Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were currently in a relationship, and had been for the past several weeks. The fact that they were still happy, and had not killed each other, boded well, in Sherlock's opinion for a lifelong commitment. This was certainly his intention, but he had yet to broach the subject to his pathologist.
Their entry into this relationship had been quite precipitous in the detective's opinion. He had recently taken an unintentional dive into the Thames, swallowing quite a bit of polluted water in the process. This had entailed an overnight stay at St. Bart's Hospital. While attempting to dry out his mobile phone and his wallet in her lab Molly had stumbled across Sherlock's biggest secret, a picture of her, taken surreptitiously while she was sleeping, and kept in his wallet, carefully preserved and gently handled. He had carried this photo, and nothing else, throughout his two years of exile. He cherished it through her erstwhile engagement to Tom, and he carried it still. They say a picture tells a thousand words, and this one spoke volumes to Dr. Molly Hooper. Sherlock Holmes had entered the hospital a single man, he exited it as part of a couple.
They had not made any announcement to the outside world, although John Watson was certainly aware of the situation, having been witness to their first snogging session, By extension, his wife Mary must know. Mrs Hudson had assumed that Sherlock's frequent overnight absences were caused by cases. And when Molly stayed at Baker Street, she simply assumed that she used John's old room when their experiments ran far into the night. She was mildly curious about some of the noises emanating from the flat upstairs, but, then again, what did she know about science. DI Greg Lestrade, and the other members of Scotland Yard, were also in the dark, as the pair did nothing to suggest that their relationship had progressed anywhere beyond friendship. Mycroft Holmes knew, of course, because he was Mycroft Holmes. He had smiled at his brother during his last visit, a wholly unexpected occurrence, and said, "Congratulations, little brother." But nothing more.
So it came to pass that on this certain Saturday morning, as they lay in bed, not particularly rested but certainly satisfied, that Sherlock broached the subject of her moving in with him.
"It certainly makes sense, Molly. We seldom spend a night apart. It would be cheaper. It would be more convenient…"
"Sherlock, we haven't even told anybody yet…"
"Everyone important already knows, with the possible exception of Mrs. Hudson, who, I sometimes believe, expects John to leave his wife and daughter and return to our love nest at any moment!"
"But most people don't even know I'm your girlfriend…"
Sherlock winced at the term, knowing what was coming next.
"...and you're my boyfriend. There, I said it. BOYFRIEND!"
"Good lord, Molly, you know I hate that term. Move in with me, and I can be your POSSLQ."
"What the bloody hell is that?"
"Person of the Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters. Pos-el-que! A term developed by the US Census Bureau in the last century to describe our situation…"
"And you would prefer that to 'boyfriend'? How about 'partner'?"
"Sounds like we're in business together, Dr. Hooper. How about 'sex partner'?"
"Use that term, Mr. Holmes, and we no longer will be!"
"Paramour?" suggested Sherlock.
"Too French. And isn't that term usually used to describe a bit on the side Sherlock? A married man's mistress? Is there something you're not telling me?"
"Well, I have always considered myself married to my work, Molly…" Sherlock yelped as his pathologist pinched his nose, and tried another suggestion, "Significant other?"
"You're getting better, but I always thought that sounded a bit insulting to others in your life. Are they now, somehow, 'insignificant'?"
"Molly, I absolutely adore how you always seem to think of others, but I think in this circumstance your concern is a bit misplaced…"
"You could be my 'boy toy'!" Sherlock paled as Molly spoke the words. "One which doesn't require batteries!"
"That would be as demeaning as my referring to you as my 'concubine," the detective retorted, although in his mind he was picturing himself as some sort of Oriental potentate surrounded by scantily clad Mollies.
Molly was wracking her brain, trying to come up with acceptable euphemisms. "How about 'main squeeze'?'
"Do you have other 'squeezes' of which I am unaware, Dr. Hooper?" Sherlock tried to look insulted. "If so, while I appreciate the honor of being the paramount one, I would greatly appreciate your disposing of all others."
"How about 'boo', Sherlock?"
"Molly, are you even speaking English now? What the bloody hell does a ghostly exclamation designed to elicit surprise and fear have to do with our situation?"
"Alright, then. Back to the standards. 'Inamorato'?"
"Too Italian."
" 'Beau'?"
"Too French!"
" 'Sugar daddy'?"
"Really, Molly, be serious!"
" 'Honey'?
"While I have no objection to calling you by that pet name, or you calling me likewise, introducing me as your 'honey' could make you sound like some sort of a demented bee, don't you agree?"
" 'Heartthrob'?"
"You certainly do make things throb, my love, not only my heart…"
"Now you be serious, Sherlock Holmes. This whole discussion is because you so strenuously object to the term 'boyfriend'. So you decide!"
"I have already decided, Molly. You may call me your 'fiance'. Followed as soon as possible by 'husband'."
Molly was stunned. It had taken them almost seven years to get to this point, and she hadn't expected Sherlock to move so quickly. As he always said, there's always something!
"Sherlock, are you sure? Really sure? We don't have too rush…"
"Don't you want to marry me, Molly? Seven years hardly seems like we're rushing into things, after all. And even if we are, truth be told, there is a perfectly good reason to do so."
"Why is that?"
"We have been in a relationship for just over six weeks, Molly. I have noticed certain things lately.."
"What things?"
"It's getting a bit harder to unbutton your trousers, Molly…"
"Are you saying I'm getting fat, you git? Because if you are…" Molly looked on the verge of a full-blown tantrum.
"Ah, mood swing. Right on schedule. You seem to be suffering from fatigue quite frequently. Your nose is constantly stuffy, with no known allergy. Your breasts are tender, and slightly larger, not that I'm complaining…"
"Oh god…"
"So I think it only appropriate that we marry as soon as possible. Because if you think I dislike the term 'boyfriend', I believe you can hazard a guess about how I feel about the term 'baby daddy', Molly."
"Sherlock, are you sure?"
"You're the doctor, if I may remind you, Molly. All the symptoms seem to indicate…"
"Not about that, you bloody imbecile. About us! Are you sure?"
"Never been more certain of anything in my life," Sherlock said quietly as he pulled his lover/inamorata/honey/POSSLQ/girlfriend/fiance/soon to be wife closer and kissed her as if all their lives depended on it.