This Sunday afternoon was shaping up to be like every other Sunday afternoon, or at least Molly Hooper hoped that it was. Since Mary Watson's untimely and tragic death, little Rosie Watson's godparents had promised themselves, and John Watson, that they would do their best to ensure that the child had a real family. One that may be missing a mother, but certainly not lacking in love, commitment, and and familial spirit. To that end, they had promised to spend at least every Sunday afternoon together, especially if they hadn't had the chance to connect during a busy week. They would get together and do everything a family would. Watch telly together and yell at the screen. Play games, even though some of them were known to cheat, and bicker, sometimes endlessly. The day always included a home cooked meal, eaten en famille. The venue of these gatherings alternated between Mrs. Martha Hudson's home on Baker Street, and the flat of Dr. Molly Hooper. It may seen blatantly chauvinistic that the two women were always the ones expected to cook, but the participants were more than willing to compromise their principles in order to avoid food poisoning.
This Sunday was not exactly like every other one, though, because several of the members of the tightly knit group were to be missing. Martha Hudson was in Brighton with her sister who had been recently released from hospital, and John Watson was taking advantage of an all to rare period of sobriety on his sister's part to reacquaint his daughter with her only flesh and blood aunt. But Molly Hooper was hoping that Sherlock Holmes would show up anyway. She hadn't seen him all week and it seemed to her that she was already developing withdrawal symptoms. She knew that John had informed the detective of the prospective absences, but she figured that, being a creature of habit, he may show up anyway, looking for a bit of companionship and a good meal, things in short supply in the usual course of the detective's life. So, there was a chicken in the oven and potatoes boiling on the hob as Molly snapped some green beans hoping that he would show. Worst case scenario, she thought, was that she could live off the leftovers all week.
Sure enough, the man in question showed up at the appointed time, looking hungry and somewhat confused.
"I hope you're hungry, Sherlock. You know it's just the two of us this week."
"I'm well aware of that, Molly, but I didn't want to pass up the chance of one of your excellent meals. And I have a few questions that, perhaps, you can help me with."
The tall man followed her into the kitchen, sitting at her table will she busied herself with her chores. "So, what can I help you with, Sherlock? Something about a case? I hope you weren't expecting to use the poultry innards to experiment on - Toby has already made quick work of them." She nodded at the fully sated tabby, who seemed to smirk at the man glowering at him from his seat.
"No, nothing like that. But I find myself confused by a term Sally Donovan mentioned to me. Do you know what she meant by 'Johnlock'?"
Molly snapped the last bean with a little too much effort, and swallowed hard. "How did that subject come up, Sherlock?"
"Well, I was at the Yard on Friday, enjoying Donovan's discomfort as a colleague made fun of her interest in something called 'fan fiction'. Naturally, she took exception to my enjoyment, and said, with a hint of venom, that I should check out something called 'Johnlock'. I certainly didn't want to betray my ignorance of …"
"No, of course not. Not a Mr. Know-it-all like you!"
"Yes, well, so I filed the term away to return to later. And this is me returning to it. Now. Do you know what it is, Molly?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. But it may require a bit more in the way of explanation. First of all, you said Sally has an interest in fan fiction?"
"Yes, whatever the blood hell that is!"
"Well, fan fiction is just what it would seem to be. It's fiction, usually short stories, about certain celebrities, either fictional characters on telly, or in literature, or in films, written by fans of that character. I must tell you that, although the vast majority of such stories are created about fictional characters, there is a subgenre about real life personalities. Since you, yourself, have gained some notoriety, and a following of sorts, it stands to reason that you would be the subject of a few stories…"
"Oh, I see. I have fans who follow my cases, then. I suppose I can't object to being appreciated for my cleverness. But you still haven't explained this 'Johnlock' stuff."
"By this time, Molly's ears were beginning to get a little red, and her long-vanished stutter was surely threatening to make a reappearance. "Okay, let me explain. In these fan fiction stories, there are certain 'ships', as they are called…"
"Ships?"
"Yes. The term is short for 'relationship'. So, 'Johnlock' would refer to a relationship between John and yourself."
"Ah, I begin to understand. They write stories about John and I working together. Our partnership, master and pupil, then."
Molly could not bring herself to look him in the eye as she continued. "Not exactly. You see, a ship usually refers to a romantic and/or sexual relationship. So, they're actually writing about…"
The detective pounded a fist into the kitchen table as he rose quickly from his seat. "Ridiculous. Why would anybody be interested in my sex life? This is impossible, I tell you!"
On one hand Molly sympathized with his sense of vulnerability and the invasion of his dearly held privacy, she must confess that she herself entertained more than a little curiosity about his sex life. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by his demand that she produce her laptop so that he could perform his own investigation. Despite the fact that she could think of nothing more uncomfortable than sitting there while Sherlock Holmes discovered the many variations and permutations of his fictional sex life as imagined by the fevered minds of his devoted fans, she complied with his request and placed the computer on the table in front of him.
"Where would I find such fiction, Molly? Do you have any idea?"
Molly, of course, had a very good idea, having spent quite a few evenings entertaining herself by perusing the sites. "I suppose I could recommend at least two sites, Sherlock. Try , and for starters. There's actually some good stuff on there. Some of the writing is remarkably good. And the stories can be very amusing…"
"I can tell by the way you answered so quickly that you have already availed yourself of these sites, Dr. Hooper. Tell me, did you find the invasion of my privacy amusing?"
Molly could not bring herself to answer, and was dreading the time when he would find that her privacy had also been invaded, so to speak. Dinner was served as Sherlock acquainted himself with the fan fiction genre. Bites of roast chicken were interspersed with muttered expletives, with the occasional amused snicker. She guessed that these were occasioned by some unfavorable reference to his brother Mycroft. Even given the fact that Sherlock Holmes was an inordinately fast reader, he could not have covered all that much of the collected works by the time dinner was over. And this was evidenced by his questions which followed.
"So, tell me, Molly. What exactly is Sheriarty?"
Molly looked down at her dinner plate. "That implies a relationship between you and Moriarty…"
"From what little I have read, Molly, there seems to be more than an implication! And, what, pray tell, can you divine from the term 'Holmescest'?"
"That one isn't all that common, though, is it?"
"I should hope not!" Sherlock said indignantly, looking truly offended. "Can I assume that Mystrade refers to a homosexual relationship between my brother and Gareth?"
"His name is Greg, Sherlock, as you well know!"
"Evidently, I don't know him as well as Mycroft does, Molly!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, it's all fiction. Don't get your panties in a uproar."
"My panties, as you call them, are just fine, Dr. Hooper. Now, about this Adlock…"
"Come on now, Sherlock, after all, the woman did seem to be taken with you, at least according to John. And he seems to believe the feeling is mutual." Molly replied with just a bit of vehemence, and jealousy.
"At least she's the proper sex to arouse my interest, notwithstanding Mrs. Hudson's opinion. Why is it, exactly, that I seem to be paired so frequently with men. Everyone from Moriarty to Moran, from Lestrade to my own brother. And John! Always John!"
"Perhaps they make these things up because there is so little to know about your real sex life, Sherlock. Perhaps, if you had one, people wouldn't feel compelled to make one up!"
"What makes you think I don't have a sex life, Molly. I assure you that is not the case. I am a normal, healthy male, who certainly requires physical release on occasion."
"Sherlock, you never date. Except for that fling with Janine, which you have gone to great lengths to explain was a complete fake, only for a case."
"Molly, be realistic. This is the twenty-first century, and we live in one of the largest metropolitan centers in the world. Surely you know there are many places where one can go to avail themselves of willing partners. One night only. No obligations. No questions."
Molly was now gazing across the table with renewed interest. Perhaps she herself should start frequenting such establishments, hoping to run into the detective, the unrequited love of her life, when he was in need for such a "release". She was still staring when he continued.
"But, I was wrong to assume that you would not understand how my privacy has been violated, as it would seem that you, yourself, have been the subject of much speculation."
"Maybe, some…"
"Oh, Molly, don't sell yourself short. There's Molliarty, Mollstrade, Mollcroft. There's a few where you have been hooked up with the Woman. And quite a few with you and John riding off into the sunset. I believe that's called Jolly. How appropriate. There's a name for each and every one of them."
"Yes, well, I only wish my sex life was as exciting as fiction portrays it, Sherlock," she said quietly, noting that he had avoided mention of the many stories written about her and the detective himself. She couldn't help but smile a little as she thought about the stories, which, for the most part, portrayed Sherlock Holmes as insatiable, and Molly Hooper as more than a little cooperative, and quite flexible.
"Well, I think I should return to my investigation. Next up is a story set in something called the omegaverse…"
He got no further as Molly leaned across the table and slammed the laptop closed, practically shouting, "I think that is quite enough for one sitting, don't you? You don't want your brain to overload on this nonsense, after all."
"Alright. If you'll answer one question for me."
"What question, Sherlock?"
"Is any of this stuff real?"
"I would think that you would be in a better position to answer that, Sherlock. It's all about you, after all."
The man across the table seemed to be a bit uncharacteristically sheepish as he answered her. "If I confess to a single night with the Adler woman, will you do the same?"
"Don't be absurd. I've never slept with Irene Adler," Molly laughed without humor.
"You know what I mean. I will admit to succumbing to Adler's charms on one, and only one, occasion. And, before you even ask, there was no dominatrix gear involved. It was sex, pure and simple. She owed me a debt, and since sex is the currency in which she deals, that was how I was repaid." He then fixed her with a look from his stunning blue/green eyes. "Now, will you answer me?"
"Sherlock, you surely know that I am no virgin, not at my advanced age. But no, I have never slept with any of your friends or acquaintances. Not John, or Greg, certainly not Mycroft. And definitely not Moriarty. Does that cover it? Any more questions?"
"Just one, actually. We seem to be the subject of quite a few of these romantic speculations, don't you think?" His voice deepened and he held her gaze steadily. "So, given the fact that we've known each other for quite some time, you find me attractive and I reciprocate the feeling, and we are both unattached, why haven't we slept together?'
Molly felt her throat constrict and her pupils dilate. "Maybe I just haven't run across you in one of those establishments which you have admitted to frequenting when the need arises, Sherlock. It could be just a matter of timing."
"Well. if timing is the only problem, I say there's no time like the present. What do you say - want to live out a 'ship'?" Having said that, he waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, due, perhaps, to the recipient's shock at the proposition, he rose from his chair, took her hand , and led her gently down the hall to her bed.
As they finally found themselves lying face to face, unclothed in the dark, Molly at last found her voice. "Sherlock, are you sure about this?"
"Molly, luv, I think you can tell by the condition of a certain portion of my anatomy, that I am quite sure about this."
But the pathologist continued on, her voice a bit hesitant. "I mean, you must know how I feel about you. I love you. I have for ages. But you have done nothing to encourage me. It's not your fault, really. So I don't want you to feel obligated in any way. I don't expect anything more than one night, and I won't be surprised to find you gone in the morning. I mean it…"
She would have continued, but he stopped her with a lingering kiss.
"Of course I know how you feel about me, Molly. I may not understand it, but I do know. In fact, I'm counting on it. And I'll be here in the morning, and every other morning you'll allow me to be…"
"You'll grow tired of me. You'll grow bored, eventually."
"Molly, as a scientist you should know that the human body contains an estimated one hundred trillion cells. I intend to become acquainted, intimately, with each and every one of yours. That should keep me busy for at least a lifetime, and well into an afterlife, if there is such a thing."
"You mean it? This is us, then? We're…"
"Yes, my love, we're a 'ship'. An unsinkable one at that." And, with that, conversation came to a screeching halt. And for the rest of the night Sherlock Holmes proved to be just as insatiable as the stories had implied, with Molly Hooper just as cooperative. And flexible.
It came as no surprise that, three months later, Molly having discovered that a tiny stowaway had found his or her way on board their 'ship', the couple exchanged vows in front of a select group of family and friends. Sherlock and Molly exchanged a secret smile as the groom slipped the plain gold band onto the third finger of her left hand, for only the two of them knew that, engraved on the inside of the band was a single word. "Sherlolly."