A Partner, Not a Spouse

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Tom would have never existed and John would've had a beard, not a mustache. I'm afraid I don't own the show, however, as we all have observed.

A/N: I love writing. I feel like I can have fun and be productive at the same time, which is quite rare to people like me these days. So in order to fuel out "The Empty Hearse" feels I've decided to write a fanfiction instead of hitting the chair repeatedly and keeping the neighbors up with my wailing while surfing Tumblr. I don't like being too terribly OOC, so I'll keep it on the tame level. I'm sorry, they won't shag in a broom closet.

What follows a note to anyone who will watch "The Sign of Three" on the fifth of January or when the release it in America: Just know there will be a Sherlolly shipper right here (points to self) who will provide you with alternate endings to whatever happens to Sherlolly, for better or for worse.

I apologize if I got some things wrong. I don't live in London, I'm in America. My information was all from Wikipedia.

Enjoy. XD

"Mycroft, don't question me."

The older Holmes sighed, shuffling through meaningless papers on his desk. The problem was he would always question his younger brother, for better or for worse. He would always question the shopping list he had given to him over the phone, and why he couldn't get it for himself.

"Sherlock, why can't you get a palette of imported cheeses and crackers, a bottle of champagne, an engagement ring, two champagne flutes, and lip balm yourself?"

With a tone so heavy it sounded like he was trying to hide underlying emotion, Sherlock replied, "Just get it for me."

Mycroft was greeted by silence shortly after.

In a silent room with a few cards on the table he could play, Mycroft decided to call John Watson. After all, he had experience with the questionable items on the shopping list due to his recent marriage to Mary Morstan, who like all women enjoys those luxuries. Greeted by John's flat "Yes?" he quickly listed out the list; to his surprise, he was greeted by roaring laughter.

"Ask your brother to get it for you! He'd be more than happy to aid you in finding a wife!"

"It is not me who this is for, John," Mycroft sternly replied, "it's for Sherlock."

Silence ensued. This time, it was a silence full of buzzing anticipation; Mycroft could still feel John's laughter pounding against his eardrums and expected it to ring back again. He felt muscles that he didn't know he'd tightened relax when John said, "I'll get the stuff for you. Mary's going to bring over to that Diogenes Club around noon."

Mycroft gave him a short "Hm" in a form of a 'thank you,' but quickly adding, "Why do you think Sherlock asked for these specific items?"

Possibly for sake of levity, John purposefully left a short amount of silence before his answer. "To be quite honest with you, who knows?"

"Quite so, Doctor Watson. Quite so." Mycroft commented, before hanging up. He set his phone on his mahogany desk, staring at it for a few seconds, brushing it over with his manicured hands. He found it odd that he was considering Sherlock's declaration that he was in need of a woman quite…logical. Even in that ridiculous hat and after a game of Operation, it made sense; after all, he was less like his younger brother. Maybe he could find a woman someday. Someone who was as high-minded as him.

Assuming Sherlock needed the items for an alias, an extractor of information and/or a set-up, Mycroft went back to his work, slowly using the other side of his pencil to erase the predicament his brother was in.

Molly was quite shocked of herself, though she made no effort to show it. Gazing at a few records in the lab, she heard the familiar sound of Sherlock Holmes walking into the lab: the usual grandiose burst of air as he opened the door in a large manner, the door closing with much less force than it was opened. Compared to earlier years Molly had a neutral reaction, but more than anything, a sigh. She didn't jump out of her skin and he heart didn't start running miles. Instead, she just continued work like he wasn't even there.

"Good morning." Sherlock greeted her, slipping off his gloves.

As he shrugged off his coat and his scarf Molly looked up at him with a forced smile and replied, "'Morning," with enthusiasm she had to dig down in her heart to project. Luckily Sherlock pretended not to notice as he took a seat on his normal stool which coincidentally happened to be right next to where Molly was standing. If anything, they couldn't be any closer to each other.

Sherlock quickly scanned the counter for things he could interact with; he quickly grabbed a patient file and began reading it, trying to look interested as he read the notes, which became apparent to him that the cause of death was poison before he could ask his question, "So Molly, where was one place you wanted to go that Tom never brought you to?"

Molly never reacted that way to Sherlock's name or Sherlock himself like the way she reacted to Tom's name. Her pupils dilated and her hands froze in place, looking up at Sherlock. "What?"

"I'd like to know, Molly. Where do you want to go?"

Away, Molly instantly thought, but she looked down at the papers, smirking a little. It was funny, Tom never asked her where she wanted to go and that was the only thing that bothered her about him. This happened to be what Sherlock notes in her. What he notes in her concerning her ex-fiancé.

"Primrose Hill," she told him, setting her pen on the counter. She faced him, looking at him in the eyes, "at night. I'd just want to be up there with someone I love, whether it's my brother, a friend or someone more, sipping on champagne and—I dunno, eating crackers and cheese or something like that—and, well…just watching the city thrive while enveloped in darkness."

Sherlock's blue eyes reminded her of the twinkling lights she saw in pictures of the view from Primrose Hill at night. Suddenly she achingly longed to go up there, breathe in the fresh air and curl up with someone she cared about on a blanket. She longed to stargaze, stare into the past, and believe that someday she will be truly happy…

…when Molly faded out of her fantasies, she realized Sherlock had told her something. Her jaw dropped a little, prompting for a repeat, which was when she heard him say, "I'll be at your flat at five, Molly. Wear appropriate attire."

Sherlock stood up and started putting his coat back on while Molly questioned why he had taken off his coat off if he'd only meant to ask one question. He walked out of the lab with a short "See you later," leaving Molly to wonder what had caused Sherlock to bring her out to the place she'd always wanted to go, whether it be guilt, concern or an alias for going to Primrose Hill.

Mary dropped off the items at the Diogenes Club at exactly noon, which were prompted collected by Mycroft, who had collected out front. He knew John hadn't told Mary that silence was precious in the club in effort to cause turmoil, so he made the precaution of standing out there himself. Giving her a smile and a "Thank you," he headed inside, texting his brother a message:

I have your items. Please collect. –MH

On the other side of the city, Molly was already off work to go shopping for 'appropriate attire' for the little 'date' Sherlock had invited her to. She was in the dress section of a department store, looking for a sensible dress that looked both formal and casual. She set her eyes on a floral one when a woman came up to her, wearing an employee shirt and a large, artificial smile.

"Hello ma'am, do you need help picking out a dress?"

Molly looked over at her, nodding, realizing her choice of dress was most likely ever worse than the woman's. "Yes, I do."

"Alright! What are you looking for? What's the occasion?"

Molly's eyes brushed over the selection. "Well, I have a date at Primrose Hill at night. It'll be chilly, but I still want to be formal…-ish."

"If you want casual wear, I can recommend a heavy cardigan over one of these strapless dresses." The woman said, pointing to the floral dresses Molly was looking at. "However, if it's a man you want to impress, you can go for one of those silk ones."

"Oh, no, no." Molly laughed nervously, trying to keep from regressing into her old, mousey self. "He's a man that—I could say, I'm friends with. I'll just keep it casual."

"Good," the woman grabbed a strapless, vintage dress, covered in flowers, "then I recommend this one."

The digital clock in Molly's bedroom struck five just as she slipped on her dress after doing her hair. She had gone for the dress recommended to her and it was fantastic. It complimented the curves she had, and along with the cardigan, black leggings and grey flats she picked out, she hardly looked formal, yet she hardly looked casual. Knowing Sherlock would be there any second, she grabbed a handbag and stuffed it with things she would need: her phone, some tissue, lip balm, makeup, a flashlight, and for the most extreme cases, some mouth spray. Who knows, maybe he'll bring cheese. Or maybe lip balm…

Stop it, Molly! She demanded of herself. You are good friends with Sherlock, nothing more!

But she couldn't stop even more fantasies filling her head as she opened the door, on which Sherlock had knocked on.

She wasn't impressed; he was wearing his usual suit, scarf and Belstaff coat, but what was curious was that he didn't have gloves on. Spotting a bulge in his left pocket she assumed it was the gloves. Feeling all dressed up and dainty whilst looking at him, she couldn't help the joke that slipped out of her mouth, "No flowers, eh?"

Unfortunately for her, Sherlock took that seriously. His eyes widened as he said, "Oh, flowers?"

Letting out a nervous laugh, Molly quickly assured him she was only joking. As he put a blindfold on her and led her into a cab, she hoped he didn't take the 'date' so seriously. He even wore a large amount of potent cologne.

Halfway through their silent cab journey, Molly slipped off the blindfold, to Sherlock's dismay. She looked over to him, checking to see if her bun was still intact and said, "I know we're going to Primrose Hill, Sherlock. There's no need to blindfold me."

But Sherlock tied the blindfold back on, murmuring something about "for dramatic effect" and "the element of surprise."

Once they've reached their destination, Sherlock led Molly out of the car. That was when her heart truly started beating, because it came apparent to her Sherlock paid the cabbie beforehand. That meant he was paying close attention on every single thing he was doing. She kept on telling herself that he wasn't taking this seriously as he placed his ungloved hands on her shoulders, leading her somewhere grassy.

The blindfold came off near a source of heat, which turned out to be several candles placed on the railings of a deck. There was a high table in the middle with a couple more candles, a platter of imported cheese and crackers, two champagne flutes and of course, a bottle of champagne. Molly admired this setup as Sherlock frantically looked around him, murmuring, "Bloody Mycroft. Out of all of the things he forgets it's the lip balm…"

"The candles are a nice touch." Molly commented, clutching her handbag to her chest. She looked around shyly, finally resting her eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock looked over at Molly and flashed her a quick, short-lived smile. "Yes. You should tell my brother that."

Realizing that wasn't a good choice of words, he quickly added, "Because of course, he set up the candles. A lot of relatives send him candles, they think it's therapeutic."

Molly flashed him a smile. "Therapeutic, eh?"

Sherlock scratched his head, giving up on finding the lip balm. "Yes. To cure stress. Apparently candlelight helps hair grow back."

Molly let out a small giggle to acknowledge the joke. She took a sip of champagne that Sherlock had poured for her, looking out at London. She couldn't help but admire the view. It was what she'd always wanted to see, a thriving city enveloped in darkness. She loved how it reminded her of human nature; how people try to push darkness as far as they can because they love the warmth that light brings them. She loved the breeze that made the flames of the candles shake and the flowery scent they were giving out. It surrounded her with a blissful aura, and for a moment she forgot Sherlock was there; she just indulged herself in the view.

Sherlock was chewing on some cheese and crackers, which broke her trance. She looked over at him, some cheese in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. He was looking at the view as well. When he noticed her eyes on him, he looked over, asking, "What?"

Molly took another sip of champagne, and then set it on the table. Watching the candlelight define his cheekbones and his eyes, she asked, "Sherlock, why did you bring me here?"

"Because you wanted to come here."

"But why did you ask me in the first place?"

"Because you wanted to come here."

Molly sighed, a few chuckles slipping out of her mouth. She shook her head and popped a slice of cheese into her mouth. Taking a gaze at the magnificent view she said, "I know that you're hiding the real reason, Sherlock, and I won't stop pushing for it until you tell me why."

Molly faced the view again, picking up her champagne. For some reason she had the feeling she would need to throw it at something or down all the champagne for one reason or another, for better or for worse. She didn't have to look at Sherlock.

"Firstly Molly, are you enjoying this?"

"Yes." Molly replied, biting her lip ever so slightly. "I'm really enjoying this, actually."

"Good." Sherlock dug into his left pocket, pulling something out of it, from what Molly could see from the corner of her eye. "Are you enjoying me?"

Molly smirked to herself, her eyes still on the view. "Actually, yes. You made an effort Sherlock, and it's something anyone would enjoy."

"Good." He repeated. He took in a deep breath, flying over the words he was about to say, and took a gaze down at his shoes. "Molly Hooper. I'd just like to tell you something. Would you mind a monologue from me?"

"Talk away."

"You're going to look at me for this one." Sherlock walked over to where she could see both him and the view, both shrouded in the warm aura the candlelight gave out. He was closer to her than before. "And probably, from what I've seen in the past, you'd want to put the flute back on the table."

Molly smiled softly, setting the flute on the table. She didn't know what was happening, but she was curious of what was happening.

"I've known you for a long time. Even if it was just a few hours each day saying little more than a few words to each other in the lab or the morgue, it was still time with you. Time to get to know you, on my terms. I know we've gone through so much since the first time we met, and we both know what."

Molly smiled to herself, looking at Sherlock's chest for a moment before returning her gaze at his eyes. She did know what.

"I'd like to address the humorous moment of when Anderson described to us his fantasy of us: me bursting into a window of St. Bart's, fixing my coat, ruffling my hair and kissing you passionately."

Molly pushed away the thought of him actually doing that. It would've been on the newspapers. Maybe even Tumblr.

"I found it humorous because Anderson was being strangely passionate about it. You found it humorous because it could've never happened. But believe me; I'm fully capable of crashing through a window, fixing my coat, ruffling my hair and kissing you."

Molly gulped.

"You are the one person who matters the most. You, to be honest, fill in the gaps in my life. You're there when John can't be and when no one else can reach me you're the only one who can lift me out of a hole. Molly, I'm not capable of love, and I never will be, but I can be true to my feelings, my needs. I won't ever tell you I love you, Molly, because that's a lie."

Wait…love? Molly was still trying to decrypt that when Sherlock got down on one knee and opened up a little box, which contained a ring. She dropped her bag on the ground so her hands could shoot up and cover her mouth.

Shock was flying through her as Sherlock gazed up at her, giving her a smile. "I told you that holding the flute at this time was something you wouldn't want to do.

"I need you in my life, Molly. And that means forever. In the long run, a man who is married to a woman and an aging dear landlady will not keep me company and on my feet. I need someone. I need you.

"Will you marry me, Molly Hooper?"

Molly's eyes grew wide, now gripping her mouth so tight, her fingers started to hurt. Seeing her vision grow bumpy, she realized her knees were shaking like leaves in the wind, slowly giving out on her. Sherlock noticed that too and captured her in his arms just as her legs dropped her. His blue eyes spoke the truth to her, that he was taking this seriously, as Molly found herself enveloped in his cologne.

"I'm asking this of you as a partner, not a spouse. We can have wedding if you choose, for the sake of showing off to friends and family…we can have a honeymoon, too, if you prefer. Mycroft owns a lovely beach house in America…"

"W—w…wait." Molly found her voice, after realizing his question knocked the wind out of her. She clutched his shirt, staring into his eyes. She tried to control her lips, which bobbled like a spring, saying, "Sherlock, are you already making plans?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, a thin layer of disappointment already starting to cloud his eyes. "If you want to marry me, that is."

Molly's legs were still dead, (you can say they fainted from shock) so she stayed in his arms. "Sherlock, ordinary people marry because they love someone else and that they want to start a family with them."

Sherlock's face remained unnerved. "We have children if you want."

Molly's mouth formed an 'o' as her mind exploded. Whoa, whoa, wait. Just stop for a moment. Sherlock is asking you to marry him and is saying he can give you a wedding, a honeymoon, children…think about this! Please!

"Children?" was the only thing Molly could sputter out, clutching onto bigger handfuls of his shirt. "Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked purely confused. "Was that not the right thing to say?"

"NO! You don't tell a woman you've blatantly ignored and used for years, who helped you fake your death, who you told that she mattered the most to you, who you kissed multiple times, and who is really, just your good friend, that you want to marry her! You don't say that you can give her a wedding, a honeymoon and children just for the sake of it! You don't ask her to marry you because you need someone to hold you up!"

Sherlock was decrypting the words she was saying just as they escaped her mouth. He replied, calmly, "Molly, I don't know how to explain it. I want to be with you for as long as I live."

Molly pushed herself away from him, feeling slightly annoyed. Her legs were numb in the wind as she said, "THAT IS LOVE!"

"That is not love."

"It is! For god's sake, do I need to show you the definition of love?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow before replying, "Alright."

As Molly got up the definition on her phone, her mind was numb. It was just a lump of flesh like it was, just in her head with only one sole purpose: to deliver the definition. She read it with a shaking voice, "'To have a great attachment and affection for, to like or desire very much.'"

"Hm. That's a different definition from what I read."

Molly shoved her phone back into her handbag, not bothering to pick it up from the floor. "I can't believe that you just told me you don't love me and ask me to marry you on the same night." Having another thought pop up in her mind, she added, "How much have you had to drink?"

"Just the champagne." Sherlock let out a deep breath, looking down at the ring, which was still in his hands. It was bigger than the one Tom had given her, and it was no doubt more expensive. "Molly, if you don't want to marry me, that's fine."

"No, it's not fine." Molly said, and Sherlock looked up, optimism in his eyes. "Sherlock, I just need to take this in. I'm sorry I overreacted. It's just—you're not ordinary, yet I'm caught up in ordinary. It's just that…people don't propose like you do."

"Yes, they don't. Well…take your time." Sherlock said, somewhat awkwardly. He walked over to his original spot, snatching his champagne flute somewhat indignantly and taking a sip.

With only the wind left as sound, Molly sighed and checked her phone. She had noticed she had several text messages.

OOOOMMMGGLOLLL LMAFO OMG MOLLY LOL I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS –MM

OOOMIIIIGGOOOD DID HE RLY ASK YOU TO MARRY HIM I'M GOING TO DIE LOLLOLOLLL –MM

THIS IS BRIL I CAN'T EVEN –MM

Molly, I'm sorry, I can't help it. We had to bug Sherlock, it was too tempting. LOLOLOL –JW

I apologize, Molly. –MH

Molly huffed, shoving the phone back in the handbag again. She thought of the embarrassment that would arise if she accepted Sherlock's engagement. However she thought of the flip side as well, if she said no. She imagined Sherlock, alone and with a needle in his arm. She needed to do this. But she didn't want to do it just out of the consulting detective's need, like she always had, pathetically. She wanted to do it for herself also.

She still had feelings for him; she still pined for him still. Yet, would he provide her the dream life she'd always wanted? Children, a nice home, a normal life, a supportive husband? He'd be able to provide the first two, never the third, and she'd have to shape him into the fourth. He wouldn't be supportive at first glance, but maybe…if she tried…

"Sherlock, would you ask me again?"

Sherlock looked over at Molly before getting down on one knee a second time. "Will you marry me, Molly Hooper?"

"Yes," she replied bravely, "and I'll try to not go insane."

The look on his face melted her, the relief, the joy and the optimism. Without thinking, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, but he regained control of himself and just gave her a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. Pulling back he admired the blissful smile on her lips that he had left, and slipped the ring on her ring finger. "I'll try not to make you go insane, Molly Hooper."

Molly nodded, grinning. She stroked his cheek, running her future name through her lips, "Molly Holmes. I'll still have the same initials, thank you very much."

Molly's phone was lighting up and buzzing in her handbag, but she didn't bother checking the messages. Instead, she brought Sherlock in for another kiss. This one lasted much longer, and rivaled Anderson's fantasy one.

A/N: Aw! I couldn't help it, sorry! (Not sorry)

I love how it wasn't terribly OOC! I really hope you enjoyed it!

Coming soon: Watson's Niece – Sherlock fanfiction

The earthquake brings on the aftershocks, and those are the most devastating of all. Her curiosity causes her to get caught in the web of sorrow, danger and mystery. Will she get out alive? Between S2 and S3. Eventual Sherlolly. Pre-written (Yay!) 1st Chapter: Looking for Holmes.

Be on the lookout for this one! It's going to be really good, promise. :3