It was an early Sunday morning in late Spring and Sherlock Holmes was wide awake, fully clothed but wrapped in a blue dressing gown. This was not unusual, nor was it usual, as the detective seemed to have no regular hours at all, sleeping when needed and spending the long hours of wakefulness attempting to find things to occupy his constantly working mind. Every Sunday morning, his ritual was to peruse an actual paper copy of the Times of London. Every page, every word, every sentence. Editorials to obituaries, adverts to announcements. He filed everything interesting away for further investigation, and everything useful for future reference. But the announcement on page fifty-seven stopped him in his tracks.
Mr. W. S. Holmes and Miss M. M. Hooper
The engagement is announced between William S. Holmes, son of Siger and Violet Holmes of Surrey, and Mary Margaret Hooper, daughter of the late Martin W. Hooper of Newcastle.
A simple announcement, indeed, which many may have certainly overlooked. Some, even among their friends and acquaintances, may not have recognized the parties in question. But Sherlock Holmes certainly did, and alarm bells were currently ringing in every chamber of his mind palace.
Sherlock had known Molly Hooper for all of seven years. Seven years during which their relationship had developed from one of infatuation, on her part, and exploitation, on his, to one of true understanding and friendship. But Sherlock had never allowed it to progress any further. He was a selfish man, and he knew it, but not that selfish. As his affection for her had grown into something much more, he prided himself on the fact that he had managed to hide this from everyone, including Molly. She was not among the persons threatened by the mad Moriarty. He had kept her hidden safely in the shadows of his life, at arm's length. They had grown so much closer since John Watson's marriage, but still he had managed to keep her from the public purview. But someone had known, someone had guessed. And that meant his pathologist was now at risk.
But who? And what was their motivation? Was it a veiled threat against her, or himself? A misconceived practical joke? He retraced in his mind any unusual activity of the past several weeks, but could discern no pattern, nor clue. Who could have discovered his feelings for the quietly competent and subtly lovely doctor? Surely, not John. John Watson was not a stupid man, but his powers of observation were certainly not keenly developed, even after working with the world's only consulting detective for all this time. It would probably take shagging the pathologist on the sitting room couch while John typed his blog to have him notice anything. Not that Sherlock hadn't considered doing just that. The shagging part, at least. The audience he could live without.
Mary Watson? Perhaps. She may certainly have guessed his feelings, given her former trade. But Mary had enough secrets of her own to keep. She certainly would not risk offending Sherlock enough to endanger her own security.
DI Lestrade? Doubtful. There were some subtle signs that the Inspector was interested in the pathologist himself, and he certainly wouldn't have been quite so obvious had he any inkling of Sherlock's inclination. The list of suspects was narrowing considerably, he thought.
Mrs. Hudson still believed he was gay, pining away for the now married John Watson. Moriarty was well and truly dead, his brains spilled out on the roof of St. Bart's. His network had shown no signs of recovering from Sherlock's two year campaign to wipe it from the face of the earth. Sebastian Moran had gone to ground, and was certainly no more in the know about his feelings for Dr. Hooper than his colleague Moriarty.
Billy Wiggins? Interesting idea. Wiggins was highly intelligent, and his observational skills, under Sherlock's tutelage, had increased dramatically. He often liked to tease the detective by referring to Molly Hooper as "The Missus", an indication that he at least suspected that the detective's feelings ran deeper than those of friendship. But Billy adored Molly, and would certainly not put her at risk by outing her as the most important person in the life of Sherlock Holmes. Plus the fact that Sherlock could not believe that the homeless man could come up with the three-hundred plus pounds that such an announcement would cost to place in the Times. Or, having somehow come up with the money, would not think of other, more habit-forming ways to spend it.
And then there was Mycroft, his brother. Sherlock considered that his elder brother knew him better that anyone in this world, with the exception of Molly herself. Like her, Mycroft always seemed to know what was going on in his head. They had played mind games as children, and had continued to do so all of their adult lives. Neither brother ever said what they were thinking, but they always knew. So Sherlock had no doubt at all that Mycroft was well aware of his feelings for the young woman, but could discern no advantage to his brother for having disclosed them so publicly. Mycroft held some affection for her himself, and would certainly not take kindly to anyone placing her at risk. Sherlock Holmes retreated to his mind palace for a few brief moments to consolidate his thoughts, only to jump from his chair a few moments later, rip off his dressing gown, and prepare himself to face the worst.
It was still relatively early on a Sunday morning in late Spring when Molly Hooper heard the gentle sound of a lock pick at her flat's door. She remained seated at her kitchen table, the London Times spread out in front of her, sipping her coffee, waiting for the detective to make his appearance.
"Good morning, Sherlock!" she said cheerfully as the tall man with the flowing coat made his way into the room, poured himself a cup of her coffee, and sat down across the table.
"I see you're reading the Times, Molly. Anything interesting?"
"I did come across something on page fifty-seven, if you must know."
"You could have just asked, you know!" Sherlock sounded a bit annoyed now.
"You would have just said 'no'," Molly explained. "You would have come up with forty-seven different reasons why, ranging from 'I'm trying to protect you', to 'I'm not good enough for you'."
"Well, Molly…"
"We won't argue the point, Sherlock. It's done. You've always been to bloody concerned about my health, you've never really concerned yourself with my happiness. I love you. You make me happy. And you love me, I…"
"I've never said that, Molly!"
"Don't I know it! But you do. There's no use denying it. Remember, I can see you. I can see what you're thinking before you know you're thinking it. I know what you're feeling, even as you deny you're feeling it. So, I've painted a big fat indelible target on my back for all and sundry to see. Although I do think you're a bit paranoid about that, Sherlock. The question now is, what are you going to do about it?"
Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small velvet box. "I bought this a few months ago. Evidently I am a bit more patient than you. If you'd just waited a bit longer…"
"Sherlock, you bloody git, I would like to get married before I reach menopause! It's easier to have children that way, you know…"
"Now you expect me to provide you with spawn? Have you already scheduled birth announcements? How long until they hit the Times?"
Molly gave him a provocatively happy smile, "I'm not telling, but the sooner we get started, the better." She rose from her chair, slipped her hand into his and led him gently down the hall.