By the time ten o'clock P.M. had come and gone, Molly Hooper was seriously rethinking her volunteering to assist Sherlock Holmes in sanitizing his flat in preparation for the next visit of his goddaughter Claire, daughter of their friends John and Mary Watson. Sherlock had never been exactly fussy about keeping the flat spic and span, but on the toddler's previous visit, she had found an errant toe in the dustbin, and a suspicious red mass in the fridge, which she had mistaken for strawberry jelly. All would have been well is she had not treated these items as tiny treasures, to be shown to her mother at her earliest convenience. Needless to say, the child had been banned for visiting her doting Uncle Sherlock until his flat was up to the cleanliness standards of a nurse mother and a physician father. The fact that one of them was a retired assassin only added to the urgency of the situation.
Because of this, Molly had loaded herself down with hospital disinfectants, pilfered from her place of work, and brought her own steam cleaner for good measure, arriving at the flat after completing a double shift at St. Bart's. It had taken hours, but the task was now complete The kitchen was spotless, counters and tabletops disinfected, fridge emptied and cleaned, furniture vacuumed, surfaces dusted. Molly had paid special attention to the bathtub because she could only imagine what the detective had gotten up to in there. Only imagine because she couldn't bring herself to ask any specifics.
The job complete, the two workers were now ready to collapse. Sherlock flopped down in his leather chair, while Molly lowered herself onto the couch, but immediately jumped up.
"What the bloody hell did you do to the couch, Sherlock? It's soaked!"
"I may have been a little bit too aggressive with the fabric steamer, Molly. No worries. I'm sure it will dry by the time they drop off Claire in the morning."
"It better. You know that Mary will be doing a white glove inspection on the place, right?"
"Of course. I would expect no less. But we've done an excellent job, Molly. The place hasn't been this clean since I moved in."
Molly walked over to sit herself down in John's old chair. "Are you going to offer me a cup of tea for all my effort?"
"Only if you make it. I'm rather exhausted."
The pathologist rolled her eyes, but rose to go to the kitchen to prepare tea, first making one last circuit around the sitting room, as if performing a final inspection. But when she glanced out of the window, she was taken aback by the amount of snow on the ground, as well as the amount still falling. "Sherlock, I think I'd better be going, or I may not make it out of here at all. Traffic is going to be horrible, and finding a cab will be difficult. If I wait any longer, it may be well nigh impossible."
"No problem, Dr. Hooper. Spend the night."
"Not really feasible, is it. No bed in John's old room, and the couch is soaked, thanks to your cleaning enthusiasm."
"You can sleep with me."
"Coming from any other man, that might sound like a proposition, Sherlock."
"And it doesn't, coming from me? I am definitely getting rusty at this sort of thing."
"Relax, Sherlock. I know you were speaking literally, not euphemistically. You literally meant just 'sleep'..."
"You shouldn't put words in my mouth, Molly. I know exactly what I meant. It's you that are mistaking my meaning."
Molly Hooper was beginning to blush. She felt her old stammer about to make a reappearance, as she replied, slowly, "Sherlock, you're making me nervous…"
"Nervous wasn't exactly the reaction I was hoping for, Molly."
"How about surprise? Shock? Will those reactions due?"
The detective's face betrayed an expression somewhere between a grimace and puzzlement. "Why should you be shocked, Molly? We're both adults. We're friends. We're healthy, with healthy appetites. I always believed that you rather fancied me, after all. Has that changed?"
"Yes! No! Maybe!" Molly almost shouted her response. "After all this time, you decide that you fancy me? What's going on, Sherlock?"
"Molly, as you know, I am not overly experienced in these matters. I rather thought that, given your attraction, you would give me some sign, or make an advance…"
"You mean to say that for years I have been mooning over you, and you were waiting for me to…"
"I'm a very patient man, Molly. And, as I said before, not very good at social interactions, especially those concerning sexual matters. So, do you want to sleep with me. The meaning of the term 'sleep' entirely left to your own interpretation?"
"Okay," Molly replied before she could talk herself out of it.
"Do you still want tea?", the detective queried, a bit nervously.
"No damn it! I want to go to bed, both literally and euphemistically!" And with that, Molly Hooper headed down the hallway, shedding her clothing as she went, with the world's only consulting detective close on her trail.
It was a few weeks later that Dr. Hooper found herself sitting at her desk, staring at the screen on her laptop, but lost in another world. She was thinking about Sherlock Holmes, of course, nothing new there. But on this occasion her fantasies were based on memory, not imagination. She and Sherlock had been sleeping together on a regular basis for over a month now, but they had let no one in on the secret. He would often let himself into her flat, and climb in beside her. On rare occasions, he would simply wrap himself around her and hold her until morning. More often, thank god, he would rouse her from her sleep to give her something new to fantasize about later. Molly spent many an evening at Baker Street, usually leaving early in the morning before Mrs. Hudson had roused herself from her "herbal soothers", none the wiser. If questioned about the matter, Molly would not have been able to truthfully answer whose decision it had been to keep their relationship secret, if one could even call it a relationship. They had never discussed the matter. So it was always with some trepidation that Molly engaged with her friends in Sherlock's presence.
The pathologist was startled out of her reverie by John Watson's voice. "You've been spending too much time with this git, Molly," he said, gesturing with his thumb to the curly haired man standing next to him with a bemused smile on his face. "You looked like you were in a mind palace of your own there for a while!"
"Not at all, John. Just zoning out a bit. Bored by paperwork, I suppose." Molly recovered herself nicely. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing much. I ran into Sherlock in the hall, and thought I'd come along to say 'Hi!'" John explained. "But while I'm here, Mary did want me to invite you to dinner."
"This isn't another one of her 'fix up' dinners, is it, John? Because, sorry to say, but I'm not really interested."
"Maybe it is. But this one is a really nice bloke. I've actually met him, for a change. I think you'd like him…"
"Once again, sorry, John, but I've sworn off men for awhile. Maybe some other time, huh?" Molly looked at Sherlock, and was startled by the look on his face. Hurt? Anger? Disappointment? She couldn't tell, exactly. Perhaps all three.
John Watson leaned in to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek. "Sorry to hear that, Molls. It's his loss. See you later." And with that he left her alone with Sherlock in her office.
Sherlock waited a few moments, perhaps gathering his thoughts, before he said anything. "Molly, I know we have never discussed this, but that would have been the perfect time to tell John about us, don't you think?"
"I had no idea you wanted to tell him, Sherlock."
"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock looked pensive. "Perhaps it's you who doesn't want anyone to know?"
Molly looked down at her computer screen, unable to meet his steady gaze. "Molly, are you ashamed about us? Embarrassed, perhaps?"
"No, of course not!", she said, perhaps a little too vehemently. But she still couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. "I guess I'm just being a little cautious, Sherlock?"
"Cautious? Why?"
"Look, I don't know how to explain it very clearly." She took a deep breath, and decided to continue. "For years, everybody has known how I felt about you. And they know that you took advantage of those feelings." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but she shut him down. "Don't argue the point, You've admitted as much yourself, Sherlock Holmes! But you weren't the object of their concern, the sometimes overbearing kindness, their teasing, their scorn, or, worst of all, their pity. And I don't want to give anyone any more ammunition. I don't want people to imagine that you're using me now for sex! Not that anyone would think that. They're just as likely to think I'm using you! And I don't want to deal with that, either." When she finally had the courage to look at him, she could see the concern on his face.
"Molly, you don't think I'm using you, do you?"
"No, not using, exactly. We both get what we want out of the relationship, don't we? It's more symbiotic than anything else. I'm convenient, and you're available. No more, or less, than that…"
"Molly, I have to go." Sherlock spoke hastily, and turned to leave.
That's it, Molly thought, I've done it now. I was happy. I thought he was content. Now, I've put a label on it. A label that he's been trying to avoid. And I've probably ruined everything. She sighed a heavy sigh, and fought back the tears that threatened to fall at any moment. At least I don't have to explain the breakup of a relationship that never was!
Sherlock Holmes was texting his brother furiously as he headed quickly out of St. Bart's in search of a cab. This was his fault. His own lack of sentiment was to blame here. No, not lack of sentiment, but the inability to express it! He finally had everything he had ever wanted, and he was about to lose it because of a stupid misunderstanding, his inability to understand the needs and feelings of those closest to him. He may have been stupid enough to get himself into this, but he was certainly clever enough to get himself out of it. He hoped!
The day shift was coming to an end when the detective made it back to the pathologist's office. He found Molly preparing to leave for the day, wearing the expression she often had when faced with an emotionally trying autopsy. But Sherlock knew that it was no autopsy which had caused her pain. He approached her from behind, and wrapped his arms around her waist. Something he had never done in a public place before, too concerned that they might be observed.
"Molly, love, I have unilaterally informed the Watsons that we will be joining them for dinner tonight. Mary was not amused as she had not prepared for guests, so we have to bring the takeaway. Chinese? Indian? What do you think?"
"I think that I would rather skip the meal, thank you. I don't want to face Mary when she's in this kind of I've-got-a-man-so-everybody-should-have-one mind set. She'll just try to set me up again…"
"I think I can guarantee that she won't, Molly. All you have to do is wear this." Having said that, Sherlock took a ring from the pocket of his Belstaff, and placed it carefully on the third finger of her left hand. "Perfect fit! I wasn't sure, but my grandmother was a tiny woman, too, so I thought…"
"Sherlock…" was all Molly managed to get out before he brought his lips down to hers and kissed the next thought right out of her head. "Mycroft had it in his safe. I had to run over there and get it, Molly. If you don't like it, I'll buy you another. But wear this for now, please, so everybody knows…"
"Knows what, Sherlock?"
"That I love you, of course. Although I suppose I should have mentioned that sooner. Maybe a few years ago." The detective looked at the woman who he hoped was now his fiancee, and was a bit taken aback to see the surprise on her face. "Better late than never, eh?"
"What time are we due at the Watsons', Sherlock?"
"Not for a good while yet, Molly. John's still at his surgery, and Mary has to pick up Claire yet.."
"So we have time to stop at your flat, or mine, first?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Why?"
Molly Hooper smiled what she hoped was her most seductive smile as she whispered in his ear, "I think I'd like to use you just a bit more before we announce ourselves to the world, Sherlock."
And Sherlock Holmes was soon made aware of just how symbiotic their relationship was.