Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is a belated birthday pressie for the lovely MizJoely. Enjoy!
#THEBITQUITEGOOD
Molly only notices that something's wrong when Greg and Sally and John all skid into the morgue, panting.
They slam through the doors in a tangle of arms and legs and it's all Molly can do not to order them out at first sight. (She does, after all, have an autopsy to do: the V incision has just been made).
They're wild-eyed and out of breath, and Sally looks like she's thinking of doing something unholy and illegal to the room in general. Greg's eyes are flashing wildly between Molly and the lovely old woman she has on her slab (Esme Portrose, 88, natural causes but her overly anxious 30 year old boyfriend is insisting she be checked and he's her next of kin, so…) John on the other hand only has eyes for the man standing behind Molly, one Sherlock Holmes, Esquire. His expression reminds Molly strongly of a small kitten which has heard a loud and ominously inexplicable noise, and would rather like to attack whatever made it.
Alas, Molly knows this expression well.
Come to think of it, Molly muses, Sherlock had been rather insistent that he stay for the autopsy, something she can find no real reason for…
The pathologist glances between her friends in The Met and her boyfriend, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, and without preamble she puts her scalpel down. Crosses her arms and looks at Sherlock.
"Well?" She says. "What did you do?"
The Met Gang all start speaking over one another but Sherlock says nothing, merely smiles mysteriously and hands the chest spreader to her.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says smoothly, making sure to drop his voice to that lower register that he bloody well knows… does things, to Molly. Damn you, hormones! She thinks. His eyes widen in innocence and he gestures to the corpse. "You were about to reopen the chest cavity, were you not, Doctor Hooper?"
"No!" This from Greg.
"Bugger!" This from Sally.
Sherlock shoots them all a look which is vaguely venomous.
"Don't listen to them, darling," he says. "Or would you prefer I do the hard work myself?" And without waiting for her answer- typical Sherlock- he reaches over and expertly inserts the chest spreader into the former Esme Portrose. With an ease which Molly grudgingly allows that she couldn't have managed he opens the corpse up, the scent of decomp and bodily waste wafting into the air-
"Why, what's this?" Sherlock asks, his tone mock surprised, and Molly leans in, frowning as she tries to make out what he's referring to.
To her surprise she sees a small velvet box sitting amidst the viscera of the former Mrs. Portrose.
A small, bloody sign has been pinned to it, and it says it's for The Best Pathologist in London.
"I believe that's you," Sherlock says, nudging her closer.
"You have got to be flippin' kidding me," John mutters loudly.
Still wearing her latex gloves Molly reaches in and plucks out the velvet box. It's somewhat damp from the various excreta in which it was sitting, but it still opens easily. Molly still sees the gorgeous diamond engagement ring sitting inside it.
It's a blood red ruby, surrounded on all sides by glittering white stones.
"It was my grandmother's," Sherlock whispers in her ear. She glances at him in disbelief and he blinks, some of the certainty leaving his expression. "We can get you a new one if you want-"
"It's perfect." Molly gulps. Steps back and then remembers, belatedly, that there's an entire tray of surgical equipment behind her which she will have to resterilize, should they be knocked over. "So you're- You want-?"
Somehow she can't find the words for it.
With great solemnity however, Sherlock takes the ring from the box and gets down on one knee before her. John stares, Greg stares, Sally rolls her eyes. "Specialist Registrar Dr. Molly Hooper," he says, "would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?"
And he holds the ring out hesitantly, trying, Molly can tell, not to stare at or clean the spot of bloody red goo on the ring's central stone.
She can practically see him vibrating, trying to force himself not to fix it but instead to do what he thinks he ought for her.
He did all this for her.
And it's that, that knowledge, that understanding, that prompts her to nod. Smile. "I accept!" She says, laughing, breathless, delighted, and when Sherlock places the engagement ring on her latex-covered finger she wraps her arms around him. Holds him close. Snogs him.
It's a measure of how overjoyed they both are that the don't notice the minor amount of blood spatter they fling around the room.
"So that's why he wanted the corpse," Greg mutters, his voice somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
"In fairness, Guv," Sally says, "I don't think anyone could have seen that coming- Least of all us."
Greg nods dazedly. Looks at John who's slowly started smiling. "You didn't know that's what he wanted that body for, did you?" He asks and Watson shakes his head. Laughs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Should have guessed it though," he says. "How else would Sherlock Holmes ask a woman to marry him?"
The two coppers nod sagely, only looking away when Molly and Sherlock start really going at the snogging, a sight which Sally fears will be bleached inside her brain for the rest of eternity…
Eventually the happy couple pull apart. They look at the Met officers and John, and they blush. Stammer. Shoot sweet, coy glances at one another, despite the fact that they're both now covered in bloody hand prints.
It is somehow both horrifying and absolutely adorable.
"Congrats," Greg announces, hand at the back of his neck. "Just, um, be aware-"
"Be aware that if the boyfriend finds out you tampered with his honey-bun's corpse then there'll be hell to pay," Sally supplies tartly.
Even she is reluctantly smiling, though.
"Pints on me," John announces, "once, you two, you know…"
He gestures vaguely towards the corpse and Molly giggles.
When Sherlock looks at her there are stars in his eyes.
"Of course!" She smiles shyly at Sherlock and then shoos him towards the door. "We can celebrate properly later," she tells him. "Mrs. Portrose needs me now…"
And with another kiss and another girlish grin she manouevres Sherlock out of the autopsy room.
The bloody git is whistling, his cheeks still faintly blushing as he heads into the corridor and down towards the lifts.
"What?" Sherlock asks John as he, his best friend and two of London's finest walk away in search of a stiff drink. "A bit not good?"
He shrugs, nose in the air.
"I rather thought Molly liked it..."
And though John knows he should says something sensible he merely slaps his friend on the back and starts walking him towards the nearest decent pint.
Sensible was never he or Sherlock's forte, he muses- And it appears not to be Molly's either, given who she's marrying...