The hushed voices upstairs had caught her attention..
She left Daddy sampling Christmas cake with Grammy, quietly tip-toeing her way up to her Uncle Sherlock’s flat. He’d been so busy with cases lately, Rosie had hardly seen him; she missed him. Carefully avoiding the creaky stair, she crept to the landing, squinting in the dim lighting; the doorway to the flat was open ever so slightly and Rosie could see something moving inside. She stifled her giggle as she moved closer, intending to leap out in surprise. Easing the door open slightly, however, Rosie stopped dead at the sight before her.
Uncle Sherlock was home, casework either finished for the day or abandoned in favour of kissing Santa Claus. Kissing was perhaps too tame a word but Rosie tried not to look, grimacing slightly at the thought. She covered her moutht to keep from making any noise, watching Santa reciprocate enthusiastically, both hands clutching his enormous trousers to keep them from falling down. Rosie noticed the sprig of misteltoe hanging above them. Maybe this was Uncle Sherlock’s approach to getting the unicorn she wanted for Christmas...
Downstairs, Daddy had finished with Grammy and was now noisily making his way upstairs like a clumsy elephant. Rosie sighed and backed away, hoping to stop her father before he ruined everything. She REALLY wanted that unicorn. She collided with her Dad halfway down the stairs.
“Whoa, sweetie. What’s the matter with you?” He said too loudly for her liking, catching her shoulders to keep her from stumbling over. Rosie pressed a finger to her mouth.
“SHHH!” She whispered urgently, attempting to shove her father down the stairs, “we have to go.”
“What? You’ve been on about seeing your Uncle all day!” With that he scooped her up despite her protests and carried on upstairs.
The damage was done, anyway. The noisy git had disturbed the passionate pair and by the time they entered the flat, Santa was trying to hide behind Uncle Sherlock, blushing furiously and still holding his trousers up. Uncle Sherlock looked rather pleased with himself despite Santa’s discomfort. Daddy looked confused, staring between the two of them.
“What’s going on?”
“I saw Uncle Sherlock kissing Santa Claus,” Rosie whispered helpfully. She took advantage of everyone’s stunned silence to sneak away and nab one of Santa’s cookies from the table.
“What?”
“Bart’s Christmas party,” Santa squeaked, emerging from behind Sherlock with a slight waddle, “I- Doctor Samuels couldn’t attend so they asked...me.”
Sherlock patted Santa’s shoudler fondly, “Doctor Samuels in slightly more Santa-esque than dear Molly, here but...” he smirked, “she did her best.”
Rosie sighed. Aunt Molly. Still, maybe she could get the unicorn from the real Santa Claus.
“And, what, Santa just...does it for you?” John asked, gesturing slightly at the petite pathologist drowning in the large costume. A pair of tiny spectacles were perched on her nose and the long beard came down to her middle. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure he wanted Sherlock to answer his question.
Sherlock shrugged, “she didn’t have time to change,” he took her hand, smiling shyly as he gazed at her, "and I missed her.”
As she nibbled the remains of her cookie, Rosie couldn’t help but smile; at least one of her Christmas presents came early.
yes I know it’s january but hey Rosie saw Uncle Sherlock kissing Santa Claus
When the taxi first pulled up alongside the ancient building, John assumed the driver had simply made a mistake. The morgue he and Sherlock usually frequented was situated in the opposite direction - it was small, untidy and the staff weren’t exactly accomodating of their needs. Then again, neither was Sherlock. Still, St. Bart’s was clearly a vast improvement.
“Why are we here?” John asked, following Sherlock out of the taxi and towards the Hospital.
“I’ve decided Bart’s facilities would be much more beneficial for our cases. It’s closer to Baker Street, carries state of the art equipment,” the detective stated matter of factly, pushing through the front doors. The two headed towards the lifts, pressing the button leading to the lab. Sherlock continued as they walked, “I am aquainted with the Head of Pathology, he has assured me his staff are very obliging.”
They arrived at the lab, greeted by Sherlock’s aquaintance, Mike Stamford, who just happened to be John’s former army buddy. As the former soldiers caught up, Sherlock was already settled at a bench engrossed in an experiment.
“John Watson, this is Molly Hooper, my best pathologist on staff. Don’t tell the others I said that,” he added chirply. Molly smiled, shaking John’s hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“And the pieces fall into place, Doctor Hooper,” John said, looking as though he’d won the lottery, “I’ve heard so much about you. How is your Clara?”
“Very well, thanks,” Molly replied with a confused glance towards Mike; clearly she was wondering how her daughter had come up in their conversation. John chuckled.
“We have a mutual friend, Doctor,” he paused, leading her over to the occupied bench, “well, I say ‘friend’.”
Sherlock wanted to throw something at his smug friend. Nevertheless, he refused to let John think he’d won; he’d never hear the end of it, “coffee would ne nice, John.”
“What a good idea. Mike? Why don’t we talk further over coffee?” John bounded over to Mike and Sherlock had a nasty feeling he’d be seeing that smirk for a long time to come. Mike glanced between the three of them, particularly his resident pathologist who appeared to be frozen in place.
“What’s going on?” He mouthed at his old friend. John merely waved a hand and manhandled him towards the exit, muttering something about explaining it later.
Soon the warring parents were alone and for a long time, Molly was speechless. She fiddled with her clipboard, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“We still need to discuss our schooling situation.”
Molly wasn’t a fool. She knew exactly who Sherlock Holmes was, “you changed Hospitals just for that reason?”
“Professionally, it’s a better option. State of the art equipment, clean, obliging staff, “ he paused, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, “mostly.”
“And just how do you propose we solve this ‘schooling situation’ as you call it?” Molly asked, placing her clipboard on the table before she clobbered him with it, “if we couldn’t sort it out after hours in Mr. Jackson’s office, what makes you think we’ll get anywhere on our own?”
After a moment, Sherlock sighed, finally looking up from his microscope, “I’m willing to try if you are. We can hardly do worse.”
Molly had to agree, he had a point. Mr. Jackson wasn’t exactly the best mediator. Then again, prolonged periods of solitude spent with Sherlock Holmes had Molly wondering if one of them might end up dead by the end of it. Still, she nodded.
“Fine. What do you suggest?”
“Dinner at my flat,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, removing his phone and tapping away madly at the device, “Lana spends Tuesday’s with my brother, John will be out. We shouldn’t be interrupted.”
Molly made a note at the edge of her clipboard, “I’ll see if I can arrange a babysitter and get back to you.”
“In that case, we’d better exchange numbers.”
“Okay,” Molly removed her phone, typing in her contact details, “’Mr. Holmes...”
There was a brief pause before he muttered, “Sherlock.”
“Sherlock,” Molly said in a rather undignified squeak, correcting her contact as he recited his phone number. When she finished giving her number, she was surprised to find him smiling.
“Am I to call you Doctor Hooper or...”
“Molly,” she replied, her cheeks reddening slightly under his gaze. He nodded, adding her name to her contact.
“I look forward to our meeting...Molly,” he extended his hand in a gesure of good will which Molly happily shook, lingering perhaps a little longer than was necessary.
“Likewise, Sherlock.”
My mum’s going to watch Clara. I’m free tonight. MHx
221B Baker Street. 19:30. Come straight up. SH
Molly couldn’t help but sigh at the message, wondering what she’d gotten herself in for. Clara had followed her into her bedroom, still whining about her evening.
“Why do I have to stay with Grandma just because you’ve got a date?”
“It’s not a date,” Molly murmured, distracted over which cardigan she should wear. She finally decided on a charming cherry print, one of her favourites, “Sherlock and I are just discussing you and Lana sensibly over dinner.”
Clara frowned in confusion, “Sherlock?”
“Mr. Holmes,” Molly corrected, refusing to look at her little girl. Oh, but Clara wasn’t stupid. She sat up on the bed, tilting her head as her Mum examined an old skirt she’d dug out, “what about this one?”
“That one does look pretty, Mummy. I think Mr. Sherlock will like it.”
“Have you finished your homework, young lady?” With that statement, Clara dashed off, sneaking a look as her Mum gave the skirt another once over before placing it with the cardigan.
“This one?”
Lana absently flicked through her science magazine, not even bothering to look at what had to be the hundredth shirt from her Dad’s wardrobe. “I told you I liked the purple one.”
Sherlock snatched up the purple shirt, holding it to his throat yet again, “I wish you’d take this seriously.”
“Why are you trying so hard?” Lana said with a smirk, a smirk she inherited from her father. He gestured the shirt at her pointedly.
“I’m only doing this for you. Do you think I want to spend my evening with that wet blanket?”
“Yep.” The obnoxious popping of her ‘P’s was something he regretted allowing her to pick up. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“Get your stuff ready. Your Uncle will be here soon.”
By the time Molly had climbed into the cab and gave the Holmes’ address, she was a bag of nerves. Several times, she’d almost lost her nerve and asked the driver to turn around. She was determined to make this work, though, for Clara’s sake. Molly took out her compact mirror and checked her appearance; it was only to shut Clara up that she’d applied make-up and made a slight effort with her hair. As if Mr. Holmes would go to the trouble...
The taxi pulled up outside 221B before she expected; Molly paid the driver and climbed out, adjusting her cardigan. She approached the door, noticing the handmade sign below their doorbell: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor J. H. Watson. Interesting cases only please. Molly smiled and, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, knocked once and stepped into the warm flat.
Clara’s at her Dad’s this weekend, if you want to come round. Mx
Lana read the message carefully, scratching her chin thoughtfully. From his chair, her Dad watched her impatiently, waiting for her verdict. After what felt like an age, she handed over the phone with a shrug.
“It looks like Miss Molly wants you to go to her house.”
“Yes, when you were sick, we agreed to rearrange,” Sherlock explained, still staring at the message as if hoping to uncover a secret meaning. He sighed, looking at his daughter, “you think I should go.”
Lana rolled her eyes, looking very much like her father, “well, yeah. And you’re supposed to be a detective.”
“What should I do?”
Lana tapped her chin, “hmm. Well, remember Mum?”
"Yes, of course,” he said after a moment’s awkward silence. Lana didn’t seem to notice; she simply smiled.
“Do the opposite.”
Sherlock wasn’t impressed, even if she did have a point. He was damned if he was going to tell her that, though. Instead, he frowned, glaring at her, “very funny.”
“I don't know what to tell you, Daddy,” Lana gave an exasperated sigh; even if she was wise beyond her years, her father’s love life was a minefield. She’d never seen him with a woman he wasn’t related to, her own mother having left after she was born. Miss Molly was different. Suddenly, an idea struck her, “get her flowers.”
“Why?”
"Girls like flowers.”
Sherlock nodded, making notes on his phone. When it came to advice and general people skills, there was no one he trusted more than his seven-year-old.
"Anything else?”
“I dunno. I mean, Miss Molly fancies my Dad! It’s yucky.”
There was a pause and a brief smile appeared on her Dad’s face, “she fancies me?”
Lana just stared at him until he excused himself to start dinner.
“Tom, you can’t do this,” Molly was saying into the phone she had pressed between her ear and shoulder, packing Clara’s bag as she spoke, “she’s really looking forward to seeing you.”
Clara, who had been handing her mother things to pack into her weekend, sighed dejectedly. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time her Dad had let her down; ever since he started seeing Jessica, their visits had been less and less regular. Her father hadn’t said as much but Clara could tell his new girlfriend didn’t like children. Molly was now pacing her bedroom, giving her ex an earful.
“What am I supposed to tell her this time? I don’t want to hear it, Tom, you can tell her yourself when you can be bothered.”
She hung up the phone, running her hands through her hair. Clara sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her plush rabbit.
“What did he say this time?”
Molly smiled sympathetically, crouching in front of her little girl, “he said this was his only weekend with his girlfriend. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
Clara nodded, snuggling up to her mother, “it’s okay, Mummy.”
“I know what’ll cheer you up,” Molly said, hauling Clara into her arms and taking her through to the kitchen, “why don’t we make some cookies? I think I’ve still got some ingredients left over.”
Clara’s eyes lit up, “can I lick the bowl?”
“I don’t see why not,” Molly chuckled, setting Clara down so they could get to work.
Sherlock had spent more time than he was willing to admit choosing a bouquet of flowers to bring to Molly. Eventually, he selected a bunch of yellow roses - Lana wished him luck and gave him a big hug. By the time he reached Molly’s flat, he was more nervous than he was letting on but he knocked anyway.
The moment he set eyes on her, his bottle went.
“Um...from Lana,” he thrust the flowers forward, smiling shyly. Molly accepted the beautiful bouquet gratefully, sniffing the arrangement appreciatively, “she wanted to thank you for looking after her.”
“Oh, well, she didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, blushing heavily, “it was my pleasure. How is she feeling?”
“Good as new.”
She giggled although she wasn’t quite sure why. After a few moments awkward waiitng, Molly realised she hadn’t informed him of the change of plan; her eyes widened.
“Oh, God. I forgot to tell you...Tom cancelled and, well...Clara’s staying with me this weekend.”
Sherlock nodded, understanding immediately; Molly wasn’t sure if he looked disappointed or relieved, “nevermind, we’ll reschedule-”
“Hello, Mr. Sherlock,” Clara dashed around the corner, covered in flour and grinning widely, “do you know anything about cookies?”
“Only that my brother consumes all in his vicinity.”
That seemed to be good enough for Clara. She took his hand and dragged him towards the kitchen, “good. I need your help. Oh, and this is yours.”
The youngster threw an apron at him, one that read ‘Kiss the Cook’ in big obnoxious lettering. He raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the smirk which Clara was quick to notice.
“It’s my Mum’s. She’ll tell you Dad left it but...” she shrugged, climbing onto her chair to continue kneading the dough.
“Right,” Sherlock slipped the apron on and approached the kitchen table, watching her, “what do you want me to do, chef?”
Three hours later, Sherlock was bidding Clara goodbye, his arms full of cookies to distribute between Lana and his brother. Mycroft will be pleased. After ensuring Clara was secure in her bedroom, Molly walked him to the door.
“I’m sorry about that...” she started but he quickly cut her off.
“Don’t be. I had a nice afternoon,” he smiled genuinely, suddenly worlds away from the arrogant tosser she used to dread meeting with in the Headmaster’s office. Now, he was her daughter’s classmate’s father she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, folding her arms shyly, “yeah, it was fun.”
Fun didn’t even begin to describe their afternoon. They’d spent most of their time side by side, passing ingredients and kneading cookie dough, fingers brushing and hips bumping. Once or twice she’d caught him staring at her only to have him gently wipe away flour from her nose or cheek, always resulting in her pathetic blushing. She was brought back to reality when Sherlock stepped into her space, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her cheek.
“We will have that dinner, Molly,” he mumbled into her skin, straightening up a moment later. Molly swallowed hard, touching her burning skin where his lips had previously been.
The Watson’s annual themed Halloween parties were renowned for their beauty and finesse. Last year had been pirate themed at the insistence of their adopted child, Sherlock Holmes, despite his repeated assertions that he ‘didn’t give a damn what they did’. There had been a Disney theme (their first to celebrate Rosie’s first Halloween), Game of Thrones (much to the delight of avid fans Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper) and Harry Potter. This year, the couple had opted for a Victorian theme.
Festivities were underway with the Watson’s house turned into a gothic Victorian dwelling - John wore an uncomfortable moustache to perfect his gentlemanly costume, Mary had found a cute, old-fashioned hat to match with her costume and Rosie wanted to be a vampire queen. Classical music blared from an old gramophone John had found at a market and snacks had been prepared, laid out on plate of feux silver. After trick or treaters had been and gone, guests began to arrive. Greg Lestrade arrived wearing a pair of ridiculous sideburns, which Rosie got a good laugh out of. Stamford was keen to show off his vintage glasses and pocketwatch. But it was Molly Hooper who surprised them, as usual.
“What do you think?” The pathologist had donned a gentleman’s suit, a short wig and a small moustache. She rocked on her heels, tugging at her shirt braces proudly, “I’m a Victorian pathologist. Women wouldn’t have practiced medicine back then. Neat, eh?”
The Watson did have to admit...it was really neat. Last to arrive was Sherlock, thankfully in costume (he didn’t want to risk Mary’s wrath again), dressed in an impecible three-piece tweed suit, a fancy pocketwatch dangling from his jacket pocket; the ensemble was completed by the pipe the detective puffed from. By his side was his newly acquired Basset Hound, Roger - named by Rosie - wearing a tiny bee outfit.
"He wanted to be a bee”, was the only explanation he gave before swanning past them into the flat.
The party was a success. Guests danced and chatted, praising the Watsons for another fine get together. Rosie doted on Roger, feeding him pieces of chicken from the buffet. Sherlock, meanwhile, was transfixed by Molly, specifically her attire. Her idea was genius and historically accurate, something he apparently found pleasing. That moustache was doing things to him. Inappropriate things. He observed John’s bushy monstrosity, a growth covering most of the lower half of his face. Nothing. Sherlock studied Graham’s prominent facial hair, peeling away at the tops whenever he laughed. Not arousing in the slightest. But Molly Hooper’s piqued his deductive interest. So much so that he sidled over to her; she looked around as he approached, grinning over the wine goblet she sipped from.
"Good evening, Mister ‘olmes. How are you this fine evenin’?”
Sherlock could tell she was having perhaps a little too much fun roleplaying; well, who was he to disappoint her?
"Would you care to join me in the pantry? I wish to discuss a matter of utmost urgency.”
Molly raised an eyebrow but maintained character, “in seclusion?”
“Of course.”
The pathologist shrugged, draining the remainder of her wine and sighed in satisfaction; Sherlock couldn’t help but notice her fake facial hair was moist from the liquid she’d just consumed. It would remain so, if he had his way.
“Lead the way, my good man,” she giggled, gesturing towards the kitchen.
The party had all but died down, the guests having left after heaping praise on their hosts and accepting well put together goody bags. John and Mary had started cleaning up when Rosie bounded in the room, a plate of leftover chicken in her hand for Roger. She sat beside the fire with the happy dog, tossing him pieces of meat.
“Mummy, Uncle Sherlock is kissing a man in the kitchen,” the youngster said innocently. She petted Roger on the head and tickled his ears, “...and that’s okay.”
John and Mary caught each other’s eye - the army doctor didn’t share his wife’s amusement. He dropped the bag, tearing off his moustache.
“I’m going to bed.”
Later, as John was fetching a glass of milk from the fridge, he heard something from the spare bedroom they'd given to Sherlock for the night that would scar him for life.
When Molly awoke she was surprised to find she was alone. She’d been living at Baker Street for several weeks, since her flat was undergoing important repairs. For the most part, Sherlock was the perfect flatmate - there was the occasional four in the morning violin concerto but she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate it. He’d also insisted on sharing his room since John’s old attic room was cold and damp; Molly knew better than to argue.
Yawning, Molly rubbed her eyes and kicked away the covers; she wrapped his old dressing gown around herself and stopped to admire the Periodic Table on his wall. Several days ago, Sherlock had circled several of the letters - Molly thought nothing of it and assumed it was something for a case. She smiled, leaving the bedroom in search of a fresh cup of coffee; she found Sherlock fiddling with something on the fridge.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped, turning around and pressing himself against the fridge, “nothing.”
Molly raised an eyebrow, but decided not to worry about it too much; he’d been on edge the last few days. This case was really taking it out of him.
“Okay. Can I get the milk?”
Sherlock briefly glanced out of the corner of his eye before he shook his head, “no. We’re...out.”
Black coffee it was, then.
“Erm, alright,” she shuffled over to the kettle, aware of his gaze on her the entire time she filled and boiled the kettle. She turned in time to see him look away quickly, “what’s the matter with you?”
“Hmm?” He looked back at her then, scurrying over to join her at the sink. he waved a dismissive hand, “nothing. Let me do that,” Sherlock took the mugs from her hands and began directing her towards the bathroom, “you go have a shower...”
Molly had never been so confused in her life but she allowed him to lead her to the bathroom; she shrugged away his odd mood, choosing to worry about it later.
Molly left the bathroom twenty minutes later to find Sherlock in his chair, typing away on his phone; she retrieved her lukewarm coffee from the table, taking a sip.
“if we need milk, maybe I should get some,” she said casually, opening the fridge and peering inside - this action seemed to interest the detective greatly. Molly frowned; there was barely enough for breakfast, “is there anything you need?”
When he didn’t answer, she peered around the fridge; she was met with an intense stare, one she hadn’t seen on Sherlock’s face in a long time. It actually made her feel rather uneasy.
“What?”
He sighed, returning his attention once again to his phone screen, “home delivery. It’s on the way.”
“Oh,” Molly tried to mask her surprise although she was sure she didn’t do a very good job, “right, good,” there was another awkward pause where Molly stood in the kitchen awkwardly before she asked, “er, do you need any help with the case?”
“Yes!” Sherlock looked relieved, jumping to his feet and tossing Molly her phone (which she only just caught), “an internet search, if you don’t mind.”
Molly nodded, deciding to keep her mouth shut about the fact he’d just been on his own phone. She brought up her Internet, noticing the flashing bar at the top of her phone - of course he changed the wi-fi password again.
“Whats the new password?”
“w1ll y0u m6rry m3?” Sherlock spelled, pacing anxiously in front of the fireplace. There was a heartbeat in which Molly typed on her phone; after a moment he looked up to find her staring at him expectantly.
“What did you want me to search for?”
He stared at her for a long while, blinking incredulously - just as Molly was about to question whether he was having a stroke, he invented a random subject for her to seach and proceeded to stare at her until their food delivery arrived late that evening.
He was examining on of the crime scene samples in the lab when she finally twigged it. Apparently, she’d spent all morning correctly arranging the letters on the Periodic Table and locating the post-it proposal that had been sitting on their fridge for two days. Molly burst in the morgue, brandishing her phone frantically.
“Y-you proposed to me?” She squeaked as if waiting for him to deny it, that she’d made it all up. When he didn’t, she continued, “wha- why would you want to get married? We’re not even dating!”
Sherlock merely chuckled, “yes we are.” When Molly’s response was to stare at him blankly, he frowned - of course they’d been dating! They lived together, shared a bed and even ordered takeaway to share. Unless...
His eyes widened, “oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.”
Sherlock abandoned his experiment, turning to face Molly and flashing her a smirk, “so, will you marry me?”
Molly blinked. Although she was slightly stunned, there was no way she was going to reply with anything other than, “...yes. Of course I will.”
when someone over on my other blog asked me for my top five headcanons for a sherlolly proposal there was no way I wasn’t going to write a fic for that. original ask here
Molly snorted but clinked her champagne glass against the detective inspector’s, “that’s Doctor Lestrade, if you please.”
“Right, how silly of me,” he chuckled, swigging the remaining champagne from his glass. He gathered up his jacket, smiling at his companion, “ready?”
Molly nodded, replacing her own empty glass and taking his outstretched arm. Three days they’d been posing as a married couple to solve a string of robberies carried out on wealthy British nationals. Circumstances aside, Molly was rather enjoying herself. She and Greg made a brilliant team and he’d built quite a list of resources and suspects. To celebrate their progress, he’s insisted on taking her to dinner - Molly wasn’t about to argue; she’d been looking for an excuse to wear her new dress.
Ten minutes later, the two were comfortably ensconced in a private booth in the hotel’s dining room; thankfully, Molly had retained enough of her schoolyear French to order the seafood special and a glass of red wine. Greg, meanwhile, absently fiddled with a breadstick, as if unsure what else to do with it. He swallowed almost nervously, looking across at Molly.
“Look, Molly, I’ve had a great time these last few-”
”Excuse me, sir, but zere is a phone call for you in reception.”
“What?” Greg looked up at the waiter who’d interrupted him; the bespectacled man was busy polishing cutlery with a cloth. He frowned, “tell them I’m busy.”
“Mr. ‘olmes,” the waiter replied, still rubbing at the knife as if he had a grudge against it.
Greg rolled his eyes, “I’m definitely busy.”
“Mycroft ‘olmes, sir.”
The detective inspector hesitated, glancing at Molly; the lovely woman just smiled, “it’s okay. You take it. I’ll be alright until you get back.”
Greg nodded, shooting the waiter a final disapproving glance before hurrying off towards the reception. Molly sighed, fiddling with her wine glass as she watched her company exit the dining room.
“Do you think that disguise is fooling anyone?”
After a moment, the ‘waiter’ abandoned his aggressive polishing and took the seat opposite her. Molly stared at Sherlock in annoyance, taking in his dark glasses and drawn moustache; he looked ridiculous and gorgeous at the same time and it pissed her off. He folded his arms.
“It fooled him.”
Molly was having none of it. "What are you doing here, Sherlock? Why are you following me?”
"I’m not following you,” he snapped defensively, “I'm on a case,” Molly raised an unimpressed eyebrow and he cleared his throat, “I may have come across you in my...free time.”
“Like the Eiffel Tower, for instance? Yesterday lunchtime?” Molly said, a hint of smugness to her tone; her smile grew when the man in front of her refused to look at her, “Or how about when Greg and I were walking through the park-”
"He had no right to hold your hand.”
Molly rolled her eyes; honestly, she had no time for his pathetic jealousy. Instead, she picked up her napkin and dipped it into her water glass.
“Could you at least get rid of the moustache?” She reached across the table, gently wiping at his upper lip, “you look like a knock-off Poirot.”
He frowned, “who?”
”Nevermind,” Molly chuckled, grasping his hand, “you know I prefer my detectives clean shaven.”
Before he could do more than smirk, Greg returned to the table looking rather flustered; Sherlock and Molly quickly dropped hands before the Inspector could notice.
“Sorry about that. It was just-” he stopped, staring at the waiter occupying his seat opposite Molly, “um...aren’t you supposed to be working?”
Sherlock jumped up, immediately returning to waiter mode as he flashed Molly grin, “my apologies. Is zere anything else I can do for you?”
“No,” Molly smiled, finding it immensely difficult to keep her composure under the look he was giving her, “th-thank you for your help.”
"A pleasure, mon chere,” he brazenly took up her hand, pressing his lips to her soft skin. The keycard passed between them and Molly blushed prettily, tucking her hand out of sight. A final wink and he was gone.
“What was that about?” greg commented, finally taking his seat. Molly shrugged, fiddling with the keycard in her lap.
“You know the French. A bit over-friendly.”
Greg looked out at the Paris landscape, exhaling the cigarette he was indulging in - one wouldn’t hurt, it’d been a long day. The city was beautfiul in the dark, the streets near empty and lights twinkling like stars. the case hadn’t provided him with much free time; he made a mental note to come back for a holiday.
“Right, I’m just going out for a walk,” he turned to see Molly yawning, stretching her arms above her head, “fancy stretching my legs. Don’t wait up, I might walk into the town.”
He nodded, puffing once again on his cigarette, “yeah, sure. Say hi to Sherlock for me.”
Greg couldn’t help but chuckle as Molly’s face exploded with colour befre she hurried out.
Mycroft barely glanced up from his work at the soft knocking at his door; no doubt it was Anthea, binging him tea and cakes. he always did feel peckish around mid-morning. Anthea approached his desk, clutching a file in her folded arms; darn, he was really looking forward to that tea.
”Good morning, sir,” she greeted with a smile, her eyes swivelling around the room, “how’s it going?”
“Busy, as usual...” Mycroft replied, meticulously scrawling across his papers. Athea was still scanning the room, a slight frown appearing at her brow.
“Where is Victor?”
"Hmm?” Mycroft murmured distractedly before he remembered. His nephew, the child he’d been ordered to babysit for the day, despite his strongest protestations. His eyes widened. Shit, “ah, yes, he went for a...stroll.”
Anthea raised an eyebrow, “at four months old?”
"He is MY nephew, remember?” He snapped defensively, rolling his eyes, “we Holmes' are fast learners,” he knew he was rambling but once he’d started he couldn’t stop. Anything to get that look off of his PA’s face. Mycroft waved a hand dramatically, “he'll no doubt be solving a crime or dissecting a corpse before he's in school. Anyway, I don't see-"
The office door swung open at that moment, followed by a tall suited man; he was sweating profusely and holding the missing infant in a carrier strapped to his chest. Anthea recognised him, one of the new interns assigned to Mycroft’s department; she couldn’t help but smile as the pieces fell into place.
"I-I’m sorry, sir,” the flustered youngster started, lifting the wriggling baby from his confinement, “I-I've fed him and changed him and stuff but he keeps fussing. I think he wants you."
The intern bustled over to the desk, handing over Victor without another word, hastily running to the exit before his boss had time to react. Mycroft avoided Anthea’s gaze, instead looking into Victor’s large brown eyes; he was happily sucking his fingers, gurgling as he watched his seemingly unhappy Uncle. He noticed then that his nephew was wearing the bee-patterend babygro he had gifted Molly when he discovered she was pregnant. he allowed himself a small smile, a smile that didn’t go unnoticed by Anthea.
“i’ll leave you to it, sir,” she said, stifling her giggles as she left the room.
Mycroft suppressed a groan at the sight of the incoming Facetime call on his phone; he plastered a tight smile onto his face as he answered. His brother and sister-in-law popped into focus, the two of them sitting on an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in the sheet - honestly, how Molly had convinced Sherlock to go to that two-night couples retreat he’d never know.
“Hi, Mycroft, how’s my little boy?” Molly cooed, trying to look past him in search of her son.
“Oh, he’s...sleeping. Best not disturb him,” he stated casually. In truth, Victor was back with the intern having a nappy change.
“Not keeping you up, is he?” His brother asked to which Mycroft shook his head.
“Not at all. Sleeps through the night.”
The two exchanged amused looks and Molly chuckled, shaking her head; she patted Sherlock’s knee fondly and left the camera; he heard the padding of feet on wood before the sound disappeared completely. He was left with Sherlock.
“So...” his detective brother smirked, "who’s he with?”
Mycroft sighed, “Goldberg.”
“The new one?” Sherlock said in a tone that told Mycroft he’d made a huge mistake, “my son?”
“I’m incredibly busy, must dash. See you soon,” he hung up the call before he could embarrass himself further. Hopefully, they weren’t too mad. He rather enjoyed babysitting.
he may not be a hands-on uncle, but hell, he loves his wittle nephew ♥
He never should have asked his brother for advice about his first date with Molly. If it even was a date. They hadn’t discussed it. Maybe he’s misread all their interactions and she still saw him as the arrogant parent she’d been warring with. The detective watched as agent after agent set about setting a table and chairs, preparing candles and flowers, laying the immaculate looking tableware all atop St. Bart’s roof. Mycroft stood aside, surveying his men with a watchful eye, his younger brother nervously waiting next to him.
“She’ll think I’m trying to hard.”
“You are trying,” Mycroft replied, smiling slightly as one of the men straightened the cutlery using a ruler for maximum accuracy, “isn’t that enough?”
“A picinc with the kids would’ve sufficed,” he grumbled to himself but his nosy brother still heard.
“I love Lana, Sherlock, you know I do, and I’m sure Doctor Hooper’s child is just as nice but you and Dr. Hooper need this time for yourselves.”
Sherlock was frankly surprised at the amount of sentiment he was showing; maybe he really did have his best interests at heart. Still, he couldn’t help but tease him, “since when did you become an expert?”
There was a soft chuckle, barely audible over the clattering of wine glasses, “you’ll never know, brother dear.”
A hint of a smile graced Mycroft’s lips before he disappeared with a twirl of his umbrella.
“When you said meet me on the roof, I thought you were joking.”
He smiled, the torrential downpour raging around them doing nothing to dampen her own bright grin. He took her hand, holding the huge umbrella above their heads.
“Yes, I apologise, my brother clearly failed to check the weather reports,” Sherlock shrugged himself out of his Belstaff, wrapping it around Molly’s bare shoulders; she looked breathtaking in her pale blue halter dress and simple heels he had to tell her so, “you look beautiful, Molly.”
“Thanks,” she said, blushing furiously.
He led her towards the roof’s edge where a cosy table sat waiting for them. Unfortunately, some of the items had been affected by the deluge but neither of them seemed to care. They sat, Sherlock positioning the umbrella so it covered them as best it could. He shook the excess water from their glasses, pouring the wine quickly.
“Can I tempt you with some or drowned chicken?” He indicated the sodden plates set in front of them, smirking to himself, “or maybe a Chinese takeaway?”
Sherlock produced a box from under the table and Molly sniggered, biting her lip to keep from laughing, “oh...we shouldn’t. Your brother went to alot of trouble-”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Sherlock interrupted, unpacking the boxes of warm food; it was really worth paying the delivery man extra to trek all the way upstairs to the roof, “his ego is big enough.”
Molly smiled; already, she knew she was having the best date of her life. They talked for what felt like hours, about work, about their daughters, sharing food and pouring wine. Not for the first time, Molly was struck by his intelligence, his beauty and passion for his work; it was clear she was falling for him. What she didn’t know was that Sherlock felt the same.
Time stretched on but the rain didn’t let up and eventually the pair reluctantly left their roof. Out on the street, Sherlock hailed a cab easily and ushered Molly inside, giving her address to the driver; if her hand ended up entwined with his, neither of them said anything.
By the time the taxi pulled up outside Molly’s building, the rain had slowed to a light patter. After instructing the taxi driver to wait for him, Sherlock followed Molly to her door, butterflies exploding in his stomach for reasons he wasn’t quite aware of. She looked positively adorable wrapped in his coat it was a shame when she shook it off, handing it back to him.
“Thank you for tonight. I had a great time.”
“Me, too,” he said, unable to think of anything intelligent to say with her standing so close. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face automatically, gazing into her eyes, “we must do this again.”
Molly swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering closed as he leaned closer, “...yeah.”
The kiss he gave her could only be desribed as perfect, soft and sweet. It felt so right and Molly clutched his shirt, fearing her knees would give way. His hands, which had been gently holding her face, travelled down to her back. Before Molly could get her hands in that gorgeous hair, they were interrupted by a chorus of disgusted sounds from above them.
“GROSS!”
Clara and Lana were leaning out of her bedroom window, watching the amorous display on the pavement; even if they didn’t look impressed, they secretly shook hands out of sight of their parents. Molly giggled, blushing madly as she looked up.
“You should be in bed, young lady.”
“Yes, as should you, missy,” Sherlock called, gesturing frantically, “come on, get your stuff, the taxi’s waiting. And thank Clara’s grandmother for putting up with you.”
“Okay,” Lana chirped happily, disappearing from view momentarily. Clara still leaned on the window, smirking down at him; Sherlock gave her an awkward wave. Lana joined them on the street a moment later and she waved goodbye at Clara before giving Molly a hug, “see you soon, Miss Molly.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” Molly smiled, ruffling her hair fondly. She looked up at Sherlock shyly, “and I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.”
“Yes, you will.”
Molly blushed heavily and disappeared into her warm building. After a moment staring at her closed door and Lana just staring at him with a stupid smirk on her face, he quickly bundled her into his arms and hurried them into the cab.
a few months later
“Did you find one?”
Sherlock was barely through the front door before John was before him, clearly waiting anxiously for his return. He rolled his eyes, rummaging in his coat pocket; he removed the engagement ring and handed the box to John. The army doctor popped the lid, smiling to himself.
“It’s nice.”
“I thought so,” Sherlock replied, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook. He took the ring back and breathed deeply, hoping he looked more confident than he felt, “right then, wish me luck. Is she upstairs?”
“Yeah. You don’t need luck, you’ll be fine.”
Sherlock wasn’t so sure about that but nevertheless, he climbed the stairs to his flat; he found Clara and Lana sitting on the sofa, perusing different colour schemes and playfully arguing.
“What are you two up to?”
“Molly said we could choose a colour for our new rooms,” Lana said, flipping the magazine, examining several different shades of red, “I’m still working on getting that puppy.”
“I didn’t say no. I said when you’re older,” his offspring made a face, continuing to carefully choose her new bedroom colours. He cleared his throat, “actually, Lana, could you give us a minute, please?”
"Hmm?” The younger Holmes finally looked up from the magazine, looking from her Dad to Clara. Putting two and two together, she nodded, “oh, yeah. I’ll wait in my room...”
Sherlock took her vacated seat beside Clara, who was still engrossed in what to paint her bedroom, “do you like pink?”
“I suppose...” he said, unsure of what else to say. Clara tilted her head, weighing up her options. After a moment, Sherlock cleared his throat, “um, Clara...can I ask you something? Important?”
“A brother.”
“What?”
“If I get a choice, I’d prefer a brother,” she said matter-of-factly, placing the magazine on the table, “I don’t think it’s that easy, though.”
Sherlock had never met anyone with the ability to render him speechless before. Hooper women clearly had a gift. “No, no...good to know, but that’s not it.”
“Oh. What’s up?”
Taking a deep breath, the detective removed the box from his pocket, “I’m going to ask your mother to marry me. I’d like your permission.”
The silence seemed to stretch into forever. Clara sat next to him for the longest while, pondering his nervous question. Finally, she poke up.
“Why me?”
Thankfully, he had these answers ready, “your approval means a great deal to me. To us.”
“What are your intentions with my Mum?” Clara said with all the authority a seven-year-old could muster, folding her arms for good measure. Sherlock had really under-estimated her.
“I-I intend to ask her to marry me.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, giggling to herself. She scratched her chin, a confused frown appearing at her brow, “what if I say no?”
“Then, I won’t do it,” he said simply, holding his breath. Clara, however, just shrugged.
“That hardly seems fair.” He waited impatiently until Clara finally climbed into his lap and hugged him, “my Mum cares about you. And I know you care about us. You can ask my Mum.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock patted her head awkwardly, pulling her closer for a more comfortable hug. A distant ‘I wanna hug, too’ sounded from Lana’s room before she ran out to join them.
“I had such a lousy day at work,” Molly complained when she entered the flat; she pulled her hairtie viciously from her head and ripped her jumper off, falling onto the sofa, “I had to do three autopsies, all under five, a stack of paperwork, a stack of a colleague’s paperwork-”
She trailed off when she noticed the flat; the lights had been dimmed and candles flickered around the rooms. A gorgeous smell of cinnamon settled in the air and a glass of wine waited for her on the coffee table. Molly picked up her glass and followed the source of the smell; something was simmering gently on the oven and her mouth watered. She finally found Sherlock in the bathroom, adding soothing oils to a steaming bath.
“What’s this?”
“A surprise,” he carefully helped her undress and settle into the bath, smiling as she exhaled happily, sliding further into the water.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Molly sighed, already feeling her aching muscles relaing. She beckoned him closer and he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
“Oh, nothing...just existed,” he said, leaning against the bath to watch her. Molly chuckled.
“oooh, smooth talker.”
“I love you, Molly.”
Molly opened her eyes, slowly sitting up; she leaned against the bath, pressing her forehead to his, her lips brushing his passionately. She sighed into their kiss, “oh, I love you, too.”
Sherlock had planned to wait until after they’d eaten, when they were washing up or unwinding in front of the telly, getting ready for bed or just being with each other. In that moment, as he watched her breathe and recline in their bath, he decided it didn’t matter when or how or why, he just wanted her to be his fiancee.
“Molly, there’s something I need to ask you...”
sorry this was so long, thank you for reading. it means a lot ♥
