~ Just a Walk in the Park ~

At what moment does infatuation become love?

It was one of those perfect moments, Molly thought as she walked along, over the grass, Daisy's little hand tucked into hers and Sherlock, who'd been kicking a ball about with Will and Jon, now trotting back to join his ladies. Their sons ran on ahead, shouting enthusiastically, but Sherlock took Daisy's other hand and fell into step, a boyish grin still lingering on his handsome face.

That smile was contagious, and Molly commented, "You're quite good at that footie lark, Mr. Holmes. And here I was under the impression that you avoided team sports when you were in school."

Sherlock sniffed. "Participation was mandatory and I wasn't about to be beaten by a pack of idiots. I was never interested in competing with the top players, of course. I had other fish to fry."

"Hmm. Yes. So I've heard." She gave him a quizzical glance.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her in return, but some colour came into his cheeks, too. "That is water under the bridge."

She softened her expression. "I know."

He nodded decisively and looked away, across the wide field to where their sons played.

But their daughter, who'd apparently been an interested observer of all this byplay, suddenly chirped, "Mum? When did you fall in love with Daddy?"

And now it was Molly's turn to blush.

She choked slightly, too, and could not seem to help meeting Sherlock's eyes. As expected, he was giving back that quizzical glance. In spades.

And then he actually replied for her, saying with complacence, "Your mother loved me from the first moment she saw me."

Molly laughed (yes, she could laugh about it now). But she said to him, "That's not when I truly fell in love with you, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit. "Well, of course not. Real love grows through time. It's a gradual-"

But Molly broke in, stating, "I remember the exact moment!"

Sherlock blinked, then arched a brow. "Are you quite certain that a description of that particular moment is one that should be shared with our five-year-old daughter?"

Molly gave a shout of laughter. "Oh, you! You're awful! Not… no! It was only a few months after we'd met."

"Really?" Sherlock's grin faded somewhat, and his brows twitched together.

Molly laughed again, but now a little ruefully. "Yes. It was the first time I visited you at Baker Street. When I brought you that liver. Remember?"

"Ah, yes. The one with advanced cirrhosis. Fascinating - when I was up to looking at it. I barely remember you bringing it by, however." He frowned. "That was the moment you fell in love with me? When I was laid low with influenza? Hadn't been so ill in decades! Well, not with any naturally occurring malady, at least."

"Yes," said Molly. "John had not yet arrived on the scene, Mrs. Hudson was out of town, visiting her sister, and Mycroft was attending some top secret conference in Vienna. And Greg had refused to be in the same room with you."

"Told me to let him know if I needed an ambulance, the bas- ah… um… well..." Sherlock's words trailed off as he glanced down at Daisy, smiling innocently up at him. He said to Molly, "You know what I mean."

"I do, indeed," she chuckled. "And Heaven forfend that you call your parents in to help."

"It would have been beyond selfish to expose them, certainly," Sherlock said, reproof in his tone.

"Very true," Molly said, with mock humility.

Sherlock eyed her. "You were fortunate you didn't pick it up yourself. I told you to go away and let me die in peace."

"You did no such thing. You begged me to stay - and in the most piteous way imaginable. Poor darling. You weren't your usual self at all, not for days."

He sniffed again. "So. It was that sofa-bound, lachrymose wretch you fell in love with, was it?"

Molly smiled. "It was that all-too-human, suffering, and, when I did stay, demonstrably grateful soul l I fell in love with. It was the first time I was able to see the whole truth of you - not just the gorgeous bloke in the swirling Belstaff, spouting lightning fast deductions and that posh-boy attitude. I thought there was more to you than that. And then I knew I was right."

During the last of this speech, Sherlock had come to a halt, and Molly and Daisy had done the same. He was now staring down at Molly with a very odd expression on his face.

Which gradually turned speculative, and a bit smug. "Gorgeous?"

She shook her head. "Is that all you all you took from that… that panegyric? You know you're gorgeous!"

"I know I have to kiss you," he replied, and dropped Daisy's hand.

She was laughing again as he caught her against him, but it faded as their lips met, the thrill of it taking her, as it always did. For perhaps the thousandth time she thanked Heaven that she had been given the patience of a saint, for if anything had been worth the wait…

"Mum! Dad! What are you doing?" came Jon's shout.

"We're in the bloody park!" added Will at a similar volume. "Get a room!"

The kiss ended abruptly and Sherlock rounded on his eldest son. "What did you say?"

Will froze in his tracks, ten feet away, and Jon plowed into him, though both boys managed to keep their feet Will stammered, "I… I mean… as Uncle Greg would say." He gave his father a rather sickly smile.

"Perhaps I should have a talk with Uncle Greg," said Sherlock, glaring. "And if you ever again say something like that within my hearing you will deeply regret it."

"No, sir. I mean… yes, sir." Will swallowed hard, and Jon shrank behind him, his eyes wide.

After a moment, Sherlock turned back to Molly.

She was just managing to keep a straight face.

His lips quivered in response, but he only said to her, "I love you."

Her heart seemed to swell, and, unaccountably, her eyes stung with tears. "Oh, Sherlock!"

They kissed again, with less passion perhaps, but with great tenderness, ignoring their young audience (and any other of the park's visitors).

But at last, Daisy had had enough and tugged at Molly's sleeve. "Mum? Can we go for ice cream now? Please?"

The kiss ended on a chuckle.

Sherlock looked down at Daisy and said in a carrying voice, "Very well. But none for your brothers. They're entirely too rude for ice cream."

As expected, the boys took grave exception to this pronouncement, alternately sulking and cajoling until their father, worn down, relented at last. But Molly, her hand on Sherlock's arm and her beloved children hovering about her as they crossed the wide lawn, toward the beautiful old trees and the park gate beyond, determined that she must set this moment in her memory, for it was, indeed, perfect.

~.~