Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A Marriage of Convenience

It had been a good three years since she's laid eyes on her husband.

The last time hadn't even counted as she'd only caught a glimpse of him as he stood just inside the massive family manor, looking impassively through the window as she was driven away.

All things considered, being married to Sherlock Holmes for the last eight years hadn't been as bad as it perhaps could have been.

While their reasons for marrying had been purely financial and both families had reaped the benefits of an eccentric and antiquated clause in an equally eccentric and antiquated family member's will. The price for it was relatively painless, as they were able to meet the letter of the law of the matter by meeting once a year for a week of pleasantries (through grit teeth, mostly only on Sherlock's part) with other rich and distant relations and the odd foreign dignatary. The first five years went smoothly: her husband was cold and distant and Molly herself hadn't been interested in him any more than in a fleeting physical way. They filled their roles nicely: Molly payed the ditiful wife, always waiting for her husband to do or say something brilliant and stand beside him as they both plastered on fake smiles of contentment. It was easy enough get through as wouldn't see each other again for twelve months at a time, but when on on her fifth wedding anniversary her brother-in-law had quietly informed her that even that was no longer needed, she had breathed a sigh of relief.

That was, until just a week ago, when suddenly, she was needed again.

She knew what was expected of her now, the last piece of the awful will that had set her life in motion, had knewn right from the beginning. She had always thought she'd have more time to adjust or that her genius of a husband would find a way out of it, but that had obviously not happened. So here was, standing in one of the bedrooms of the enormously large house she hated, waiting for him, as usual.

They had two years to have two children and the clock was ticking.

The door opened behind her and Molly took a deep breath before turning around to face her husband.

***

It had been surprisingly easy, in the end.

Sherlock had been kinder to her than she had expected, something inside him had softened considerably (she also noticed no fresh track marks on his arms) in his own way. Gone was the coldness she'd felt at the beginning, deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, something just a bit kinder in his voice. He gave her space, was polite on the rare occasion they saw each other while in the manor.

Molly had found herself being grateful for it, especially once her body began to change.

The preservation of the Holmes lineage being paramount, her every need was catered to, every want anticipated and filled.This was to be expected from the Holmes family in general, but Molly was surprised to receive a similar type of attention from her husband.

He seemed to sense the restlessness in the idleness she had been forced into, and part of her knew that he empathized with the feeling of being caged in, no matter how golden one's prison. Which is why she appreciated the obviously handcrafted word puzzles left on her morning breakfast tray that would often take up most of her morning hours to sort through, the obscure medical journals that had appeared in the library.

Around the end of the first trimester, a small collection of gardening books caught her attention most often. As her finger ran over the spine of the small book on beekeeping, she couldn't help but smile.

***

Molly hadn't considered her husband to be the kind that enjoyed spending time out of doors, so his presence in her new garden was unexpected and more than a bit startling.

This was particularly true as he would suddenly appear in it, as if conjured there by some mischevious sprite, giving her a small fright when his baritone voice would materlize in her vecinity. He liked to move about it as she worked, hands clasped behind his back as he would point out the error of her choices in the arrangement of the rose bushes or the type of herbs she'd chosen to plant.

It only took a week of his being more talkative than she'd heard him be than the entire time she had known him, Molly seriously contimplated just how much upper body strength she had in order to able to bash his face in with a shovel and hide the body under her petunias.

By the middle of the second week, she decided that Peter the groundsman was trustworthy enough to help her do what was necessary to hide the evidence should the need arise.

***

It was a newspaper clipping that finally did it, kept tucked away in one of the books she'd been flipping through after dinner in the study.

World's Only Consulting Detective was the job title description he'd apparently chosen for himself. Molly's mouth had quirked up at that, not really surprised that Sherlock would chose to do things his own way, but bursting with curiousity at the short article on the newsprint. Surely, there must be more to it.

It had bothered her enough to ask him at dinner the following night, watching with interest as he paused to look at her midway through his soup. She'd felt silly then, asking something that he apparently thought was obvious and quickly retreated back to the safety of the library, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Despite that, he intruded on her solitude, sitting down directly across from her to start speaking quietly while staring at the fire. He explained to her his chosen line of work, the way that he was putting his genius to use, the torrent of speech she'd normally found insufferable now had the warmth of pride to it.

When she chuckled at a comment he'd made about an early case, he'd paused, meeting her eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. He seemed to be looking for something for a second, leaning back and steepling his long fingers to his mouth before the corners of his mouth twitched up.

She found herself honestly wanting to hear more about what he did, and was able to give that honest answer when he asked the question, the intrigue of the cases and the puzzles they presented capturing her mind in a way that was surprising.

And so they sat every evening, Sherlock retelling what could only be classified as his adventures while Molly listened enraptured, her hands unconsciously running back and forth over her rapidly swelling belly.

***

Fondness.

That was the label she'd finally decided to catalog as how she felt about Sherlock. Nine months of being in each other's constant presence had made her fond of him: to make her worry when she hadn't seen him most of the day, to tease him when he pouted, to actually tell him how proud she was of the good he was doing for the world just to enjoy the way that he would grow uncomfortable and the light blush that would bloom high on his cheekbones.

It was fondness she felt as she watched him hold their daughter protectively to his chest, fondness that made her heart ache, hormones that made her eyes water.

Fondness was what made her lean over and place a light kiss on his forehead before scooping her daughter up in her arms and pressing her nose against her soft dark curls and will herself to be simply content and fiercely in love with her child.

***

It was different this time, something...else in the way that he touched her.

The circumstances were much like the ones when their daughter had been conceived, nearly fourteen months earlier. They weren't finished yet, and the arrangements were made. He was still considerate, still mostly quiet and looking to her for guidance even as they filled an obligation.

But unlike the last time, there was something else now. It made Molly shiver when he gathered her in his arms, something she tried to identify in how long his hands lingered, how he would drag his lips over her skin, in how he seemed to be looking for ways to prolong his stay with her, the intensity of his gaze.

Longing. The part of her brain that was still somewhat functional filled in the missing word even as sunk his teeth into her collarbone just enough to threaten her grasp on reality. Longing she knew, longing she recognized from the matching feeling that had been pooling in her own heart for a long time now.

She managed to pull back from him, just enough to hold his face between her hands to look into his eyes, barely discernable in the darkness of her bedroom.

There it was, the longing. He was leaving it open for her to see.

She pitched herself forward then, taking his mouth with hers and moulding herself against him, tightening herself around him, showing him, making him feel just how much she'd longed for him too.

***

Molly Holmes had been married to her husband for almost ten years when she realized she was in love with him.

They'd been living together for almost two years and their son was due in less than a month. Her fingers were buried in Sherlock's dark hair as he lay his head on her swollen belly, loosely wrapping her fingers around the silked tresses.  They lay together in her thriving garden, their daughter snoozing on the blanket in the shade beside them and her heart swelled with this recognized feeling.

She tugged on the curls lightly to get him to look at her when she said it, needing to see the understanding dawn in those crystal blue eyes, warmth growing in her heart when he returned the sentiment.

*****
END

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, he resisted but she held on, pressing her face to his back and keeping her arms firmly around him as he tried to push her away. He gave up quickly though, sinking into the mattress letting out a shaky sigh. He still smelled of the damp wind from the cemetery (she had begged him not to go, but he never listened to her before, why would he start now?) as she ran a hand across his chest in a comforting gesture. She pretended not to notice that he was crying but she did notice that he stilled the movement of her hand by capturing it in his.

In the morning, he was sitting in her kitchen, going through a stack of newspapers that still had his name all over them. Without a word, he slid a cup of coffee towards her and they sat in silence.

The second time it happened, Molly opened her eyes from the light sleep she had been in to find him hovering next to her bed, his form outlined in the semi-darkness that came with living in the city.

She felt like she should be holding back a question as to why he was there, but she didn’t have one, so she remained silent. She simply shifted herself over to the cold side of the bed and lifted her blankets as invitation.

He slid in quickly, his hands chilly as he settled in. He kept his back to her, her blankets up to his ears as he seemed to hunch into himself a bit. She was trying her best to try to adjust herself to get back to sleep when he let out a frustrated sigh. He found her hand in the dark, pulling her towards him and using her as almost as another blanket, locking her arm around his chest.

Molly did her best to try to gauge what he wanted exactly, but after a minute it was evident that it was only sleep as she felt his breathing even out. She tried to stop her racing heart and follow him into the land of sleep.

It was the third time he’d slipped into her bed to sleep that he turned her so that her back was to him, allowing him to spoon her. Although she supposed that was too romantic of a phrase for it since it was more like Sherlock had taken her as some sort of human pillow.

He was heavier than she thought he would be and she managed to elbow him to adjust his position so she could at least be comfortable. He grumbled a bit and she actually laughed while they both settled into a new position--his knees tucked up neatly behind hers and his arm around her waist--Sherlock’s breathing quickly evened out, tickling the back of her neck.

In the morning, they would end up with their legs tangled together and Molly would blush while she informed him he snored and he would become indignant at that.

But for now, there was sleep.

She hadn’t seen him in almost a year, not since he’d gone off to parts unknown to find a way to restore his reputation and keep his friends safe (it was for her own good that she didn't know where he was, she knew that). And then, just as suddenly, he was there again, looking worse for wear, but whole and mostly unharmed.

She’d clung to him, pulled him into her arms in relief without a second thought. It worried herhow quickly he’d hugged her back, buried his nose in her hair and breathed deeply, a man so used to not welcoming physical comfort. But she was distracted from these worries when he pressed his lips to her temple, and cheek before resting his forehead against hers.

Molly placed her hand over his heart, its steady beat reassuring that he was real and alive and there, and she asked him what he needed. He pulled back from her, surprise on his features. He probably wasn’t expecting for that to be the first question she asked, and it broke her heart that he hadn’t seen it coming.

He answered in the usual way, and she made him eat something and shower before letting him climb under the covers with her. Sleep came quickly for him, something that spoke volumes as she was cataloguing the changes in his face as she drifted off, their fingers woven together over his heart.

In the morning, she would find him staring at her, deducing the past year by her the length of her hair or something equally mundane before kissing her softly, once, twice, three times on her lips before she would shake away her surprise and kiss him hungrily back.

In the afternoon, he would agree to get out of bed finally for the sake of something to eat, wrapping himself in her bedsheet when she had blushingly sent him back to the bedroom to put something on. He would find the spot behind her ear that he’d discovered earlier could make her moan and he'd drag her back to bed after swallowing a bit of toast. She would love the taste of sweet coffee on his tongue and the way he fit against her and in the end it wouldn’t matter who had been wearing what when it ended up on the floor anyway.

The first time it happened, Sherlock was still nursing a black eye (courtesy of John, a welcome-back-from-the-dead present) and she had lightly placed a kiss just below it as he pulled her closer. She tucked her head beneath his chin and felt as he begun to relax, running his fingers idly up and down her back.

Molly kissed his collarbone before informing him that he had been right: his bed was much more comfortable.

He laughed.

(end)

Chapter Text

She didn't have much in way of belongings. It was never practical to have anything on her desk at work, and so when they handed her a box to put her things into, the framed photo of Toby and the bright pink pen with a fuzzy tip she'd gotten as a gag birthday gift rattled around the cardboard space, making her stop and stuff them in her bag instead, the box discarded by the side of the building.

She'd been expecting this, if she was honest--long before Sherlock splattered his brains all over the pavement outside, Molly knew that it was only a matter of time before she got sacked.

The formal police charges had been dropped (Greg wouldn't look her in the eye anymore), but the internal investigation at Barts ensured her suspension for at least a month, they'd said. Molly knew that it was all a formality, especially since she had to wish to deny that she'd helped Sherlock in every way that she possibly could and therefore successfully ending her hard earned career.

Was it worth it?

She paused just outside her flat's door, surprised at herself for not having an immediate answer.

Sherlock observed Molly carefully as she moved in the kitchen and mechanically went through the motions of feeding Toby.

She'd been behaving in this….vacant sort of way for the last five days. He noticed it began the day she'd open that newspaper left on her front door. The one with her photo on it. The one that called her out as one of the conspirators of the great fraud that was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had memorized the article. Moriarty was right. Fairy tales.

He had told Molly as much. She had turned to look at him, tears escaping from her face, and had taken a shuddering breath. "No. It's true. Most of it. Just not the bit about you being a fraud. But the rest? It's all true." He had not understood why she'd tried to smile just then. But she'd given up almost immediately, walking into her bedroom and shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

She hadn't really spoken since then, obviously simply going through the motions and spending the majority of her time in her bedroom.

It completely unnerved him.

Sherlock wasn't obtuse, he knew that her reputation was in tatters, not only losing any prospects for employment in her field, but apparently losing what friends she might have had. Mycroft had managed to protect John and to a certain extent Lestrade, but he had made the same assumption as Moriarty: that the quiet pathologist didn't count. It was too late to do anything for her now. Unwanted attention, Mycroft had said. It had taken the majority of his pull just to get her involvement with Sherlock's autopsy as unverifiable.

The damage was done. Sherlock knew that Molly had to worked very very hard indeed to be in her position at Barts at her age, that she would have given up so much of her life to be successful.

Sherlock frowned. Why would she throw it all away? All with just a word from him?

Your fault.

A voice that sounded suspiciously and annoyingly like Mummy sounded in his head, the feeling that he knew all too well was guilt pooling in his stomach.

Fix this, Sherlock. For once in your life make something right.

He stood up abruptly from the kitchen table, walking the short distance to the bedroom. He opened the door, vaguely thinking that he probably should have knocked first. The curtains were shut and she was lying on her side with her back turned to him. She didn't move neither her body nor her stare when Sherlock moved around to kneel beside the bed, trying to see something in her face. He wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, and it was only adding to his frustration.

"Why, Molly?" Sherlock asked, his voice commanding. "Tell me why."

She seemed to gather all her energy into releasing a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she focused them directly on his, something she'd done maybe only a dozen times since they'd met.

"You needed me," she said, her voice soft and steady, knowing exactly what he was asking about without him needing to elaborate. She held his gaze for another minute and in that moment, Sherlock could not have despised himself more if he tried. Because for her, it really had been that simple.

Impulsively, he leaned forward and placed a kiss to her forehead. "You are entirely too god a person for your own good, Molly Hooper," he mumbled against her skin.

She let out a short, hollow laugh. "I had deduced that, yes."

Sherlock smirked at her, kissing her again before standing up and sweeping from the room. He fished out his new cellphone, typing out a rapid-fire message. He didn't know exactly how to fix this just yet, but he would. He would make this up to Molly Hooper, to all those people that were still standing by his name, that would continue to do so regardless of the consequences.

Yes.

He would fix this.

(end)

Chapter Text

Sally Donovan felt herself really relax for what was probably the first time in three years, sitting on the couch in 112E Grocer St, a warm fire crackling away in the fireplace and a sense of quiet contentment around her.

If only the same could be said for her best friend.

The twenty four hours since the arrest of Kate Butler and the last thread snapped of Irene Alder’s massive web had made the newly resurfaced Molly Hooper positively ecstatic. She had even taken to dancing a bit around the flat, pulling Sally along with her in a few wild spins and a grin so wide it looked like it might hurt.

But the time for elation did not seem to last as long as it probably should have. While it would appear to anyone else that Molly was simply settling back into 112E, running her fingers over the spines of her books and bug collections, Sally knew better.

Molly was restless, like when she knew she had missed something in a deduction but was too proud to ask what it was, determined to find the answer herself. She had taken to pacing but catching Sally’s questioning eyes, would sit and pretend that she hadn’t been pacing.

After catching Molly reach for her mobile only to drop it back into the pocket of her dressing gown with a frown, Sally had to amend her assessment of the consulting detective: she was trying to come to a decision.

“What is it, Molls?” Sally finally asked, putting aside her laptop, The Return of Molly Hooper blog entry in progress saved and tucked away.

“Nothing, nothing at all. Glad to be home,” Molly answered with a forced smile, plucking a book from the shelf and pretending to read it carefully.

“Bollocks, that,” Sally replied, causing Molly to shut her book with a snap. Sally carried on, “You’ve been wearing a path on the floor--which Lestrade won’t like much, mind you-- and every five seconds you’re checking your bloody phone like you’re expecting someone to die!”

Molly’s eyes narrowed when Sally’s widened in realization. “Oh that’s it, isn’t it? You’re waiting for someone to die so that you can go out on a case? Already? Christ, Molly, you just got back!”

“That’s not what I’m waiting for!” Molly snapped, all pretenses of being happy wiped off her face as she nearly pouted. “I’m not waiting for anything, at all.”

She walked over the the piano, flipping the lid and sitting at the bench, her fingers clinking on a few of the keys to warm up. “Besides, even if a case did come up, I doubt DI Hudson would call me so soon. And I wouldn’t take a case that isn’t at least an eight seeing as I just came back from the dead.”

Molly began playing a fast and loud tune that was meant to drown out any sort of retort Sally could have come up with.

Sally knew there was something else going on here, but under the circumstances perhaps it was best for a tactical retreat. To be honest she was surprised --if not a bit relieved-- at how normal it would be to fall right back in with Molly, complete with an argument mostly due to the detective’s stubborness. Sally thought about Molly’s offer to come back and live at Grocer St again, and how an hour ago it had been very tempting. But now, with the thundering sound of piano keys being badly abused, she was beginning to think that keeping her flat in Kensington might be a better deal afterall. Besides, Myron had talked about maybe moving in together. There was a lot to think about.

Sally was lost in these thoughts when she heard the loud piano playing abruptly stop. She looked up to see Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway of their sitting room, slightly panting, his hair damp from the drizzle that had been falling outside for most of the day. Sally’s eye flitted over to Molly, only to find her friend frozen in place in front of the piano, her eyes fixed on the dark haired pathologist.

“You’re back,” he said, his deep baritone voice barely above a whisper and Sally couldn't shake the feeling that she was intruding on something.

It was confirmed when Molly stood up from the piano and rushed over to Sherlock, pulling him down by the front of his jacket to press their lips together firmly. Sally’s astonishment furthered when the pathologist wrapped his arms around Molly even as she moved her arms around his neck, sinking her hands into his damp hair as the kiss deepened.

Sally felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment at the display before her, but was moved to action when a deep groan from Sherlock made it clear where this was going.

“Right, I’ll just be going then. Text me later, Molls,” Sally said, gathering her things quickly and exiting the flat as fast as she possibly could, doing her best not to notice how Sherlock --nice, quiet, unassuming Sherlock-- had pinned Molly to the wall and was ravishing her neck.

“Yes, Sally, goodbye. Give my regards to your mister Anderson,” Molly managed to reply breathily as Sally shut the door to the flat firmly behind her.

Ducking into a cab just off Grocer St, Sally began to smile to herself. Oh, there were questions, thousands of them, and Sally was determined that eventually Molly would have to answer every single one.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked away from him uncomfortably and for a second he panicked, thinking that she would get up and walk away from him. Sherlock placed his hand on her cheek, reaching out to kiss her softly, anchoring her to his side.

“You could have told me,” he mumbled against her lips.

She sighed deeply, but didn’t pull away. In fact, she shifted herself so that she was on top of him, pressing her face into his neck. He knew that she was avoiding the question. He brought his hands up to run up the skin of her back, relishing in the feel of it, warm and solid, still not quite believing that she was there with him. Neither one of them was much for showing their affections so freely, but they hadn’t been in the same place at the same time in over a year and he was relishing the ability to be able to have her within his reach, to be able to hold her in his arms.

Molly was kissing him again, pressing her lips softly over his pulse, his collarbone, slowly sliding her way down. A distraction. Sherlock debated for a moment just letting her do it (it was an old habit, letting her have her way, they were both used to that). But no, this was too important.

Sherlock gripped Molly’s shoulders and hauled her back up to face him.

“Molly,” he made sure to capture her gaze, “You came back. You came back and I had to hear it from Mycroft, of all people. Why didn’t you tell me?”

"Isn't talking about your brother while you're in bed about to make love to a woman considered bad form?" she tried to deflect. At his responding glare, she swallowed thickly and took another deep breath. “It wasn’t safe for me to tell you...before. I still didn’t know about Butler or where she would be and I couldn’t pull you into it. I just...couldn’t.”

She looked away and buried her face in his neck again, hiding from his enquiring eyes and he decided to let her.

“And then?” he asked quietly, running his hands soothingly across her back again.

“How was I supposed to just...call you? I wasn’t about to just...send you text. ‘Hullo, Sherlock. Back in town, all the baddies are gone, care to come over for a celebratory shag?’” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Sherlock managed to laugh at that. “I think you’ll find a flaw in that.”

Molly pulled back to frown at him.

“Well, isn’t ‘celebratory shagging’ what’s going on here?” he asked, lifting a brow and giving her a cheeky grin. But he grew serious quickly as he reached up to run his fingers through her hair. “I had to hear it from my brother, Molly. Which I suppose is better than reading it in the paper, but my point still stands.”

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, holding his gaze. “Sherlock, believe me, I...I didn’t know how.” She swallowed thickly. “Can you forgive me?”

He held her gaze for a bit longer, running his thumbs over her cheekbones. He should’ve been angry, furious that she hadn’t contacted him after everything they were to each other now, that she’d been...well, herself. And it was only because he knew her, well and truly knew that she was doing her best, still trying to figure out how to get over those things that made her afraid, that he smiled at her.

“Of course I forgive you, Molly. You’re safe and more importantly, you’re here. You’re here with me and that’s all I ever wanted,” he admitted to her.

She was relieved at his answer, literally letting go of the breath she’d been holding before giving him a wicked grin. “Well, I don’t see myself going anywhere for the foreseeable future.”

Sherlock seemed to be considering this. “Well that’s good, because I have a lot more questions to ask you before we can even think of leaving this room.”

Molly frowned at this, her protest being cut off by a yelp of surprise as Sherlock effectively flipped them over, her eyes going wide as he grinned down at her.

“First question, Miss Hooper,” he said in a mock serious tone.

“Yes, Doctor Holmes?” she answered, schooling her features into a business-neutral even as Sherlock skimmed his long nimble fingers down her side to rest at her hip and she did her best not to squirm.

“Are you still ticklish?”

(end)

Chapter Text

At Midnight

Do you like piña coladas?

SH

Molly blinked down at the message on her phone.

“Everything all right, Molls?” Mary’s voice brought Molly’s attention back.

“Ugh, sorry, yes, fine,” Molly answered with a smile, swiftly firing a reply text to her boyfriend before turning her attention back to her friend.

What???

xx Molly

Molly was distracted again for a while before she noticed another text had come through.

How do you feel about getting caught in the rain?

SH

Molly scrunched up her nose a bit. She was almost at 221B so instead of texting back, she just climbed up the stairs, stopping only once she had the consulting detective in her sight.

“Are you about to ask me about yoga?” were the first words out of her mouth.

He glanced up at her from his “thinking” position, frowning just a bit. “No, I wasn’t. I don’t need to know, you don’t like yoga.”

“Right,” Molly said, coming up to him and kissing his forehead before taking off her coat. “So those weird texts you’ve been sending me are about nothing?”

“Not nothing, they were questions about you and your likes and dislikes as a way of knowing you further,” Sherlock replied. He snatched her wrist, stopping her from walking away from him. He looked up at her from his sitting position, a curious and endearingly unsure look in his eyes. “That is all right, isn’t it?”

Molly smiled at him, brushing his hair away from his forehead with her free hand before settling on the arm of his chair. She kissed his forehead briefly. “Of course it’s all right.”

Sherlock pulled her into his lap fully and tipped his chin up to slant his mouth against hers, languishing in each other for a while.

Finally Molly pulled away, nuzzling her nose against his a bit while trying to repress the huge grin threatening to take over her face even as his hand ran up and down her thigh. Even after over a year together, there was still a place inside her that didn’t quite believe this was her life now.  He placed light kisses along her jaw for a moment before pulling away with another quizzical look on his face.

“How did you know I would ask about yoga?”

Molly giggled at the question. “Well, it’s the song, isn’t it? The piña colada question tipped me off from the get-go, really.”

“Song?” something clicked in Sherlock brain and his eyes narrowed a bit. “I see. I believe that John was teasing me.”

Molly really laughed at that. “With a Jimmy Buffett song?”

“Does this song have anything to do with a long term relationship by any chance?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, it’s about two people that have been together a long time and are in a bit of a rut and so put out a personal ad and accidentally end up with each other and laugh because even after all that time together, there were still things that they didn’t know about each other.”

Sherlock nodded as he processed the information. “Definitely teasing by John.”

“What did he say?” Molly asked.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed further. “Not important,” he mumbled as he pulled her into another kiss, letting his hands wander more freely.

“Sherlock,” Molly gasped as he turned his attention away from her lips and her neck. “Sherlock, do you know what the next line of the song is?”

He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, his fingers distracting her for a moment. Finally, Molly pulled away enough to scramble up and out of his lap, making him almost pout in response. She skipped over to the clock at the mantle, popping open the front and moving both hands together up to the twelfth mark. She then leaned over and whispered in his ear, managing to make a wicked grin appear in his face.

Chapter Text

Five and One

__UNO__

Molly hadn’t wanted to, at first. Being set up on a date smacked of desperation with just a dash of failure and Molly thought that twenty five was much too young to believe yourself a failure.

She gave in to it, because really otherwise she would never hear the end of it from her aunt Thelma; she even dabbed on some of her expensive perfume on her clavicle and wore her nicer knickers.

Two minutes into the risotto at dinner, she realized she shouldn’t have bothered.

Jake looked like a nice enough bloke, but the awkward silence between them stretched on for far too long as the clink of silverware and the chatter of patrons around them became the only sound between them. Molly paid for her half of the meal and she’d smiled politely when refusing his offer to walk her home.

He didn’t ask for her number.

Thank God.

__DOS__

Nick collects long play records and works managing an upscale restaurant and yet surprisingly, they have things in common.

On their second date, he brings take away from his restaurant and doesn’t mind sitting with her on floor with her coffeetable holding their glasses of red wine and Molly silently thanks Christina from uni for calling her out of the blue last month.

Nick has beautiful eyes and a laugh that rumbles deeply against her skin and she’s so glad that her new job at Bart’s allows her to splurge on high quality lacy knickers.

She’s not so glad in the morning when Nick decides that he likes them enough to put them on to make coffee.

Molly remembers that Christina kind of hated her.

__TRES__

She’s fifteen minutes late already, but she absolutely refuses to give up when she’s come so far.

Molly stares at her computer screen, willing the thing to unfreeze so she can at least save the work she’s been doing all day long so that she can go home and try to get ready for her blind date tonight. A glance at the clock tells her that she’ll barely have time to shower, at this rate.

The door to the lab pushes open and a man pokes his head in casually, looking more than a little lost and very much wary. Molly knows that look. It comes with the territory of working in the morgue. But she doesn’t think about that too much once she realizes that he’s been sent down from IT to help her in her plight.

He listens to her while she explains her frustrations with the darn contraption and she’s taken by how warm his eyes are. He is listening to her intently and nods a bit when she’s done, sitting at her computer and begins to click away. His voice is nice and soft, but deep while he explains what he’s doing as he goes along.

His name is Jim and she’s doesn’t mind one bit phoning Mike to have him let her date know she won’t make it tonight afterall.

__QUATRO__

John’s a nice man, and Molly hadn’t noticed before how infectious his smile could be.

For a moment she lets herself wonder what life would be like if this happens to work (like Greg Lestrade is apparently convinced that it would). Just what would life be like as Mrs. John Watson?

She doesn’t have to wonder for very long as Sherlock walks over to them and quickly states that John is to accompany him on the hunt of some new clue to a case that he’s just taken on.

John’s infectious smile is apologetic as he leaves her standing outside the cinema and Molly finds that she’s not bothered by it at all.

She’s glad she didn’t bother with lacy knickers.

__CINCO__

She knows Meena is just trying to help.

“You need to finally get over the git and find a nice bloke that’s going to treat you the way you deserve!”

The conversation is an old one, and now and Molly is just as sick of hearing it as Meena is saying it. And that’s the real reason that she agrees to the lunch date. She didn’t even bother to wear some of her nicer clothes. Whoever this Martin bloke was, he would have to take her just as she was, ill-fitting jumper that smelled like formaldehyde and all.

Who knows, maybe he would like it that way? Maybe he would smile warmly and open doors for her and maybe stumble on his words a bit. Maybe he would laugh at her jokes. Maybe he would hang on her every word, make her feel special for once, believe that she mattered to someone.

Sherlock and John stop her on the way out and Molly never gets to find out.

__ONE__

Molly hadn’t wanted to go at first.

But John had insisted that he simply could not put up with Sherlock any longer and could she please, for the love of everything that was holy, come over and make sure that he didn’t kill Sherlock for real this time?

Three years since she’d last stepped into 221B, and yet she was not surprised to find things didn’t look that different from what she remembered, even with Sherlock having been gone all that time. It was like a time machine, even if the newly resurrected consulting detective sawing away at his violin in his dressing gown had been an all too familiar sight in her own flat for a while as well.

John had smiled at her in relief when she stopped at the top of steps and lightly kissed her cheek, making his excuses and quickly leaving the way she’d come.

Molly didn’t have the time to register confusion before Sherlock materialized before her, making her give a small yelp in surprise. She swallowed another one as Sherlock claimed her mouth swiftly, spinning to pin her against the wall of the hallway.

“You’re wearing them, aren’t you?” he asked against her mouth, pulling her coat off impatiently and tossing it in the direction of the sitting room. She laughed between kisses, confirmation enough that he knew her all too well. He growled in response, pulling her along with him down the hallway and slamming his bedroom door shut behind them.

Thank God, finally.

Chapter Text

“I think it would be best if we got married.”

Molly pauses, making a muffled sound of confusion around a mouthful of lo mein.

Sherlock scrolls on his phone a bit more, his eyes glued to the device. “Married, Molly. I really would like it if we did.”

Molly swallows and carefully puts down her chopsticks.

“Are you asking, Sherlock?” Her voice is quiet and carefully neutral. He glances up at her, finally.

“It wasn’t a question. I was just…” his hand flutters in the air a bit and if trying to find the answer in the air between them. “Posing a hypothetical.”

“Ah. Okay.” She goes back to her food and out of the corner of her eye she sees him fidget in his seat and she refrains from smirking at the action.

“So, hypothetically, what would your feelings be?” he asks in the worst pantomime of calmness she’s seen since whistling and stuffing hands in pockets.

“Well, why do you feel we should get married rather than stay as we are?”

“Taxes, for one. Insurances, for another. There’s several insurance policies that I have to my name with additional funds in an account that Mycroft currently manages, as well as stock options. Additionally, I would infinitely prefer it if you were listed as the legal next of kin, should something happen.”

“This is still hypothetical, right? You’re not planning on dying again, are you?”

“Not without telling you, darling. Yes, still, purely hypothetical.” He fiddles with his phone. “I believe that traditionally, a change of titles is involved and I find that I prefer the title of ‘husband’ than ‘boyfriend’.”

“You mean you’d rather I say things like ‘oh, do come in, my husband is waiting in the sitting room’ or ‘oh, have you met my husband’ or ‘my husband was just being rather brilliant?’”

“Yup, exactly like that.”

“And I suppose you also like the idea of presenting me as ‘Mrs. Holmes’, then.” She drops her voice to an imitation of his. “ ‘And this is Mrs. Holmes. Why yes, Mrs. Holmes was just giving me the results of that analysis. Mrs. Holmes, I’d quite like to take you home now.’ “ She waggles her eyebrows lecherously. “Hmm, maybe I quite like that last one.”

Sherlock looks scandalized. “I would not sound like that! But yes, while archaic and perhaps a bit possessive, I do find it irrationally appealing that we would share a last name. Though, if you wanted to keep yours, I suppose I could change mine to Hooper.”

“Well, we could always come up with a compromise. Isn’t that a thing now? Like a mushing of our last names.” She presses a finger to her mouth, pretending to be in deep thought.  “We could be the Hoolmes? Or maybe you would prefer Holper? Oh I know! What about Mister and Doctor Sherlockandmolly?” She bites her bottom lip as she grins widely at him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her. “Very funny.”

Molly laughs and leans over to place a kiss on his lips. “I really love it when you pout.” She places her hand in his, rubbing her thumb against his knuckles. Her smile softens. “I don’t think that you need to worry, though. I would like to take on your last name. Doctor Holmes has a nice ring to it, right?”

He squeezes her fingers back. “Yes, it does.”

She kisses his cheek and goes back to her food, and he goes back to his phone.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?” He is sipping his tea now.

“For the record, though: non-hypothetically, if you ever actually asked, I would say yes.”

“Good to know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

___

Chapter Text

“Sherlock!” Greg Lestrade grins jovially at the consulting detective as he walks through the door of the pub. “Didn’t think you’d make it!”

Molly feels her heart speed up before she’s even turned around to confirm Sherlock’s presence.  

“Of course I would be here, Gary, Molly just received a very prestigious award, and she’s my pathologist. Why wouldn’t I be here?” comes the reply as he gives her a small smile. Her corresponding one is wider, and Molly really hopes that the blush she feels rising on her cheeks and can be explained as alcohol induced.

“Come off it, mate, he only meant that you don’t exactly show up to these types of things,” John cut in, moving over in the booth to give Sherlock enough room to sit down beside him.

“Really, John, I am polite enough to show up where I’m invited.”

“No, you’re not!” came the chorus from the table of their closest friends.

Sherlock rolls his eyes in response even as he leaned across the table to steal a chip from her plate. Mary, Greg, and John thus begun enumerating all the times that Sherlock had been expected to be somewhere and he ended up either not showing up or showing up where he hadn’t in fact been invited.

Molly keeps glancing at him, noting that a beer seemed to have materialized in front of him and he was still engaging with the rest of the group, he seemed to be intently staring at her. As a result, she was intently trying not to notice.

Eventually, she relaxes enough to enjoy herself, the conversation flowing easily among the group of friends. She found herself touched deeply when towards the close of the evening Mary announced that it was time for presents for the lucky award winner; everyone had brought a little something it seemed, and Molly was deeply grateful to each and every one of them (perhaps the wine had something to do with that as well).

“Oi, where’s your present, Sherlock?” Mary asks then, even as Greg is settling their bill and John is looking ready to get up.

“He didn’t have to--,” Molly begins to interject.

“I have something to give her privately,” Sherlock says smoothly, stopping her train of thought abruptly.

Mary’s eyebrows shot upwards and John blinked slowly at him as Molly tried to process what Sherlock was implying….which seemed to be nothing, given his own expression of blank confusion. The momentary hope that bloomed in her chest was instantly deflated.

“Well,” Molly clears her throat and stands up from the booth, shaking any untoward thoughts from her head. Knowing Sherlock, he probably was going to gift her with severed body part for once. “That’s very nice of you, Sherlock. Should we go?”

The others seem to catch her tone and have apparently arrived to the same conclusion that she has and all move to leave the pub.

There’s a chorus of goodbyes and cabs procured before it’s just Sherlock and Molly left on the street, deciding to walk together to her flat  in the pleasant evening air.

The mood is comfortable and quiet, making Molly let out a sigh. This is what it was with Sherlock she supposed and somehow, she had come to be okay with it. Walking side by side in comfortable silence and being present in each other’s lives; it had been hard won and all the up and downs of their lives, she was enormously grateful for their friendship.

And so she was able to smile at him genuinely when they reached her doorstep. “Thanks so much for coming tonight, Sherlock,” she says, lifting onto her tiptoes to place a small kiss on his cheek. “It means a lot of me that you were there.”

He swallows thickly and flashes her a small smile. Something in the air between them changes and Molly can’t help but feel something warm yet sad curl up inside her much against her will. If only…

He clears his throat a bit and places his hands behind his back. “Well, Molly Hooper, don’t you want your present?” he asks, keeping a very intense gaze upon her.

Her breath catches in her throat for a moment as he steps closer--and she blinks when he places a small parcel directly under her nose.

“Oh,” Molly says, her thoughts dropping right back to earth where they belong as she accepts the brown package. “Should I open it now?”

Sherlock shrugs, but she knows it means he would want to be praised for his selection.

She knows just by holding it it’s a book, but she lets out a surprised laugh when she sees the cover. “Oh, Sherlock. Thank you, this always makes me laugh.”

“I know.” His grin is wide now, proud that he actually remembered how much she enjoyed rude embroidery and managed to procure a collection of them for her to have.   

“That’s only part of the present. I would also very much like to get your award properly framed, if that’s alright,” he adds, practically preening now. “Didn’t want the others to say anything about it.”

“Sherlock,” Molly says, beyond grateful to her friend. “Thank you so much, really.” She giggles again.

He frowns a bit, scrutinizing her. “What?”

“No, it’s just that, at the pub, when you said you had a private gift for me and then just now...Well, I thought that you were either going to drag me to a special crime scene or kiss me!” She laughs again at her own silliness.

But Sherlock has become suddenly pensive, seeming to be processing what she’s just said. “Hmm.” He holds her gaze. “Would that have been better?”

Molly stops laughing. “What?”

Sherlock now invades her personal space and the tension is back as the look in his eyes changes. He looks almost...predatory. “Molly Hooper, would that have been a better present?”

Her eyes flicker to his lips for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “You mean-” it’s her turn to clear her throat, but he’s now incredibly close and she’s losing her ability to keep her thoughts straight. “Which one? The crime scene or the kiss?”

“Yes.” His breath is brushing against her cheek and Molly reflexively places a hand on his chest, her fingers curling around the lapels of his coat.

“Yes?” Molly’s given up on following the thread of their conversation as she feels his hand slide onto her waist and letting her eyes slip shut.

His lips are warm against hers, a bit unsure for a moment before she sighs lightly and he adjusts their angle to slant against each other as if they’d been made exactly and exclusively for this.

They are a bit short of breath when they part and Molly’s dropped everything in her arms to have them wrapped around his neck. He is still very much leaning into her, his coat shielding this moment in a way that makes it feel that there’s nothing in the world except the two of them right in this moment. She feels his hair between her fingers, his forehead pressing against her temple, and her own wide smile.

“Would you really consider this a present?” his voice against her skin is whispered and strangely shy and Molly knows that she’s hopelessly in love with him.

“Yes, Sherlock,” she says firmly, her voice barring no arguments to the contrary. She nuzzles his cheek before touching her lips to his again softly. “The best of presents.”