A/N: Originally this fic was entitled "It's Always 1895 (Until Finally, Thank GOD, It's Not)" and was intended to be a Groundhog Day Sherlolly version of 1895 Sherlock Holmes on New Year's Eve. However, since it's been lingering in unfinished form since 2017, I decided I'd better just finish it up and make it a romantic New Year's Eve one-shot set post TAB. Many thanks to Nocturnias for reading it over for me. Rated K+.
"Happy New Year, Holmes." Watson raises his glass and nods. Sherlock does the same, smiling as Watson turns to his wife, clinking his glass against hers before pressing a loving kiss to her lips.
The New Year's Eve party is an intimate affair, consisting of himself, Mrs. Hudson and her new beau, Inspector Lestrade and his wife, the Watsons...and Doctor Molly Hooper. She alone seems ill-at-ease in the gathering, and he finds himself annoyed that he cannot quite place the reason.
It's not because she's still unaccustomed to being her true self in public; six months have passed since Mycroft arranged for her to take up her responsibilities at the St. Bartholomew's morgue under her true name, after the 'unfortunate passing' of her 'twin brother' Matthew Hooper. Any and all objections to her being a woman performing a man's work have been dealt with, partially by Mycroft's minions or Sherlock himself, but mostly by Miss Hooper's own ability to defend herself - and, of course, her demonstrated skills.
It's not because of the company: she and Watson have made up their differences regarding her inclusion in a cult of murderous women (including, much to Holmes' amusement, her apology for having frightened the good doctor into flight whilst disguised as The Bride), and she and Mary and Mrs. Hudson get along quite well. Although Inspector Lestrade and his wife are the only ones in the room not privy to her secret, that seems to be no barrier to her clearly unfeigned friendliness toward them.
And of course their own friendship, er, professional relationship, has only grown stronger since the events Watson detailed as one of his rare failures. At his behest, of course. No point in exposing Molly and her fellow conspirators to public humiliation or legal repercussions when their actions were, although radical and admittedly criminal, not entirely unjustified.
None of this answers the question he's asked himself and been pondering most of the night: why, then, with all these facts before him, can he not deduce the reason for Molly's obvious (to him only) discomfort? She has made several attempts to excuse herself, claiming fatigue, but Mary has very efficiently countered those claims by reminding Molly that she came with them and will be returning to her flat only when the prearranged hansom arrives to collect the three of them. "Besides, my dear," Mary had further proclaimed, her eyes very wide and suspiciously innocent, "surely no one here will object or find it unseemly if you were to have a bit of a lie-down in John's old bedroom upstairs."
After that, Molly's rather feeble attempts to excuse herself come to an end, much to his relief.
He narrows his eyes at the thought; why should he be relieved at her continued presence? It's not as if they won't see one another in a few days time, should there be a continued uptick in criminal activities he's noted over the holidays.
As the clock finishes chiming the midnight hour, glasses are once again raised, more kisses are exchanged, and Holmes finds himself increasingly fidgety. He is pleased to have his closest friends and comrades by his side, true, but he is also ready to shove the lot of them out of his flat so he can enjoy a pipe and perhaps finish writing up his notes from his latest chemistry experiment. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the kiss he and Molly had exchanged had been on one another's cheeks, her own flushing warmly beneath his lips. (That his own cheek had done the same beneath her soft lips was nobody's business but his own.)
Yes, he is more than ready for his own private pursuits. And if Miss Hooper were to perhaps linger, to assist him in his examination of various types of necrotic tissues...that would be a most pleasant way to end the evening.
He frowns to himself at the positively mawkish direction in which his thoughts have drifted. He and Hooper have always been friendly adversaries; just because their relationship is now far more friendly and far less adversarial is no excuse for his…for his…
"Penny for your thoughts?" a soft voice breaks into his floundering attempts at self-exploration, and he turns with an automatic smile that falters as he sees Miss Hooper's dark brown eyes looking intently up at him.
She has, it appears, decided to brave her uncertainties and confront him - why? Not simply 'why does she wish to confront me' but also 'why do I feel that confront is the correct word to use?
Slowly he realises that they're alone in the room, that the others have apparently taken their leave or are at least in the process of doing so, judging by the sounds drifting up from the bottom of the stairs.
"I beg your pardon?"
His words are a feeble attempt at a delaying tactic, spoken haughtily and with a raised eyebrow to indicate his polite confusion, but Molly simply sighs and offers him a sad smile. "Never mind, Mr. Holmes. I hope you enjoy a felicitous New Year."
"You used to call me Holmes," he says abruptly as she turns toward the door.
She stops, turning back to him with a startled expression on her face. "And you used to call me Hooper," she says after a moment spent studying him. "However, such informality hardly seems appropriate now."
"Not even when we are in private, or amongst friends?" he counters, feeling less on the back foot than he was a moment ago.
"Matthew Hooper is dead," Molly says after a moment, a flash of sadness crossing her face before vanishing into studied neutrality. "Molly Hooper is -"
"Still someone that counts," he interrupts before she can finish, somewhat astonished at himself. Really, where had those words come from?
They are not the only ones, it appears, that his errant tongue has to offer. "You do know, I hope, that I still trust you - that I've always trusted you. If I have not made that clear, then I apologise."
"Sherlock Holmes, apologising?" This time it's Molly's eyebrow that raises. "Surely Dr. Watson needs to hear this, that he might chronicle it in your next adventure!"
He meets her teasing tone with his own, neither of them noticing how closely they're now standing. When had he - she - they - moved? "Sadly, Watson would never believe it unless he witnessed it himself. I daresay he'd accuse me of manipulating you into saying I'd done so. Despite his moment of brilliance in deducing your proper sex recently, I'm afraid he's far too unobservant to see the truth unless he's had his nose rubbed in it."
"The truth being…?" Molly's words trailed off into a question, one he suddenly found himself loath to answer.
But answer it he did. "The truth being," he said huskily, reaching up to brush a tendril of hair from her eyes, "that Sherlock Holmes is just as human as any other man - and that Molly Hooper need never feel insecure about his…his…feelings for her."
He felt a sudden lightness, as if discarding a heavy load he'd formerly been entirely unaware of carrying. As he bends to kiss her - a proper kiss this time, the one he should have offered at the stroke of midnight had they been alone - he realises her earlier uneasiness had merely been a mirror of his own, and likely for the very same reasons.
He resolves, as she returns the kiss, her hands clasped in his, never to make her uncertain of herself ever again. Never to give her cause to doubt him or how he feels about her, no matter what her guise.