Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock. Valentine's Day is upon us; let's spend all our single time hanging around the Internet reading fanfiction about adorable couples, eh?
Interest and love are two entirely different things, as are, in subcategories, platonic love and romantic love. Sherlock thought he knew the differences in everything.
Physical Contact
Expressions of physical contact: Platonic: Hugging, arm-gripping, kisses on the cheek, kicking, fist-bump, high-five
Hugging
The particular discovery of a pigment unknown to even Sherlock by Molly Hooper astonished him. He stared at her for a moment as she looked up from the sample plate, a little smile on her sweet face. He was entirely frozen, his hand still on the edge of the blood filled glass.
"Molly, that was . . . brilliant . . ." Sherlock said softly, barely audible.
"Oh, well, I was just reading in my books, see, and saw some example pictures, and . . . oh, well—thank you," Molly said, smiling brilliantly. She chuckled a little, terribly pleased.
It was a combination of the surprised but touched face of Molly and her genius mind that calculated and drew conclusions that made Sherlock give her a hug. She didn't hug him back, not for a second, for this split second of human warmth that Sherlock was giving her was beyond her imagination to comprehend. But her automatic shock was overcome by her hugging him back. Two seconds it lasted, but two seconds that were never forgotten.
Arm-gripping
Sherlock, for once, was in a flurry of excitement. Molly had stopped in to see him pacing in his carpeted apartment, muttering under his breath and gripping his hair, almost sounding like he was reciting math formulas to himself.
"Sherlock?" she wondered, standing silently in her winter wear.
"Molly." His head snapped up. He rushed to her, his slender fingers wrapping around her arm, almost as a childish way to bring her along to his deductions. He was ready to take her on an adventure. His eyes were light and his fingers gentle, but shaking. "I've got it."
Molly held his arm with her free hand, remaining calm. "What, exactly, Sherlock?"
He grinned. Oh, he loved explaining things to her.
Kisses on the cheek
Molly was heading off to a cottage in the country where her mother lived, feeling ill with a bitter cold. The specialist tossed away her gloves and washed her hands before heading towards the door to fetch her bag and go to her car.
Sherlock, as per usual, was bent over a microscope. "You're going on a trip, maybe for ten days or so," he said, without looking up.
Molly stopped and stared at him. He caught her eye. "Are you?"
"I'm going to go take care of my mum. She's caught ill," Molly said.
"You were going to leave without saying goodbye?" Sherlock said, almost absently, though his already involved interest showed his interests otherwise.
"Well, I thought . . ." Molly looked aghast. What she thought didn't want to come off her tongue. She felt ashamed by leaving without thinking of saying something of a goodbye, especially to Sherlock. He was now, strangely enough, the only constant friend she had. Or him her. John was always on and off about being pissed at him.
"Thought what?" Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Nothing." Molly shook her head and set down her bag, coming around to his counter. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she said clearly, simply.
"Lacking your usual sentimentality," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Have you become so . . . like me, Doctor Hooper?"
Molly glared at him before she gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, two inches from his face, "Goodbye, Sherlock," and then she trotted off before her blush became all too apparent.
Kicking
"Really, forty-five is not the greatest age to be proud of," Sherlock said, scowling, at the dinner Greg Lestrade was having with his amassed friends. It was a pretty restaurant and Molly sat next to him, in her best dress.
"Sherlock, really. He barely has any reason to have parties anymore. Let Greg has this one," Molly said patiently.
"If Gerald can make it past 78.2 years, I'll be impressed," Sherlock said conversationally. He sighed dramatically. "I hate public appearances. Or interactions."
"Or anyone?" Molly said, raising an eyebrow.
"My life isn't altogether that unpleasant," Sherlock said truthfully, "sometimes a murder happens."
Molly kicked him under the table and he was startled. "You can't go around saying such things at a birthday party, Sherlock," Molly said.
"Yeah. Well—you can't go around kicking people," Sherlock said, his cheeks creasing and his leg aching.
"Well, sorry," Molly said. She drank some wine and nearly choked when she felt a kick at her leg. She put down her glass and stared, shocked, at Sherlock, who was looking loftily in the opposite direction.
So she kicked him.
By the end of the dinner party, they were both easing out of their chairs while gasping and groaning from their bruises.
Fist-bump
"You're in a good mood this morning," Sherlock said, staring down into his petri dish.
"Oh, really?" Molly said, her voice brimming with mirth as she pulled out her phone.
"Yes. I can feel it. It's not normal," Sherlock said.
Molly checked her phone and shrieked.
"What now?" Sherlock said, looking up, curiously eying the phone.
"My vacation days are approved. I am going to the seashore!" Molly said. Her eyes sparkled and she was delighted as she held out her folded fist, her other hand texting very hard.
Sherlock was perturbed by this new occurrence and stared at her fist. After several seconds of nothing, Molly looked up and said, "You're supposed to bump it."
"Why."
"It's a sign of excitement. It's a normal thing." Her fist bumped softly against his long hand guiding the dials on the microscope.
"Oh." His hand folded and awkwardly bumped hers.
Molly grinned.
"What was the point of that?" Sherlock wondered.
"It's camaraderie. That's what it is, Sherlock," Molly said, smiling.
High-five
Sherlock, succeeding, was beyond the happiness of a child. So when he caught a clue or a thought, he stopped and thought of it, and grinned to himself. Then he swept away to implement this new thought. But as of late, Greg and John and Mary noticed, every time he thought of something of worth in the lab, he'd exclaim, catching Molly's attention. She'd smile, a corner of her mouth turning, and he'd offer his hand up. He'd only look at her once she hit his hand, almost surprised, definitely perplexed, that she did the touch at all.
Expressing of physical contact: Romantic: holding hands (duh), kissing (more than obvious), relieving hugs, reassuring squeezes of shoulders, linking arms, hand over wrist, touching face at all
Holding hands
Holding hands was authoritative and spoke more than a thousand words. When he first held her hand, she felt her heart and his touch only; he almost didn't say anything about it. He actually pretended that he was acting normally. But then he said, "Is this all right?"
"'Course it is," Molly said simply, after recovering her breath.
Soon his holding her hand and vice versa was their acting normally. Walking around St. Bart's, sometimes walking home together in the grey evening, they'd hold hands. His fingers were very delicate and long. Hers were strong and short little things. They held on together like a basket. Wretched apart, they were in shambles.
Kissing
Sherlock was expressively romantic for once. A fancy dinner out, theater tickets to the opera, and he appeared with chocolates and roses. Molly certainly hadn't expected this for Valentine's Day. But he asked her out. She got that. Peculiar, but no argument against it. Still, she remained entirely suspicious over the course of the evening and was sure this was a ruse, an experiment or a dare from John.
So when they came to her apartment building past eleven at night, their breaths clouds and their clothes damp from the weather, Molly said, "What was all that, Sherlock?"
"What was what?" Sherlock asked.
Molly indicated the chocolate heart box extending out of her purse and the flowers she had in the crook of her elbow. "These. The fancy restaurant. Phantom of the Opera. Walking me home while keeping a surprising lot of conversation going. It's really strange, Sherlock. What is it?"
"You tell me, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said calmly, hoping his intentions were shown.
"It's downright romantic. Surprising. Why'd you do it?" Molly said. "You're tricking me, yeah?"
"No," Sherlock said slowly. He tilted his head. "I didn't do something wrong, did I?"
"What?" Molly said, her smile slipping.
"I did everything that John said I should do. I bought you chocolates, the roses were the right color for your eyes—"
"John made you do this?" Molly said, her voice faltering.
"Oh, no. Believe me, I only asked him for romantic advice. Did he lie to me to make me look bad?" He sighed dramatically. "He would, too."
"Wait, you wanted to be romantic?" Molly said, startled.
"Well, yes," Sherlock said, as if it was obvious.
"Towards me?"
"Of course you."
"Why?"
"Because . . ." Sherlock was the opposite of sentimental and romantic and sensitive. He blustered when he tried. So he swallowed and said quite bluntly, "Because I love you, Molly." He shrugged.
Molly felt like she gawked at him, but instead she stood in frozen astonishment, clutching the flowers closer, making the plastic crackle. Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy. "Excuse me?" she whispered after a second.
Then she treasured the smile he had on his face. Sherlock Holmes had the most beautiful smile when it meant something.
"As it would turn out, you do matter—to me," Sherlock said, his voice becoming calm.
Molly was sure he was tricking her. But oh, she wanted to believe him so badly.
"You're lying," she said flatly.
"Am not," Sherlock countered. "Why would I lie about loving you?"
"Because you hate love-like things," Molly said.
"I dislike most of it, yes, mostly because it turns people into complete idiots. But you're not idiotic, and neither am I, and I don't intend for us both to turn into dumbstruck adults," Sherlock said. He shrugged again. "I am horrible at this, you know, Molly, and I'm trying, really I am, but believe it, for it's the truth. The illogical, but definite truth."
Molly blinked. Her lips pulled into an almost disbelieving smile. Her laugh rang like a bell through him.
He kissed her goodnight on her front stoop with a sincerity that she didn't question.
Relieving hugs
He took much of her load when she clutched him tight like a lifeline. She felt his burden when his arms tightened around her. Their arms around each other, they could breathe.
Reassuring squeezes of shoulders
Much like their fist-bumps and high-fives, their affection came as a reassuring squeeze against another's shoulder. Molly heading home before Sherlock? A squeeze to let him know everything. Goodbye. See you later. I love you. Sherlock rushing out to solve a case? Text you later, Molly. Don't wait up.
Their hands spoke of sincerity when words failed them.
Linking arms
"When'd you start doing that?" John asked of Sherlock once Sherlock was seated next to him.
"Start doing what?" Sherlock asked, being above all irritating, for he loved answering a question with a question with John.
"You and Molly. You came in with your arms together. What is that?" John wondered. He leaned back against his couch. Both men were watching Molly and a heavily pregnant Mary in the kitchen, chatting and laughing and getting out drinks.
"Oh, since we became a couple. We do it a lot," Sherlock said absently.
John stared at him and blinked. A minute of inane thoughts passed and John said, his finger passing between Sherlock and Molly, "You two? Together? Romantically?"
"Yes. Is that hard to believe, John?"
"You better not be playing with her head, Sherlock. 'Cause you can be the most heartless sod I've ever met," John said bluntly.
Sherlock said, after a pause, "I understand your concern—"
"And?"
"—and the last thing I could ever want to do is hurt Molly Hooper." Sherlock stared, unblinking, at John, waiting for a response.
"Well, all right, then," John said, after a moment. "So, what do you two do?"
"We link arms a lot," Sherlock said sarcastically (though the truth it was).
Hand over wrist
It was barely-noticed gesture. But his fingers looped around her wrist when he was just talking to her; at just the most random moments their fingers subconsciously reached for touch of the other. Their safe-hold was around the other's wrist. They felt protected then, holding on to something sturdy. Almost unnoticed but felt all the same.
Touching face (at all)
Sherlock Holmes's mind was fascinated by many things; his attention was caught only by things too memorizing to stop looking away from; his eyes lit up at finding beautiful, complex things.
He stared at Molly's face entirely too much.
First it had been a platonic experiment (or so he wanted to put off) by examining her jawline, her nose, her eyes. That followed a discussion of alleles in her parents and what color eyes they had. He determined their dominant allele and found she had the loveliest brown eyes.
He always found a way, after they got together, to kiss her face. Forehead, nose, cheek, lips, at least once during a visit. He found he loved the way she looked at him afterwards. Never mind that it gave him a rush anyway, a soft feeling of warmth through him. John noticed it when he was about and tried to be casual but ("Someone's in love, Sherlock." "Oh, shut up, John." "Oh, oh, okay. Right. Go ahead. Deny it.")
Sometimes his fingers brushed back her hair after it frizzled into her face after a long day of work. He'd tuck it away so he could see her plain but extraordinary face. And then of course Molly was always playing a finger against his cheek after a snog, out of nervous habit, then of unspoken affection. Oh, the words that never passed between those two that they heard the other one say. Their silent conversations.
These, of course, are examples of physical affection. But all know that love counts as more than physical contact.
Inquiries of Person (or titled, in layman's terms, Interests in His/Her Interests)
Inquiring of job, family, physical status, emotional status, work, life, pets, any point of their personality or lives of interest
"Have you any cases this week?" Molly said, upon seeing Sherlock in the lab first thing in the morning. Inquiry of job.
"No, unfortunately. I'm forced to keep myself from sleeping into a coma of complete and utter boredom by doing tedious trivial experiments," Sherlock said, almost loftily, though tiredly. Molly wasn't surprised if he had been allowed through the night to stay in her lab. He had a way with words and a high rank with the security.
"Which are what, exactly?" Molly asked, hanging up her winter coat.
"Researching my immediate family's blood types," Sherlock said.
"You got blood from your mum and dad?" Molly wondered.
"Christmas present."
"You saw them at Christmas. How did that go?" Inquiry of family.
"Oh, horrible, Molly, really. John was about to boil over any moment, with Mary heavily pregnant and subjected to many different treats from my mother, who cannot stop baking to save her life. And Dad was all cheerful. Mycroft, however, was an absolute doll." Oh, the sarcasm.
Molly smiled. Classic Sherlock, so she wasn't offended. She appeared worried, though, her eyes concerned and her face slack, as she saw his physical symptoms. Pale face, shaky hands, hidden yawn, slight dark circles beneath his eyes. The cafeteria was just a level or two away, but he hardly went to it. A coffee mug stood by him; she had brought him coffee yesterday.
"Have you slept at all, Sherlock?" Inquiry of physical status.
"No, I haven't," Sherlock said simply.
"Sherlock, you've got to know that even if you don't know other normal things. You need sleep. You're not as robotic and alien as you think you are. Robots can have oil and you can have coffee, but you can't run on it," Molly said, putting down a clipboard and pressing a hand against his shoulder.
Sherlock grew still. "Sleeping is slow and I can't run on slow. I need to keep moving. Coffee is the poorest alternative to getting high, but for once I'm trying to be legal."
"That's a change," Molly said, surprised.
"Yes. It is. I don't know how I like it." Sherlock turned his attention fully on Molly, pushing the microscope out of the way. "How are you today?" Inquiry of emotional status.
"All right, I guess." But Sherlock's eyes, which scrutinized tiny clues out of bare crime scenes, could see the same symptoms she saw in him. He concluded his thoughts into one laid-out conclusion and said after a second in summation, "Working long hours here? I've noticed." Inquiry of work.
"Well, that."
"Something else?" The hairs on her jacket, the nibbles on her socks, the smell overwhelmed by perfume. "How is Toby?" Her cat, of course. Inquiry of pets.
"Sickly. He doesn't move much about at home. He disappears often and I get worried about him," Molly said quietly.
"Perhaps your judgment of his gender is wrong. Has he become fat, eaten more so than usual?" Sherlock asked.
Molly had learned to catch on quick with Sherlock. So her answer to him was a laugh. "No, Sherlock. I'm certain Toby's a boy and not pregnant."
"That was the logical answer. So the illogical answer is to say, He is a cat. He's lonely without you at a home a lot. He's probably out rummaging around in dumpsters and being in cat street gangs," Sherlock said calmly.
"That IS illogical," Molly said. Sherlock knew it, but it was worth it to see her relieved smile.
Their conversation, over the vast morning, circulated from Mrs. Hudson's addition to Sherlock's tea in the morning to Molly's gram's new jukebox machine to gumball machines to guns used in Saudi Arabia to pumplines in California. Many bunny trails between the two of them, but Molly had learned how to be fast and quick in answering him, and Sherlock had learned that an ounce of patience for those slower-minded was worth his time. Inquiry of any point of their personality or lives of interest.
Thirdly, Care or Concern
You do things for them. You make sure they're safe, warm, loved, comforted, fed, watered, feeling all right, and you do whatever that takes for them.
Whether it was voiced or not, the inquiries from the detective to the specialist and vice versa about their own care or concern for the other was sometimes or always noticed. It came by a call at night during a storm inquiring if they had blankets and power still, or a cup of tea when they were in a depressing mood during a late shift. Asking them and listening to all their questions and giving them answers when they could, expressing all they could in their own stilted ways. Mary and John noticed these small titbits of affection Sherlock and Molly exchanged; it was surprising and heartening at the same time. They softened each other in this way. Love made Sherlock quite more patient and feeling. Love made Molly less nervous, more confident and helpful. It caused a slow but steady effect; while not altering their personalities entirely, it did not make them worse, but only better.
Sherlock and Molly's 'platonic' touches were seen as platonic from the outside. But they were just as romantic as the labeled 'romantic' touches. Their inquiring into each other's lives with care and/or concern furthered their relationship, for it excluded a lot of physical touch and built their relationship via meaningful affection. While this list contains not all versions of expressed love, it goes to show many ways of showing human love.
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY. God bless you!