Dr. Molly Hooper, distinguished pathologist at St. Bart's of London was browsing her email to discover, once, again, another unsolicited job offer. These offers came at least once a month, all were very promising, all were very substantial, and all, absolutely all of them, were from locations far distant from London. Molly knew, of course, who was behind them. Mycroft Holmes. And she couldn't be angry with him, as he was only trying to protect her, to give her an out, if the day ever came when she could no longer tolerate her situation. For Mycroft knew exactly what her situation was. She was completely in love with his arse of a brother, who did not, could not, or would not, return her affections. She had done quite a bit for the Holmes family when she saved Sherlock's life. She hid him, she kept his secrets, and then she welcomed him back after a two year absence. During the time he had been away, Molly and Mycroft had become close friends, much to Sherlock's chagrin. The elder Holmes brother liked and respected the kind, clever, and courageous young woman, as did his younger sibling. The difference was that Mycroft had no trouble telling her so. And so "the British government" went out of his way to provide for her safety and sanity. But he never would understand that Molly Hooper had no intention of ever leaving. She loved her job. She loved living in London. And she loved Sherlock Holmes. Not necessarily in that order.
Molly heard the doors of her lab fly open, signalling the arrival of the world's only consulting detective. She had, of course, been expecting him, as he had phoned earlier to inquire about some lab results. But she had become lost in paperwork, then checking her email, and had forgotten to pull the report for him. She jumped up from her desk as he entered her office. "Let me just get that file, Sherlock. I almost forgot!"
"No hurry, Molly. I'll just wait here, shall I?", the tall man said as he settled down on her comfy chair, and started to shuffle through papers on her desk. Sherlock was never one to recognize boundaries of any kind. And while his own privacy was sacrosanct, the privacy of others was no more than a figment of their imaginations. At least in Sherlock's view. So he read the email displayed on Molly's computer screen without a qualm. At least until he digested its content.
"Sherlock, here's a copy of that report. All the test results you requested are here. I think that…"
"Thank you, Dr. Hooper, but I must be on my way. Important business!"
"I thought you said there was no hurry? Couldn't you stay a bit. I really want to talk to you…"
"No time now, Molly. Perhaps later!" And with that he was gone with a whirl of his Belstaff and a flip of his scarf.
Molly sat back down at her desk, a bit discouraged. It seemed that every time she got up enough nerve to have a serious talk with the man, he was off and running. She could almost believe that he knew what she was going to say, and was trying his best to avoid the subject, probably to avoid hurting her. If this had been a couple of years ago, he would have had no such qualms. He had broken her heart on a regular basis in those days, but had healed it again with a well placed, if insincere, compliment. Or a kiss on the cheek, or a touch of her hand. But they were truly friends now, or at least she thought so, and he would not break it so casually now. And she was determined to broach the subject which had been on her mind so much for such a long time now.
Sherlock's mind was racing. He had seen the email containing the job offer. And this was not the first particular one came from an institution of higher learning in Canada, no less! Did they even have higher learning in Canada? He always associated Canada with polar bears, Frenchmen, or toothless hockey players, none of whom, to his excessively British mind, had the need or desire for a higher education! Surely Molly would not be interested. But suppose she was? Suppose this was what she wanted to speak to him about? He made the decision to avoid the conversation at all costs. It was not a logical decision, but he found that logic was not dictating his actions at the moment!
The following day, Molly Hooper texted Sherlock Holmes.
I REALLY WOULD LIKE TO TALK. HOW ABOUT TAKEAWAY AT MY PLACE? - MOLLY
Sherlock never missed an opportunity to share some of his favorite Chinese food with his favorite pathologist. The added incentive of an evening of crap telly was usually all it took to have him climbing the stairs to her flat. But not this evening.
I'M NOT IN LONDON AT THE MOMENT. PERHAPS ANOTHER TIME - SHERLOCK
Sherlock typed the message from his favorite chair in his sitting room at Baker Street, feeling slightly guilty at lying to the woman who mattered to him the most, but much relieved to have avoided the conversation for another day. Like a child closing his eyes and pretending that the monster in the closet could not longer see him because he could not see it, Sherlock dove deeper into his pit of denial.
After three days of not hearing from the detective, Molly Hooper was growing concerned. There had been no requests for tissues samples, no drop-in visitations, no anecdotes about their mutual godchild, daughter of John and Mary Watson. To all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes had dropped off the face of the earth. Until she found out from John, and Mary, and Greg Lestrade, that the detective had, indeed, never been out of town, but seemed to be currently sulking at his flat, with Mrs. Hudson providing sustenance on an as-needed basis.
I'M ON MY WAY OVER. STAY PUT! - MOLLY
STAY PUT WHERE? I'M IN BRISTOL! - SHERLOCK
YOU'RE AT BAKER STREET WRAPPED UP IN A SHEET AND TALKING TO BILLY THE SKULL, YOU GIT - MOLLY
HOW DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THE SHEET? - SHERLOCK
IN YOUR OWN WORDS, BALANCE OF PROBABLY! - MOLLY
Despite his trepidation, the consulting detective had to smile at the riposte, but he was distracted by another incoming text.
PLEASE PUT ON SOME CLOTHES, SHERLOCK. IT'S TOO DISTRACTING WITH JUST THE SHEET - MOLLY
Forced to concede that he could no longer avoid the conversation, Sherlock decided to make the most of it. If Molly Hooper was going to leave him for some frozen tundra in North America, he was going to make it as difficult for her as possible. Making his way to the bedroom, he selected his most attractively fitted, meaning, of course, tight, pair of jeans. Molly always reacted to him in jeans. Then, of course, the purple shirt. He had several, as he knew that the color, against his pale skin, was his pathologist's favorite. He selected the snuggest one, the one on which the buttons just barely managed to stay together. He left the top three, no four, unbuttoned. Now, for his curls. Molly, it seemed, shared his mother's passion for his curly locks. He had caught her gazing at his hair on many occasions, rubbing her fingers together as if she wanted to run them through his ringlets, just as his mummy had when he was a child. It annoyed him then, but now he found himself thinking of the feel Molly's fingers on his scalp. And to have his own fingers entangled in Molly's long cascade of honey colored silkiness. After this momentary distraction, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, where he coiffed himself to perfection with just enough product to tame the tangled mess, but not as much as to make it unpleasant to the touch. Looking at himself in the mirror, turning on a smolderingly plaintive look in his blue green eyes, he decided he was ready. Bring it on, Dr. Hooper!
Molly climbed the stairs to the flat to find Sherlock waiting for her, standing, in his sitting room. "It get's very cold in Canada, Molly."
The pathologist looked puzzled. "I know it does, Sherlock. I did study geography in school, you know." She walked around him to take a seat on his couch. "Sit down, please. I want to talk to you."
The tall man positioned himself next to her, shoulders slumped in disappointment that his clothing and curls were not having their desired effect. He knew, then, that he had to listen to what the small woman had to say.
"Sherlock, do you think I'm good for you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Molly."
"I think I'm good for you. I keep you company when you get lonely." Sherlock's head moved slightly. "And don't try to tell me that you don't get lonely, either. You've missed John from the day he moved out! Anyway, I help with the loneliness. I help you with your work. I make sure you eat, and sleep. We have quite a bit in common, too. We both like solving puzzles, and cutting up dead things, it seems. And neither of us are getting any younger, Sherlock, to use an old cliche." Molly had found it a bit difficult to start this diatribe, but now that she was into it, she had worked up full head of steam. "Sherlock, I may not be the most attractive woman in London, but I'm not chopped liver, either! We could be good together, you and I. I could take care of you, and you could…"
"You still want me, Molly? After all this time?"
"I used to just want you, Sherlock. I used to look at you, and see the toned body, and the beautiful eyes, and those curls…"
"I knew it! I knew you liked my curls!"
"Yes, well be that as it may, you git, as I was saying, I was totally infatuated. I used to want just you. But I've long since come to realize how much I love you, and now I want 'us'..."
"Molly, I'm not at all sure that I can make you happy…"
"Who cares? I'm not very happy now, without you. And I know that I could never make you truly happy, Sherlock. I don't know if anyone can. But I can make your life easier. And I'm willing to do that, and all I want is to share some part of your life, and your bed, whenever you feel the need or desire…."
"Molly…"
"And I promise that, if you ever do find that heart of yours, and lose it to someone, I won't try to hold on to you. Promise."
"You're not moving to Canada?"
"What are you on about Canada for, Sherlock?", she asked, before the penny dropped. "You read my email! The job offer!"
"Maybe…"
"I get offers like that at least once a month, you git. Mycroft keeps recommending me to people and institutions all over the world. Did you know there were universities in Borneo?"
"Mycroft? Why?"
"He thinks you're going to break my heart eventually, and I'll want to leave. But he doesn't know me as well as he thinks. I'd never leave London, or you. He's just looking out for me, that's all."
"Alright, Molly."
"Alright, right?"
"Alright, I accept your proposal!"
"I don't recall proposing, Sherlock. You don't have to marry me, for god's sake. I just want to be part of…"
"Nonsense, Dr. Hooper. We both know that's what you've wanted all your adult life. A home, a family, children…"
"Children? You'd consider children?"
"Why not, Molly? I'm sure our children would be exceptional! Don't you agree?" But Molly couldn't answer, as she was now trying to keep from hyperventilating. "One question, though. Since it was you who proposed, does that mean you have to get me a ring? I would prefer not to wear one, but I have no objections to your wearing one, of course. In fact, it would be my preference. I've already taken the liberty of retrieving my grandmother's from the family vault…"
Molly, still fighting a losing battle when it came to breathing, could only manage an inquisitive, "Uhh?"
But Sherlock seemed to understand the question. "Oh, months ago, actually. I'm so glad you are braver than I am, Dr. Hooper. Left to my own devices we may have left this until it was too late for the children part, anyway." He looked at her and smiled. "Perhaps not, though. I had absolutely no intention of letting you move to the New World!"
Sherlock's smile turned to a look of slight concern, as he gently said, "Do try to catch your breath, Molly. We have quite a few things to discuss." And saying that, he moved as close as he could possibly get, wrapped the pathologist in his arms, and kissed her with enough passion to last the rest of their lives. It did not, however, do much for the breathing situation.
Molly finally became capable of speech after a few moments of cuddling into Sherlock's arms. "You mentioned things to discuss, Sherlock?"
"Oh, the usual. Wedding plans. How to tell our family and friends. Childrens' names." He then rose from the couch, and took Molly's hand to help her to her feet. "Perhaps we should go into the bedroom, Molly? Nana's ring is in my bedside table. And I'm sure we can find other things to do, as well. But first, let me take care of something…" Sherlock fished his mobile out of the pocket of his tight jeans, and moved his thumbs over the device.
"Sherlock, you actually feel it necessary, just now, to send a text to someone…"
"This one is very important, Molly. Bear with me."
KINDLY STOP SOLICITING JOB OFFERS FOR MY PATHOLOGIST, BROTHER MINE. HER FUTURE IS NOW SECURE, AS IS MY OWN. PERHAPS WE SHALL NAME A CHILD AFTER YOU IF WE CAN THINK OF NO OTHER APPELLATION. - SHERLOCK