There is an old adage which tells you to be careful of what you wish for, and Molly Hooper was definitely thinking about this as she sliced into the chest of an elderly cancer patient. Or, ex-patient, as the man had recently expired. For as long as she can remember, Molly had yearned to hear those three little words from the unrequited love of her life. In reality, that is, rather than some of her more heated fantasies. And she had, indeed, recently heard them, but not the way she had imagined.
She had been filled in on the details surrounding the earth shattering phone call by Mycroft Holmes. Details such as a murderously psychopathic sister, whom Sherlock Holmes had completely erased from his life and his memory, the truth behind his urgent request for her to confess her love for him, and the devastating consequences had she failed to comply. She had said the words with trepidation, but not before forcing the world's only consulting detective to say them first. Looking back, she was a bit ashamed of herself. Molly knew what the conversation had done to herself, so she could only imagine what the exchange had cost her friend. For a man not accustomed to expressing sentiment in any form, he had, in fact, done his very best to say it like he meant it, as per her demands.
Molly knew that he cared for her. They were well and truly friends after years of mere acquaintance. Sherlock was very adept at observing and deducing, so he must have known all this time her feelings for him, but he long ago had given up using these feelings to gain advantage. He no longer flirted and smiled to get his way. Nowadays, his smiles were genuine. Or at least she thought so. But, when the opportunity presented itself, she couldn't resist the temptation to wrench those words from his lips, knowing that the chance would never come again. She had regretted her actions ever since. "I love you" should signal the beginning of a relationship, not the end of a friendship, as she now afraid was happening.
It had been ten long days since the fateful conversation. Mycroft had been the first to offer an explanation, even though it was an almost unbelievable one. A child-murdering sister whom Sherlock had erased, so many tests and so many deaths, a pet dog morphing into a murdered best friend, and coffin meant for her. The detective had forced her to expose her soul in order to keep her alive, or so he thought. In the end, her body breathed on but her heart was struggling. The detective's heart, so newly reborn, was suffering through the pains of that rebirth, and Molly, with her soft-spoken demand, had not made it any easier. When the man himself showed up at her flat, not so very long after her conversation with his elder brother, he was all apologies and regret. But Molly could barely allow him to speak, cutting of his explanations. She told him, rather tearfully, of her regrets for her actions. Of course she knew that he cared for her, she explained. As a friend. She understood why he had said what he did, and apologized repeatedly for making him do so. She begged him to put the whole incident out of his mind, and to continue on as if it had never occurred. They must remain friends, she implored. She could not bring herself to entertain any other possibility. The detective had made a couple half-hearted attempts to interrupt her, but, in the face of her desperation, had nodded and agreed. Molly could sense that he had something to say, but couldn't allow herself to hear the words that would dash her dreams forever. As he rose to take his leave, she wondered where he was going. Baker Street was in a shambles, and she knew that Mrs. Hudson had established herself in John Watson's spare room for the duration, in order to help with little Rosie. Sherlock would normally have asked to stay with her, given that her flat was his favorite bolthole, but he made no such request, and she made no offer, thinking that their friendship may not survive them sharing a bed, as was their habit on previous occasions. She watched sadly as he kissed her on the forehead and headed out into the night.
For ten days they seemed to walk on eggshells around each other. Molly was a bit embarrassed, and shy, around the detective, and Sherlock, for his part, seemed to have lost some of the spark that made him Sherlock Holmes. He had an air of sadness, and depression, which was to be expected given the trauma he had experienced. She would be lying if she said she wasn't concerned about a relapse into his drug usage. But the work went on as usual, and his visits to the lab became more frequent. Yet he had not visited her flat since that night. There had been no takeaway dinners and nights of crap telly, and Molly wondered if there ever would be again.
On the tenth night after the "Sherrinford Incident", as it became known to those involved, Molly was relaxing in a warm bath, eyes closed, head back on a cushioning towel, when she thought she heard the door to her flat open. As she hadn't heard a knock, this left only two possibilities - a burglar, or someone of equally nefarious intent, or Sherlock Holmes returning to his favorite bolthole. Despite her nervousness at seeing him again in such close quarters, her heart was doing cartwheels. Molly rose from the water, toweled herself off, and wrapped herself in her fluffy robe to open the bathroom door and face her fate, whatever it may be. At the last moment, she grabbed at the long-handled toilet brush, the only thing she could think of as a means of defense. She made her way quietly down the short hallway which led to her sitting room, toilet brush at the ready, only to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on her couch in the now gathering darkness. He glanced at her chosen weapon, and smiled.
"I hardly think that particular device would be effective against an intruder. Unpleasant, yes, but hardly effective. Do you intend to use it on me? I shall beat a hasty retreat if you respond in the affirmative."
"Hah! And you said it wouldn't be effective!"
"Only on the more fastidious of the intruder class, Molly."
"Or, evidently, on a posh peacock such as yourself, Mr. Holmes!"
"If you want me to leave, Dr. Hooper, just tell me. I am in no need of rough cleansing this evening." Even though he was trying to make light conversation, his demeanor was heavy, and his eyes spoke of sadness.
Molly tossed the toilet brush through the open door of her bath, and hurried into the sitting room, plopping down on the couch beside him. "What's the matter, Sherlock? What do you need?" The familiar words spilled from her lips before she had processed the thought.
"I seem to be having some trouble processing everything my sister put us through, Molly. I'm finding it difficult to concentrate, and The Work is suffering. Also, I'm depressed, and feeling rather sluggish. And stressed, tense. And generally feeling unwell. It's gotten so bad, I have seen a therapist, although, I must confess, that was at Mycroft's insistence. And Mummy's tears did much to lubricate the process. A fortnight ago, I wouldn't have been bothered, but it seems I am slowly returning to the emotional Will of my childhood." He paused in his short monologue, and smiled a self deprecating smile. "While therapy may be beneficial in the long term, I have been considering a short term chemical solution…"
"SherlocK! No!"
"Calm down, Molly. I promised you there would be no more drugs, and I meant it!" He them took one of her hands in his own larger ones, and looked at her. "As a physician, Molly, you must be aware that there are other chemical substances, released by the body during certain activities, which can bring on a sense of well-being, relieve tension and stress, and make one happy. These substances can act on the same receptors as certain drugs, bringing on a similar sense of euphoria. Oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, endorphins… you know what I mean!"
She did, indeed, think she knew what he was getting at, but simply could not bring herself to believe it. "Sherlock, are you suggesting that you are considering having sex simply to make you feel better?"
"Why are you so shocked, Molly? Surely, lots of people have sex because it feels good! If it felt bad, the human race would have ceased to exist ages ago."
"Do you have a particular candidate in mind, Sherlock? Have you considered how to go about it? You can't just walk up to somebody and ask if they want to shag, you know!"
"In my previous sexual experiences, mostly at Uni among a drug-fueled crowd, that was exactly how it happened, Dr. Hooper. Have things changed that much?"
"Well, Sherlock, you're no longer a jaded youth. You would hardly be comfortable in such a crowd today. You'll have to figure out how to meet somebody compatible…" Molly hesitated, unable to believe that she was being put in the position of procuring a sex partner, or worse, a life partner, for the love of her life.
"Yes, I can see where that would be difficult. Perhaps I should consult a professional?"
"A matchmaker?"
"More like a madam, Molly. Do they still call them that? Or a pimp? Better still, I understand that there are any number of relatively high-class brothels in the greater London area. Perhaps I should consult their menus?"
"Sherlock!? Realy? A sex worker! You'd actually engage the services of a prostitute? Or a rentboy?" Molly was now sputtering, while her companion laughed out loud.
"Really, Hooper, you are unaware of my sexual preferences even after all these years? I have made a career out of suppressing my sexual urges, but I never guessed that I had done it so well! This goes a long way towards explaining John's shyness about nudity while we were living together. He probably thought I was going to jump his bones at any given moment!"
"Well, in his defense, you did tend to swan about the flat in nothing but a sheet! And Mrs. Hudson…"
"Please don't mention Mrs. Hudson. Even after John had married and reproduced, she still labored under the belief that I was pining away for him upstairs. Even my fake fling with Janine did nothing to disabuse her of the notion."
"But, Sherlock, surely you're not serious about the whole prostitute thing, are you? You are a semi-public figure, at the least, and that would make for some nasty headlines."
"Yes, I suppose. Imagine Mummy's tears at that! Or even Mycroft's tears!" he guffawed. "Besides, it could cost a fortune, as I am sure to need multiple sessions. Perhaps I should find a call girl with a degree in psychology, and combine two forms of therapy in one. Maybe I could work out a discount rate." He laughed a bit to indicate that he was joking. "But, ruling out professionals severely limits my choices, don't you agree?"
"There's always Mrs. Hudson. You could prove to her once and for all your sexual orientation."
"Stop making jokes, Molly. You're not good at it."
"Sally Donavan?"
"Joking again, are we?"
"Anthea?"
"Be serious, Molly. If she didn't kill me, Mycroft would!"
"I'm running out of suggestions here, Sherlock," Molly said, although she knew she wasn't. There was always Janine. Beautiful Janine. Janine, who had always wanted him, but never, at least according to Sherlock, had him. She could not bring herself to make that particular suggestion, as she knew it was a really viable idea.
"Molly, you are missing the obvious choice. An attractive woman who has expressed an interest in me, at least in the past…"
"I didn't realize that you were still in touch with Janine," Molly said a bit sadly. "I suppose that she…"
"Who said anything about Janine? I'd be afraid she'd expect me to live up to her own over-heated imagination! Seven times a night? I'm not eighteen anymore, Molly!"
Molly cast her mind back to the scandalous article Janine had penned for that scurrilous tabloid, and the overwhelmingly jealous response it had invoked in her . Once would have been enough for me, she thought, but knew it would never happen. "So, who do you have in mind?" she asked, not particularly wanting to hear the answer. Perhaps it was someone from his days at Uni, or a client who had expressed interest. She braced herself for his answer, but was unprepared for the feel of his fingers gliding over the collar of her fluffy bathrobe, following it down from her shoulder to where it closed across her breasts.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, Molly?"
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"How could it be a bad idea, Molly. It's science!"
Every nerve ending in her body was screaming, "Yes! Yes!", but the small voice of reason was telling her to slow down. This couldn't possibly be good. Sex with Sherlock - no strings, just a night spent together awash in hormones. Something to remember as her life evolved into an endless stream of cut-up cadavers and cats. She was startled out of this internal debate by his voice.
"I see that you're ready for bed, Molly. But would you mind if I had a shower. I've been to Baker Street, and I feel like I'm covered in the debris of my former life." He paused to smile at her. "Just go on in to bed. I'll join you momentarily."
"Sure, go ahead. I'll find your pajamas…"
"Do you really think we'll be needing those, Molly?" When he asked this question, in a teasingly seductive tone, Molly could not help the blush she could feel rushing to her head.
"No, I suppose not," she barely managed to get out as she rose from the couch to make her way to the bedroom, leaving the detective with a triumphant smile on his face. A smile she couldn't see as she was currently walking away from him.
Molly entered the bedroom, not bothering to turn on the light. There was enough illumination from the sitting room, and the moonlight streaming through the window. She shrugged the robe from her shoulders, and climbed into bed, pulling the duvet closely around her. The voice of reason was becoming louder and louder as each minute passed. By the time she heard the shower turn off, she was just about ready to flee. Then he came through her bedroom door, curls damp, face freshly shaven, and, perhaps more importantly, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, and that voice within her immediately quieted. She watched as he carefully folded his clothes, placing them on a chair. Her only thought was my god, he's beautiful! Slim, but well-muscled, his fair skin almost glowed in the moonlight, like some sort of grecian statue. The cheekbones, resting beneath his ethereally blue eyes, gave sharp definition to his face, and his cupid's bow of a mouth completed the picture. Not that she could see all of this in the low light, but the image was so finely etched in her mind, that she imagined she could. He seemed so perfect in her eyes, especially when he finally dropped the towel and climbed under the covers with her, that she let out a soft groan, and tried to pull the duvet more tightly around her. She felt so inadequate compared to the great Sherlock Holmes! Not even the scars on his back from his two years abroad could mar his attractiveness, but only added to the whole effect.
The delicious detective lay on his side, facing the cowering pathologist. When he finally reached a hand out to touch her shoulder, and moved closer to nuzzle her neck, he muttered, "Shall we begin?" But Molly Hooper was frozen in place. Not even the heat generated from the feel of his lips working their way up her neck to her jawline could thaw her frozen muscles.
"Is something the matter, Molly? Have you changed her mind?" he asked with some concern.
"No!" she squeaked. "I'm just nervous, I guess."
"Nervous? There's no reason to be nervous. I'm sure you've done this before. And, after all, it's only me! You've known me for years, we're friends!"
Yeah, right, she thought. Only you! I've known you for years, and fantasized about this for just as long. I just never thought it would happen, and now I'm scared to death to disappoint you. You're just so damned perfect, and I'm, well, I'm not! She was saying all this over and over in her mind, but all that managed to escape her lips was another squeak.
"Molly! Tell me what's wrong. Just give me a chance, okay. I may be out of practice, but I promise I'll try my best. The science says you will benefit as much as I do. Just relax, and think of all those endorphins flooding your nervous system." For the first time in recent memory, Molly thought the man looked more than a bit uncertain and insecure as he spoke, and she was beginning to feel guilty for making him feel inadequate.
"It's not you, Sherlock. It's me!" She spoke quietly, but her words had an immediate effect. "You're so attractive, and I'm just, well, not. You could have anybody. All you'd have to walk down the street looking mildly available, and you'd have women queued up! Why me?"
"You're turning me down because you think I'm prettier than you? That's ridiculous! Who cares about such things, anyway? I certainly don't. And in any case, that certainly doesn't apply in this case."
"What do you mean, you git? You certainly know how attractive you are. You must know the effect you have on women, and some men, I might add. And you play it up!"
"How, exactly, do I 'play it up', Dr. Hooper. I have no control over my looks. It's simply a fortunate combination of genes. I won the gene pool, and Mycroft lost. It is what it is!"
"You know you take advantage, Sherlock. What about the perfectly coiffed curls. The well-tailored designed suits. The tightly fitted shirts, with a strategic number of buttons left undone. That wonderful coat, and the collar you flip up to make you look intriguing…"
"Yes, well, I will admit to the collar, on occasion. But I do it to annoy John! I'd polish my cheekbones if I thought it would annoy him more, but that could be quite painful!"
"And you strut around like a peacock, expecting everyone to pay attention!"
"That's not the first time this evening that you've referred to me as a peacock, Molly. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to those science and nature shows that I make you watch instead of your scifi nonsense."
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
"Well, if you had been paying closer attention to the science, my love, you may have realized that all the posing and strutting done by a peacock, with his colorful plumage and superior attitude, serves the singular purpose of attracting the attention of the less flamboyantly colored female of the species, and that that simple and plain peahen is, to the peacock, simply the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth." He then paused, took a deep breath, and continued. "If I'm a peacock, Molly, you're my peahen."
Molly simply lay there, and looked at the man lying so close beside her, perhaps really seeing him for the first time. It was a while before she actually spoke, and, when she did, it was with a bit of awe. "Sherlock, I think that was the most romantic thing I have ever heard in my entire life."
"Romance? Bah! I'm not romantic at all. I tried to tell you I loved you, but you seemed to be convinced that I was lying…"
"But I made you say that, Sherlock…"
"That doesn't mean it wasn't true, Molly. After all, I made you say it, too. Were you lying?" He could read the answer in her teary eyes, and smiled. "I thought not. Anyway, it needed to be said, and I suppose now it needs to be repeated. I love you Molly." He then grew a bit serious. "But I must reiterate that I am not a romantic. That little speech was nothing but science, pure and simple. And it seemed to have worked, as we are now naked in bed, preparing to generate enough endorphins to cure my stress and raise my spirits."
"Yes, well, they don't call me Dr. Hooper for nothing." And with that, suddenly cured of her own paralysis, Molly launched herself at the love of her life, determined to create enough happiness hormones to cure a ward full of depressed patients.
By the time morning rolled around, the pair of peafowl were completely exhausted, somewhat sated, and ready to pair-bond for life. As soon as they managed to extricate themselves from the nest.