"Doctor Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Molly Hooper." Doctor Michael Stanford said, introducing the consulting detective to the newest pathologist at St. Bart's. Stanford turned to Molly and said, "Sherlock will often need access to the lab, morgue and bodies. All other requests need to be run by me."
"OK," Molly replied. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." She held out her hand.
Sherlock simply looked at her hand, expression unreadable, and said, "I need to see the Brewer body."
Blunt and to the point. Molly was taken in by his eyes. They were a gorgeous blend of blue, green and flecks of gold, heterochromia. "OK. Margaret Brewer. Fifty-three. Heart attack, no history of heart trouble. Small, fresh puncture wound between toes. I don't think this was a natural death. I am running a complete tox screen and tests for acetylcholine."
A momentary look of surprise crossed his features. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper. Text me with the results. Mike has my number." Then he left the lab, his long coat billowing behind him.
"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs." He said. He knew what she wanted, he chose to ignore that. He would rather sound socially inept and heartless. Anything was better than, forbid it all, caring.
"You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He was desperate and he almost told her everything.
"I hope you are very happy, Molly Hooper, "he said and kissed her cheek. Inside, his heart shattered. She was lost to him and, even worse, she wasn't happy.
"How DARE you waste your gifts and the love of your friends!" She slapped his face three times, hard. It should have hurt but it didn't. She wasn't wearing a ring. This alone made him happy.
As his plane landed back on the tarmac after his short exile his thoughts were only for her. Her safety, her security. "Mycroft, increase her protection level, please."
Mycroft mused, his baby brother never said please unless he absolutely needed something.
Sherlock stormed into the morgue and found his pathologist readying herself to make the initial Y-incision on the latest John Doe. "Sherlock…"She started. The rest of what she was going to say muffled by his lips on hers.
A small registry ceremony and dinner for nine (and a baby) at Angelo's. She wore a plain ivory dress and he wore a new suit and a tie. The glint of the candlelight off the metal on their hands made them both smile.
The worry was evident on his face as they rushed his wife, his heart into the operating theatre. Thirty-eight weeks, two hundred sixty-six days, two weeks early. She had tripped at work, her swollen abdomen hitting the corner of the autopsy table. The trauma stressed her enough to cause bleeding and send her into early labor. Sherlock Holmes was never so scared. He couldn't lose them, either of them.
"Dad, could you help me make a model of the solar system for school?" Will asked.
"Can you go ask your mum? I'm working on a case."
"She's busy with Violet, Dad."
John was right; he shouldn't have deleted that "primary school stuff".
"Violet Margaret Holmes, do you take Sherlock Morstan Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The vicar asked.
Sherlock turned to his wife, grey flecks in her hair now among the chestnut, and smiled. He was still an insufferable arse at times. He was still Sherlock Holmes. She still loved him anyway. Watching his daughter marry his best friend's son he contemplated how he got so lucky.
He watched stone-faced and apparently emotionless as they lowered her coffin into the ground. His Molly aged 78. Natural causes. These wasn't enough time, there never would have been enough time.
For the rest of his life, flowers would make him nauseous.
Will requested everyone's attention. "My father was an amazing man. He loved sparingly but deeply." John Watson nodded quietly. "Many of you knew him as difficult and egotistical. He fancied himself a sociopath but we know differently."
John thought of all those that had gone before: Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Anderson, so many others. John hoped they were all together again even though Sherlock didn't believe in that sort of thing. A single tear fell from Dr. John Watson's eye as he remembered his friends.
Sherlock Holmes woke to Molly's voice, a voice he hadn't heard in years. Surrounding him was all the family and friends that had died before him. He looked into the brown eyes of his beloved Molly and Sherlock Holmes was final home.