lightconductor | Matchmaker, Matchmaker...

It had, for Watson, been an uncomfortable cab ride, though he was trying not to show it. Though Miss Morstan, beside him, was as charming and sweet and friendly as she ever was, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being unforgiveably cruel, that he was encouraging her in the belief that he had some interest in her. This entire plan was foolish, mad, and doomed to failure, he was sure.

Still, it was straightforward enough. They woud go out to dinner; Holmes would accompany them, as a friend and as a chaperone (not that Watson had ever any serious need of a chaperone in the past, or that Mary was so deicate she needed her virtue protected, which was one thing he liked about her), and Lestrade would be fortuitously present for them to invite along. It might come to nothing, but it was at least worth a try.

If only Mary would lose faith in him first, Watson thought grimly as he ascended the steps to their sitting room. "After you," he said, graciously.

Mary was feeling troubled; she could not quite grasp whether or not she was wasting her time with Dr. Watson. Oh, to be certain, she enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy hers, but he had yet to make any firm strides towards deepening their relationship. He had not attempted a single kiss, not a romantic embrace, nothing. And yet he seemed so warm. Was he that much of a gentleman? Did he really think her that... pristine, that virginal? She was beginning to think that, as out of place as it might have been for a young lady, she might have to be the one to force his hand.

She was, though, beginning to lose hope.

She smiled at him as she entered the sitting room, glancing around to see if Mr. Holmes was in sight. This room brought back memories, not all of them good, but she would be genuinely glad to see the detective in any case. "You haven't mentioned where we're going," Mary said, conversationally. "Or is that supposed to be a surprise?"

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"Right," he agrees, forcing a more sensible expression onto his face and nodding, trying to shake some sense into his head. He appreciates practicality and sense and realistic approaches, so she's absolutely right, but it doesn't help that her being sensible about this only seems to suggest that they'd be well-matched.

"Of course. Chickens and eggs, and all that. Maybe after another dinner, you'll decide I have a horrible sense of humor, and you can't abide that. Which would be completely fair." He smiles, a little playfully. "Can't live with someone who you can't laugh with."

She could already laugh with him. Oh, but she felt lucky.

"Is that an invitation for dinner again?" Mary asked, sweetly teasing. "If it is, I think I might accept. You ought to be careful, Mr. Lestrade. You don't want to give me the wrong idea."

She giggled a little, unable to help it, feeling positively light-headed.

"Right again. I don't." He grins at her, already enjoying the sound of her laugh, her sweet, giddy giggles. "That's why I'm inviting you out to dinner, so you'll get the right idea." He breaks off, chuckling, mostly from happiness, though also at his flirtatiousness.

"What will your employers think of all this? You go out with one bachelor and come home with another," he teases. Though Watson isn't quite a bachelor. That's still a bizarre thought.

Laughing again, Mary shook her head. "I haven't any idea. They're quite accomodating but this might be a bit much even for them. I shall have to see what, if anything, they say about it."

She tossed her head. "Let them disapprove. I know and you know that nothing untoward has happened. That's good enough for me." In a slightly softer voice, she added, "But I do accept the offer of dinner, gladly."

Lestrade is aware that he's staring at her, just a little, but the toss of her head and the daring of her words... Well, he appreciates a girl with spunk. He breaks off from looking at her with a self-conscious shake of his head, though he very lightly squeezes her hand.

"Good because I suspect even if you hadn't, you wouldn't be seeing the last of me."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Mary said, still smiling. She squeezed Lestrade's fingers back gently. She was aware that they were coming up soon upon the Forrester's home, and that this cab ride must end.

"Before I forget to ask," she said, speaking softly, "I don't believe I heard what your Christian name is. I think I'd like to know, before we end up going to dinner together again?"

"Oh," he says, with another little amused chuckle. He likes it when she speaks softly too, and he's beginning to realize he might just have a thing for her voice. "It's Guy. Guy Lestrade. Bit of a family name. It was my grandfather's."

"It's a lovely name," Mary said. Guy Lestrade. She liked the sound of it. She liked the sound of Lestrade in general, come to think of it. He seemed almost perfect, as far as she was concerned.

She told herself, firmly, to get herself under control. One evening did not mean true love. It didn't even mean general compatibility. It was, at least, a good start.

She sighed a little, peering to look down the street as the cab pulled up to a familiar house. "Well," she said, "Mr. Guy Lestrade, I believe this is my destination."

The little twinge of disappointment at that is a little embarrassing. She's only getting out of the cab, for goodness's sake. He'll see her again soon enough -- and he knows for sure that he'll be coming by as soon as he properly can, without being too unseemly. Well, maybe a second before.

"Ah, very well." He squeezes her hand lightly before he slips out of the cab, reaching up to help her out. "I thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Morstan. One of the loveliest I've had in a long time."

Taking his hand, Mary stepped out. The smile she gave Lestrade was warm, thankful, encouraging. "I agree," she said. "Perhaps next time we could have dinner without the extra company."

She gave a small laugh. Oh, she hoped he would call on her soon. "Escort me to the door, Mr. Lestrade?"

"With pleasure. And most definitely without the extra company," he agrees readily, warmly. He's already mentally rearranging his schedule to see where he can guarantee a proper evening off that he could take Miss Morstan out. Preferably within the week. Is that too eager? Oh well. He is eager.

"You'll see me again soon enough," he says, half a warning. "To be honest... I'm not sure I could stay away for very long." He stops at her door, feeling the pleasant tingle of infatuation. It'll be good to get away from her, to screw his head back on right, but he doesn't think that much of this feeling will dissipate once he steps back in that cab.

"I look forward to it," Mary promised, squeezing his fingers. "I hope you don't take so long to come visit me again."

She tried the door, and was relieved to find that it was open, that she was not locked out and would not have to wake the household up. Bless Mrs. Forrester for that. Still, she was reluctant to go inside, not now, not so soon.

"Good night, Mr. Lestrade."

"Good night, Miss Morstan," he says, and he's sorry to say it. He lingers, recognizing her reluctance to leave and mirroring it right back, but he has to leave at some point -- if only to come back and see her again later. Nodding, he draws his hand away and backs up a step, smiling goodbye again, until finally he turns and hops back up in the cab.

Oh, dear. He's really falling over his heels on this one.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker...

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