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Molly Holmes nee Hooper had learned to live with a lot since becoming the wife of the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He was not an easy man to live with, as John Watson could attest. He left toxic biohazards in the kitchen while conducting experiments. He had set the drapes on fire with a propane torch during a spell of boredom. He was petulant and self-absorbed and would fall into funks that would last for days. Worst of all was the fact that strangers came and went at all hours of the day and night, pleading for his help in solving their problems and avenging their loved ones. Then, there was the paparazzi, the fan letters—yes, it was not easy being the wife of the world's only consulting detective.
That being said, being married to an obsessive genius had its perks. Her sock and underwear drawer were a joy to behold. He regularly cleaned out and sorted her purse for her. It was an odd tick. This was the same man who would leave thumbs decomposing in the fridge or allow the mildew to grow to frightening proportions in the shower, but woe be it if his, or her, unmentionables were out of order.
Curled up in bed one lazy Sunday morning, Molly was watching him sort her through her modest jewelry collection. She didn't have much really—working in the lab did not allow for her to wear a lot of jewelry, but she did have some nice pieces, and Mycroft had recently given her some of Mummy Holmes necklaces and rings. They were beautiful and rare, and she was too terrified to take them out of their boxes, let alone wear them.
Sherlock was carefully detangling a knot of chains and pendants when he suddenly made a contemplative noise. She looked up from her pillow.
"What is it?" she asked yawning and stretching down to her toes. Ahhh! She had been on her feet too long yesterday.
Sherlock held up a long chain with a small silver medallion dangling from it.
"This is a St. Jude medal." Sherlock answered, bringing the medallion up to his face for closer inspection.
Molly froze mid-stretch. She casually, very casually turned to her side and squinted at the necklace her husband was busily examining.
"Oh, so it is?" she laughed. Casually.
"You're not Catholic." Sherlock's eyes flicked over to her. She shook her head, no, but he was not asking. It was a statement.
"Why do you have a St. Jude medal? You don't wear it. Not that I've ever seen. Yet you keep it with your other jewelry, so it has some emotional value." He was beginning to rattle off his deductions, "It's sterling silver, heavy enough—not cheap, but not terribly expensive. Something a teenager might get at their baptism or confirmation."
Molly swallowed and stayed silent while Sherlock thought aloud. He wasn't wrong so far.
"St. Jude. The patron saint of…" he stopped, closed his eyes to consider for a moment, "lost causes. Why lost causes?" He stared at Molly hard for a moment.
"It could be a good luck charm—purchased before your exams while at university? No, while you are sentimental, you are not superstitious. You did not buy this yourself. It was given to you. You have kept this out of sentiment. Who thought you a lost cause, Molly?" He fell silent and considered his pretty wife, curled up in her pink striped pajamas, watching him with wide brown eyes. She looked guilty.
"Ah, an ex-boyfriend!" Mystery seemingly solved he went to tuck the necklace into its proper compartment in the chest, when he paused. Molly had not had many boyfriends. A youthful love affair in college and one relatively long term relationship after school with a doctor that had worked at Bart's with her. The man had gotten an opportunity elsewhere and they had split amicably. She had dated quite a lot, dinners, movies—casual, friendly dates. She had been too busy building her career to spend much time on romance. Sherlock knew for a fact that the only romantic tragedy of her life was him, and they had resolved that rather nicely, he thought. There was no one in her past that he could think of that would give her something with such a meaning.
He looked down at the medal in his hand. The patron saint of lost causes. He looked at his increasingly nervous wife. Molly smiled weakly at him.
He dropped the chain on the dresser as if had burned him.
"Moriarty," he hissed. Molly's wide eyes and red cheeks confirmed it. "Moriarty gave this to you?"
Molly sat up in bed and pushed herself up until her back rested against the head board. She was going to have to sit up for this.
"Yes. Jim—I mean," she caught Sherlock's glare, "I mean, Moriarty—he gave it to me when we, uh—well, when I broke up with him." Sherlock continued to stare at her, his eyes boring into her own. "It was the one Jim always wore—He never took it off, not even—" She stopped.
"Go on," said Sherlock quietly, "He never took it off you say? Not even for…?" He paused dangerously.
"I-I just meant that he always had it on, you know?" Molly smiled, trying to placate her increasingly tense husband. "I guess he'd had it—or he told me he had it since he was a kid. Probably not true, you know?"
"Then why would you keep it?" Sherlock asked.
"I-I dunno. Sentiment? He put it around my neck. Said he was a lost cause." She swallowed and looked down at her hands, smoothing the sheets over her legs. "He asked me to pray for him." She fell silent remembering. Then she laughed wistfully, "Told me to pray for you too. That you were as much of a lost cause as he was." She twisted her lips into a wry little smile, "I guess it worked."
Sherlock nodded slowly, watching her face, looking for any sign of—what? Love?
"Did you pray for him?" he asked solemnly. She nodded, briefly. "Did you pray for me?" Another nod, this time with a smile.
"Still do," she said softly. He smiled back, indulging her little moment of sentimentality.
"I'll get rid of it for you." He tone was gentle, "My homeless connections know some good pawn shops, I'll just—" he reached for the necklace.
"You will NOT," gasped Molly. "That's mine. I'm not going to let you pawn it."
"Why ever not? You need a keepsake of Jim's affections? After all that he did?" His tone was mocking and angry.
"No, but—it was important to him. You can't just—" Molly protested reaching out for the necklace.
"Oh, yes, I can," Sherlock said definitively. End of discussion. He reached for the medallion again.
"Alright, alright!" Molly called out, holding her hands in the air—a sign of surrender, "Hold on, just minute."
Molly jumped from the bed, and ran to the other room. He could hear her rummaging in his desk. He waited, arrogantly sure of his righteousness. She returned, her baggy silk pajamas hanging on her petite frame. She held a mobile phone in her hand. A very expensive, distinctive mobile phone.
"I'll get rid of Jim's medal, if you can bear to part with this," she said smugly holding the phone aloft. It was worth more than all the jewelry Molly owned. Well, if you didn't count the pieces Mycroft had given her.
Sherlock's face dropped. Ah.
"It's just a souvenir from a case, Molly," he began to explain, very reasonable was his tone. "I keep many souvenirs from my more challenging cases. The drawer is full of them." His palms began sweat. Why was he on the spot, here?
Molly sneered at him. "Then you won't miss this one, will you?"
Sherlock hesitated.
Suddenly, Molly lost her fighting stance. She tossed the mobile over to Sherlock who caught it mid-air.
"It's okay," she said sweetly, "I understand." He watched her carefully. Why did he feel like he was in the presence of a snake getting ready to strike?
"You can keep your—what did you call it? Your souvenir." She walked over to the dresser and picked up the St. Jude medal, "And I'll keep my little saint buddy here. In fact," she slipped the silver chain over her head, "I think St. Jude and I are going to be very close friends." She picked up the medallion and tucked into the front of her pajama top. The top was loose and Sherlock could see the glint of the silver medallion, snug between her pert breasts. Molly lay back down and snuggled into bed, on hand pressed gently where the medallion lay.
It was a most peculiar feeling, the hot blood pounding in his head. Yes, this is what people must mean when they said they "saw red."
"Like hell you will," growled Sherlock. He pounced on her suddenly. Molly let out a little shriek when the chain caught her hair as Sherlock yanked it over her head. She watched breathless, heart pounding as Sherlock scooped up the mobile and the chain in one hand. He stomped over to the bedroom window and yanked it open. Leaning out, he flung the medallion and the mobile as hard and as far as he could. Molly heard a thud and a car alarm go off.
Sherlock had turned from the window, breathing heavily, but at the sound of the car alarm, he looked back out the window worriedly before quickly closing it. He approached his wife who lay sprawled on the bed, wide-eyed and panting. She had never been more turned on in her life.
"You just threw a mobile worth 20,000 pounds out the window," she gasped.
"17,000," corrected Sherlock as he knelt on the bed. He moved over her, pinning her arms by her head. "Now, imagine how much more you mean to me," he murmured in her ear before cutting off any further conversation with a demanding kiss.