Once again, Dr. Molly Hooper found herself waiting for Sherlock Holmes. This had become the story of her life. Waiting for him to notice her. Waiting for him to tolerate her. Waiting for him to trust her, depend on her, value her. All of the above had come to pass, but she was still waiting for Sherlock Holmes to love her. And tonight she was, additionally, waiting for him to pick her up and accompany her to the Watson's flat for dinner.
It was no special occasion, as far as anyone else was concerned. Mary Watson hadn't been socializing much since the birth of her daughter, and tonight was to be a small step back into the real world outside the nursery, a small dinner with friends. But to Molly Hooper it was an anniversary of sorts, for it had been seven years to the day since she had first laid eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Molly, a pathologist, had been studying tissue samples under her favorite microscope, when DI Greg Lestrade burst through the door, accompanied by Mike Stamford and a man she had never seen before. He was tall and slender, with dark curls and blue-green eyes. His coat flapped in some phantom breeze he seemed to create in his own wake, and when Greg introduced him, he seemed to stare at her in a rather disconcerting manner. She must have been gazing at him slack jawed, or something, and when she tried to speak, she could feel herself stammer, something which hadn't happened since before her days at uni. Unfortunately, the stammer took hold for the next few years, adding to her unease in his presence. He had to jump off a building and die for two years before it completely disappeared.
So this evening Molly was sitting in front of the same microscope in the same pathology lab, waiting for the same man, who, when he finally did arrive, coat flapping in the same way, made her heart leap in an all too familiar way. Molly had been looking down into the eyepiece of the 'scope, even though there was no slide, fiddling with knobs to pass the time. She looked up to find the detective now staring at her in the same way he had done some seven years ago.
"You're late, Sherlock. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
"I never forget anything, Dr. Hooper. Least of all you." Sherlock Holmes was smiling down at her.
Molly always tended to be annoyed by his smugness. She could call his bluff, by asking if he remembered what today was, but she hated to call his attention to the fact that she would place such great emphasis on a date which was so insignificant to him. So she was very surprised to hear him say, "I've bought you a little gift, Molly," as he slid a small wrapped box across the lab table to her.
Taking the box, Molly opened it carefully to find a finely crafted tiny microscope, made of copper, dangling from a golden chain.
"Copper, it seems, is the traditional gift for the seventh anniversary, Molly. You were sitting behind that very microscope on this very day seven years ago when I came here with Lestrade. You looked so startled when we arrived. You just sat there and stared at me. I had never seen eyes so wide and stunning peering over a microscope. I remember being taken aback, and simply staring in return…"
"You really remember that, Sherlock?"
"Of course I do. I've told you before, you count. I see you. All the time, Molly."
"But after seven years, you decide to do something…"
"I've 'done something', as you call it, every year, Molly. It's you who never took notice. Let's review, shall we. Year one, paper. I bought you a lottery ticket, remember? Not my fault it was a loser. It's the thought that counts, after all." Sherlock was counting on his fingers now. "Year two, cotton. Remember the Doctor Who tee shirt? You were at my flat, and I 'accidently' sprayed you with the kitchen sprinkler? You had to change…"
"That was your shirt. That doesn't count…"
"Of course it wasn't my shirt, Molly. Do you think I'd be caught dead in a white shirt with a giant blue box and a mad man in a fez on the front of it? It was a gift, and it was cotton, so…" He stared at the small woman until she finally agreed. "Now, year three was more problematic. Leather. I remembered you seemed to fancy that riding crop I used on poor Mr. …"
"Sherlock!"
"Yes. I know. It would hardly have been appropriate. So, I borrowed your keys to the lab that night, and returned them with one small addition. A handcrafted leather flower. Which you still have on your keychain, if I'm not mistaken. Sentimental value, Dr. Hooper?" Molly blushed slightly.
"Years four and five, I was away, ridding the world of the remains of Moriarty's web. But I had Billy Wiggins leave you little surprises on the appropriate dates. Flowers for year four, a small carved wooden owl the next. I know you received them, because Mycroft reported back to me." The detective now let out a small grunt. "One side effect of that endeavor was that Wiggins started to refer to you as the 'missus', a habit from which I cannot wean him!"
"Last year, Sherlock? Year six?"
"That box of chocolates from Charbonnel et Walker. Remember?"
"Just barely. You ate more than half of them!"
"I couldn't help it. They were delicious, and I was ravenous. I'd just finished up that case…"
"Alright! Alright! They would have gone right to my hips anyway!"
"You have lovely hips, Molly. I, myself, would love to go to your hips. Or anywhere else you would allow…" Sherlock was now making his way around the table and approaching Molly, who was still sitting, as if glued, on her lab stool. The closer he got, the more Molly leaned backward, as if afraid of what was happening, and yet not wanting it to stop. Luckily Sherlock reached her before she toppled backward onto the floor. "Your eyes haven't changed at all, Molly. So warm, so lovely. I hope all our children have your eyes. And lips…" He kissed her passionately. "And neck...', he murmured as his mouth drifted southward. "And breasts…"
"Let's stop right there, for now. Although my breasts are not large, they may not be appropriate accoutrements for all our children, especially the boys, Sherlock. Besides, we're expected at John and Mary's, remember?"
"As I told you, Dr. Hooper, I never forget anything. And I have already informed our hosts that we will be running a bit behind schedule. So, we do have some time to spare…"
Molly slid off the stool, and led him toward her office, and the comfy couch. Halfway there, Sherlock spoke. "Molly, one question. After we're married, does this whole anniversary thing start all over again, or do I get credit for time served, so to speak?"
"Are we getting married, Sherlock?"
"Why not? I've already discovered that you're the only one I would want to scratch my seven year itch, and vice versa. But you haven't answered my question."
"It starts all over again, love. No credit for time served! But not to worry, I'll make sure you get rewarded for good behavior!"