From: Sherlock Holmes to Molly Hooper, 25 November 1940.
Molly,
We're to move off soon enough – not far but still all the men are busy preparing for it, including myself, so this letter will be short. (Lestrade's already told me off twice for even beginning to write this letter – he's become rather a stickler for time here.) Hopefully however, I'll be able to put across what I need to in few words. Just as it takes skill to put rhyme and rhythm together, it takes skill to be concise. This letter will act as confirmation if I possess those skills.
I have to admit, I find the image of you wearing my Belstaff rather amusing. Pleasing, because I know you're no longer shivering, but also amusing; especially when the image is coupled with a fluffy, pink scarf. It's because you are so small compared to me, Molly. Tiny. Petite. That's not to say that's a bad thing of course—though I'm sure, once we're together again, one or both of us will suffer from terrible aches in the neck—but the size of someone frequently dictates how people act around them. Look at how you thought of Daisy – so young, but in the end, more than capable. (The war has made most of us more than capable.) People must look at you, with your small stature, and think you a delicate creature – a fragile doll that must be cared for and looked after. Idiots, obviously. I mean, I want to look after you, of course I do. But I don't want to treat you like you might break at any moment. I want to treat you like the woman you are; the woman who loves me in spite of my flaws. Do tell Mrs Hudson though to stop stockpiling. I'm sure she's got enough by now and I do want to be the same weight on my departure that I will be on my arrival.
But Molly, I have to confess: your discussion of love made me laugh. With relief I might add. Haven't I proved to you already that I am not a sweetheart, nor a lover? I'm not the type to whisper sweet nothings. I love you Molly Hooper, I freely admit that, but however much the people we know might want to see it, I don't have the predilection to tuck a rose between my teeth and dance the tango. God, can you imagine that? No, I'd much rather keep my emotions private. My desire for you, for your words and your comfort, is something I keep close to me. To others, I show it in glimpses. I don't, as you put it, "wax lyrical" to the other men about it. John can't understand that of course, and neither can Lestrade. They wear their hearts, quite proudly, on their sleeves. John brags about Mary at any chance he can get. I don't think they can really grasp the fact that a private heart can feel things just as much an open heart can. Private hearts simply choose when and how they show those feelings. Us, we show them in our words. When I come back, I very much plan to show them in my actions. I promise you: things will not trickle back to the way they were. How could they?
This does, however, lead me onto another subject. Do not laugh when you read this following sentence, Molly, but well… I've been recently ruminating on the idea of marriage. Between you and me. Forgive me for being presumptuous in your answer but I've already written to my brother, requesting he buy a marriage licence on our behalf. I'd pay anything to see his reaction. Shock wouldn't be able to describe it. Yet, if all goes well, the registry office should be booked for the day of my arrival. I understand if you don't wish to go through with it, completely, as it is a big step. To attach oneself to you for life. It's terrifying.
In fact, when I first thought of proposing (a few weeks back, to be truthful), I abandoned the idea completely. I suppose that's the advantage of being here, in the trenches. In the quiet moments, you get a lot of time to think things over. I thought about what it would be like. Marriage, I mean. If it would actually be more painful to have you waiting back in London, working in the factory, while knowing you were my wife and I was away from you. That's mostly why I bottled it the first time. Then I thought about the life we could build. I won't presume to know how you feel about children and I won't ask now; that is a conversation for when we are face to face. I thought that, perhaps, if we married, we could make a life in Baker Street. In 221b, with Mrs Hudson downstairs and us upstairs. Together, as man and wife. Sharing breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sharing the living room, the books and the chairs. Sharing a bed. I admit that a certain thrill went through me at that last thought. (For I do desire you Molly, immensely. Please, never think I don't.) I thought about waking up every morning and seeing a gold band—though it could also be silver, depends entirely on you—on my finger.
Not too surprisingly, I've not thought much about marriage before. I scoffed at Lestrade's failure and rolled my eyes at John and Mary's success. When you are on the outside of it, it's very easy to treat it with such scorn; to call it an "institution" and deride the people who get caught up in it. These last few weeks have blown that perception completely out of the water. Quite honestly I do still believe people do create too much of a fuss over it when it happens—consequence of not wearing my heart on my sleeve—but I could cope with all that fuss now. If you do say yes, that is.
I just realised I was supposed to make this letter short. Bugger.
Yours,
Sherlock.
