Molly sat on the sofa in her living room, glancing through some notes from work that she hadn't had time to complete before she left. She had lost track of time in the lab, and the traffic approaching Rosie's primary school was always gridlocked, so she'd had to grab the uncompleted paperwork as she dashed out of the building.
She felt another sharp twinge on the top of her head, but that was just one of the hazards of letting Rosie loose with a hairbrush. Her four-year old goddaughter was fascinated by Molly's long hair, and rather than play a game, read a book, or do some baking, she had pleaded to be allowed to play hairdressers. And at the end of a long day, most of it spent on her feet, Molly was happy enough to acquiesce – the occasional unpleasant tweak of pain was worth it for the peace, and the opportunity to just sit in one place.
"Is it looking nice, Rosie?" Molly asked, absently, looking up from her paperwork (careful to keep the post-mortem photos hidden).
She suspected her hair looked anything but, but it would be nothing she couldn't fix later. She hoped. As long as there were no scissors involved, everything should be fine.
"You need to have some clips," Rosie replied, very seriously. "I'll go and get some."
Rosie clambered down from the sofa and dashed off towards the hallway, where her bag was. There was always a supply of sparkly hair adornments in the front pocket of the little girl's bag, prone as she was to losing them. It was the kind of thing Molly found herself putting in the trolley with her shopping these days, along with small toothbrushes, Disney DVDs and sticker books.
"This will be interesting," Sherlock commented from across the room, looking up at her from his laptop with a raised eyebrow.
Molly narrowed her eyes at him.
"Be careful, or I'll let her loose on your hair," she replied. "Imagine what she could do with those curls."
"What damage, you mean," he said, with an almost visible shudder.
Yes, that's exactly what she meant. And the sight of Sherlock Holmes with a headful of My Little Pony hairclips had to be worth at least a few hundred likes on Twitter (or provide her with some decent leverage).
"Are you, um, staying for dinner?" Molly asked, listening for signs as to what Rosie was up to. "It's just that I'll have to pop out for a few things later anyway, so it would be, you know, good to know…"
He looked up again, briefly.
"Mm. Please," he replied. "Thank you."
The follow-up question Molly wanted to ask was 'are you also staying the night?', but it was barely worth asking it these days because the pattern was now so familiar. The only reason she would even ask at all would be to see whether he would answer directly. But no, they were just somehow in this routine – and had been for not just months, but years. Molly only had to look at Rosie to be reminded just how long.
"Aunty Molly, I can only find four," Rosie announced slightly despondently, returning to the living room.
"I'm sure that'll work fine," Molly assured her, beckoning her back over to the sofa. "Come on, make me look like a film star."
Rosie picked up the hairbrush again, but before she climbed back onto the sofa, she gave Molly a very expressive frown.
"That's not what I'm doing," she told Molly, in no uncertain terms.
"O-kaaay," Molly said carefully. "What are you doing?"
"Getting you ready," came the matter-of-fact reply.
Molly looked to Sherlock, but he gave a slight shrug, and it was clear from his expression that he wasn't going to bother himself making deductions about a four-year-old's imaginary play. Instead, he just looked faintly amused and carried on typing furiously into his phone. As usual, he had spread himself out, with notes and papers scattered across the seat beside him as well as the coffee table; it didn't bother Molly in the slightest (he always tidied up after himself), but she never stopped wondering why he couldn't do all of this at Baker Street. At least there, he could take up the whole living room, and would be guaranteed some peace and quiet.
But then none of it made much sense. It had started gradually, a few weeks after The Phone Call (forever capitalised in her mind), and eventually reached the point where they were now, with Sherlock at her house almost every day, sometimes for several days at a time if he wasn't in the middle of a case. It did seem that, when Sherlock wasn't working, he came home to her. They ate meals together, watched TV together, and yes, shared a bed. Meena had, several times, told Molly that he should be contributing towards the rent – or if not, at least offering himself as her sex slave.
She had refused to divulge to Meena what actually did go on in bed with Sherlock, for some reason feeling the need to protect both her privacy and his. No doubt her friend (or anyone else, in fairness) would think it very strange that two people could go to sleep in each other's arms several times a week, wake up similarly entangled, and not be rutting like bunnies in between.
There had only ever been one deviation from that formula, one night about three months ago when Sherlock and John had been out for Mycroft's fiftieth birthday. That night, when he had crawled into her bed and hauled himself flush against her, there had been slowly wandering hands and attempted neck kisses and some slightly suggestive nudging. Although what was actually the final straw was the low murmuring against her skin, the repeated drawl of her name ("My Molly"). With an irritated sigh, Molly had disentangled herself and wedged a spare pillow between them, not prepared to spend the night being pawed, just because Sherlock Holmes was a massive lightweight. They never spoke of it, but there was an air of contrition about Sherlock the next day, and she'd later come home from work to find that he'd restocked the fridge, fed Toby, changed the bedcovers and left a bunch of tulips and hyacinths in a vase in the kitchen.
"Aunty Molly, I've finished your hair!" Rosie announced. "Can I do your make-up now?"
Molly caught the tiny smile bending the corners of Sherlock's mouth, and gave him a warning stare.
"Rosie, I'm already wearing make-up," she replied.
Rosie jumped down from the sofa and came to stand in front of her godmother, her blue eyes studying Molly critically.
"Proper make-up!" Rosie said eventually, clearly unhappy with Molly's notion of wearing make-up.
"Why don't you just pretend?" Molly suggested, finally giving up any hope of reading the post-mortem report. "You can use my brushes."
"Lip gloss?" Rosie asked, hopefully. "The sparkly one?"
"Yes, okay, lip gloss," Molly replied, surrendering. She gave Rosie a quick kiss on the cheek before the little girl dashed up the stairs in search of what she needed.
The make-over with imaginary cosmetics was mercifully brief, and out of the corner of her eye Molly could see Sherlock occasionally glance in her direction, particularly at the point where Rosie was liberally applying pink lip gloss. As soon as Rosie was done, his eyes were firmly back on his laptop screen.
"Good?" Molly asked.
Rosie nodded vigorously.
"Really pretty," she replied. "Doesn't Aunty Molly look pretty, Uncle Sherlock?"
Oh god. It was a toss-up, Molly was sure, between which of them most wanted to crawl into a hole more desperately. She was prepared to fight Sherlock for it, though.
"She, ah…well, I…" Sherlock stammered, gracelessly. "You…you've gone a very good job, Rosie. Well done."
When Sherlock had come to her after Sherrinford and, among other things, told her he would never lie to her again, she probably should have mentioned that a tiny little lie in these sorts of circumstances would actually be fine. Kind even.
"You're ready, Aunty Molly!" Rosie declared, clearly pleased with herself.
Molly frowned, unsure she was keeping up with the point of this imaginary play.
"Ready for what? What are we doing, Rosie?"
Instead of reply, Rosie dashed across the living room and grabbed hold of Sherlock's elbow; Molly saw the look of confusion on his face, as she yanked him off the chair and onto his feet.
"What? What's happening?" Sherlock asked, as his goddaughter dragged him over to the sofa.
"You have to sit next to Aunty Molly," Rosie replied, determinedly.
"But-Rosie, I'm working," he protested. "Uncle Sherlock has something very, very important to-"
"But you're the bride-broom, and you can't have a wedding without a bride-broom!"
Okay, Molly thought, now would be an even better time for that sinkhole to open up under my house.
"Rosie, sweetheart, let's play a different game," Molly said quickly, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. "What about shops? Or hospitals? Or a board game?"
But very quickly she was speaking to Rosie's back, as the little girl ran from the room. To Molly's surprise, she realised Sherlock actually was sitting beside her on the sofa; she still couldn't comfortably look at him, but sensed he was just about to get up when Rosie reappeared. She was carrying the small pot of geraniums from the kitchen windowsill (how had she even got up there?) and a blue necktie that Molly strongly suspected was one of the last surviving vestiges of her relationship with Tom (where had Rosie dug that up from?)
She handed the pot to Molly, who took it dumbly. Sherlock started to get to his feet.
"Rosie, I would love to join in your game, but really, I-"
"You have to sit down, Uncle Sherlock!" Rosie protested. "Aunty Molly's got a boo-kay, and you have to wear a tie because bride-brooms wear ties."
And Sherlock actually did as he was told. He sat down again. And took the tie. When he failed to do anything with the tie, Rosie took it from him, looped it over his head and tied it in a very loose and approximate knot. Molly would have laughed out loud if the whole thing hadn't been so bloody awkward - and if she didn't have small chunks of soil on her skirt.
John would be here very soon, Molly reminded herself. There will be a natural end to this circus of awkwardness.
"Rosie, would you like a snack?" she suggested, going for the distraction tactic. "I've still got some of those cupcakes we made."
"That can be your wedding cake!" Rosie beamed.
She could sense vibes from Sherlock, demanding that she stop making a bad situation worse. Well, if he was such a bloody genius, he could surely get them out of this.
"Uncle Sherlock, you have to hold Aunty Molly's hand," Rosie informed her godfather.
"Rosie, I-"
Sensing resistance, Rosie came forward, lifted Sherlock's uncooperative hand from his knee and deposited it on top of Molly's hand. Looking at him sideways – all she could dare to do – Molly could see him swallow hard. His hand was actually sweatier than she expected, and she twisted her own around until their fingers were threaded together instead – which was at least a bit more comfortable. Relatively speaking.
Rosie now looked delighted.
"I'm the church person," she told them solemnly. "It's my church, and you're getting married."
Probably wouldn't work to tell Rosie that she and Sherlock were both atheists, Molly reflected.
"You have to say nice things to each other so I can tell you that you're married," Rosie continued. "Uncle Sherlock – you say something nice about Aunty Molly first."
"Something nice?" Sherlock replied, as though the mere concept was beyond him, the git.
"Yes!" Rosie said, her godfather clearly trying her patience.
"I…er…okay," he said, clearly stalling. "Your Aunty Molly…is very good at her job."
At this, Rosie gave him her biggest frown.
"Something nicer!"
"She…er…she is good at looking after people?" he offered, querying, it seemed, whether this would pass muster. "And she's…kind?"
Rosie nodded approvingly.
"And pretty," she added for him, clearly confident that she wouldn't coax anything more flattering out of her godfather.
For the fiftieth time in the past two minutes, Molly wondered why the hell they were still playing along with this, before realising that Sherlock's thumb seemed to be absently stroking the back of her hand…
"Now you say something nice about Uncle Sherlock," Rosie instructed, her demand cutting through Molly's current distraction and apparently halting the hand-stroking, too.
She wondered if this was like a hostage situation, and if they just played along it would all be over quickly.
"Uncle Sherlock," Molly began. "Is…clever."
"No, he isn't!" Rosie retorted. "He didn't even know who Rainbow Dash is!"
Molly chanced a glance at Sherlock, who looked genuinely wounded by this criticism.
"Okay, well he is clever about adult things," Molly clarified, before realising that this could be wildly misconstrued. "I mean, about helping good people stop bad people."
She could tell from Rosie's expectant expression that she was supposed to elaborate further.
"And he…dresses very smartly," she said. "And he…is also kind."
"And has nice hair," Rosie added, apparently satisfied. "Even the grey bits."
"What?" Sherlock suddenly piped up, eyebrows almost crossing over in consternation.
Molly had to turn her head into her shoulder to prevent a snort of laughter escaping. Rosie was right; Sherlock had finally started to acquire a few silver hairs at the temples. Lying mere inches from him in bed as she did most mornings, Molly had been charting their gradual appearance with fascination (also noting, with mixed feelings, that they did nothing to diminish her libido).
"Okay, are we done now, Rosie?" Sherlock asked. "Because there are very important people who-"
"Nearly!" Rosie trilled. "Are you still holding hands?"
"Yes," Sherlock sighed, Molly feeling his fingers flex around hers.
"Okay. You're married," Rosie said simply.
"Excellent!" Sherlock declared, referring - Molly knew – to the fact that the ordeal was finally over, and not to the fact that he had just been joined with her in matrimony by the Church of Rosie Watson. He released Molly's hand, and started to remove the tie from around his neck; following suit, Molly set the pot plant carefully down on the coffee table.
"No, wait!" Rosie cried. "You didn't do it!"
Molly saw Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"Do…what?"
And suddenly, Molly knew exactly what was coming. Rosie's little face was the picture of exasperation.
"You need to kiss!"