The three friends, for they were, indeed, friends, sat sipping rather bad coffee in the canteen at St. Bart's Hospital, two doctors on staff, and one consulting detective who had found that lately he craved the presence of one or the other of them when his mind was not occupied by other things. Such as his Work, which he always pictured as capitalized in his mind. And, more than ever, recently he had come to crave the presence of one of his doctor friends over the other.
The two physicians were discussing, not medical issues, but the latest gossip making the rounds. Something which did not particularly interest the detective. But he did pick up on certain topics. It seems that someone in the accounting office had recently come into an unexpected inheritance, leading to speculation, unfounded as it was, that some of the hospital's books should be re-examined. Two members of the cleaning staff had been discovered in a utility closet, doing something extremely dirty. Rather ironic, considering they were the cleaning staff, after all! And a rather beautiful new nurse was being harassed by certain male members of staff, married and unmarried alike. She was thinking of complaining to the personnel office, in fact.
"Molly," Sherlock interrupted, rather indignantly, "Have you ever been bothered in this fashion?"
"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"
"You're quite beautiful. I hope you know you can count on me, and John, of course, to assist you in deflecting any unwanted advances, Molly."
"I don't know whether you're being sarcastic or not, Sherlock, so I will just say 'thank you', and return to my coffee!"
"I don't understand, Molly…", the detective started to say, but was interrupted by a kick from John, under the table.
After their break, the three went their separate ways, Sherlock heading off to Scotland Yard to harass DI Greg Lestrade into finding him something with which to occupy himself. The boredom was beginning to get to him, and his mind was wandering in different directions, directions which he had been avoiding for years.
But, not finding anything to interest him at the Yard, Sherlock was forced to return to his flat with nothing to entertain his thoughts. He reviewed some scientific journals, and updated his blog, which nobody ever read. Even he was beginning to find tobacco ash boring! He then ordered a meager meal from the Chinese takeaway around the corner, and settled in for a night of "who's your daddy" crap telly. Such was his life! But he found his mind drifting back to the incident at St. Bart's. Why would Molly assume he was being sarcastic? And why would John, possibly, assume the same thing, hence the kick? Surely Molly was beautiful! That was all he had said. He could understand his pathologist, being a modest woman, being made uncomfortable by the compliment. But sarcasm? And John? He had two good eyes in his head. How could he dispute the fact that Molly Hooper was an extraordinarily beautiful woman?
As he lie in his bed later that evening, Sherlock found himself thinking more and more of the petite woman with the soulful eyes, and the curtain of silky brown hair. Her skin was fair, and unblemished, a peaches and cream concoction. He imagined how soft and smooth it would be to touch. How the curve of her hips would feel beneath his hands, and his lips. How her small, yet ample breasts…
Good lord! What was going on? First he had acknowledged to himself, and others, it would seem, that he found her beautiful. Now he was lying in bed, working himself into a state he had hardly visited since puberty, thinking about her form, both clothed and otherwise, and imagining what he could do with said form, especially in its unclothed state! Certain body parts were definitely rising to the occasion, as it were. He quickly made his way to the bathroom, to indulge in a cold shower, rather than the alternative solution to his growing state of, uh, unease.
The following day found the detective making his way, once again, to St. Bart's. He had seemed to do so on automatic pilot, his body moving without thought to where it knew his mind wanted to be. He had no reason to go to the hospital. No impending case. No unfinished experiment. Not even a request for tissue for experimentation at home. He had to admit to himself that the one and only reason that he was going to St. Bart's was because that was where Molly Hooper was, so that was where he wanted to be.
He didn't go straight to Molly's office, but instead to the canteen, where he plopped himself down in a corner to contemplate his new realization. First, he found Molly Hooper to be beautiful. Second, he was, most definitely, physically attracted to her, and third, he wanted to bask in her presence. He wanted to see her smile, watch her work, listen to her chatter. All the above observations led to only one undeniable conclusion. He was in love with Molly Hooper. He decided to wait right where he was until John, inevitably, showed up in search of coffee. Which he did, thankfully, not long after.
"John," the detective said without preamble, "Do you believe that Molly is still in love with me?"
"Whoa, there, mate, what makes you think she was ever in love with you?"
"Well, I know she was infatuated, to say the least. I used that quite often to my advantage, I am quite now ashamed to admit. But I haven't behaved so in quite a while. But she doesn't blush so much, anymore. Or stammer. Has she gotten over me, John?
"I would say she's gotten used to you, Sherlock. She did blush a bit when you called her beautiful yesterday, though. What was up with that, by the way?"
"She is quite beautiful, John. Why shouldn't I state the obvious?"
"What may be obvious to you, may not be so obvious to others, Sherlock. I believe my Mary is quite the most beautiful woman in London…"
"Really, John? Mary is quite attractive, I grant you. Pretty, even. But she can't hold a candle to my Molly…" Whether it was the hyperbole, or the "my" used in reference to Dr. Hooper, it did suddenly occur to the detective, that beauty was, indeed, in the eye of the beholder, after all. He felt a slight flush rising, as John nodded knowingly at him, confirming that he did, in fact, understand exactly what was behind his friend's perception of the beauty of one Dr. Molly Hooper.
"So what are you going to do about it, Sherlock?"
"What would you suggest, John?"
"Well, dinner for a start. Are you ready to be a boyfriend?"
Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, and closed his eyes, just before steepling his fingers under his chin. Mind palace, John thought, as he took his leave without saying good-bye.
It didn't take long for Sherlock Holmes to organize his thoughts and decide on a course of action. He quickly rose from his chair at the table in the corner to make his way to Molly's office. Before she could even look up from her laptop, the tall man found himself asking, "Molly, are you still in love with me?"
"What?!", she asked with a gasp, and Sherlock was gratified to notice that her too long absent blush had once again made its presence known.
"I asked if you were still in love with me. A simple yes or no answer will suffice!"
"Yes…" the small woman barely managed to squeak out.
"Good! Then may I suggest that we dispense of all the dating, getting to know you rigamarole. We have, after all, known each other for seven plus years. The only thing left is to assess our sexual compatibility. But, as I have known for quite some time that you find me attractive, and I have recently come to the same conclusion…"
"You find you attractive, Sherlock? Hardly a surprise, given your out-sized ego," Molly said with a half smile.
"Doctor Hooper, please do not pretend to misunderstand my words…"
"Sherlock Holmes, there are a certain three words which, I assure you, I will not pretend to misunderstand, if you ever get around to saying them."
"Very well, Molly, if you must insist on a declaration of what I consider to be obvious. I love you. Will that do?"
"It will."
"Good. Since I have such an aversion to the term 'boyfriend', may we advance immediately to the fiance stage?"
"Did John put you up to this, Sherlock?"
"Don't be ridiculous. John suggested I take you to dinner! Would you prefer we just did that?"
"Well, I am feeling a bit peckish. Couldn't we do both?"
"I suppose so, Molly. But could we put off dinner 'til a bit later?"
"Why?"
"I was hoping you could take the rest of the afternoon off, and we could go back to Baker Street and work up an appetite." The detective smiled for the first time during the entire exchange, finally approaching the woman, and pulling her from her seat behind her desk and into his arms. He did manage to tell her, sincerely, just how beautiful he found her, before he proved it with their first real kiss. And it was as beautiful as she.