Sherlock was aware of the front door opening and closing with a good deal more force than necessary. Oh dear. Watson must have found out what he'd been up to. He waited for the good doctor to come in, cheeks aflame and hat clutched in his hand, short of bending the brim over. Instead, he heard the rush of taffeta skirts, stiffly starched petticoats, and well-heeled shoes click-click-click across the foyer in short, hard steps. He heard something soft and rustling land near his chair by the fireplace. Before he had a chance to put his violin down a hand wrapped around his upper arm, wheeling him about face. Large brown eyes met his.
Anger. Hurt.
He saw her raise her hand, and made no attempt to stop it. She struck him not once, but thrice.
"Coward." She bit out the single word, eyes flashing.
He'd been called many things before, but to hear the word from Molly Hooper, a word that rang with truth when it came to Sherlock Holmes and his particular feelings for this woman, he was stung quite deeply.
"You stupid, awful, wicked…coward!"
More footsteps, Watson came rushing in, hat in hand the moment he saw Molly was in the room as well. He stared at Molly's clothing, clearly befuddled. Molly saw Sherlock's worried glance at Watson before he cleared his throat, turning back to her.
"Doctor Hooper I-"
"No," she cut him off. "You know my name, I told you to use it."
"Molly," he amended, again shifting his gaze nervously from the pathologist to Watson. "If you would let me explain…"
"There's no need," she stepped back finally, crossing her arms.
"Should I go?" Watson asked softly.
"No, you might as well stay," Molly shook her head at the good doctor. "There might as well be a witness when I say that Sherlock Holmes has a heart as well as brains."
"It would never work between us, Molly," Sherlock tried again.
"How do you know that?" She challenged. "How could you possibly know that? Don't you think I know exactly who you are? I covered up your death; I helped you return to London. I know every filthy secret of your past and I still trusted you with my heart. Can't you see there is something beautiful between us? It frightens you to pieces and- and it frightens me too, but Sherlock…Sherlock why would you do that?"
John Watson's curiosity was almost too much for him. What had Sherlock done? The consulting detective, for his part, did look guilty.
"You are correct, I am frightened…and…I have weighed the odds of a sucessful marriage between us. There is a ten percent chance that it would end bitterly."
Watson did a double-take. Marriage?!
"We've just as much chance as anyone else!" Molly burst out. "If you're telling me you are afraid of a scandal-"
"No of course not!" Sherlock blustered. "What on earth would I care if I scandalized half the empire? I care about you-"
"Not enough, clearly!" Molly retorted.
"Quite the contrary," Sherlock's eyes flashed at her.
"Enough to need me for cases, oh yes, I quite understand," she clutched her bag in her hands, fairly trembling. "I understand you perfectly, Sherlock. And I hate myself for loving you in spite of it!" With that she turned on her heel and hurried out, pushing past Watson.
John, gobsmacked, stared after the weeping pathologist, and then turned slowly to Sherlock.
"What. Have you. Done?"
Slowly, Sherlock crossed the room, stooping to pick up the bouquet of flowers Molly had flung across the parlor.
"I may have asked Molly Hooper to be my wife…and then stood her up at the altar."
For the second time that day, Sherlock found himself being struck, but this time he had the grave misfortune of being struck by John Watson, who, on first appearance was a respectable looking gentleman, but Sherlock knew all too well he had a powerful right-hook.
"You sodding bastard."
Sherlock struggled to his feet, but Watson grasped him by the arm, throwing him into his chair. Digging through his pockets for a kerchief to stop his nose from bleeding, Sherlock didn't even have the heart to be angry at him. Molly was right, he was afraid. He was well out of his depth when it came to love. But what he felt for the pathologist was...indescribable.
Watson, meanwhile, paced back and forth, glaring at Sherlock.
"You- how-" he shook his head, holding up his hands. "You left her at the altar? You left her to stand there all by herself- you cad!" Watson was spitting with rage. "When did this even happen?" he shook his head, managing to calm down somewhat. "You and she have been courting? For how long? Were you ever going to tell me?" Sherlock sighed at his oldest friend.
"You know me, Watson, I'd never endure anything so plebian," his voice was odd, due to the crumpled kerchief stuffed up around his nose. John rolled his eyes, going to the pull-bell and yanking the cord. In a moment Mrs. Hudson appeared.
"Will you fetch Casanova ice for his nose before it swells?" The poor old woman just 'tsked' at the consulting detective and bustled off. "Pray explain then, how you came to propose to Miss Hooper," Watson said, once the housekeeper was gone.
"I-" for once, Sherlock was at a loss for words. He wanted dearly to say it had just popped out. But that wasn't quite true. "I did propose," he said finally. "We had- or rather I had decided on a small affair, very small indeed…"
"Oh yes, especially considering I wasn't told about it! Nor anyone who cares most about the two of you!" Watson snapped.
"I…had simply wanted to get it over with," Sherlock said lamely, then winced at the callousness of his own words. "Not that I find the idea of a wedding repulsive but that…I simply…I wished for it to be over and done with, no fuss, no muss."
"You did a very good job of ensuring that. Even the groom didn't show up." Sarcasm dripped from Watson's voice.
Mrs. Hudson returned with an ice pack and Watson took it from her, thanking her before pushing it into Sherlock's hands.
"Why did you leave her there Sherlock?"
"Because I am a coward." Sherlock stared at the ceiling, ice-pack firmly pressed to his nose. The finality in his tone made Watson pause, rather than voice his agreement. When the blood finally stopped running down his hand, he wiped his nose one final time, setting the ice-pack aside.
"Everyone gets cold feet, Holmes, especially on their wedding day. You remember when Mary and I were married?" Watson asked.
"You nearly wore a hole in the rug in the church hall, and said 'I do' twice," Sherlock recalled. Watson half-smiled at the thought, looking at his shoes.
"I did, I was petrified, and I kept wondering if we were the right sort for each other, I was so afraid to disappoint her, to someday be something she might loath that I nearly left before any of it went on." Sherlock was surprised, for his friend had never revealed such a thing to him.
"What stopped you?"
"Lots of things," Watson shrugged. "The main one was Mary. She snuck across the church, how I don't know, and hugged me from behind, so I wouldn't see her until the time came. She told me she loved me, and she had wedding jitters too." His smile was fond, his eyes soft, clearly remembering the feel of his bride's arms about his waist, holding him tightly only a few moments before they would take their vows. "You were the other thing that stopped me from running." Sherlock blinked, confused.
"Me?"
"Yes you, you stood by me all that awful morning before the wedding, plied me with god knows how many cups of tea and a few shots of brandy."
"That's what the best man is for," Sherlock sniffed.
"Quite right and why you should have told us what was going on. A couple needs the ones they care about with them on such a big day."
"Molly won't have me now," Sherlock slumped in his chair. "I've done such a foolish thing, Watson."
"You certainly have, and I'll be damned if I let you get away with it," he hauled the consulting detective to his feet, straightening his tie. John helped Sherlock out of his dressing gown and picking up the jacket that hung on the back of the chair.
"Where am I going?" Sherlock asked.
"After Miss Hooper, of course, she can't have gotten far. I'd say she took the path through Regents Park."
"Are you saying you approve?"
"Of course I approve, no one else will have you, you stupid git," John shook his head. Sherlock was suddenly timid again, and it was unsettling.
"Watson…" Sherlock began uncertainly. "What if I do disappoint her? The odds of that happening are far greater in my case-"
"You twit," Watson chuckled. "She just told you how much she loves you. There is no one in the world who knows you inside and out, save your brother, and loves you regardless, who can put up with you as she does. She loves you, Holmes. Now go after her or else I'll send Mary after you. Do you really want to lose Miss Hooper's love forever?" Sherlock picked up his hat, pausing in the doorway of the parlor. "Go on," John picked up the newspaper, taking his favorite chair. "And when you get back, you and your fiancee can plan a proper wedding, one she certainly deserves."
Sherlock took off like a shot, tearing across the street, much to the distress of a horse and cart and a woman selling apples. He shouted an apology to the woman before hurrying into Regents Park. As if to add to the ridiculousness of Sherlock Holmes sprinting through the park, coat flapping behind him after the woman he loved, it began to rain.
He quickly found Molly's path, as the park was mostly empty, and her new shoes would prove to be slippery in the grass, she remained close to the sidewalk. Soon enough he found her standing under a lilac tree, doing her best to shield herself from the rain.
"There is shelter nearby." At the sound of his voice she whirled around. Red faced and crying, she turned her back on him, wiping her eyes.
"What do you want?"
"To get you out of the rain first," he answered. "Molly…please…" he pleaded. She let him take her elbow, guiding her out from under the shade of the fragrant tree and over to a small bandstand. Shielded better from the downpour, he turned to face her and noticed she was shivering. Quickly he shucked his jacket, placing it over her shoulders. He noticed then her frock was new, the cut was the latest fashion. He had insisted on a small affair and she'd had no time to order the gown she really wanted. Again, he felt a stab of guilt at his selfishness.
"You look very beautiful," he murmured. She turned, tugging the lapels of the jacket closer, hunching her shoulders. Try as she might, she couldn't maintain her glare at him and Molly shook her head, feeling tears well in her eyes.
"Sherlock, why didn't you come?" Her tears were more than he could bear, and it took everything in his power not to take her in his arms then and there.
"Because I was afraid," he answered. "You were right, as you so often are, Molly Hooper, I am a coward. I was afraid that you would be unhappy with me, that I might someday hurt you or put you in danger, I cannot-" he stepped back, shaking his head. The thought that she could ever feel nothing but contempt for him, that she could come to loathe him was too much for him. "I could not face that, and I-" he sighed. "Watson tells me I got cold feet." He dared to look at her, and was surprised to see her expression was pensive, her eyes soft.
"Perhaps we rushed things," she answered finally.
"I don't need to court you to know that I love you," he dared a step forwards. "I don't need six months of tea parties and balls to tell me that you are the woman who makes me happy, that I am…I hope, a better man because of you." Her cheeks were pink, (partly due to the cold, but Sherlock knew all too well when Molly Hooper was blushing) and she smiled at her feet. "If you object to my not…courting you in the fashion that I woo you, I shall endeavor to do so in the future, I know little things such as flowers and small notes of affection do please you, whatever you may say."
"I meant the wedding," she amended, smiling at him. "I know you wanted it small, but…oh Sherlock I want everyone to know who I'm marrying, that I belong with someone, that we chose each other of our own free will, because we love each other. Don't you feel that? That you'll burst if you don't tell someone?" Her eyes sparked with such emotion he felt it difficult to swallow. Oh if only she knew!
"Yes," he managed to croak, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He dared another step towards her, trembling hands reaching up to cup her cold face, thumbing away the tears streaking down her cheeks. "There are times there are no words for it, just one great yell inside me and nothing I say can express how I feel." He could take no more, and he bent, drawing her close. She closed the distance between them, meeting him halfway, as she always did. Pressing her close to him, Sherlock let instinct take over for a moment, kissing her mouth, cheeks, forehead, neck and mouth again.
"I do love you, Molly, I do. If…if a proper wedding is what you want, then that is what you shall have, pomp and circumstance and all." She smiled against him, somewhat breathless.
"Ask me then."
"What?" he frowned.
"Ask me," she lifted her eyebrows at him. He gave a half-smile then, sighing lightly as he took a step back, holding her at arms length.
"Molly Hooper, will you do me the pleasure, the honor, the favor of marrying me?" Her answer was immediate, followed by more kissing which Sherlock rather enjoyed. "I do promise," he pulled apart, again out of breath. "This time I will be on time, as Watson will undoubtedly be fulfilling his role as 'best man'."
"He had better," she murmured, drawing him close again.