Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sherlock sat in a stunned stupor and watched Molly disappear from view. What on Earth had just happened? He had clearly done something to give Molly the impression that he was asking her to marry him. He had no idea what that could have been. He scanned back through his recent memories, looking for clues.

They had had a lovely day full of special moments like sitting under the tree, eating ice cream; the other tourists thinking he was a tour guide had been annoying at first but Molly had shown him the funny side. She had dressed in her garden party outfit and done her hair so she looked like Audrey Hepburn but far more beautiful and they had come to this exclusive restaurant, been given a private table by the window, affording them an amazing view of Rio. And then he had taken her hand…

Oh, god, Sherlock gasped.

Yes, that was it! He had given her a special day and brought her to this romantic location and held her hand across the table. No wonder she thought he was proposing! What an IDIOT he was!

He stood up and walked in the direction she had taken. The maître gave him a quizzical look and he shrugged apologetically but continued on to the door to the Ladies' Room and pushed it open.

'Sir! Please! You cannot come in here!' the panicking rest room attendant squawked, in Portuguese.

'Senhora, please, I need to speak to my wife. I've upset her. Please wait outside and don't let anyone else come in, would you?' he pleaded with her.

The girl took in his concerned expression and, after a moment's hesitation, relented. With a sympathetic smile, she left the restroom and stood outside, barring the door.

The sound of someone tapping on the toilet cubicle door broke through Molly's misery and she heard a female voice speaking in Portuguese. The voice sounded gentle and kind and sympathetic but Molly could not bring herself to respond. She hoped the person would just give up and go away but she suspected they wouldn't.

Then the voice changed, became alarmed, insistent and Molly feared someone would start banging on the door and demanding that she come out. But then she heard another voice and her stomach dropt into her shoes. Sherlock was in the rest room, speaking to the attendant in Portuguese. The woman stopped shrieking and everything went quiet.

Sherlock leaned his head against the closed cubicle door, closed his eyes and said, quietly,

'Molly, please, open the door.'

There was no reply.

'Please, Molly, open the door, will you?'

Molly lifted her face from her hands, eyes screwed tight shut and mascara smeared down her cheeks, and sobbed,

'I don't want to come out.'

He pressed the flat of his hand to the door and spoke gently.

'You don't have to come out but, please, let me come in.'

Molly considered that option. The toilet cubicle was quite spacious, as these things go, so space was not an issue. She really didn't want him to see her looking like this but she was suddenly reminded of an afternoon, not very long ago, when she had knocked at a locked bathroom door and he, wrapped in a bed sheet and traumatised by his encounter with that bitch, The Woman, had let her in. She reached forward and slid the bolt across then sat back down on the toilet seat.

Sherlock heard the bolt slide and felt the door sag inwards. He pushed it open and slipped inside, closing and rebolting it behind him. He went down on one knee, reached out a hand, placing it around the exposed nape of Molly's neck and rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

'Molly. I am so sorry. Please, don't cry,' he begged,

'I am so stupid,' she hiccupped, her breath catching in her throat, making her shoulders jerk.

'No!' he exclaimed then moderated his tone and repeated, gently, 'no, you are not stupid. I am the stupid one. I am a socially incompetent moron, an utter cretin, a damn fool and complete idiot!'

She reached out a hand and grasped his sleeve, shaking her head but still not looking up.

'Don't talk like that about yourself,' she whispered.

'Well, someone needs to say it and I know you won't. You are far too forgiving.'

He moved his hand down her back to rub circles between her shoulder blades, feeling the soft fabric of her beautiful dress under his fingers. Twice she had worn that dress and twice she had ended up in tears, and both times it had been his fault. He was an idiot! God, where was John Watson when he needed him? That's what he so depended upon – John Watson telling him when things were 'a bit not good'. Well, this was a lot not good! He was a child in a man's body, someone who needed a social mentor, someone who needed help to keep his size 11 feet out of his great, fat mouth.

'Sherlock.'

The sound of her soft voice snapped him out of his silent self-castigating rant and he looked into her liquid eyes.

'I know how you feel about marriage and I respect that. I've said this before but I'm saying it again. I fell in love with the real Sherlock Holmes, not the one in my imagination. I love every single part of you and that includes your views on justice, child care, loyalty and marriage. I don't know what came over me. I got a bit carried away in the moment…'

He placed a light fingertip on her lips to halt the torrent of words then took her face in both his hands and pressed a tremulous kiss to those sweet, soft lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

'Well, I think I answered your question, anyway,' she sighed.

'Yes, you did,' he replied, encircling her with his arms and leaning his head against hers.

Five or ten minutes later, they emerged from the Ladies' Room, hand in hand, much to the relief of the rest room attendant and the Maître, who had both been watching the door with a growing sense of alarm. The couple returned to their table and retook their seats.

Molly had cleaned the smeared mascara from her cheeks and cooled her swollen eyes with cold water but she was glad of the strategically placed pot plants that concealed them from all the other diners. The waiter, who had been on tenterhooks wondering how long the young couple would be ensconced in the Ladies' Room, made eye contact with Sherlock, who nodded to signal for the first course to be served.

Once the starters had been placed in front of them and the waiter had retreated, they both picked at their food, their appetites ruined by all the emotion.

Sherlock put down his fork and took up the theme that had caused the sudden interruption of their first date.

'I had no idea how important it was to you,' he said.

'It's not,' she insisted. But the look he gave her curtailed any further attempt at denial.

'Molly, it clearly is. You accepted the fait accompli out of respect for my opinion, which you obviously don't share. And I, selfishly, let you do that. It makes me wonder how many more of my opinions I've forced upon you.'

'Sherlock, stop that! Stop that right now!' Molly exclaimed, in a stage whisper. 'I will not sit here and allow you to say such things. I'm a grown woman and I made my choices of my own free will. No one forced me to do anything. I chose my own destiny and you can have no idea how often I pinch myself and thank my fairy godmother for putting you in my life,' she declared, vehemently.

Stretching across the table, she clasped his large hand, with its long, elegant fingers, in her small, dainty one.

'Please, forget what I said. Delete it from your hard drive. We are fine, just as we are. We don't need a piece of paper to tell us how we feel about one another. And we don't need to stand up in front of anyone but each other to declare our love and commitment, OK?'

She held his gaze with a fierce stare until he dropped his eyes and nodded then she squeezed his hand and released it.

'I'm not that hungry, actually,' she admitted.

'Me, neither,' he agreed. 'Do you think they do doggy bags?'

The look on the face of the waiter when Sherlock put that question to him told them that he had never heard that particular request before. He scuttled over to the maître and gabbled in the ear of the man, who listened with a look of growing incredulity and then gave curt instructions to the waiter, who disappeared in the direction of the kitchen as the maître approached the couple's table.

'Oh-oh, we're for it,' Sherlock muttered, which made Molly giggle, in spite of herself.

'Senhor,' the maître began, addressing Sherlock but giving a short bow of acknowledgement toward Molly. 'Is there a problem with the food or with the service?'

'No, not at all,' Sherlock replied, in his most charming manner, 'My wife is not feeling well so we need to return to our hotel but we will no doubt be hungry later so we'd like to take our meal with us. I do hope you understand.' As he spoke, Sherlock fished his wallet from his inside pocket and, flipping it open, removed his AmEx Gold card and placed it on the crisp white tablecloth, placing on top of it large denomination bank note.

The maître took one look, picked them both up, said 'Of course, sir' and walked smartly away.

Molly and Sherlock held hands, sipped their wine and talked in quiet voices as they waited for the food to be brought out.

'Sherlock, why did you bring up the subject of marriage tonight?' she asked, placing a second hand on top of his when he winced at the memory.

He tilted his head to one side as he debated whether or not to answer but, at last, he did.

'It was something Caro said. She asked me why we weren't married and I told her my reasons. Then she asked me if you felt the same and I couldn't answer because I'd never asked you how you felt. So I asked her if you'd said something and she didn't say you had but she told me what a wedding day means, from the woman's perspective.'

Molly grimaced and shook her head.

'That was very sweet of Caro and I know she meant well but she really should not have interfered. This is our relationship and we understand each other. No one else knows how we fit together, how we give and take.'

'Yes, but Molly, it seems to me that you do all the giving and I do all the taking,' he declared and his expression conveyed the guilt he felt at that statement.

'That is utter rubbish!' she exclaimed, with such vehemence, he blinked.

'Look how much you have changed since we first met. You are a million miles away from the man who used to flirt with me, shamelessly, just to gain access to St. Bart's facilities. Who could have imagined, back then, that we would ever make a home together as a couple and bring children into this world? You have given me so much. I could never repay you.'

He reached out to brush her cheek, wordlessly, since he couldn't trust his voice at that moment.

The waiter appeared with their food in polystyrene boxes and wrapped in cooking foil, and the portable chip and pin machine with Sherlock's card already inserted, so he paid the bill and gave the waiter a generous tip, too.

The couple got up and walked back through the dining area, pausing by the Ladies' Room while Molly popped inside to thank the attendant for her kindness and give her a tip, also. Honour restored, they exited the building and climbed into a cab for the silent return journey to their hotel, fingers still entwined, each thinking their own thoughts.

Back in the privacy of their hotel suite, they retired to the bedroom and, opening the curtains and the windows wide, they made love, tenderly, surrounded by the sound and the smell of the ocean. And both wished for their union be blessed with a baby girl, a sister for William and Freddie and a daughter for them, to make their perfect little family complete.

ooOoo