The Newlyweds
It had been nearly a year since Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper surprised everyone with an impromptu wedding ceremony at the old town hall. It had taken nearly all of that year for Mrs. Hudson to forgive Sherlock for making her attend said ceremony in an old housedress after being kidnapped on her way home from the shops. Of all people, it was Mycroft who managed to soothe the old woman's feelings by hosting a small reception/supper at his own home a few weeks after the ceremony. She was issued a proper invitation and given adequate time to dress for the occasion. The others appreciated the advance notice as well.
The reception was, of course, very small. Only the closest friends of Sherlock and a couple of Molly's girlfriends were allowed, but even so, Sherlock spent most of the evening locked in the library, alternately flipping through old leather bound books and pacing before the fireplace.
"He's like a tiger in a cage," Lestrade commented to John during one of their attempts to coax him out to enjoy himself, or at least pretend to.
John took a sip of his undoubtedly expensive champagne and nodded. He wasn't that worried, to be honest. Molly's friend Meena had cast a few dark looks Sherlock's way when he'd abruptly departed after the cake, but Molly did not seem perturbed. She knew Sherlock. The very fact that he had come at all, that he was, in fact, still here, said more than anyone not well acquainted with the man could know. Besides, he had married Molly. In front of people. The man was giving all he could give to this relationship in so far as John could see.
Sherlock halted mid-step and looked up to see John and Lestrade staring at him, drinking from their flutes.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"Oh, nothing," John replied, "just thought you might want to help your wife open the gifts, since this is, you know, your wedding reception."
"Why?" A frown line appeared on Sherlock's forehead. "She's quite capable of unwrapping a toaster and a set of tea towels, I'm sure. I hardly see where my assistance is required. " He resumed his pacing, "She cuts open dead people, for heaven's sake, she can manage gift wrap."
"Not quite the point there, mate," Lestrade began, when John shook his head. Sherlock was tetchy. He was never good at parties and this was a party given by Mycroft, Sherlock's first "enemy" and rival. However, with the exception of Sherlock, everyone else was having fun. Even Meena had gotten over her own kidnapping on the wedding day and had chuckled at some clever remark Mycroft had made over the tapas. Mycroft was in politics. It was not so surprising that he could turn on the charm and throw a good party.
Sherlock stopped pacing again. He seemed to be thinking something over.
"You're not happy with me."
Lestrade shook his head. No. John tightened his lips into small frown. No.
"Because it's not good to leave your wife alone during your own reception," sighed Sherlock as if the thought had just occurred to him.
"Well, it's generally not the thing," John began when a sweet voice behind him spoke out.
"It's just the thing, if you are Sherlock Holmes," interrupted Molly who stepped between John and Lestrade, to approach her husband. Husband! That still seemed so strange to John. "And it's fine," she smiled at him. "We did get a toaster and tea towels, among other things. How did you know?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Obvious. Shape of the box. Mary always complained about the burnt toast when she stayed for breakfast."
Molly smiled at him and reached out to squeeze his hand. The tension seemed to leave Sherlock and he gave a small smile as he gazed down at his wife. Wife! Still so strange. But she was having a calming effect on him. She understood him. She did not push.
Seeing Sherlock in good hands and with his wife at last, Lestrade and John left the two alone and wandered off to see if there was anything left of the cake. The library door closed behind them.
Fifteen minutes later, a decidedly rumpled but much happier Sherlock emerged to have a glass of champagne and thank everyone for coming. And if the glow in Molly's eyes and the pink in her cheeks had more to do with the undone button on her blouse than the champagne in her hand, well, what of it?
"Carrying on like a couple of kids, snogging on the sly," muttered Lestrade with a grin and a shake of his head. "I wonder what the boys at the Yard would think of this!"
Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently. "I think it's lovely. " She sighed, "That honeymoon bliss doesn't last long though, I should know! But may they enjoy it for as long as it does."
And it did last. For almost a year. Molly was the epitome of patience. Not that she didn't push back, but she knew whom she had married. She had married Sherlock Holmes, an emotionally backward, quick-tempered, spoilt man-child. He was a genius. He loved her. But he had flaws. Many of them. And she accepted this. Until the day he went too far.
Sherlock and John were married men, but they continued solving crimes and mysteries much as they always did. Molly and Mary expected nothing less. Both women had their own work to keep them busy, and Molly was lucky enough that her job frequently meant she was working with Sherlock. So, while he missed dinner, or sometimes was gone for an evening or two, she still saw him quite a lot. And when the case was solved, and after he'd gorged himself on a big meal, he would slip into their bed and show her just how much he'd missed her. It was quite a nice arrangement, actually. They certainly couldn't be accused of falling into a rut.
There had been a few cases that had taken Sherlock and John out of town. They had even spent a few days in Scotland for a case, but Sherlock had offhandedly mentioned he and John were bound for Scotland that day after he'd run through some data at the lab. He'd given her a brief kiss goodbye and she did not see him for two days. These things happened when you were married to a consulting detective.
However, the day came when Molly came home from work to find Sherlock had gone. Not such an unusual occurrence, though she had left him in his pajamas sulking over the quality of cases Lestrade was offering him. She assumed he'd found something interesting, and didn't worry over much. Even when it was time for bed and he hadn't returned, Molly did not fret. This was Sherlock she was dealing with. He was probably on the scent of something good. Maybe she could share in the fun at the morgue tomorrow.
Molly awoke alone in the bed she shared with Sherlock. She frowned and reached for her phone. No texts. Now she was a little annoyed and more than a little worried. It wasn't unknown for Sherlock to be gone like this, but he could have at least texted her to let her know where he was. Molly hesitated. She did not want to be that wife. She had a lively horror of becoming a nagging harridan, crushing the free spirited genius that was Sherlock Holmes. Still, she was his bloody wife. Decision made, she fired off a text.
Where are you?-Molly
She did not sign off with a kiss.
By the time Molly returned home from St. Bart's that evening and had still not heard from Sherlock, she was trying very hard to contain her rage, trying very hard not to worry about where her husband was, and trying very hard not to worry that he would think her a pest. She had not sent another text. She was not going to nag him. Sending multiple texts would not make him respond any faster. Still, it took every bit of her self control not to send a barrage of texts demanding to know where the hell he was.
Sherlock loved her. Molly did not doubt that he did, but she was insecure. Even after all this. Even after their marriage, she still sometimes wondered at the fact that Sherlock Holmes loved her. Molly knew why he loved her, but years of rejection and self-doubt were hard to overcome. She felt that familiar cold stab of fear in her belly. He wouldn't leave her, would he? Without a word?
She wouldn't text, but maybe Mrs. Hudson might know something, but the quick trip downstairs did not relieve her fears.
"No, dear. I haven't seen hide nor hair of him for at least a couple of days." Mrs. Hudson shook her head and her kind face wore a pitying expression, but her eyes were dark with fury. It was lucky for Sherlock Holmes that he was not standing before Martha Hudson at this moment. He would do well to avoid her for some time, actually. Molly thanked her and dashed upstairs so she would not have to face Mrs. Hudson's pity any longer.
Molly held her phone in her hand as she sat at the table with a glass of wine. She was not crying. This was typical Sherlock. He was probably wearing a balaclava sneaking through an abandoned warehouse or wrestling with a crazed drug dealer or—this line of thought was not making her feel any better. She bit her lip and sent a quick text to John.
Is Sherlock with you?-Molly
Molly felt despicable. She was texting her husband's best friend to keep tabs on him. She was pathetic. She didn't even know where her own husband was. She held the phone tightly in her hand and wandered into the living room to curl up on the sofa, watch television and try not to cry.
Molly managed to doze off for a couple of hours when she was awakened by the phone buzzing in her palm.
Yes-J
Molly's heart began to pound. Thank God. Thank God!
Where are you?-Molly
She sat tense, the phone in hand, hoping he would respond quickly. After just a minute, the phone buzzed again.
Zagreb.
The phone buzzed.
That's Croatia.
He'd anticipated her second question then.
He didn't tell you?
With shaking fingers, Molly typed out her reply.
No
She waited for five long minutes before she received another response.
Fucking bastard
She drew in a deep, shaky breath, feeling the tears start to fall.
Yes
Crying steadily now, Molly considered her next message.
Thanks. –M
Tossing her phone on the side table, Molly curled up on her side and sobbed. She had not thought that she could ever feel worse than she had when Sherlock rejected her at Christmas. She was wrong.
Molly woke up to a pounding on the door. Stiff from sleeping on the sofa, she uncurled herself and staggered to open the door. She found Mary Watson on the other side.
Mary seemed taken aback by what she saw. Molly was certain that her eyes were red and puffy, but surely she didn't look that bad. And she didn't except for the expression on her face. Mary's heart twisted in sympathy at the look of despair in Molly's brown eyes.
"Oh, Molly." Mary grabbed her into a hug, "Molly, it's okay. Shh."
Molly, who thought she had cried every tear she had left inside of her, found that with this show of sympathy that there was still a veritable flood just waiting for a kind word to start flowing again. She sniffled against Mary's shoulder and found herself rocked back and forth in the other woman's arms.
"Sherlock lost his phone. He couldn't text, and I guess he didn't think to ask John to tell you," Mary was explaining, "though I don't suppose there was anything to hinder him from leaving a fucking note." Molly laughed suddenly in the face of Mary's rage. Rage on her behalf. It was reassuring. It was humiliating.
"No," hiccupped Molly, wiping her eyes. "You wouldn't think."
"If it's any consolation, John is bloody furious with Sherlock." Mary said with righteous indignation.
Molly shook her head noncommittally. It really wasn't a consolation. They were best friends. John would yell. Sherlock would act confused—what are these human emotions? John would forgive and all would be well between them again, off on their next adventure. She knew the routine.
"They're on their way back. It was something to do with stolen artifacts or something. I guess they solved the case." Mary looked uncertain. She'd comforted friends whose husbands had cheated. Who drank too much. Who loved video games more than going out. She'd never had to console a woman whose husband arsed off to Croatia for a jaunt and forgot to tell her.
Molly managed a watery smile, and stepped back from Mary's embrace.
"Thank you so much, Mary." She said hoarsely. "I'm so glad that they are okay. Thank you for stopping by, but I do need to get to work. I imagine you do, too." Molly smiled a brave smile.
Mary watched her warily but nodded. She reached out to squeeze Molly's shoulder, "If you want to get together tonight for dinner or anything, let me know. I mean—I'm going to be alone too!"
Molly nodded, "Thanks."
Molly appreciated the offer, she really did, but she had every intention of working as late a shift as she could. She'd rather spend the night elbows deep in a dead man's bowels than face Mary's pity over a dinner table.
Nearly 24 hours after her conversation with Mary, Molly dragged herself up the stairs to 221B. She'd worked a triple shift. She had performed four autopsies. She had spent hours in the lab. She had completed a week's worth of paperwork. Now she was going to take the hottest shower she could, drink a bottle of wine, and fall into bed and not think about Sherlock Holmes. Not a single thought would be spared.
That carefully constructed plan flew out the window when she found the man himself sitting in his chair. Sherlock jumped to his feet as soon as she opened the door, and stood, hands dangling loosely. He had the air of a kicked puppy or a frightened child as he watched with wide, staring eyes as she set down her bag and hung up her coat.
She took off her scarf and hung it next to her coat and turned to face him. She was too tired to be angry. Too tired to feel anything, really.
"You're back." She said flatly.
"Yes." He took a step toward her and held out a hand briefly before letting it drop.
"Good." She said and kicked off her shoes.
"Yes, I-I solved the case." Sherlock offered. He waited for her answer.
"Which one was that?" Molly asked. She was so weary. There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to rage, but there was nothing left in her for that. She had expended every bit of nervous energy at work. She felt empty.
"Ah, ancient Roman antiquities being smuggled out of Split—an old Roman province in Croatia. Turns out—" he began to explain, latching on to this line of conversation, trying to avoid what really needed to be said.
Molly held up a hand to stop him. "Maybe tomorrow? I've just had a really long shift, so—" she jerked her thumb in the direction of the bathroom. She needed her shower. She needed her bed. Maybe tomorrow she would have the energy to deal with this.
Sherlock had come closer and he reached out to take her hands. She allowed it, but continued to stare at him blankly.
"Molly—" he began, and his voice broke slightly. "Molly, I am sorry."
She nodded. Of course he was. He was. She did not doubt that he was sorry now.
"Please forgive me?" It was a question. He was pleading with her. Ah, he knew he had messed up then. John must have gotten through to him. She was not quite sure she was ready to grant him mercy yet.
Molly nodded again, but knew he was not going to let her go until she said something.
"I'm just so happy you're safe," she tried to smile, but in true Molly Hooper fashion, the smile turned into sob, a sob she quickly tried to swallow. She didn't quite manage it. The noise that came out of her was something between a hiccup and a moan.
At this, Sherlock had her in his arms and was holding her tightly. She buried her face in his crisp shirt front and cried. She tried to stop, knew she was being pathetic and clingy and ridiculous, but she was so tired she couldn't stop herself. And then he was kissing her, kissing her most desperately, begging her for forgiveness with his touch. He lifted her around the waist, and with her head on his shoulder, carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed.
It was dark, and she couldn't see his face, just the glitter of his eyes in the dim light cast by the street lamp. He stripped her of her socks, and tenderly, as if she were a child, he undressed her—unzipping her trousers, gently pulling off her jumper, unclasping her brassiere. She lay passively, allowing him to continue this ritual of contrition.
With each article of clothing he removed he kissed her lips, her eyes, her fingertips, her knee. When she was completely bare, he drew the covers over her. He quickly removed his own clothes and slipped under the blankets with her, pulling her close and held her skin to skin, just holding her. As she relaxed into his arms and her breathing slowed, he brushed a soft kiss on shoulder and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—" and she was asleep.
Weeks passed, and Molly and Sherlock resumed their normal routine. As far as they were both concerned, he was forgiven, though he was very careful to let her know if he was going to be away for any length of time. All of the cases he accepted lately were in town. He had not left London in over two months.
Molly knew this would not last. Did not want it to last. Knew Sherlock would not be happy if he refused more interesting cases so that he could stay close to home out of fear of hurting her. She said as much to him one afternoon in the morgue.
"I appreciate what you're doing, you know," she said to him as she fished around inside an elderly woman's chest cavity. Sherlock looked at her sharply, a question in his eyes.
"I just mean, don't feel like you are stuck in London," she continued, setting down her tools and facing him directly. "I know about the case you were offered in Dublin. It must be at least a nine. It's okay. Go!" She smiled, wanting to reassure him, and reached out to touch him before remembering her bloody latex covered hand.
Sherlock looked at her uncertainly, eyes lighting up.
"Really, go! Just make sure John tells Mary where you are going." She held up her face for a kiss, which he gave her before he was rushing out the door, (new) phone in hand, texting John.
Molly smiled to herself and continued her work.
Two days later, around six in the evening, Sherlock burst into 221B, utterly pleased with himself, ready to eat his body weight in lo mein and then, oh then, he would take the pretty Mrs. Holmes to bed and remind her that she was married to an extremely brilliant man.
A fine plan, except for the fact that Mrs. Holmes was not at home. No matter. He would order his meal (and her favorite spring rolls), take a bath and wait. Perhaps he would plan his seduction. Would he tease her with kisses and caresses before he carried her to their marital bed? Perhaps he would take her quickly on the floor by the fireplace. Hmm. Maybe he should kindle the fire just to be ready.
An hour later, the fire was roaring, the lo mein had arrived, but there was no Molly. Sherlock was not a patient man, at all, but he was hungry. He had not eaten or slept in over two days. His hunger won over his irritation at having to wait for Molly, but he was still buzzing with excitement. It had been a good case and he was looking forward to telling Molly all about it. Her brown eyes would shine with admiration, and she would kiss him eagerly with those sweet lips. She had missed him so much, he was certain. He could not wait.
He passed the time gorging himself and watching the worst shows television had to offer. Really rather boring, but he still felt the stir of excitement as he imagined how the evening would improve when Molly came home.
Sherlock stayed awake as long as he could, but even he could only run on adrenalin for so long. With his belly full and feeling warm and comfortable from his bath, he was soon snoring into the sofa cushions.
He awoke with a start to Mrs. Hudson tapping on the door. Sherlock was sitting up, hair on end, staring blearily when his landlady pushed open the door an inch or two.
"Everybody decent? I made scones!" she peeked around the door, "There you are, young man! I thought I heard you come home last night." She came in, bearing a large plate in her hand. "I made these for you, though I'm sure you don't deserve them." She smiled indulgently at her boy, who blinked sleepily and rubbed his face.
"Is Molly about? It is Sunday. She didn't have to go in to work today, did she?" Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen unwrapping the plate, finding the coffee pot, searching out the coffee beans. She very hesitantly opened the refrigerator looking for cream, hoping that she would not find any unpleasant surprises. Mrs. Hudson had hoped fervently that with Molly living at 221B, she would not find unexpected body parts in the kitchen, but Mrs. Hudson was disappointed. The body parts were still around, in fact, Mrs. Hudson suspected some of them were Molly's own experiments, but at least they were stored with more care. Finding only an eyeball in a sealed jar next to the milk jug, Mrs. Hudson counted herself fortunate and continued to bustle around preparing breakfast.
Sherlock continued to sit on the sofa, watching Mrs. Hudson as she filled kettle. Where was Molly? Had she left him to sleep? He had her schedule memorized and she did not work today. It was possible she took on another shift if she thought he wouldn't be home. He stood and walked through the kitchen to the bedroom and pushed open the door. The bed was made. He should have known. Molly's coat and bag were gone from the hooks by the door. She was not home.
Sherlock was not immediately concerned. He wandered back into the kitchen, ate a scone and allowed himself to be petted by Mrs. Hudson. Molly would be home soon. He felt a warm curl of heat in his belly and smiled.
Hours later with still no word from Molly, Sherlock Holmes was tearing around St. Bart's looking for his wife. The only problem was, no one had seen her since the day before yesterday. Sherlock burst into Mike Stamford's office, only to find out that he had been on vacation for a week and would not be back for at least another three days. No help there.
He had texted Molly's number. Repeatedly.
I'm home-SH
It was a 9. Good call-SH
I'm hungry. Let's have lunch-SH
Will you be home for dinner?-SH
When will you be home?-SH
Are you at Bart's?-SH
Where are you?-SH
Call me as soon as possible-SH
Where are you?-SH
She was not responding to her texts.
He called. It went straight to voice mail. He left messages, each increasing more desperate.
After a frantic call to Lestrade, demanding that detective inspector's immediate attention to matter, Sherlock intimidated an office worker into giving him the schedule for the morgue employees. Sherlock flipped through the calendar. Molly was not on the schedule for at least week. She must have taken time off of work. But why?
Was she planning to spend time with him? Where had she been for the last 24 hours? Mrs. Hudson had not seen her. John and Mary had not heard from her. Sherlock called Meena and every other woman he knew Molly to be acquainted with. No one had seen or heard from her for days.
Sherlock's heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a fist. He couldn't breathe. He'd once claimed that he had no heart. Oh, but he did. He felt it. Molly was his heart, and he couldn't find her. His mind replayed the events that led to his jump from the roof of this very building. Moriarty threatening the people he loved, everyone except Molly. What a fool he had been. What a lucky fool. Moriarty had known who loved even when he did not know. Now, now, there was no doubt to anyone. He had married her. He had hung a target on her for any madman who cared to see. He clutched at his hair and tried to stay calm.
His phone chimed and he clutched at it desperately. Mycroft.
"Hello, Mycroft." His voice was raw. He was in no mood to play games with the elder Holmes.
"Calm down, Sherlock. She's fine." Mycroft soothed.
"Where is she!" Sherlock barked into the phone, "Is she hurt?"
"Oh, dear me, no. She's probably having a fine time." Mycroft answered. He seemed amused.
"What is this, Mycroft?" Sherlock had murder in his tone. "Where is my wife!"
"She's on vacation. I don't rightly know where. She had not decided when we spoke." Mycroft chuckled, "I assisted her in expediting the renewal of her passport. She should be home within the week."
Sherlock ended the call with a vicious stab at the call button. He stood stock still in the cold hallway, just outside the morgue, the smell of antiseptic soap and floor wax in his nose. She'd left him. She was coming back, according to Mycroft. But she'd left him. Maybe she would not be back. Who would ever want to be with him anyway? Maybe it had been too good to be true.
A day later, Sherlock was slumped on the sofa in his pajamas, staring into the fire. Mrs. Hudson or John had been constant companions to him—fearful of a "danger night" he was sure, but it was not necessary. Sherlock had taken the time to consider Molly's actions. He got it. Sauce for the gander was sauce for the goose. It was revenge. A little petty for Molly, but maybe he'd driven her to it.
Mrs. Hudson had run downstairs to take care of some errands, but she was keeping an eye on him. It really was not needed. Sherlock was not going anywhere. He was in his mind palace, sort of, running through his memories of Molly. The way it felt when he'd finally gathered up his courage to kiss her for the first time. The way she smiled at him when she asked him out for coffee. The way he had insulted her that same day. The exciting curve of her breasts in that black dress on Christmas. The cruel comment he had made about her breasts that same evening. The way her face fell when he identified the nude body of the woman just hours later. How beautiful she was on their wedding day. The way she sobbed the night he returned from Croatia. The soft cries of pleasure she made as she forgave him the next morning. He was an asshole. He knew this already. He had just never regretted it as much as he had at this moment.
So lost in his thoughts, he did not hear the door open. Did not hear the suitcase being set down. He was not aware of anything until he felt a soft little hand on his shoulder. Sherlock blinked and looked up at Molly. The bridge of her nose was sunburned.
"I'm sorry," she said simply.
Sherlock blinked. She had been somewhere tropical. He could smell the sunscreen.
"Costa Rica." He said.
She twisted her mouth into a smile, "Close. Belize." She knelt to lay her head on his lap.
"It wasn't any fun without you. I tried. I wanted to just off and adventure on my own, but it wasn't fun," she said. She was miserable, he could tell that much. Molly Hooper-Holmes was not cut out for the revenge business.
"You weren't away long enough to do much of anything, I expect. You went to the beach only once," Sherlock ran his eyes over her skin. She nodded. He ran his fingers through her hair. It was coarse from the salt water. Had she jumped on the plan without even showering? He reached for hands and pulled at her until she was sitting on his lap.
She buried her face in his neck and sighed. How long they sat like that it was hard to say. Mrs. Hudson peeked in, saw them, and left again. They sat and held each other. Finally, Molly spoke.
"I'm sorry." She said again. It was all she had to say. He knew why she ran away. He would be a fool if did not know, and Sherlock Holmes was no fool. Molly Hooper-Holmes might be, however, she thought ruefully.
He ran a hand through her hair, down her back. He knew she was sorry. She was too good to enjoy her vengeance. It had been a good idea, but her heart was too tender. He kissed the top of her head.
"I forgive you, if you forgive me," he answered her. He felt her smile against his shoulder.
"Always. I'll always forgive you," she whispered. He held her, feeling her loving heart beat against his own for a long moment before he smiled wickedly.
"Care to show me how sorry you are?" he purred into her ear.
She lifted her head to look him in the eye. She tried to be sultry, but her joy at being home and being forgiven was too great. She was beaming.
"Shall I beg for mercy?" Molly ran a finger down his jaw line.
"Well, I'll have you beg for something," he teased and bent to kiss her lips.
Perhaps the honeymoon was not over after all.