A/N: Written for Araminta18, who requested fluffy/happy ending and a committed relationship. It doesn't start out quite that way, there be angst first, but it does definitely get there. Loosely based off the idea of Kübler-Ross five stages of grief, followed by a sort of opposite of it leading towards happiness. Originally mostly written/set in 2012, back when Blockbuster still existed in case anyone wonders about the mention of that.
A Relationship In Five Degrees
"Not my girlfriend."
It's twenty dates and three months in, the first time she hears him say it. Remarkably long to have escaped the embarrassing spectacle of having your relationship status downgraded from what you'd assumed, right in front of you. She can tell people already make this mistake often, when she's not around, by the way it grates on him; the exasperated edge evident in his rebuttal.
It's not the meanest thing Sherlock has ever said though. She'd never expected the mean things to stop being said just because they were dating – less frequently, sure, but entirely, no, because it's his way, his sorry lack of tact she doubts he can fully outgrow. She's not that bothered either, when it comes down to it, because, well, he's here isn't he?
He keeps denying it. She keeps accepting that fact.
What gets to her is that he's denying it more vehemently now than he was when she first heard him do so. There's a flare of anger that comes with each rebuff and a sudden snap back into cool Sherlock, calm and passionless in the wake of his tantrum. Sometimes she has to wait hours or days for the warmth to seep into him again, putting up in the meantime with their old mode of awkward friendship where he alludes to finding her company merely minutely interesting and moderately acceptable if there's nothing better to do.
There are three months he appears to forget about her. John confides in her his worries about Sherlock's depression, formally undiagnosed as it is. By John's description Sherlock's always fine when he's on a case. Cases do it for him; make him get out of bed, off the sofa, grin wildly. She apparently doesn't anymore, the shine worn off; he doesn't call her, or ask for body parts, or to be shown bodies even. Sherlock exiles himself from her and she lets him because... if he wants to he will.
Her stomach lurches when she catches glimpses of him but she can't fight for what she isn't convinced of, not when her mind can't formulate strong enough reasons they should be together. Her day dreams are nightmares now, where he rips her memories of their happy times to shreds. So she is silent and she hoards what details she can, the little things, plenty of them freshly drawn in her head, bundled close to her heart.
She sees the pair dashing about the halls of Bart's. Sherlock pointedly avoids her morgue. She avoids the lab he uses lately. She wants to call it his lab but it's not, though she sneaks in sometimes to trace fingers over test tubes he could have touched that day. She avoids him because she doesn't know what to say, all the words in her head feel belittling and bitter; if she spoke to him it would be more likely to make him lash out and flee again. There's a magic question, waiting to be asked. A question that will light up his mind, so he can know the answer to give her about why he is doing this to them both.
He sends a text. Another five minutes later. Another five hours after that. It's relatively restrained for Sherlock who usually demands attention on his terms. Eventually she replies.
She doesn't forgive him right away, but who is she kidding, by the end of the week she's already falling into the routine she'd adored before. She swings by Blockbuster and arrives at 221B in time to find John's set the table, Chinese for three, though John is quick to point out he's off out in a bit.
Molly suggests a film, waves the box in front of Sherlock enthusiastically and asks pretty please. He mocks her choice as predictable and unrealistic. He watches every second with her.
For three weeks she is amused to find he agrees to each and every suggestion she makes. Molly definitely puts that to good use.
His guilt wears off of course, and she doesn't mind, he's done his penance – the trip to a Roller Derby session probably would have sufficed alone – and he's there, beside her again. Still mocking her choice in almost anything. She sees him smiling as he does it, light hearted humour breaking through into conversation others would find harsh. They both smile a lot these days. John does too whenever he enters the room with them in it, he can feel it too. It feels right.
Molly hasn't got fancy words to explain, no poetry or proofs, but she is utterly convinced now and lucky she doesn't have to fight for it anymore. Sherlock seemed to have been fighting against himself in those months he'd secreted himself away from her and somehow they'd won out. She gets to enjoy it, being with Sherlock, being them, being together.
One day she does a double-take at his behaviour based not on what he has done, but what he has failed to do.
"Why don'tcha bring your, like, girlfriend here, I'm sure we can try room for one more. Special thank you because you sorted us good."
He spits out grammatical corrections like nobodies business. Gone, however, is his objection to the idea she is his girlfriend.
She never hears him speak out against the assumption again.
Another invite arrives for a charity ball and elicits a barely suppressed groan from Sherlock. He doesn't bin this one though. He stands the stiff baby pink card on the mantel piece, fingering the embossed golden curls of the letters as if appreciating the artistry of that single element. She suspects the variation of texture under his fingertips is what drew him to it.
"The Felicity Moments Foundation requests the attendance of my girlfriend and I on March the 3rd."
Molly reads on, the article about drugs derived from toxins and venoms is pretty fascinating.
"Ignoring me. How childish."
She raises her eyebrows at that - her childish?
"What is it now? Is it not appropriate to take my girlfriend?"
"You'd have to have one first, Sherlock"
"Don't be obtuse. You. You are my girlfriend."
"Am I?"
He admonishes her, turning the question around, "When have you not been?"
Does he really think, look at Molly, getting it wrong, missing the obvious. She closes her eyes, blanks out the disappointment at the manner this has happened in and reminds herself that at least he's actually finally admitted it.
For everything he is wont to say where people don't want him to, he is also far too good for his own good at forgetting to say things he ought to. He forgets to let the ordinary people in on things he knows to be true that are impossible - not simply difficult, actually impossible - for them to know. Molly doesn't say it like this, but every now and then she feels like she has to remind Sherlock no one can read his mind just because he'd like to not have to explain things like valuing friendship or appreciating Mrs. Hudson's enforced baked goods (which she reckons purposefully pack in the calories) when he's failed to consume anything for several days.
"Um, forever? You've...you've never asked. You never said 'Molly, would you like to be my girlfriend' or 'let's be exclusive' or anything remotely like that. Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with it, but you haven't. Just so you know."
"Failure to state a fact does not make it untrue. An atom was an atom far before any inconsequential person discovered it."
That's it, she supposes; Sherlock's subtle hint as to his unspoken feelings wrapped up in scientifically themed scorn.
She gets up from her comfy position on the sofa and walks right up to him, raising her hand to cup his cheek. Molly stares into his eyes and sees him looking back at her. Sherlock is always observing, analysing. How he looks at her in this moment and a smattering of others he lets her see, makes her feel like he can never understand her completely, a vulnerability he reveals to her. She is an eternal mystery to him, one he is grateful for, and one he is able to savour as a long sweet teasing of life from their time together. Sherlock wants to know her, but it is not a flash in a pan, there and done, moving on. It's like Sherlock wants to explore possibilities instead of the certainties he deals in day in, day out. She can't think of anything more flattering than the fact he would do normal things with her, admit to the long decided dull and boring and banal parts of humanity being decent because she's there.
"How would you like to be my wife?"
Molly never saw that coming. Girlfriend to wife in about thirty seconds. She jokes later that he'd skipped a few steps. If anyone would, it'd be Sherlock.
They have a simple civil ceremony. Close family – which for Mycroft extends to his PA – and friends only.
She can feel her hands shaking as Sherlock slides the ring on. He's speaking his vows and she can't hear any of it. The one thing she's aware of is the solemn tone to his voice and she knows he's deadly serious about the promises he's making. She's trembling and she's crying as he kisses her much longer than appropriate. There's a cat call from the pews and she can't make out if it's Greg or Mrs. Hudson, she's too distracted. It's not really a time to care. Molly kisses her husband with a fever and bollocks to the audience.
"How would you like to create a life?"
She presents it as an experiment and ignores the niggling ethics of thinking of it like that, or of encouraging Sherlock to get enthused over it in that way. It's the sort of idea that bleeds into her view of it too, over the weeks she's been searching for the right moment to bring it up. Calling it an experiment makes her less scared, less worried he'll reject it and less concerned they could get it wrong. An experiment seems open ended and like a journey of discovery she is familiar with, and easier to cope with than the broody need to procreate that spawned her posit to Sherlock.
Sherlock doesn't answer.
Sherlock doesn't say no. Sherlock doesn't point out she's past her prime, or call her idiotically selfish for wanting to put another person on this overpopulated planet, or deride her for giving into predictable hormone driven desires.
Sherlock doesn't say yes. Sherlock doesn't gush about the chance to log human behaviour from the earliest point perceivable, or bestowing the world with another genius Holmes, or getting one up on Mycroft even.
What Sherlock does is press every inch of himself to her, his lips consuming hers, stealing her very breath away - breath that gives life - like he's desperate to succeed.
Molly discovers there is something special about the occasions he takes her to bed with this intention to be a creator. There's no logic to him, he's a man possessed. Pure desire. She can't tell if he is mirroring her own want for a child, a want to please her, or if it's more. She doesn't ask, he doesn't say; they do and the actions win out.
There are logs after all.
She finds notebooks filled with reams of observations. The musings switch from criminal subjects and murder victims to their son, which is endearing and yet a disturbing comparison. He's only eight months old. If he's anything like Sherlock at all he'll be a terror, sooner or later - possibly sooner than two years old if they're unlucky and Holmes family child rearing tales aren't exaggerated - so maybe she should be happy for the head start on understanding his mind.
Written logs she'd considered. Doesn't stop there though, does it.
Audio logs were unexpected. She can't figure out how he's fixed it but the baby monitor transmits to a computer somewhere, which records non-stop, and to top it all off it can detect crying. She knows this because she gets instructive texts when he's out on cases, once when he was out of the country.
Video logs as well, creepily. Molly dislikes the thought of eyeless technology tracking her movements via CCTV in every damn room. Mycroft must be involved - might not have taken much convincing to do it with Sherlock suddenly onboard with the surveillance malarkey - and it's terribly well hidden, she can't root them all out.
It's as if Sherlock has taken the nervous parenting jokes of "Can't be in two places at once' and "Don't have eyes in the back of my head" as maxims for improvement.
Molly wouldn't have it any other way. Life is always interesting. She feels like she's living her life, not waiting for it in a cold basement room anymore. There will always be bodies, but she has this at the moment. And sometimes, with Sherlock, she gets bodies too. Bodies and babies. Happy days. Fortunately he'd learnt quickly not to mix the two worlds. They have a small lab in John's old room, unhygienic fridge full of body parts included, which is off limits to babies - unaccompanied or not, she reminds him daily.