AN - So the other day moriartys-apple-pie on tumblr asked me if I'd be writing something around Sherlock and Molly dating and getting married. I'd been planning to visit this idea with a fic-let as part of Family Ties. Then I started writing. It became clear pretty quickly that my little Sherlock muse was not going to be happy with just a fic-let. I honestly didn't think I'd have this anywhere near ready to post but here it is. This is a prequel of sorts to Family Ties but can be read as a stand alone piece.
Sentiment.
How he hated it. Detested it. Could have once happily lived in a world where it didn't exist.
But then of course he'd had to go and acquire himself a circle of friends. Overly sentimental friends at that. He hadn't always been so objectionable to sentiment, as his mother was only too fond of pointing out, he'd once been a loving little boy. He'd loved Redbeard.
It was all Mycroft's fault, naturally. It was Mycroft who'd told him Redbeard had been put down. At the age of nine, Sherlock's best friend and constant companion was never coming back.
"I don't know why you care about that dog so much, little brother. No one has ever gained an advantage by caring."
Mycroft had left him alone then, curled up on his bed to cry himself to sleep. 7 hours later, Sherlock had decided his brother was right – it was the only time in his life he would ever admit as much – and divorced himself from any thoughts of feelings or sentiment. He'd built a wall as high as he could around himself to keep sentiment at bay. It was a strategy which had served him well until said circle of friends had one by one found a way to worm themselves underneath his carefully built wall.
And then there was Molly. Clever, awkward, baffling Molly Hooper. The pathologist hadn't gotten underneath his wall, she'd taken a sledge hammer and broken it apart brick by brick. He'd tried rebuilding the wall on many occasions, but for every brick Sherlock replaced, Molly obliterated another two. Eventually he'd conceded defeat, sentiment had won. Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love.
Their first 'date' – and he hated that word as much as he hated sentiment – had been solving crimes together shortly after his return from his faked death. He hadn't known then what that day had been the beginning of. He also hadn't anticipated the complication of Molly's engagement to that Tom person. That was another thing which had troubled the consulting detective at the time, the act of remembering Tom's name. He'd reasoned that it was necessary if he wanted to know who to hunt down if Molly was hurt, after all if Molly was too upset to work none of the other pathologists at Barts would let him anywhere near the morgue.
As it turned out, his retention of Tom's name had come in handy once Molly had ended their engagement. Sherlock had been able to let himself in to Tom's flat one evening and retrieve Molly's belongings, saving the pathologist the emotional upheaval of having to ask for the return of her things.
Their next date had been an afternoon spent at Baker Street, Molly helping him clean up after a failed experiment. Sherlock had discovered that he rather enjoyed finding ways to make Molly laugh. Molly was not one for laughing out loud the way John often did while watching some ridiculous sitcom or other. No, his pathologist's laugh was more of a quiet giggle, the sort of sound that you could never be sure you'd actually heard.
Molly's afternoons at Baker Street became more frequent. Sometimes the couple would be lost in an experiment for hours. Other times they could be found in front of the tv, watching repeats of Jeremy Kyle. Molly often challenged Sherlock to deduce as much as he could about the guests before they'd even sat down. She never failed to laugh when Sherlock scoffed at the results of the lie detector or deduced who a child's father was by the shoes he wore or how he styled his hair. These afternoons in front of the tv usually began with Molly curled up in the chair that was only ever referred to as John's chair, before she would eventually end up perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair. Neither of them commented on this new-found closeness between them, and neither of them seemed to mind it either.
Slowly but surely, Molly Hooper was becoming more of fixture in Sherlock's life. They discussed his cases together, Molly helping him unravel his sometimes chaotic thought process in a way that often surprised him. She'd soon taken it upon herself to ensure that he ate at least once a day, no matter how often he protested that he did eat when he was working.
"Sherlock, if you don't at least attempt to look after yourself like a normal person I'm withholding your morgue privileges."
That had done it. With a huff and a pout that would have put any five year old to shame, Sherlock had conceded to Molly's wishes. Their 24th date – obviously Sherlock had to keep track of the number – was spent in a hospital waiting room, awaiting the safe arrival of Lucy Watson. Sherlock had paced and Molly had talked. After 4 hours the consulting detective had come to find the sound of his pathologists chattering to be comforting, like the sound of rain in the middle of a sleepless night. When they were finally introduced to the newest Watson Molly handled all of the necessary cooing over the baby while Sherlock cast a more critical eye over her.
Their 28th date was spent once again in front of the tv, this time at Molly's flat. They were sat side by side on the sofa, Toby curled up possessively in Molly's lap. Contrary to what many believed of him, Sherlock did not in fact hate cats. While he was not their biggest fan, he found them more tolerable than certain other animals – he'd been bitten by a hamster once at the age of four. It was a grudge he still held. Sherlock glanced sideways at Molly, her own eyes transfixed on the tv. While he had little interest in watching Moulin Rouge, he was extremely interested in Molly's reactions to it. He watched her lips move as she recited lines of dialogue along with the characters, at a guess he'd say Molly had to have seen the film at least 20 times. He was still watching her when tears sprang to the pathologists eyes. For a moment Sherlock was confused, cutting his eyes to the screen however answered his confusion. Molly was upset by the death of a character. Sherlock felt an odd weight on his chest as he returned his gaze to Molly. One fat tear had rolled down her cheek and Sherlock found that he didn't much like seeing Molly cry. Before his quick mind could even contemplate it, his hand moved of it's own accord to rest against Molly's cheek, his thumb deftly brushing the tear away. Molly turned to face him, her eyes questioning. He considered repeating Mycroft's views on caring to her but he knew Molly better than to think she'd appreciate that. He needed to do something to make her happy, because tears in her eyes were an unacceptable sight.
And that was when he knew. He loved her. He loved this exceptional woman in a way he'd never even considered was possible for him to. With that thought running rampant through his mind palace, Sherlock threw all caution to the wind. Leaning towards her, his hand still resting on her cheek, his lips met hers in a slightly hesitant kiss. The kiss was an not earth moving, fireworks going off type of kiss that happened in the films Molly liked to watch. It lasted 3 seconds, was utterly gentle and full of love. When their lips parted, Sherlock was clueless as to what was expected now. Molly smiled, taking the hand that had been against her cheek and threading her fingers through his. They stayed like that the rest of the night, Molly watching the tv while Sherlock watched her.
Now here Sherlock sat, 6 months and 30 dates after that first kiss at Molly's flat. He was in his chair in Baker Street and all around him was silent. He held one hand out in front of him, a small box resting in his palm. The emerald and diamond ring inside had once belonged to his grandmother, he remembered seeing her wearing it when he was a child. He could only hope Molly would approve of it. With all being well, after tonight it would remain on her hand until her dying day.
Dark was closing in outside, Molly's shift was due to finish in half an hour. Snapping the little velvet box closed, Sherlock stood up and looked himself over in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Satisfied that he looked presentable, Sherlock headed out, shrugging his Belstaff on as he went. With the ring box safely tucked away in his pocket, Sherlock hailed a cab, giving St Barts as his destination.
While Sherlock was not a particularly romantic person he had put a little forethought into his proposal. He made his way to the little hallway just past the locker room Molly usually changed in. It was the same locker room she'd been in the day he'd returned from the dead and laid eyes on her for the first time in over a year. The consulting detective waited in the hallway for the familiar sound of his pathologists footsteps. He smiled at the sound of her humming quietly to herself as she walked into the locker room. As quietly as possible, Sherlock stepped into the locker room, waiting for Molly to detect his presence.
"Sherlock! What are you doing here? I was going to come over to Baker Street when I finished here." Molly turned after seeing him in the mirror just as she had once before, the brightest smile on her face.
"I wanted to surprise you. That is one of those things a boyfriend does, is it not?" While Sherlock had no love for the term boyfriend, Molly use of it when referring to him had made it somewhat more tolerable.
"Oh, well yes it is." Molly stuttered slightly. Sherlock delighted in the fact that he could still make her tongue tied on occasion.
Stepping towards her, Sherlock reached out to take Molly's hand, pulling her closer to him.
"Actually, there is another reason I'm here..." A hint of nervousness was creeping in to his rumbling baritone. Anyone other than Molly might not have noticed it.
"Sherlock? What's going on?"
The consulting detective drew in a deep breath, slipping the small velvet box out of his pocket. His eyes were focused only on the woman standing in front of him.
"Molly, you know better than anyone that I am the least romantic person in the world. But I will do this properly."
Sherlock Holmes lowered himself to one knee, holding the open ring box out in front of him. Molly could only stare, dumbfounded.
"Molly Hooper, I am the most selfish person on this planet. I have the patience of a spoiled child. I have also been reliably informed by John that I am an inconsiderate arsehole. But, in-spite of all that I am utterly, irrevocably in love with you. My dearest Molly, if you could see past all of that and agree to be my wife, I swear to love you and cherish you to the best of my abilities until I can no longer draw breath." Sherlock paused for a moment, taking another deep breath. "Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"