A/N: Written for Silberias, who was having a bad day and needed some fluff to cheer her up. I banged this together in fifteen or so minutes, writing it in the tumblr submission box, so seriously, you get what you pay for. Still, I hope it's enjoyable. :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Everything glitters. The glass has no fingerprints, the elegant woodwork is polished to a high, shimmering sheen, and Molly doesn't want to guess the price tags attached, though unseen, to each piece of exquisite work. Vaguely afraid that she'll somehow manage to trip and crash every display case like a fall of Dominoes, Molly stuffs her hands in pockets and slows her steps.
"Why am I here again?" she asks, sotto voice, to Sherlock. The consulting detective, a year out of the 'grave' and a changed man for his experiences battling Moriarty's empire, gives Molly a look that suggests she has dribbled on herself.
Somewhat changed, Molly corrects herself. Annoying, childish, emotionally constipated, heart wrenchingly brilliant, so beautiful that sometimes Molly gapes at him like a schoolgirl; Sherlock has always been, and always will be these things. But now his edges are a bit more worn down in the case of those he cares for, and while he will never be what society considers 'normal', he makes a genuine effort with his friends. Molly knows he tried before, in small, mostly unnoticeable, entirely Sherlock ways. Now his kindnesses come more often, and sometimes even in public.
Now is not one of those times, it seems.
"I will not endure this alone," he says, nose in the air. "John says a friend should be with him, helping guide him to the right choice. You will provide John with the girlish chatter and glee many females express towards jewelry, and after a suitable amount of time has been spent debating, I will direct John towards a suitable match for his future fiancee."
"'Girlish chatter?'" repeats Molly, wondering if she ought to tug Sherlock down by the shirt front and bash his head into a glass case for the empowerment of all womankind…or if she should give a helplessly fond sigh, artfully mingled with an exasperated stare. (She chooses the latter.) "I think I'm offended, Sherlock."
"No, you aren't." Sherlock mutters, and quite before Molly realizes what he intends, he has slipped an around to warmly palm the small of her back. Pressing her forwards with the pressure of five fingers and a palm, Molly chokes back a rush of infatuation.
Sherlock has become demonstrative, at least in his own, quiet way. Sometimes it makes Molly's heart flutter and her toes curl, and it's so stupid and painful she hates herself for it. They're friends, now; proper, wonderful friends. They have conversations without words and enjoy comfortable silences, they work wonderfully together (though they always have, especially in the lab), and when John and Mary attempt to drag Sherlock into society, he nearly always brings Molly. She feels a bit of a seeing eye dog, sometimes, but it's nice to be needed, even if it isn't in the way she'd like.
Things with Sherlock are always different. Nothing is as she planned as a little girl (she isn't a jet fighter pilot ballerina, for one), but it doesn't mean it isn't good. She has friends, a job she loves, a nice home, and her relationship with her mum has gotten a lot better. It's a good life.
So having flash fantasies that Sherlock is more than a simple friend, that they're at this jewelers to look for a ring perfectly suited to Molly's slender finger…she just really doesn't need it. It won't do any good, and it makes Molly feel like a little girl. Thirty-three, and she still doesn't feel like an actual adult. She wonders if it will ever happen, or if at eighty she'll still have cravings for snow cones and her bare feet in spring grass.
The jeweler doesn't just know Sherlock, he's down right servantile. A side effect of of being a Holmes, Molly imagines. In short order they are taken too a back room, elegant and stinking of wealth, offered drinks, and are given seats and three trays of exquisite rings to poor over.
"Oh, John, look at this one." Molly points to a unique, and truly stunning, radiant cut set in painfully wonderful filigree platinum. "Mary would love this, don't you think?"
"Oh, yeah," John breathes, "yeah, I think so. May we…?"
"Of course, Mr. Watson, of course." The ring is passed over, and Molly and John practically knock heads ogling it. Molly knows Sherlock has been padding John's cut of the paychecks when their clients pay them at the end of a successfully solved case, and all in anticipate of this. So she isn't too worried that the price will be so far above John's head that he'll fall over dead when learning it.
Sherlock lurks behind them, sighing through his nose too often and doing God knows what on his phone.
"Sherlock, what do you think?" John pushes the ring on Molly's finger, forcing her to model it for their friend. And truth be told, Molly rather likes the way the diamond looks there, catching the light and shining.
The corners of Sherlock's eyes wrinkle, though Molly can't read the expression. He simply stares down, phone in one hand, before clearing his throat and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Lovely. Perfectly lovely. You see, John, I told you I was unneeded for this excursion."
Sherlock and Molly leave John in the back room a short time later, allowing him to conduct the financial side of things privately. Molly migrates to the cases, simply enjoying seeing such wonderful pieces of art. She's drawn to opals and pearls and jade, silver and white gold and rose gold. The attendant watches, politely unobtrusive, right up until Molly lingers too long at a necklace that makes her heart sing songs of beauty. It's diamonds and opals, delicately set and dripping from slender silver chains.
"Would you like to see it, ma'am?" The clerk has a smile like a fox, no matter how well hidden it is. She's already reaching to unlock the case, even though Molly is shaking her head.
"No, no thank you. I — I'm not —"
"Yes, please." Sherlock issues the command in that way he has, as though he doesn't imagine anyone ever telling him no.
Molly almost chokes on her tongue.
"Sherlock," she hisses, turning around to give him a glare, and nearly stumbling at how close he is. (She's going to tie a bell around his neck one day if he doesn't stop sneaking up on her.) "What are you doing?"
"Hush, Molly," he orders, before eying the necklace on it's stand. He surveys it as he does anything else, breaking it down and probably only just keeping back sneering notes about the diamonds formation however many billions of years ago. "Not the style I'd expected you to gravitate towards."
Molly wonders what that means, and if she should be indignant. She doesn't have time to work herself up, however, as Sherlock is picking up the necklace and unhooking it, moments before stepping behind Molly.
"Your hair," he says, and maybe his voice is a bit lower than normal, more intimate than their public setting calls for. It makes Molly's hands tremble, as she pulls her hair up and over, wide eyed and flustered as he slips the cool metal around her neck and hooks it.
He pushes her towards a mirror, and Molly can't breathe. It looks terrible with her ugly jumper, but Christ, this necklace is the most beautiful thing she's ever had on her body, ever, ever. She lusts for it with all the fierceness of a human with needs and wants, and then feels so ashamed she can barely swallow. What does Molly Hooper need with something like this? Besides, she doesn't even want to know what the price tag is.
"It's wonderful," she whispers, still in awe, still in love with it. "I love it."
"I know," Sherlock assures her, and he's right behind her again, closer than he needs to be. He does this too often since he's come home, stands close and watches her too long, and it makes Molly think thoughts she knows he doesn't. Not about her, maybe not about anyone. But even if he does, she knows he wouldn't ever act on those sorts of desires.
Hope may spring eternal, but Molly will always be logical.
"Maybe one day," she laughs, even though it's forced, hands lifting to unhook it. Sherlock's fingers wrap around her own, catching them and holding them in place. Molly watches him watch her, takes note of his dark eyes and down turned mouth.
"Why don't you buy it? You enjoy it. It suits you."
"It's frivolous," she answers, gently. "It doesn't mean I don't love it, or don't want it. I do. But I don't need it."
Appearing somewhere between angry and confused, Sherlock holds her in place a moment longer, meeting the reflection of her eyes. Finally he sighs, releasing her hands only to unhook the necklace himself. He returns it it's stand, leaving Molly's back cold without his warmth, her hands tingling from his touch.
"Wait here," he grumbles, "I'll see what's taking John so long."
Molly moves away from the cases, and waits by the door. Ten minutes later they're on their way, John with a ring box in his pocket and bounce in his step.
-X-
The problem with being the maid of honor in the Morstan-Watson wedding is that Molly is basically reduced to being the best man handler. It's twenty minutes before the ceremony, and Molly is wrangling Sherlock into his tie and pleading with him not to deduce the guests.
"Not today," she begs him, "please, Sherlock, for John. Think of it as his wedding present, alright? Deduce me, or tell me all your deductions, that's fine, but don't actually tell the guests."
"Ugh, weddings," he grumbles, hands at his sides as Molly knots his tie. She knows he can do it himself, but he's choosing the path of childishness, and making her do it for him. "I hate weddings."
"No one cares." Grimly, Molly smooths the tie down, tucking it under his vest. "You look nice. Now be nice."
Glowering balefully, Sherlock pouts. It probably speaks too much of Molly's mental state that she wants to kiss him, loves the way his mouth his curls and how he tucks his chin down. "Nice is boring," he says, and Molly forgets kissing and moves on to bodily harm.
"No one cares about that, either. Now put your jacket on."
"You've been taking mothering lessons from Mycroft, haven't you?"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"Not very adult of you, Dr. Hooper."
"I swear to God, Sherlock, I've been dealing with a nervous bride all morning and last night and, actually, for the past five months. I will kill you and make it look like an accident, and we both know I can do that."
A pause. Sherlock eyes her, from the tips of her heels to the top of the bow Mary thought would look so nice in her hair. (Molly hates it, a bit, but it's not her wedding, so she smiles and swears she loves it.)
"Yes," he says, thickly. "I do know."
"Good. Now behave yourself." Molly turns to leave, is startled when Sherlock takes her arm to stop her. His hand runs down, past her elbow, slows and glides a path down her forearm, until his fingertips are on her pulse and she's turned to look at him. "Sherlock?" she asks, and hates that she knows he's caught the breathlessness of her voice.
"A moment, Molly. Would you wait here, just a moment?"
She nods, of course she does. Molly allows him to borrow thumbs and livers and whole heads, of course she'll give him a few minutes more.
Sherlock nods once, firmly, before striding to the adjoining room. John is inside having a moment with Harry, but Sherlock doesn't even knock, he just barges in and swings the door shut behind him. Molly can hear voices, but not words; John's voice, happy, teasing. Sherlock terse answer, then something softer. A question?
Harry's laughter. Gentle, sweet, sober. Molly wonders whats being said, and fidgets nervously.
Sherlock returns with a velvet box in hand. Molly eyes it a moment before looking back to him, wondering if it's a gift for Molly to pass on to Mary. She hopes so, hopes it's a nice gesture from Sherlock to to future Mrs. Watson; they're still feeling each other out, learning how to exist when they both are in orbit around John.
"I am not accustom to sentiment." A strange start, and a fact Molly is well aware of. She doesn't believe for a minute that Sherlock isn't capable of emotional attachment or feelings, but rather that he avoids it because he simply doesn't know how to process it. John has helped him grow, and Molly likes to think she's helped, as well. "However, I have always found myself in possession of several emotions towards you, Molly. You are of above average intelligence, abnormally kind, and have always been a…a friend, to me."
Molly wonders if this is what being sucked out of an airlock into deep space feels like. She thinks so, especially when Sherlock fidgets, as nervous as a boy with his first crush.
"I…care for you a great deal. I know I have not always been kind to you, despite all that have you done for me, and I wanted to…to show you that I am appreciate of you. More than appreciate. You're an anomaly in my world." Sherlock holds the box out, and Molly takes it numbly. The velvet is soft against her fingers, the burgundy quite a fetching color. "This is a thank you, Molly Hooper. As well as a hope that…we may move forward. Together."
The box creaks as it's opened, the snap of tight hinges. A sob catches in Molly's throat, hangs there as tears blur the sparkle of diamonds and opals until it's all bright fire and color and no solid edges.
"Don't cry," Sherlock commands, a hint of fear in his voice. "Unless it is a good thing. John assures me sometimes tears are from joy, though I don't understand the reaction myself. Is it a good thing? Or…or not?"
Molly tosses herself forward, barrels right into Sherlock's chest. She slips an arm around his waist and clings, breathing hard as she attempts to stifle her tears. She doesn't want to have to redo her make-up, not this close to the ceremony. It's a battle she loses, however, as Sherlock tentative curls his arms around her, hands splaying across her back.
"Molly?" he asks, so much softer than his usual wont.
"I love you," she blubbers, because it's the truth, because there's nothing else she could possibly say to him right now. "Always, always…"
"Oh. Oh, good. I was unsure if you still carried the same feelings for me, after…after…" Sherlock flounders, forever scarred by their plot, the fall, his years hiding and killing and fighting for life. His hand lifts, a finger rubbing delicately at the soft skin at the back of Molly's neck, looking far more young and hopeful than Molly has ever seen before.
"Always," she reaffirms, beaming up at him. "I always will."
"Good. Brilliant. I…I feel quite the…the same." It's stunted and a bit awkward, but to Molly it sounds like a chorus of angels singing from heaven.
Later, she walks down the isle with reapplied eyeliner on Sherlock's arm, smiling so widely her face hurts.
Her necklace, more than precious stones and metals, far more, is a comfortable weight. She thinks about the future, and what may come, and feels as though she'll choke on her joy when she imagines another walk, though this time to Sherlock, again with her opals and diamonds, a fire around her neck as she wears white lace.
At the reception she catches the bouquet, and Sherlock turns the color of milk (he never stops looking at her with those warm, loving eyes, though).