AN: I imagine this to take place in a universe where the travesty of Season 4 never happened, Mary is alive and well, and she and John go on to have a staggering amount of children. Mycroft and Anthea are secretly married and Dimmock, bless him, is not just a throwaway character from Blind Banker. Enjoy this capricious and overly poetical exercise in authorial insanity.
They're both in the sitting room one day when the subject is broached. Molly is taking a break from baking to read the latest British Medicine while Sherlock fiddles at his violin, occasionally scribbling on his sheet music and muttering to himself.
When Molly snaps her book shut to gaze out the window, he glances at her for a moment before returning to his music.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" He sticks his pen between his teeth and picks up the violin again, carefully plucking out a chord.
"What do you think about getting married?"
Sherlock's fingers slip, causing the tentative run of notes in the air to clash, sliding into dissonance. He lowers the violin to turn and look at her. She looks back, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, gaze calm and level and awaiting his response.
A response he isn't at all sure of. He tries and fails to accomplish speaking four times before finally lapsing into silence. His mind is completely and utterly blank. "Marriage?"
Her eyes glitter, and he's pretty sure the hand over her mouth is smothering a smile. He bristles a bit; marriage is not a light topic, hence his lack of finesse. "Marriage. Til death do us part, sometimes at a church, posh party. Grand cake with a little bride and groom doll at the top. Ring any bells?"
He glares at her to let her know he is not amused with her sarcasm, nor impressed with her little pun. Church bells. Honestly. "Yes, thank you for the clarification."
Molly grins at him, but he can see the anxiety in her eyes as the silence grows. Sherlock turns away from her as he puts away his violin.
Marriage. He never imagined it would be an issue for him — Sherlock Holmes has never really been husband material — and thus had never given it any thought. Certainly he holds little against the institution itself, although he has observed, with no small amount of disdain, a certain inane affection that proliferates amongst those so tied in holy matrimony. First his parents, then the Watsons, even Mycroft and Anthea (as discrete as they are): married folk are just so — how to put it — married. Complaints about bills and nappies and it's your turn to take out the trash, darling; quibbles about DVR preferences and dinner parties and not liking each other's friends. And worst of all, the random displays of affection, in public, no less. It's positively vomit-inducing.
He smooths down the velvet lining of his violin case. And yet there's more to marriage than that, a kind of resounding warmth he cannot put his finger on. His parents, especially, have it down pat after 45 years. Marriage is more than living together and watching the same programs. It is a living, breathing connection, one that fills every little space and crevice of a person's life, whether they realize it or not.
As he puts the case in its place on the bottom bookshelf, he must admit to himself that he has thought about marriage, then, at least a little. Sherlock does not like the idea of feelings, but he likes the idea of deluding himself even less. To ignore how Molly has added a warmth and vitality to his days would be to do himself a grave disservice. He has too much self respect for that.
With that in mind, Sherlock glances back discreetly at Molly. As he crosses the room to the settee, she seems to shrink back into the pillows, holding British Medicine up like a shield.
He eases himself onto the opposite end of the settee, careful not to crowd her, and reaches out to her. With a curious glance, she takes the proffered hand tentatively. He is never very physically affectionate, even now, with her.
"I have thought of it," he says in a low, rumbling voice, running his thumb over her knuckles, "though not in any certain terms."
Though she quickly averts her gaze, Sherlock sees the relief in Molly's eyes. He looks down, and not for the first time wonders at how small her hand seems, dwarfed by his own.
The air is laced with a tension that was not there a moment ago. He feels more than hears her next words, mumbled as they are in the direction of her feet: "And what do you think of it now?"
Sherlock considers the question. What does he think of marriage? It always seemed as though for someone else, someone who wasn't him, because naturally, most people's idea of a married life involves something he is quite unwilling to fulfill. People think that Sherlock avoids relationships because he disliked feelings, and he is happy to let them assume so; it does wonders for his reputation as a cold, emotionless man, and certainly does not harm his reputation as a detective. But it was never quite the whole story.
Simply put, Sherlock feels no desire to do anything. That was the crux of the matter. Relationships pose many problems, but a large hindrance is sex. It isn't so much emotions as it is the physical aspects he prefers to avoid.
But with Molly, marital relations would pose few, if any, problems. Indeed, she has not once expressed a desire for him. The quiet understanding that has cropped up between them has never left him feeling threatened, or misunderstood; not once has she strayed into that territory, about which he has never felt an ounce of curiosity.
As he mulls it over, Sherlock finds, to his shock, he can see it. He can see it happening, marriage, though it wouldn't be marriage as most people conceived of it. The more he thinks on it, the more he realizes he wants it. As much as he thought he abhorred companionship.
Perhaps he is growing sentimental in his old age; perhaps he has always felt this way and never recognized it. He looks over at Molly again. He can read her anxiety in the way she tugs her ear absently, the way she always does when she is nervous. She does not meet his eyes.
"I find," he says quietly, "I am not entirely opposed to the idea."
There is a beat of agonizing silence, in which he regrets everything he has ever said or done, before she looks up at him and gives him a cautious half smile. He can feel something in the air from her – slowly, he understands that it is an invitation, but he does not understand what for.
"Well," Sherlock says, unsure.
Suddenly, he sees something. An idea is forming in his brain, the gears churning to slot the pieces together. He looks out at the window, barely seeing the cars and pedestrians hurry by as his mind begins the all-too-familiar race.
Tentatively, more carefully and cautiously than he has ever done anything in his life, Sherlock asks, "What do you think of marriage, Molly?"
There is a long silence, an eternity long, before she speaks. "I think... do you ever plan to grow a beard?"
Whenever he read of hearts stopping in surprise, Sherlock had always scoffed, but now he realizes the truth in the phrase.
"A beard?" He croaks eventually.
She nods, her eyebrows drawn together. "A beard." She looks up at the ceiling, purses her lips in thought, then looks down at him once more. "Or for that matter, any facial hair of any kind."
He stares at her, aghast. "I... don't plan on it, no."
"When we are old and grey and sitting in front of the television, will you ever ask me to fetch you a cold one from the fridge on ad breaks?"
Sherlock is beginning to feel as though she might be having him on, but her face is deadly serious. "Don't be daft, Molly."
"Will you watch rerun marathons of Glee with me?"
"If under duress."
"Will you make me change my name?"
"I can't make you do anything."
"Will you clean out Atticus' litter box when I'm out of town on conference?"
"... Should you insist."
"Will you visit my father's grave with me every Christmas?"
This draws him up short, and wipes the growing smile from his face. "Of course, Molly," he says, quietly, beginning to understand what this is about.
Molly leans back into the settee, with an air of finality. "Well, then."
"Well, then," he echoes. He says the words like a statement, but there's a question in them that both of them hear clear as day.
"I think..." she says, her face turned away, so quiet he feels rather than hears her, "that I would like to marry you, if you are so inclined."
The silence that stretches between them – not the first silence of the conversation, but the most tremulous, the most significant – fills every inch of the room. He can hear nothing except the slight whistle of her breath. Time, it seems, has stopped everything, the world and all of its inhabitants, to hear his answer.
"How about Sunday?" he says, and when she turns fully towards him for the first time and takes his face in her hands to kiss him, it feels as though she is the very sun itself, bright and luminous and warm.
––––
Their wedding is on a Sunday, although not that very Sunday. Molly's very Catholic sister hints at the blasphemy in store for the both of them, for celebrating on a day for the Lord. Sherlock doesn't give a damn; if it were up to him, he would just sign the marriage license and go back to the way it was.
But he has seldom seen Molly take such pleasure in things other than the laboratory, things that have to do only with herself — things like the color of the ribbon around her bouquet, and the flavor of the cake they'll serve, and the cut of the bridesmaids dresses. In fact, she radiates happiness throughout the planning process, gleefully arguing over the finer details of buffet versus sit down and the need for a videographer with Mary. They've taken over the flat, like the Watson wedding all over again. Unlike before, however, he feels no need to micromanage the details. This is the first time he has seen Molly take charge of an operation free of blood and other bodily fluids (although, seeing how the last wedding he attended did involve an almost-murder, he's holding out hope). Seeing how happy she is, he is content to sit back and watch her.
And if he's honest, he's not opposed to seeing her walk down an aisle in a long dress, towards him, and only him.
He sometimes thinks about how if his younger self — the one who thought getting high was an acceptable alternative to caring about the world — had met himself now, he probably would have overdosed in despair. This Sherlock Holmes says hello to his clients without prompting, buys milk for himself without reminding, and, most importantly of all, is getting married of his own volition. No one could have predicted that the druggie from Montague Street, him who hung around St. Barts' and helped out with a few rough cases over at Scotland Yard, too smart for his own good — no one would have dreamed that he would ever amount to anything, least of all himself.
But that Sherlock also didn't know the depth and quality of Molly's thoughts, because he'd never bothered to ask her for anything more personal than a scalpel. He'd never known the simple pleasure of waking up besides another human, because he'd always moved on before he could learn to love someone more than himself. That Sherlock didn't know — would rather have sworn off cocaine that admit to even wanting to know — that Molly's hair wasn't a mousy shade of brown after all. It was red, which you could see when the sun hit it just so. But he wouldn't have known that, either, because Sherlock Holmes of years past would not have deigned to notice.
Molly and the others have moved worlds so that Sherlock could become the person he is now. He knows that now, and he also knows there's no real way to pay them back, even with a lifetime of appreciation. If Molly's happiness means that he has to put his own desires aside for the briefest of moments, well — he's struggled through a lifetime of emotional constipation to be able to say he doesn't mind it, not at all.
Sherlock's happy to marry Molly and tell it to the world, if that's what she wants, and to hell with what anyone had to say about the matter.
Although Molly does enjoy the wedding planning, the actual event ends up being fairly small by most standards. There are the Watsons of course, and Mrs. Hudson and Gavin Lestrade. Tragically, Sherlock's parents are able to attend, as well as Molly's sister Lisa, brother-in-law Derek, and the accompanying horde of nieces and nephews. Molly manages to tame the entire brood as if by magic and confers the eldest two girls the coveted roles of flower girls, the eldest boy the less-amicably received responsibility of ring-bearer. Sherlock doesn't remember their names, but they really are forgettable — he's reasonably sure one of them is a Jane — so he doesn't feel too rotten about it. The children adore Molly, and after initial apprehension of his blank expression and towering stature, they extend this affection to Sherlock. He spends most of the week leading up to the wedding with a child or two wrapped around his legs, another slung over his back.
Mycroft and Anthea attend, although with no end of grumbling from both Sherlock and Mycroft about the ordeal. Even Anderson and Sally and Dimmock show up, although Sherlock feels as though it is more to gawk at the idea of a Holmes getting married at all. Needless to say, they are very surprised to meet Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who are the most normal set of crossword-and-crumpet-loving parents he has ever known to exist.
Though neither of them are religious, they hold the ceremony in the same church little Rosie Watson was christened in, because of the memories and the gorgeous stained glass windows. It is spring, because Molly has always wanted to be a spring bride. And it is beautiful, because it is her, all her.
They all head to Angelo's afterwards. The man is delighted to be their first choice and rents out the entire restaurant to them free of charge, decorating the place with candles and flowers and strings upon strings of Christmas lights. He spends most of the evening alternating between pumping Sherlock's hand up and down with sheer joy and kissing Molly's cheeks effusively.
It's been an overwhelming day. Sherlock has never been good at being the center of events like this, so he hangs back during the dinner, giving pleasant and brief answers when addressed, but mostly just watching Molly and his friends and family. Occasionally a nephew or niece will rush over, and he will politely redirect them to their aunt. John approaches him as he sits at a table, having sent off a particularly judicious little girl.
For a while, they sit together in companionable silence, watching the other guests interact. Lestrade, surprisingly (or not – his own daughter is at university now), is very good with the children, telling them tales of car chases and bloody murderers that leave them horrified but clamoring for more. Rosie and Edmund, slightly older than the rest of the Gardiner brood, stand imperiously apart, pretending to be listening to their mother talk to Molly, but Sherlock can see how they are pulled almost magnetically towards Lestrade and his ridiculous facial expressions and animated voices. In the corner, Mycroft appears to be inching towards the cake, but is hampered by Anthea, who maintains a solid grip on him that Sherlock has seen her use on machine guns.
"You did this, you know," John breaks in suddenly. He smiles at the look on Rosie's face as Lestrade tells a particularly buffoonish joke. "All of this."
Sherlock glances at him in surprise. "This?"
John nods, not looking at him. "All of these people, you brought them together when they needed it most. None of us would be here if it weren't for you, Sherlock." His fond smile wobbles a little around the edges as he speaks — John has never held his drink well, despite the military background. "If you weren't a high functioning sociopath, I'd say you've even got a knack for it."
Sherlock looks at him, his eyes wide, then glances in the direction John is looking, his gaze landing on Mary and Molly together. It makes for a pretty picture: Molly is laughing with her head thrown back, the thin crystalline lining on her dress catching the light of the candles in a way that makes her look like she is glowing. Mary's floaty blue dress shifts as she giggles, one hand over her mouth, the other on her burgeoning belly. Rosie and Edmund trip over to them, tugging on their Aunt Molly's hands to entertain them in some game, and the four of them drift away.
"You made it remarkably easy," is all he can say. Sherlock Holmes is getting married, but he is still himself, and himself is a person that seldom says such things.
John smiles with patience, like he always has. They turn away from each other to watch their family laugh and talk, saying nothing more as the twilight gathers.
The wedding changes very few things. They go to Italy for a little while because Molly has never been to the continent, but they mostly spend it as they usually do, bickering lightly about inane things and in companionable silence the rest of the time. He shows her some of the places he frequented during his Great Hiatus, all dilapidated hovels and crumbling flats in the less savory parts of town.
As they stand in the doorway of a particularly graceless cottage, looking at mysterious stains that even Sherlock could never identify, Molly steps a little closer into his arm and nudges him. He looks down at her in question.
"It must have been lonely, living like this," she says, searching his face. They rarely talk about his time away, by some unspoken decree. She has never asked after it before, and so he never talked about it.
He barely has to think before he replies. "Yes." He looks at the stains on the wall, and flashes back briefly to that life, full of explosions and false identities and frequent hair color changes. At the time, he thought it was necessary, to save all of them and the way things were, and at times even exciting, but now he recognizes it for what it was: an empty existence. "Unimaginably so."
Molly's small hand slips into his arm, and without a backward glance, she slowly leads him away and out of the cottage, into the waiting sunlight.
AN: Is it awful? Ugh. I don't know, I just wanted some happiness after the awfulness of Series 4 so just. Cut me some slack? I was meditating on what could have been.