Dear diary,
I haven't opened you in twenty years but this is a day I want to remember exactly as it was. I want to give this to my children or grandchildren one day and say: "Look! This was the happiest day in Molly Hooper's life!" Unless there are any happier days to come, but it is a pretty big rock to climb over.
I am in bed, writing this. Hardly surprising. However, I'm naked. Wait... I shouldn't be writing this when I want to give it to my grandchildren... To hell with it. I shall give you the entire truth, now listen, my children! (I sound ninety already.) I am in bed. Naked. It is my honeymoon, so now you know why I am naked.
I have married a man named Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective and the most wonderful person in my life (I wouldn't have married him otherwise, now would I?). It is 9.54 and he's currently sleeping next to me, equally naked. He has always been a really heavy sleeper.
Very well, let's be honest. I'm not opening my centuries old diary on my honeymoon to write about my wedding day (or night). I am writing this to tell you about the man I married. I am imagining this diary passed down from one generation to another (and me being naked is getting more awkward and awkward every second). I want to tell you what a lovely man Sherlock Holmes, my husband (I am allowing myself a moment to roll on the mattress and silently squeal), is. I will put this diary in a box with my newspaper clippings so you can see what a man he is in public and all the good he has done, but this, my writing, is about who he is to me.
I met Sherlock a long time ago, when we both were younger, sillier and I was terribly infatuated with him. He paid me no mind but I didn't care about that. You see, he was hated. I couldn't bare it. Such brilliant mind being wasted because people were cruel and horrid. I absolutely had to protect him, that's what I said myself. He was, obviously, doing fine on his own but just like you see a stray dog on the street and you want to bring it home and hug it, same was with Sherlock. He reminded me a puppy a bit.
Of course, he was fine without me in every way possible. And, of course, he paid no mind to a silly girl like me. But I was so infatuated with his brilliance, I still am. It's his intellect that is just so incredibly attractive. Heh, this makes me seem like it's the only reason I can stand him. Actually the thing I love about him most is his heart. Some people doubt its existence but I love it because it's there and it's like a secret part of him that he keeps so so safe and hidden.
He is a complex man. You can see his public image in the newspapers: pompous, arrogant, moody, the "super-sleuth" with a deerstalker. That's all him but there is more. DI Lestrade gets to see his softer side and Mary and John can see that side actively. He let me even deeper. He's unbelievably romantic, he says he hates domestication but secretly craves normality in his routine. That doesn't mean that he wants to be stuck in the house or worse, work on a regular job. That would be a nightmare! He wants someone to come back to after chasing criminals, he really needs someone to look after him, I'm not joking, I don't understand how he's survived so far!
When he asked me to marry him I thought he was making fun of me. I actually threw a ketchup bottle at him. He laughed. He genuinely laughed with all his heart, his face crinkled up in that unbelievably cute way, he was basically reduced to tears. I thought I couldn't love anyone that much, I thought it wasn't possible. But I felt my heart expand and I love him, oh I love him so so much. Sherlock makes me incredibly happy.
I wanted to write so much, I really did, but I've run out of words. I want to tell you how he makes me happy, what he does to me, how he appreciates me but I feel like I'd do a really bad work describing it. He does it every day, in so many different ways, he surprises me (yes, that does include flowers from time to time!), he makes me feel like I'm the most beautiful, intelligent and loved person on Earth. He does it in his own way and that has some severed heads, occasional Eastern-Europe assassins, those everyday lovely cadavers in the alleyways, tombs (I have seen things I do not want to remember), in it. He protects me, cherishes me, keeps my life interesting.
I love him so much. I love him.
Yours sincerely,
Molly Holmes