Sherlock Holmes knew that there must be something in the newest issue of a London tabloid concerning himself from the number of text messages he had received, and ignored, on that Saturday morning in in February. The texts ran the gamut from "Have you seen this!" to "What the bloody hell?", so he knew, as a certainty, that someone would show up at his flat shortly, bearing a copy of said tabloid. He would admit to some mild curiosity, but not enough to actually get dressed and make his way to a newsstand. And he was correct, as per usual, for just a few moments later he heard John Watson exchanging a few words with his landlady at the foot of the staircase leading to his flat.
The detective barely batted an eye as John burst through his door, waving a paper in front of his face, and asking, "What are we going to do about this, Sherlock?"
"About what, John? I have not read the offending article, so I cannot, at the moment, offer a solution, outside of my usual advice to ignore everything."
"I would usually agree with you, Sherlock, but I have a very pregnant wife at home, who objects to being referred to as a 'possible long term beard for our tempestuous relationship who has gone to the extreme measure of faking a pregnancy'."
Sherlock chuckled at this remark, only daring to do so because Mary Watson, a reformed hitwoman currently at the end stages of a rather difficult pregnancy, was not present. "Not to worry, John. That should all work itself out when a squalling baby Watson makes her way into the world. Although, it would be even more advantageous if she looked a bit like you to quiet any further speculation!"
"That's another couple of weeks away, mate, and they are rapidly shaping up to be the longest two weeks of my life!" John flopped down on his chair. "But seriously, Sherlock, you really should read this one…"
"I have made it my practice not to read any of these rather sordid…"
"I know, I know. But this one is especially disturbing. Greg is referred to…"
"Who?"
"Lestrade, you git! That gag is getting a bit old, by the way. Anyway, Lestrade is called an 'unhappily divorced, womanizing gumshoe riding on the coattails of the famous detective' who 'tends to spend too many evenings at his local pub, chatting up buxom barmaids.'"
"A perhaps less than accurate description, John. His value to Scotland Yard is definitely more than the author would seem to indicate, but that last barmaid he dated was a bit on the buxom side, wouldn't you say?"
John was smiling slightly at his memories of the mammories of the over-endowed woman who had been the object of Lestrade's, and quite a few other gentleman's, attentions at the last Policeman's Ball. "A bit, perhaps. And I will concede he does seem to have a type." Dr. Watson was snickering a bit as he reviewed the policeman's conquests in a mental line-up. He wiped the image from his mind, and continued, "Then there's Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock."
"What about Mrs. Hudson?"
"Well, the author referred to her as a cougar…"
"A large predatory cat indigenous to North America? Whatever for?"
"In common parlance, Sherlock, a 'cougar' is an older woman who seeks out the company of younger men for, uh, romantic purposes."
"Ridiculous! We all know that Mrs. Hudson is an equal opportunity provider when it comes to romantic partners, John. She is certainly no ageist. She flirts with everyone from the elderly shopkeeper down the street, who requires oxygen and viagra to keep up with her, to that spotty-faced delivery boy…"
"Not Jimmy…"
"Yes, Jimmy! But don't worry, John. She is not about to rob the cradle. She merely likes to toy with the young man. Something like a cat with its prey…" Sherlock appeared thoughtful for a second. "Perhaps the cougar analogy is not so far off, after all!" He then returned to the conversation. "You just spoke to her. Did she seem upset about the article?"
"Not really, I suppose." John considered his next few words, "She actually seemed quite proud about the fact that she was represented as a former exotic dancer, and current floozy!"
"Mrs. H. survived being married to the head man of a drug cartel, widowed by his execution for a double murder, John. I'm sure she has had much worse problems with which to deal."
John now gathered his thoughts before he ventured into what he perceived as dangerous waters. "And Molly…"
"Molly? Molly Hooper was mentioned in this piece of garbage, John?"
John noted how the article in question had gone from a harmless piece of fluff to "garbage" at the mention of the pathologist's name. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm afraid she was. And in a not so very complimentary manner…" John was interrupted as the detective tore the offending paper from his hand, to peruse it for himself, reading certain portions aloud.
" 'Mousy Molly, who scurries about in the shadows of the brilliant light cast by his looming intellect'. Ridiculous! 'A rather plain woman who has made herself an object of pity to her so-called friends and snickering colleagues due to her rather pathetic infatuation with the dashing detective'. Good lord! "Weedling herself into his good graces, and maintaining a career in the morgue of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, by catering to his needs, and those of Scotland Yard.' "
Looking at his friend's face, John saw the anger, of course, but tinged with something else. Fear? Perhaps. Concern? Most definitely!
"John, you must excuse me. I have some rather important business to attend to. I must call Mycroft…"
"You mean, 'the sinister gentleman in the large black car who hovers around the dark recesses of your life'?" John said with a snicker, trying to lighten the mood.
"Probably the only accurate assessment in the article, by the way!" Sherlock slumped back in his seat. "John, I think I need some advice. And an honest assessment, if you wouldn't mind."
"Anything you need, mate."
"Is it true? Does Molly really suffer so much because of me?"
"A bit, perhaps, but nothing like the divestation portrayed in this piece of trash, Sherlock. She's a grown woman, an intelligent woman. She has made her choices, on her own…"
"Stop beating about the bush, John. Is Molly Hooper the object of pity because of her perceived unrequited affection for me? Is it that obvious to everyone?"
"Maybe not to everyone…"
"John, for god's sake, answer me!"
"Not until you answer me, Sherlock. You just said 'perceived' unrequited affection, hinting that everyone's perception may be wrong. Do you actually care for Molly? And how long has this been going on?"
The detective was slumped in his chair, possibly readying himself to admit the truth to this best friend, a truth he had admitted to himself ages ago. "Yes, John, I care for Molly Hooper, and have for a long time," he said quietly.
"Why haven't you done anything about it, you git?"
"I have considered the possibility, John. But, if I had, there would have been four snipers, not three, trained on the people I care about. I couldn't risk losing her. Never…"
"But since then, Sherlock? It's been three years, for heaven's sake!"
"And when was I supposed to 'do something', John? When I came home and she was engaged to 'meat dagger'? Or when I was involved in the Magnussen affair? When I murdered him? When I was sentenced to exile and death? When Moriarty supposedly returned?"
"Everything has been dealt with, Sherlock? How about now?"
"Exactly my thought, John. Better late than never, I suppose. But she hasn't answered my texts. In fact, she is just about the only person of my acquaintance who hasn't been in touch. So she's either angry, or embarrassed, or hurt. Or a combination of the three. So, one last text, and I'll be on my way."
"On your way to where, Sherlock? What are you going to do?"
"On my way to Mycroft's, of course. I need his assistance in setting this right. I'm going to owe him a big favor for this. Probably have to accompany mummy to a Renaissance Faire, or something just as appalling. How do you feel about strolling minstrels and jousting tournaments, by the way?"
"Leave me out of that, mate. The only thing I like about those things is the feasting and the ale!"
"Ah, well, 'faint heart never won fair maiden', to use a semi-appropriate phrase. You must excuse me, John. as I have things to do! Watch the papers and all will be revealed!" Sherlock smiled enigmatically, and hurried into his room to change.
A few moments later, Molly received another text from Sherlock Holmes, the first one that day not demanding a response from her.
SORRY ABOUT THE RATHER INCONVENIENT ARTICLE. LIE LOW UNTIL MONDAY. I AM IN THE PROCESS OF FIXING THIS. - SHERLOCK
AND MAKE NO COMMENT UNTIL YOU SPEAK TO ME. - SHERLOCK
And, as an afterthought.
PLEASE? - SHERLOCK
On Monday morning, a reputable newspaper, not the tabloid of ill repute which had caused all the problems, printed in its metropolitan section a small article relating to the life of the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. It stated that, in order to keep his wife safe from the abominable James Moriarty, and subsequent undesirable elements, Sherlock Holmes had kept his long-standing marriage to one Dr. Molly Hooper, of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a secret known only to his most intimate associates. But, due to the scurrilous comments in a certain tabloid, and since the threat posed by said Moriarty had been eliminated, the detective had, at last, decided to announce his state of connubial bliss. A copy of their official marriage certificate accompanied the article.
Molly Hooper had turned off her mobile in order to avoid any further reminder of her embarrassment until she heard from Sherlock. She had been holed up in her flat, drinking wine and mourning her loss of privacy. Now, it seemed, not only her friends, but all of London was privy to the embarrassment of her unrequited love life. She dragged herself out of bed, and cuddled on her sofa with a warm blanket and a hot coffee, which she almost spilled as Sherlock himself burst through the front door.
"Have you seen the Times, Dr. Hooper?"
"I've decided to give up on newsprint, all things considered, Sherlock," Molly mumbled. "How could you possibly fix this, by the way? I'm now an object of pity AND ridicule. I may change my name and move to the Outer Hebrides."
"Changing your name could certainly be an option," the detective spoke in an almost cheerful manner, which she did not consider appropriate to the current situation. He then handed her an official looking document.
"What's this?"
"You really should read the papers, Molly. Do keep up! I told you I would fix the problem, and I did!"
Molly perused the paper in her hand, which certified that Mary Elizabeth Hooper and William Sherlock Scott Holmes had been duly married on a date over three years previously. A date which she recognized as Sherlock's birthday, a few weeks before his fake death. "Sherlock, you can't just produce a fake marriage certificate! This won't hold up…"
"It's not fake Molly, just pre-dated by a bit. It is sometimes very convenient to have a brother who is the British government. It's totally official, entered in all the appropriate registers and government facilities. I chose my birthday as our wedding date to make it easier for me to remember, Clever, no? So much for that tabloid's claim of your 'pathetically' unrequited affection. Now everyone will know that it is totally requited, that I have loved you, and been committed to you for years…"
"Sherlock, you can't maintain a lie like that simply for my benefit…"
"Who said it was a lie, Molly? Simply because you didn't know doesn't make it any less true! I will concede that this is probably my fault for not mentioning it sooner…"
"Sherlock Holmes, do you remember when you first came back from the dead, and John was so happy to see you, but still so angry that he almost broke your nose?"
Sherlock stood tall and still in front of the tiny woman, his face expecting a blow, it would appear. But none landed. "Molly, I would much rather have you be happy, and punch my nose, than have you indifferent, and file for divorce. Which you really would have to do, because it is truly official, as I said, thanks to my brother and his busy little minions."
Molly stood looking up at him, studying him carefully, trying to make herself believe if this was really possible. He loved her? He had loved her for quite a while? Judging by the look of uncertain happiness on his face she tended to believe him. But she was still tempted to give him a good smack. Instead, she settled for a rather extended snog as she threw herself into his arms.
"Did I fix it Molly? Did I do good?"
"Yes, my love. You fixed everything!"
Then Sherlock, ever thinking practically, said to his new wife, "You know, you really don't have to change your name if you don't want to. But I should point out that the monogram will remain the same. And you should consider moving to Baker Street as soon as possible, so we can get on with a 'normal' married life. Bring the cat, if you must!"
Molly laughingly said, "I love you, Mr. Holmes."
"And I love you, Mrs. Holmes. But I do have to ask you one thing…"
"Yes?"
"How do you feel about Renaissance Faires?"