The Christmas Eve party at 221B Baker Street was well under way. John Watson had started the custom during the time that he and Sherlock shared the flat, but the tradition had faltered during the detective's supposed death. The year Sherlock returned, John had already moved to another flat, and become engaged to Mary Morstan. The next year, John and a very pregnant Mary had spent the holiday with Sherlock's brother and parents at the Holmes cottage in the country. Oh, and then the detective had murdered a blackmailer, in front of multiple witnesses, and been sentenced to an thankfully abbreviated exile.
But this year, things seemed to be back to normal, or what passed for normal in the world of Sherlock Holmes. The small group of friends had gathered to celebrate the season in the usual way. The sitting room and kitchen were festooned with holly and fairy lights, courtesy of John Watson and Molly Hooper. Sherlock had, as usual, assisted in a purely supervisory capacity, while Mary Watson had, for the most part, tended to her ten month old little girl, Claire. Mrs. Hudson had been busy most of the day baking, and cooking, and cleaning. Molly had arrived early, with additional food and supplies, in order to help John decorate, while Sherlock went to raid his brother's liquor cabinet.
About the only thing unusual this Christmas was that Sherlock Holmes, world's only insulting detective, and resident git, had finally admitted, if only to himself, that he was madly in love with one Dr. Molly Hooper, his pathologist. Now he found himself glancing in her direction at every opportunity, intentionally and unintentionally. He had known Molly for over seven years, and had come to respect her professional capabilities, then admire her kindness and integrity, and finally appreciate her physical beauty. In fact, he was busy appreciating this physical beauty one evening over a year ago when it occurred to him that he was, in fact, in love with her. This had come as quite a surprise, as he had always assumed that he could rely on his superior brain to override any inclinations of the heart, or other body organs. But he found, to his chagrin, that his brain was every bit in love with her as everything else. Molly was intelligent, kind, funny, generous, and beautiful to boot. It would have been illogical not to be in love with her, he had decided. Or, at least, he told himself he had decided. But he knew, deep down, that no conscious decision had ever been made. One day she was a competent colleague working beside him in the path lab, the next day, she occupied his thoughts in a way no other ever had. He was a goner.
"Sherlock, Sherlock! Yoo hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called to him from across the sitting room. "I'm coming for my kiss!" She was pointing at the sprig of mistletoe she had pinned in her hair, so that she was permanently under it. Mrs. Hudson took no chances when it came to mistletoe!
John Watson, who was standing next to his best friend, leaned in to say, "She's gotten me at least a half dozen time, mate. Time to take your medicine!"
"I have taken that particular medication at least four time this evening, John. I am terrified of an overdose."
"The flat isn't that large, Sherlock. I doubt whether you can avoid her."
"Perhaps we should toss Anderson into her path, John. Or Stamford?"
"I don't think that's advisable, mate. Mike's wife took the first three kisses in the spirit of the season, but she's beginning to look a bit put out."
"It was you who decided to hang mistletoe in every available nook and cranny. You should have realized Mrs. Hudson would nick some for her own use!"
John chuckled softly as he and Sherlock split up, making themselves moving targets. Sherlock then caught sight of Molly again, smiling up in conversation with DI Lestrade, who was pointing to the mistletoe hanging above the petite woman's head. As Lestrade leaned in for the traditional kiss, targeting Molly's lips, she turned her head slightly so that the kiss landed on her cheek. As she caught Sherlock's eye, she smiled gently and nodded in his direction. The detective was clutching his Scotch tightly in his hand, vowing to himself to erase the detective inspector's last name as well as his first is he ever got that close to the pathologist again. Outwardly, however, he smiled and gave them a small wave.
Molly made her way over to Sherlock, glass of wine in her hand and a smile on her face. "You've been nursing that same glass of Scotch all evening, Sherlock."
"Have to maintain my cat-like reflexes, Dr. Hooper. Mrs. Hudson is on her usual holiday prowl." he said, snickering.
"A kiss or two won't kill you, you know," Molly laughed at his pretended annoyance.
"She's not my type, Molly."
"I wasn't sure you had a type, Sherlock," Molly smiled slyly up at him.
"I definitely have a type, Molly. I just should have made it more obvious before. I shan't make that mistake in the future."
Molly smiled a bit uneasily, unsure whether Sherlock was talking about coming out of the closet, or developing the habit of frequenting strip clubs. Or both, come to think of it. "Well, happy Christmas, again, Sherlock. And don't think the absence of mistletoe will deter me!", she said as she stood on tiptoe to brush his cheek with her lips.
"I hope you'll have a happy Christmas, too, Molly," Sherlock said sincerely, hoping against hope that what he had planned for later in the evening would provide just that.
The festivities were drawing to a close. Baby Claire was retrieved from Sherlock's bedroom, and bundled up against the cold. Mary Watson was still insisting that she should stay to help with the clean-up, but Molly was adamant that they should be spending this, their first Christmas Eve as parents, at home. Mr. and Mrs. Stamford had taken their leave, Mrs. Stamford shepherding her overly jolly husband past an overly friendly Mrs. Hudson, who soon took her leave, awash in red wine, in search of her herbal soothers. Anderson had, once again, hooked up with Sally Donovan, and Greg Lestrade, full of beery cheer, went in search of his own Christmas present, preferably blond. Molly had started straightening up, when Sherlock approached her, leading her the couch in the sitting room.
"Sherlock, I really should start to clean up a bit. You don't want to leave all this food lying about…"
"Believe me, Molly, this place was seen much worse things lying about!"
"But the mess. I really should…"
"Relax, Molly. Maybe some Christmas cleaning elf will pay us a visit…"
"Your cleaning elf has taken to her bed with a gut full of wine, and a bottle of suspicious herbs, Sherlock!"
"Just sit there for a moment, will you? I've got something for you, or some things," and with that, the detective bolted to his room, to return shortly with an arm full of wrapped gifts.
"Sherlock, what is this? I didn't get you anything…"
"And no wonder, after what I did to you that Christmas Eve a few years ago, Molly! I still cringe at the thought!"
"Not to worry, Sherlock. That's all in the past."
"Well. I suppose you could say that these are all from the past, too." Sherlock smiled, a bit shyly, in fact. He was seldom unsure of himself, but this was a special case. When they had first met, it was obvious to one and all that the pathologist was hopelessly infatuated with the tall, handsome, and curly-haired detective. But he had paid her no mind, only to roll his eyes occasionally at her stammering and clumsy demeanor. But her stammering had long since fallen by the wayside, and her natural poise and grace had returned. Sherlock and Molly had had their ups and downs. She had saved his life by killing him, and later slapped him silly for returning to drugs. They were friends, they weren't friends, and then, friends again. But he had no idea if she still harbored any deeper affection for him. After all, she dated, and had even once been engaged to "meat dagger". He shuddered at the memory. But he had to find out about her feelings, and to do that, he must confess his own.
Sherlock handed her the first package, which she unwrapped carefully, to reveal a small glass figure of a orange-gold cat. The detective spoke. "The first Christmas I was away, supposedly dead, I was following a lead on Moriarty's network in Venice. I passed a shop, and saw this small glass piece. A golden cat. It reminded me of you, your cat, Toby. So I bought it to bring home to you when I could."
Molly held the heavy glass piece in her hands, wondering at the thought that, in the middle of all his troubles, far from home, he had thought of her on Christmas. He then handed her a smaller box, which she unwrapped with equal care. "The second Christmas, I was in Morocco. It didn't seem like Christmas at all. Not like in London. But I saw these in the bazaar, in a small shop." He spoke as Molly examined the golden earrings. "That's the hamsa, a protective symbol from the middle east and North Africa. I jumped off that roof to protect three people, but I wanted you to know that I wanted you safe, too."
Molly's eyes were beginning to shine with the beginning of tears as he handed her an envelope. "I'm not particularly proud of this one, Molly," Sherlock said sheepishly. "This was for the first Christmas after I got home. I had Mycroft find tickets to the hottest musical in the West End…"
"You hate musicals, Sherlock!"
"I know, but I was going to take you out for a night on the town. Mycroft got the tickets, and gave them to me just after I arrived home. But then I saw you, and the ring on your finger, so I never gave them to you! I'm not proud of that. I should have sent you off to a lovely night at the theater with your fiancee. You would have enjoyed that, I'm sure. But I was too selfish to do that. I knew that if I had heard old 'meat dagger' hum a single show tune, I would have broken his nose!" Sherlock shook his head ruefully, but Molly had started to giggle, in spite of the incipient tears.
Sherlock now had another gift in his hands, and handed it to the woman sitting next to him. "This one I had intended to give you last year. But, I'm sure you can remember, we weren't on the best of terms. The whole drug relapse thing, then Janine. All for a case, I assure you! Again!," he spoke defensively, as he once again saw the fire in her eyes. "I put a lot of thought into it, trying to convey my feelings. But, I had business to take care of that Christmas, and then that other…"
"You mean when you shot that son of a bitch, and almost left forever without saying a word to me!" Molly now looked somewhat angry, but even more hurt.
"I did leave you a letter, and this. They would have been delivered if my exile had lasted more than four minutes. Mycroft would have seen to it. I made him promise." The man now looked a bit uncomfortable. "I really should have said good-bye, Molly. But I couldn't bear to. Not again. Knowing that I wasn't coming back. I was selfish, and weak. Forgive me?"
"I already have, you git. You know that," Molly spoke as she opened the package. Inside was a beautiful large opal, her birthstone, surrounded by emeralds and rubies, hanging from a gold chain.
"Sherlock, it's…"
"I designed it myself. Just fortunate that your parents birthstones fit in so well with the holiday theme, don't you think. I always thought the opal was a lot like you, Molly. Plain, milky white on the surface, but fire in its depths. According to lore, the opal symbolizes confidence and faithfulness, and can ward off nightmares. I though it may help you sleep peacefully, after the things you face in your lab every day…"
"Sherlock Holmes, you always surprise me! It's lovely! It's beautiful!" Molly threw her arms around his neck, almost hugging the breath out of him. She was crying and laughing at the same time, but when he quietly asked, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?", the crying won out.
"Oh, god, Sherlock Holmes, I love you! I have always loved you, and I suppose I always will, even if you are an egotistical, aggravating arsehole!"
"Oh, good. That makes the next present, this year's present, easier to deal with. I think." Sherlock was now fishing around in the pocket of his trousers. "Just how high is your tolerance level for ego, aggravation, and arseholes, Molly? Enough to accept this?" And he held out to her a small velvet box, containing the most beautiful ring she had ever seen, although, truth be told, it could have been made out of tin foil and glitter and she would have loved it.
Molly Hooper smiled as he slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. "I think I can tolerate you a bit longer," she said,barely having time to wipe the tears from her eyes before he was pushing her backwards on the couch and snogging her senseless.
"By 'a bit longer', I hope you mean ' 'till death us do part,' Molly. And I should tell you I intend to live a good long time!"
"We'll see about that, love. Remember, I can kill you and make it look like an accident. I know how!"
"Then I must definitely give you enough motivation to keep me alive, Dr. Hooper!" And with that, they both stretched out on the couch while Sherlock provided enough such motivation to secure his long and happy life, indeed.