"Molly, I need you to marry me."
Glass shattered into a million glittering shards as the beaker Molly had been holding slipped from her hand. The blue liquid within spilled across the table, and a strong acidic smell filled the lab. Molly scurried to clean it up before turning to face Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, what?" She said.
Sherlock's expression was calm, if not slightly bemused. It was as if he thought a marriage proposal was a normal, everyday occurrence. "You heard me. We have a new case. The client is a woman named Joanne Davis, whose late husband worked for a newspaper in the States up until his questionable death two months ago. He was investigating some seedy business dealings of the newspaper's CEO, Oscar Bliss, and Mrs. Davis believes Bliss to be responsible."
"I don't see what this has to do with me marrying you."
"Shush, I was getting to that. I need to go undercover to solve this case, preferably with long-term access to the newspaper office. The best way to do that is to get a job there, but the only one available is marriage advice columnist. They require that the applicant be married in order to secure the job. Thankfully they didn't specify how recently."
Molly relaxed. She should have known that the only time Sherlock would show any romantic inclination towards at all would be for a case. Her heart had done a backflip as soon as the proposal had left his lips, but she refused to let it get the better of her. "So? Just pretend you're married. Fake wedding band and all that."
"That was my initial plan, until I learned the Cumberland Chronicle runs background checks on all applicants before even interviewing them. They'd find out I was lying in a heartbeat."
"Don't you think they'll find it odd that a detective is applying for a position giving marriage advice?"
"They'll never know. I had Mycroft fix it so that my detective work won't pop up in any background check. As far as the employer is concerned, I'm a self-employed life consultant with a degree in psychology, which is more or less true."
"Can't your brother just use his influence with the register office?"
"Unfortunately, no. He offended the Superintendent Registrar a few years ago and she still hasn't forgiven him."
"How did he manage that?"
"He refused to marry her."
"Ironic."
"Quite. But we're getting off the subject." Sherlock followed Molly to the other side of the lab, where she was putting away equipment. "You once said that you'd be there for me. Whatever I needed. And besides, it's not like this is a real marriage. As soon as we get back to England, we'll simply tell them it wasn't legal somehow and get it annulled. It will be like it never happened."
Molly was going to say something snarky—perhaps that she could claim he was mentally ill as grounds for the annulment—but then she made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. She'd once thought that they were merely blue, pale as glass, but closer inspection had revealed gold threads around the pupils that made them look green on occasion. These were the eyes that looked into the minds of crooked men and brought them to their knees, the eyes that not only saw but observed every little detail and catalogued it if it was of importance. But they were also the eyes that softened when looking upon John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and even her from time to time. And it was these eyes that were attempting to coax her heart out of its iron-barred cage.
Molly sighed. "Alright. Fine. For the case. But annulling it is the absolute FIRST thing we do when we get back. I'd rather not be stuck spending my life with a bloke like you."
"I can't imagine why; you'd never be bored. Regardless, I'm not looking forward to this either. It isn't exactly my area."
"Yes, I know. You're married to your work."
"Indeed." Sherlock grabbed Molly's left hand and inspected it. Taken by surprise, Molly tried to ignore the tingle that traveled up her arm, reminding herself that she was over him. The sensation subsided. "You wear a size 6 ring."
It was a statement, not a question, but Molly nodded anyway. The measurements he took merely by looking were always precise. "Mind you get me something nice, so I know you put a lot of thought into it," she joked.
Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "That's another thing I don't understand. Why do people spend so much on such a small trinket? Can't the same amount of thought be put into a more affordable ring? Why does a man have to break the bank to prove his love?"
"It's symbolic. Shows how much she's worth to him."
"Worth is circumstantial. A homeless man could place the same amount of worth on a crumpet."
"Well I'd rather not wear a crumpet on my hand, thank you very much."
Sherlock chuckled. "No, that wouldn't suit you at all. But I'm sure I'll be able to find something that does." He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, fished out a bundle of papers, and handed them to her. "These are the Notice of Intention papers that you need to fill out. Mine are already finished. We'll turn them in at Westminster City Hall, 64 Victoria Street tomorrow. I've made an appointment."
"You already made an appointment before you fake-proposed?"
"Of course! I knew you'd fake-accept. Anyway, sixteen days after we give notice, we'll return there for the ceremony. Two people from my homeless network have agreed to act as witnesses."
Molly shook her head in disbelief. "You have this whole thing figured out, don't you?"
"We haven't the time to waste; I'd like to get to America as soon as possible. See you tomorrow, darling." Sherlock bent down and planted a quick, friendly kiss on her cheek. The term of endearment felt unnatural on his tongue. He made a mental note to practice saying it until it no longer sounded like he was choking down bitter medicine at the same time. "Oh, and don't mention this to anyone, especially John or Mary. Or Mycroft, if he happens to come snooping around in my life again. They'll try to put a stop to it."
"Okay, dear." As the door to the lab shut behind Sherlock, Molly leaned back against the cabinet, wondering what she had gotten herself into.