~ Dinner at Angelo's ~
Running late, NSY are idiots including Gareth - SH
It's GREG, and try for patience, he's a good man - MHx
Have been patient. For several hours - SH
I'll meet you at Angelo's, don't worry, take your time, just keep me informed - MHx
Sorry. Yes. Thank you - SHxx
:-) - MHxx
Sherlock sighed, his exasperation somewhat assuaged, and shoved his mobile back into his pocket. You'd have thought the criminal classes' spirit of the season would've lasted beyond New Year's Day, but apparently there were set limits. Lestrade had texted at 3:36 P.M. on the 2nd, requesting Sherlock's assistance with a case that should have been a five, but actually turned out to be nearly an eight. Glad of the distraction at first (for he'd been pacing the flat in anticipation of the Fatal Molly Assignation, eight o'clock that night at Angelo's and everything had to be perfect, as he'd told the man himself when he'd made the reservation a few days ago) he'd quickly been cursing his luck and trying not to snap at Lestrade, much less Anderson, both of whom seemed slower even than usual.
"Sherlock! Oi!Would you come look at this?" Lestrade called, waving from across the road. He was standing by a pair of skips that had obviously been disarranged in the last six hours. Interesting.
But as Sherlock walked out of the brighter lighting of the main investigation and made his way over to Lestrade and the skips, lit only by torch and moonlight, it suddenly occurred to him how black and cold the evening had become, and remembered Molly's habitual reluctance to spend money on cabs.
"I need to send one more text," he told Lestrade as he reached the pavement, and pulled out his mobile once more.
Molly, ordering a cab to pick you up at 7:45 and NO ARGUMENTS :-( - SHx
He'd barely put the phone back in his pocket when her text alert sounded in reply and he had to fish it out again.
LOL! OK. - MHxx
He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction
o-o-o
It was 8:26 when he virtually burst into Angelo's, somewhat out of breath since he'd jogged the last quarter of a mile when traffic gridlocked due to an accident (drivers unhurt but irate and near to blows as the police arrived); glanced around in surprise and dismay at the number of diner's, all of whom seemed to be turning to stare in startled wonder at him; then addressed Angelo, who was bustling toward him.
"She's here?"
"In the alcove, yes, just as you said. But Sherlock-"
"Thank God! At least something is going right this evening. I can find my way, thanks."
"Sherlock-"
"Bring some champagne along, best you've got. Five minutes - no, ten!" And he moved toward the back of the restaurant, trying to catch his breath, calm himself.
The case had been wrapped up neatly, but by the time he'd finished, it had been too late to return to 221B to freshen up. Fortunately the state of his person was still acceptable, since Lestrade's lackeys had essayed the skip-diving that had revealed the essential bit of evidence, but he was very much aware that he was not at his best and it put him off a trifle.
There was nothing to be done about that now, however. He was at the end of his patience. He'd barely seen Molly these last three days. This was mainly due to her increased work schedule - he was almost completely recovered, so Stamford had given others holiday leave - and in the evenings she'd claimed exhaustion (probably true, since she'd ended up working a couple of twelve-hour shifts) and the need to comfort her bloody cat as London noisily celebrated the New Year over a long weekend.
The situation was entirely unacceptable.
He needed her by him, in 221B, in his bed, in his life, but in spite of her longstanding regard for him, at this moment he wasn't entirely confident she wanted that. He knew he was no bargain in some rather essential areas, and over the last few days he'd begun to fear that she might think twice about allying herself to such a creature till death should claim one of them in the (hopefully) distant future.
So if he had to beg, so be it.
And he was prepared to take the cat, as well.
It was in this anxious yet determined state of mind that he approached his destiny, slipping around the narrow planter, whose greenery more or less screened the alcove from the main restaurant. And there was Molly - and John and Mary Watson. All smiling up at him.
"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, jumping up from her seat to greet him. But then her happy glow faltered as she took in his expression. "I… I wanted to surprise you," she said, uncertainly.
"Came home a day early, mate," said John. His brow wrinkled. "Everything alright?"
But Mary, whose own brows had twitched together as soon as she'd seen him more or less poleaxed by their presence, suddenly brightened and, highly amused, exclaimed, "Oh. My. God! Talk about poetic justice!"
Sherlock flashed her a frustrated glare (at which she gave a small snort of laughter), but obviously he couldn't deny her accurate assessment of the situation.
He turned back to Molly (who, to his pained chagrin, looked almost ready to bolt), grabbed her hand firmly and reached into the pocket of his Belstaff with the other, fetching out the item that had been burning a hole in it for nearly two weeks. "This is for you," he said, bluntly, his voice oddly unsteady. "If you'll have it. If you'll have me." And he pressed the small box into her hand and released her, holding his breath, heart thudding.
She stared, eyes wide and (it seemed to him) rather worried. Then she looked at the box… slowly opened it… and gave a small gasp. "Oh! Oh, Sherlock! How beautiful!" A delicate thing, the ring was of intricately wrought white gold, and diamonds, set off by tiny gems in pale blues and greens.
He said, "I saw it in a shop in Berlin and knew it was for you. A gift… but more than a gift. Molly…"
She looked up at him again, quite shocked. "Sherlock… are you-"
"Yes. Molly… I love you. Will you marry me?"
She seemed stunned.
He went on, stammering, "It's just… I thought… I'll try to make you happy, I swear-"
But he got no further for suddenly she was in his arms, saying, "Yes! Yes!" and he was holding her and muttering, "Thank God." And then he was kissing her, as he'd longed to do for days, and it was perfect, a delight surpassing even his highest expectations, better even than those first sweet stolen kisses they'd shared beneath the warm covers in Virginia, when his surrender was something new and raw, and every movement, every touch, every sound was no less than a revelation. So perfect that he barely noticed the noise of John's joyous laughter, or Mary's crow of delight… or even the applause that grew and grew all around them...
o-o-o
"Oh, Sherlock! Look at this one."
With a quizzical smirk, Molly passed him yet another of the tabloids that Mrs. Hudson, barely containing her joy and laughter, had delivered along with their late morning tea and scones. Sherlock now set his cup down on the bedside table and took the paper.
This headline read, Boffin Betrothes Bart's Bride.
"Boffin," he repeated, disgusted, as always, by the appellation. "Bloody hell."
And then he saw the picture beneath, another of the many versions of that first kiss at Angelo's, before God and everybody. He almost regretted having ordered champagne for the house (on Mycroft's card, of course, since he'd conveniently forgotten to give it back after the Berlin trip). What with the ubiquity of smartphones, he and Molly were now splashed all over both print and digital media.
This particular instance was captioned like many of the others: London's very own consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, has finally been snatched up by petite pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Rumor has it that an April wedding is being planned by the happy couple.
Molly, snuggled against him and reading, too, said, "April. They must have overheard us discussing a date with John and Mary,"
"You're sure you don't want to elope?" he asked, quite seriously.
She bit her lip. "You don't think the media circus will die down presently?"
He sighed. "Perhaps." And a wedding would make her happy, he thought. And other parties, as well… he wondered suddenly if his parents had seen the papers yet that morning…
And, even as he completed the thought, his mobile began to ring and buzz. He picked it up. "It's my mother," he told Molly, and proceeded to silence the phone.
"You're not going to answer it?" she asked, sounding surprised.
"Nope. Better things to do right now." He set the phone back on the table alongside his tea, dramatically swept all the horrid papers off the bed, and snatched the one Molly was holding, too, tossing it onto the floor.
"Hey!" she said, pretending to object.
"Later," he told her, firmly, and pulled her close.
She was grinning now. "Again? Not that I'm complaining."
"You'd better not," he told her, his hands moving over her back, then lower. "I find I've become quite addicted to the sight of you in the throes of an orgasm by morning light."
"Mmm… I could say the same of you," she said, giving in, ruffling his hair… kissing his cheek.
"Yes. But I didn't have an extra helping of Tiramisu last night," he replied. "I believe you're still two pounds over, Miss Hooper." And, grinning, he gave his outraged fiance's lovely (beloved) backside a provocative pinch.
~.~
