker Street on a crisp winter afternoon, his significant other of five months sitting next to him. That he was becoming frustrated was obvious to both.
"No, I suppose not," Molly Hooper answered his previous statement while rummaging through her enormous bag.
"Women like St. Valentine's Day," Sherlock insisted, annoyed, "It is an obvious fact."
"I suppose most do," Molly agreed, not looking up until she found the little desk diary she carried everywhere. All attempts by Sherlock to get her to use the calendar feature on her smart phone were met with a smile, kiss and continued use of her little notebook. He kept trying mainly for the smile and kiss, having long ago given up on actually changing her habit. She liked writing. Which wouldn't have been so odd if her handwriting was any where near legible.
"It is my personal belief -backed up with copious amounts of research- that women invented the holiday to extort jewelry from men."
"Good thing I don't wear jewelry as a rule then, isn't it?" Molly responded, not rising to the bait. She looked up from her perusal of the month of February and smiled at him, "So, where were we?"
"I was willing to make the sacrifice of allowing one of our special occasion dates to be on Valentines day -a perfectly suitable suggestion- and you were saying no," he drew the word out in frustration. He had already made a mental outline of the celebratory dining, gift exchange and more personal activities later in the evening when Molly threw a spanner in the works.
Molly sighed and made a show of flipping through her little book, presumably to pick another holiday. "I'm sorry, I just... I don't really like Valentines Day. It's never really been a thing with me."
"Perfectly understandable considering the number you've spent alone," Sherlock began, halting when he saw Molly wince. He quickly continued, sitting up and leaning towards her, "but Molly, you're not alone anymore and, I've been reliably informed that celebrating St. Valentine's Day together is a milestone with couples."
"John tell you that or have you been researching again?"
"Both."
"Mmm," Molly said, folding her lips in to hide a smile. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks.
Sherlock deliberately looked away, knowing full well the distraction those dimples could be. Plus, he was determined to get to the bottom of Molly's reluctance to celebrate a holiday predicated on romance with her romantic partner. With him. But then...maybe that was the problem?
"Molly," he said, being careful of his phrasing, "I've spoken to John -and Mary, for that matter- about my ideas on celebrating the holiday and they wholeheartedly approved. If you're worried I'll make a mess of this-"
"No!" Molly shouted, startled. She turned to him anxiously and grasped his knee. "Of course I don't think that! I've loved everything we've done together Sherlock, you know that! I'm sure I would love what ever you've planned. I'm sure I will, just...maybe not on Valentine's Day?"
"Why not?" Sherlock tried very hard not to sound petulant, but wasn't very successful. He had spent quite a lot of time preparing himself to participate in a holiday that he had scorned for most of his adult life as a blatant attempt by jewelry brokers to raise their market share. Overcoming the distaste for overt commercialism had not been easy, but he reminded himself of the goal: Molly's happiness.
Only it wasn't making her happy and that wasn't making him happy.
"Why don't you like Valentine's Day?" Sherlock asked bluntly. He had a hard time doing it often, but sometimes the direct, honest approach worked better with Molly than subterfuge.
Molly sighed and picked at the edge of her book, "It's not for the reasons you think."
"So, some idiot didn't break your heart on St. Valentines Day?"
"No, well, yes, actually, just not a boyfriend," She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she finally looked at him, Sherlock felt his chest ache at the pain in her eyes. "When I was a little girl, every year, I made a big paper heart for my parents. Paper, lace, glitter... the works. I would come home from school and give it to my parents and we'd have cake and one chocolate each. Every year my Mum and Dad would go out and do something special. Dad would save up all year to pay for it. Always something grand like the opera or ballet, fancy restaurant," Molly smiled at the memory, but it was filled with sadness. "I'd watch Mum get dressed in a fancy, sparkly dress and I'd walk around in her heels while she did her makeup. She would spritz perfume on my tummy and blot her lipstick on my cheek to make me laugh."
Sherlock watched Molly reach up and lightly touch her cheek briefly, her eyes closed. The sadness was still there, bleeding through and tainting what should have been a dearly treasured memory. Molly opened her eyes, staring at a spot in the distance, and began plucking at the little notebook in her lap.
"One Valentine's day, I came home, with my big card to give to Mum and Dad... there was no cake or tea. No chocolate. Just my Dad sitting at table... crying." Molly took a breath and sat up straight, hesitating a moment before looking at Sherlock. "I hate St. Valentine's Day because it was so happy and she chose that day to leave us. Not the day before. Not the day after. That day. She ran away with another man on the day that Dad had always tried to make so special for her."
Sherlock was silent for a while, watching Molly swallow the bad memories and visibly pull herself together. He had watched her go through this process quite often in the years that he had known her, but it never failed to amaze him. She had an uncanny ability to deal with emotions without shutting those emotions off. Something he was gradually learning from Molly's example. He gently took Molly's small hand in his and laced their fingers together. Her smile was a little wobbly, but there.
"So," Sherlock said, putting on his 'conundrum' face as Molly called it, "We've got a holiday to choose, something without any pesky emotionally volatile connotations." He plucked her small desk diary from her lap and thumbed through.
"Hm," he said raising his eyebrows, "It says here that the day after Valentine's is International Whale Day?"
"Are you commenting on my weight again?" Molly said haughtily. Sherlock coughed
"Right. Moving along..."
"Oh!" Molly said, leaning over to point out a date, "How about Extraterrestrial Visitor Day?"
"Fancy being probed then?" Sherlock said with a leer.
"Naughty boy..." Molly murmured, blushing.
"World Thinking Day?"
"Every day is World Thinking Day with you."
"True. Not special enough. So..."
"How about International Tongue Twister Day? You like twisting tongues," Molly stated, tongue firmly in cheek.
"Naughty girl," Sherlock murmured, "It depends on the weather that week. I planned everything based on this week's forecast."
"Whether the weather is warm, whether the weather is hot, we have to put up with the weather, whether we like it or not."
Sherlock gave her a look. "You've been saving that, haven't you?"
"For ages," Molly said, dimpling prettily.
"Soooo...," Sherlock said, slapping his hands on his knees, "If we're to celebrate our first International Tongue Twister Day, we should probably practice, don't you think?" He glanced sideways at Molly who was doing the same to him.
"Right, of course! One can never get too much practice twisting tongues."
"Definitely." He turned suddenly and scooped Molly onto his lap, knocking her bag to the floor. Molly giggled and wound her arms around his neck. Sherlock leaned close, his lips barely brushing hers as he murmured, "Which witch wished which wicked wish?"
"This one," Molly breathed.
"What did she wish?"
Molly's answer left them both breathless... and tongue tied...