"Ow!" Sherlock Holmes winced, glaring at Molly Hooper as she dabbed the cut above his eye.
"I told you it would sting, and you do deserve it, to be honest."
"I beg your pardon? I apprehended the criminal."
"You did, after the Detective Inspector told you to wait for the police to come."
"I have never waited," Sherlock sniffed.
"Looks like it's finally clotting," she murmured, wiping away the last of the blood. "Next?" he held up his swollen wrist with a sigh.
"This is ridiculous. We're wasting time tending to me when we could-"
"Be wasting time doing absolutely nothing sitting at Scotland Yard. Information will come when it comes. For now we have to patch you up so you're ready for when it does come." Molly finished. She smiled, gently turning his wrist over, inspecting the bruising. "Only a sprain, you'll have to be careful, no playing the violin for a little while I'm afraid."
"Yes but-"
"Hush," Molly interrupted him. Sherlock scowled.
"Watson talked to you before he left, did he?" Molly attempted to hide her smile, amused.
"He said sometimes you were impossible, and that you could be a terrible patient, nothing I wasn't already aware of."
"I am not!" Sherlock insisted, and then paused. "Am I?"
"You picked out all of your stitches a week before they were ready, and then fussed about your wound reopening, yes, Sherlock."
"They were itching," he groused. He watched her tie the bandage around his wrist, just snug enough.
"There, keep a pillow under it. I'll see if Mrs. Hudson can procure some ice for it." She disappeared out of the parlor, and Sherlock watched her leave, listening as her skirts rustled.
It was a sound he was unaccustomed to, as well as the gentle touch that came with her cleaning him up. It was not unwelcome, and certainly better than Watson grousing at him the entire time. Indeed, while Molly Hooper took a little longer to look him over and clean him up, he did not mind her lingering hands, her slender fingers ghosting over his wrist and forehead. It was a pleasing distraction from not being able to keep on the case. At any rate the case was almost solved, and not too soon either. John and Mary would be returning from their honeymoon to the East Indies and everything would be back to normal. Molly could stop assisting him on cases in-between her shift at St. Bart's.
Hm.
Sherlock had not fully realized that the Watson's return (which was of course welcome) would mean he would see less of Doctor Hooper. Molly. She asked him to call her Molly. He appreciated that favor.
But even Inspector Lestrade had grown accustomed to seeing the female pathologist who at Sherlock's side nowadays. Sherlock would admit he took some degree of pride in being the World's Only Consulting Detective with a female pathologist for an assistant. While her skirts were cumbersome (no good at all for clearing fences), and her skills at deduction were not as keen as his, Sherlock admitted she was an admirable woman. Indeed the only woman who worked at St. Barts in a different capacity other than 'nurse'. She was the best pathologist in the whole of London, (probably England) and sharp-witted. When John and Mary departed for their honeymoon, his request that she assist him on cases for the time being seemed the most natural decision in the world. He had not quite anticipated some of the drawbacks (women cannot run when they are corseted, and long skirts greatly hinder a complete stride) but had worked around them. Molly was a terrific sport and happily donned cycling trousers for their nightly exploits. It was an automatic reaction to offer his arm wherever they went, and he was surprised at the feeling of pride when he looked down at her, her gloved hand tucked into the crook of his arm. She was a pleasing person, and quite ready for adventure. He was almost sorry that she could not continue assisting him on cases. He had grown accustomed to having her around.
Molly was a good deal like Mary Watson too, none of this helpless flitting about like so many of their sex were prone to do. Molly did not blink at a corpse or the sight of blood (which was a good thing, considering her profession). While Sherlock waited for Molly to return with a tea tray, he thought back to their first meeting.
He and Watson entered Barts, Stamford was waiting for them at the morgue.
"Before you rush in-" he began but Sherlock waved him off.
"I am aware of the change in staff. I trust this Doctor Hooper is more efficient than the last pathologist,"
"Oh yes, graduated top of their class, brilliant, really but I thought you ought to know-"
"Thank you Stamford," Sherlock pushed past him, shoving the door open, not taking notice that it bumped against someone.
"Doctor Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, I expect you've heard of me, I'm here about a body, male, late fifties-" he barked.
"Bollocks!" he turned with a start, opening his mouth at the offending person only to see a pale woman, carefully picking up a brain from the floor. "Do you always enter a room this way?" He stared at her, doing his best not to appear shocked. "You could have done serious damage to his brain; I haven't even weighed it yet!" Her eyes were large and brown, her figure a little plump, but no less pleasing. She wore a long grey smock that most pathologists wore. The hem of a navy wool skirt to keep out the chill of the morgue peeked out from under the edge of the smock.
"I…apologize…" he said finally. Watson did a double take at Sherlock's apology. "I trust no harm has come to it?"
"It remains intact," she said, looking it over. "Give me a moment, and I will see about your body," she suddenly flushed, and Sherlock's eyes twinkled in amusement. "That is- err, not your body that is…Mr. Franklin's that is…" The brain set aside in a bowl and covered with a towel, she rounded a table, pulling down a sheet. Sherlock had been surprised that the new pathologist was a woman, surprised that she was pleasing in appearance, but this was nothing when she rattled off the report on Mr. Franklin's remains. Her work was impeccable, and Sherlock had left with a keen desire to see her again, informing Stamford that Doctor Hooper would do very nicely. John stated he'd never seen Sherlock so gobsmacked by a woman since his final encounter with The Woman. Sherlock replied that Molly Hooper would hardly compare to The Woman, but his interest in the pathologist was merely his appreciation for her excellence in her line of work.
How wrong he was! His initial intention was not to get to know Molly Hooper better. He certainly didn't need to assist her to her father's flat (deceased) on nights he happened to drop by the morgue. If he took pleasure in doing so, he attempted to assure himself that it was merely his way of assuring the safety of the only sufficient pathologist in London. Molly Hooper was a brilliant woman, but less harsh than The Woman. She was still female, after all, and desired any who questioned her rank as a Doctor to realize that she was a proud member of the fairer sex and proud of her position in the world. Sherlock could find no fault in this, and endeavored to become closer to the enigma that was Molly Hooper.
"You're awfully quiet." Sherlock looked up, seeing Molly enter the parlor.
"Merely pondering the past month and the altered course of our relationship," he replied, taking a cup from the tray. He gestured for her to sit rather than have her wait on him anymore.
"Oh?" she looked surprised, taking the chair offered.
"Mm," he poured a generous amount of cream into her tea, just the way she liked it, before passing her the cup. "Obviously the parameters of our relationship have expanded beyond workmates. Especially considering I've seen you in your under things." She colored modestly, and he didn't even bother to hide his smirk.
"May be so, but it's hardly decent of you to bring it up."
"I'm never decent," he flopped into his chair with a sigh. "At any rate, the Watson's will want to know what we've been up to."
"And you want to give them a good story?" she asked.
"No. Merely answer their questions as honestly as I wish, without giving Mary any room to poke her nose where it oughtn't be. At least not yet."
"Oh I see," Molly set aside her tea and straightened in her chair, facing him. "What are we, Mr. Holmes? I have saved your life twice now, you have saved me I am certain no less than half a dozen-"
"Seventeen total, but my scrapes were far more dangerous than yours, so it rather levels the playing field."
"Sherlock!"
"I should like for us to- that is-" he crossed one leg over the other, then got to his feet. "Let me begin again," he turned to the wall, and then swiveled back to her. "You are a pleasing person."
"Thank you." Her cheeks tinged pink in the way they did whenever someone genuinely complimented her. Her cheeks had bloomed quite a bit in his presence of late (a habit he intended to keep up).
"I am sure you understand by now how difficult it is for me to find anyone pleasing, one that I can tolerate and vice-versa," he continued. "I wish…that is, if you will allow me…you know my methods, I am hardly conventional, I harpooned a dead-pig and then took the underground back to Baker Street-"
"Yes I know," she laughed.
"-That being said, any relationship I enter is rather smack-bang, rather than a…proper introduction, friendly going-out and chance meetings until one decides the company is welcome or not. I know very quickly whether I will get along with someone. You seem to understand this, and- I should- that is…" his hand delved into his pocket. "I would like to give you something, as one of my dearest friends." He murmured.
Molly stayed quite still as he approached her. In his slender fingers he held a small jewelry box, one that might contain a pair of earrings, or a ring.
"It was my grandmother's," he said, prompting her to open it. Indeed, nestled in the velvet cushion was an engagement ring bearing an impressive diamond, a ring of sapphires surrounding it in a flower setting.
For a moment, Molly could not speak.
Molly Hooper had not ever considered marriage, mainly because most gentlemen did not consider her. Too sturdily built to be an elegant lady, too headstrong, too independent, not to mention she'd had higher education and was working in a morgue. No man would ever look at her twice. She had consoled herself with the facts that she had a job she liked very much, that she'd been to a good University, and that her father had left her with enough in the bank to rent a very nice flat away from the East End of London. Molly had quite given up hope of marriage, until she met Sherlock Holmes. She didn't know a man could be beautiful (and he was a bloody Adonis for pity's sake). He was tempestuous, idiotic, selfish and demanding. But he was also the first man to walk into the morgue and not demand her credentials or ask if she was misplaced from the sanitarium. He did not question her choice of work, nor her schooling. He spoke to her as a person, treated her as one. They got along famously, especially over the past six months. She had expected him to be an impossible beast with John and Mary gone, but he seemed to have gotten over it rather quickly. He even invited her to explore his laboratory, which was extensive. Of late they had worked deep into the nights on his experiments and Molly (ashamedly so) was looking for excuses to stop by Baker Street. Now here, she sat in Sherlock's parlor, holding the ring his grandmother gave him. When at last she lifted her eyes, she found him kneeling beside her.
"My grandfather said, when he gave it to my grandmother, he wanted everyone to know that she was engaged, so there would be no question." A sudden sniffle from his beloved pathologist made him look at her with a start. She wiped her finger under her eyes. She lifted her head, a smile across her face.
"I promised myself if ever I were proposed to I wouldn't be a silly milk-sop." She bent her head again, admiring the ring in the box. "But then…I never expected anyone to find me worth proposing to."
"That's because you were looking in all the wrong places," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "As was I." There was a pregnant pause as he flicked his gaze from the ring to her hands to her face again. "You have not answered me."
Hearing the trepidation in his voice, she lifted her head, large eyes watery and shining.
"Sherlock," she took a breath, and he swore his heart dropped. "Will you put it on for me?" Relief washed over him, and he took the ring from the box. Taking her proffered hand, he slid the cool metal over her fingers, scarred from working with a scalpel and knife. "I don't have good hands," she murmured suddenly.
"They are perfectly suitable to you, and are quite lovely," he said honestly. "Now, Miss Hooper," she met his gaze, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a smirk. "As your new fiancé, I demand a kiss,"
"Demand, do you? And what if I say no?"
"Then I shall be forced to take one from you,"
"Silly man, why take what's already yours?" He took her in his arms, and embraced her as any man would. Smiling against her mouth, he rested his forehead against hers.
"Are you certain, Molly Hooper?" he murmured.
"Yes," a blush spread across her cheeks. "I think I've always been sure."
"I have never belonged with anyone, not truly, the way we are."
"You can belong to me," she smiled up at him.
"No," he shook his head suddenly. "I do not belong to anyone, nor do you. However, I belong with you, and you with me."
"How very romantic, and modern." She laughed and he made a face before he'd had quite enough of her teasing him and embraced her again, deciding he quite liked the whole business of kissing.