I have a dozen thumbs, unclaimed. Interested? -Mxx
Molly had not even had a chance to set her phone back on the counter when it buzzed. She opened the message and smiled at his thinly-veiled exuberance.
Indeed. Please deliver post-haste to Baker Street. SH
My shift ends in 2 hours. Buy me dinner and I’ll bring the thumbs. -Mxx
Extortion, Dr Hooper? I expected better of you. SH
She giggled when a second text immediately followed.
I’ll have Angelo deliver your usual. SH
She could almost hear him sigh. She was still laughing about it when she walked up the steps to 221B later that day, thumbs in hand. Well, not literally; they were packaged quite neatly in an unmarked cooler.
The enticing aroma of her favourite meal drifted down toward her and she let out a happy moan as her stomach rumbled. Not bothering to knock (taking a page out of Sherlock’s book), she walked right into the kitchen and zeroed in on the still steaming takeaway box.
“Ah, Molly. Good, you’re early-” Sherlock blinked in surprise when she shoved the cooler into his hands and gathered her food with a gluttonous eye. She shoved a breadstick in her mouth and tore off more than half of it, barely able to chew it, her mouth so full.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow and she stopped chewing.
“Wa?” She asked around her mouthful.
A fond smile tugged at his lips and he leaned over to peck her cheek. "Thank you for the thumbs.“
Molly’s eyes crinkled as she attempted to smile. Gamely, she finished her bite and swallowed hard. "Thank you for the food.”
Sherlock snatched the rest of the breadstick from her and shoved it in his mouth before she could do anything more than gape in offense. Swooping down, he gave her a quick, garlicky kiss and inwardly smirked as she scrunched her nose.
“I see we are at the stage in our relationship where we don’t care about oral hygiene before kissing,” she teased.
He laughed softly and kissed her again. “What’s the next stage?”
Molly pretended to think, turning away and unpacking the rest of their dinner, making herself a plate. “Hmmm. Next would be keeping the loo door open. At all times.” She laughed as she imagined his aghast face at the very idea.
“And which step is marriage?”
She nearly dropped her heaping plate. Spinning around, she looked up at him, trying to keep her heartrate at human levels.
His eyes were focused intently on her.
Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she took her plate and walked past him into the sitting room, and tried for a casual, breezy tone as she said, “Somewhere between moving in together…and adopting a dog.”
He stood in thought, brow furrowed, before he nodded and filled his own plate.
The subject was dropped and they dug into their meal. But it was another hour, before Molly’s hands stopped shaking.
“I never want to see another packing box again,” Molly declared as she put the finishing touches on the mantle and broke down the last box of her belongings. Sherlock smiled as he bent down so he was eye-level with a particularly interesting knick knack.
“An odd choice for a companion to Yorick,” he commented.
Molly slipped her arm around his waist and tilted her head as she considered the little skateboarding mouse. “Don’t mock Lil’ Sebastian. I’m very fond of him. Much like I am of you.”
He looked down at her and quirked an eyebrow. “You’re fond of a stuffed mouse?”
“Mmmhmm. It was the first present Toby ever brought me.” She smiled proudly and looked over her shoulder where her old-man-of-a-cat was curled up, having laid claim to Sherlock’s chair the moment they moved in.
Her dimples popped out as she turned back to him. “You don’t remember?”
Sherlock frowned in thought. “No….”
She laughed. “I’m not surprised. It was the toy that came with the kids meal you brought me the first time you asked me to work through lunch. Eight years ago.”
“Is it?” He narrowed his eyes at the blue plastic toy, vaguely recalling the meal he’d brought her. In all honesty, he didn’t remember why he’d needed her to stay, but he remembered that that day was the first time he’d considered her feelings. Albeit, he’d still interrupted her lunch. But how her eyes had light up when he tossed her the bag lunch was burned into his memory.
He always made sure to have something for her after that, even if it was just a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate.
“Hungry?” He asked and let her go with a quick kiss before moving into the kitchen. He’d cleaned beforehand, with a little help from Mycroft’s MI-6 level clean up crew, and now it resembled a kitchen more than a makeshift laboratory. Except for the contents of the crisper. He’d have to move that to the new fridge in 221C; his new home lab.
“Let’s just get some take away,” she called, ending on a yawn.
Sherlock smirked and closed the fridge. “Angelo’s?”
He quickly pulled out his phone and sent their usual order off, knowing one of Angelo’s boys would be at the door with a steaming bag within 30 minutes.
As he looked around, a warm feeling spread across his chest. It still looked like Baker Street. But suddenly it felt more like home.
Home. Molly. He smiled and leaned against the table, taking out the ring he’d been carrying for a month in his pocket. Waiting for this moment.
Slipping it back into his pocket, he strode into the sitting room where Molly had collapsed on the sofa. He jostled her lightly until she begrudgingly sat up, appeased when he sat down and tugged her into his side, essentially letting her use him as a pillow. Her little arm wrapped around his waist and she hummed happily.
“I think I’m going to like living with you.”
He smiled. “I certainly hope so.”
He could feel her grin as she nuzzled his neck. He took a deep breath. This was it.
“Molly, do you recall a conversation we had on the evening of March the third?”
After a moment’s thought, she said, “Nope.”
He pursed his lips. “You, being the more experienced of the two of us in regards to romantic entanglements, informed me that of the proper stages of a relationship, a legal union of romantic intent comes after the two subjects have moved into a shared residence but before a canine companion is adopted.”
“Therefore, as we have just today combined our homesteads, I see no reason to wait any longer.” His heart was racing. “Will you marry me?”
He braced himself, expecting a surprised gasp or a joyous shout or a suspicious barrage of questions, followed by a night of, erm, celebration. What he didn’t expect was absolute silence.
Had he shocked her speechless? Concerned, he looked down.
Only to find Molly had fallen asleep on his chest, her lips parted slightly, her breaths deep and even. Apparently, she hadn’t been caught up in his heartfelt proposal, but had rather found his voice soporific.
With a measure of disappointment, he resettled her more comfortably on his lap and wrapped his arms around her.
He needed to reevaluate his plan.
Dinner had been an absolute nightmare.
First, Molly had been delayed due to a tube strike. Irritated that she still refused to take a cab, Sherlock had been short with her over text. To anyone else, he would have sounded like his usual self, but he knew that she knew he’d been particularly cold in their text conversation.
And when she finally arrived, looking so beautiful and tentative, his irritation faded and he kissed her sweetly to start the evening right, a bottle of the finest wine shared between them and a ring box in his jacket pocket.
Only for it to go so wrong, so quickly.
How was he to know Molly's previous mistake (he refused to use the b-or f-words in reference to the man) decided to dine at the same restaurant that evening? And propose to his new girlfriend, to boot.
Meat Dagger, with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer, had made quite a scene when he went down on one knee. His girlfriend d'jour had shrieked in that grating squeal of forced surprise, causing a nearby waiter to whip around and stumble, dumping his tray of hot soup down Meat Dagger's back.
From their vantage point across the restaurant, Molly gasped while Sherlock did nothing to hide his amusement. He quickly sobered when Molly rushed to Meat Dagger's aid and stripped his soiled jacket and shirt off him. Mild burns, Sherlock had grumbled when Meat Dagger cried out in pain. Big baby.
Molly glared at him as she helped Meat Dagger and his bumbling bimbo of a fiancee into a cab to take them to hospital.
The evening was officially a lost cause.
The universe was officially against him. Three more tries. Three more failures.
First, his mother interfered. Unknowingly, of course. He had planned to surprise Molly with a weekend holiday to a "Murder House" in hopes of not only solving a century-old crime, but bagging himself a bride in the process. Only for mummy to drop in unexpectedly and steal Molly away for a girls weekend of shopping and musicals.
Though irritated and disappointed, Sherlock took comfort in knowing one day he would be able to smugly tell his mother she pushed the proposal back even further. Though he suspected that wouldn't go over too well.
The next failure was, admitedly, his own fault. He should have known hiding a ring in a piece of cake was a mistake. People are idiots and their waiter proved that by delivering the ring-bearing dessert to the wrong table. What followed was a comedy of errors as he tried to catch the waiter's attention before finally throwing down his napkin and storming across the restaurant. Molly had called after him in bewilderment. He zeroed in on the oblivious man who had begun eating the cake. Sherlock shouted at him to stop, but only managed to draw everyone else's attention. As if in slow motion, he saw the man swallow a bite and make a funny face.
It took three days and an enormous cleaning bill before Sherlock got the ring back. Mycroft laughed so hard, he nearly cried. And Scotland Yard crossed off number 7 on their Most Wanted. Really, criminals could be so stupid. Molly had eyed him warily when he gave some half truth about planning it all along.
His third attempt was the last and final straw. A simple, elegant, nearly impossible plan to foil. An intimate dinner, in their own flat, no interruptions. Proposal during dessert followed by an entire weekend of private celebration.
He had the entire flat cleaned to within an inch of sterility and the delicious aroma of lasagna wafting through the building. The ring lay nestled safely in its box in his pocket. And nothing would stop him from finally, finally putting it on her finger that night.
He had just lit the candles that flanked the steaming lasagna on the table when Molly arrived home. In the flickering light, she looked lovely, even in her rumpled work clothes. She gave him a smile, took one look at the food, and bolted to the loo.
Apparently, the stomach flu did not bow to Sherlock's wishes.
His proposal plans may have once more been obliterated, but the weekend was not a total loss as he took care of her for a change, bringing her tea and medicine, making sure she was comfortable, and letting her use him as a pillow when she slept.
As he laid there, her fever finally having broken, he bleakly wondered what sacrifice the universe would take to let him propose.
Sleepy-eyed and desperately seeking the hope of hot coffee on the kettle, Molly stumbled out of their bedroom, grumbling about being awoken by her alarm. She had grabbed the first item of clothing she could find on the floor, Sherlock’s blue shirt, and buttoned it up haphazardly (she’d learned to always be in a state of being at least semi-clothed after an unfortunate incident involving Mycroft and a certain un-named member of Parliament). The sleeves fell past her hands and she rubbed her disheveled hair as she yawned and padded into the kitchen.
“Morning,” she tossed out to the blur she assumed was Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table as she made a beeline to the kettle.
“Good morning. Sleep well?” He asked.
Molly grunted and gave him what she hoped was a dirty look over her shoulder. She couldn’t tell at this point, so focused on getting the coffee into what was hopefully a clean cup.
“I would have if someone hadn’t kept me up so late.”
She could practically feel his smugness. Bringing the cup to her face, she inhaled the curling steam of life-giving nectar and gave a happy sigh, already starting to wake up.
She turned around and leaned against the counter as she took a hearty sip and hummed contentedly. Her eyes closed in bliss.
She opened her eyes to find Sherlock had gotten up and was now kneeling in front of her, wrapped in their bed sheet and holding out a velvet box as he stared up at her, a question in his eyes.
"Molly." He pressed a button and the box opened. Her breath caught at the vintage engagement ring nestled in the bed of silk, no doubt a family heirloom.
The cup fell to the floor.
