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Sherlock sweeps his eyes around the room, ensuring that everything is perfect and realizing that none of it is. A skull rests atop the mantle, bullet holes adorn the wall, and a nagging sensation that nothing will ever be good enough to make things okay eats at Sherlock’s stomach. It is becoming more apparent to the detective that nothing will ever compare to the woman who has changed his life.
He can’t help wondering if he should have taken John’s advice to dress in something a bit more special. But when one wears a suit every day, there is little shy of a tux that remains to look special. Still, he fidgets with his sleeves and flattens the front of his jacket with his hands repeatedly as he paces the small living room of 221B.
When familiar footsteps sound on the stairs, followed by their arrival at the door and a gentle knock, he cannot help the sinking feeling in his stomach. He places one hand on the door knob. “Just a moment,” he chokes out, frustrated by the obvious discomfort in his voice. If he lets her in, she could leave. She could change her mind. She could break the last pieces of his fragile heart. But if he doesn’t, he’ll never know.
He pulls open the door with a calming breath and plasters a smile across his face, prepared for the worst. Until he sees the simply ponytail, sweater, and khakis. A genuine smile blesses his face as he sees what he’s always wanted to see.
“Molly,” he whispers. Just Molly.
As if she knew, as if she’s always known, she steps forward towards him and reaches up on her tip toes to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. A warm blush crowds her face as she stammers her way through a smile, her lips pressed together to hide her joy. She can’t though, of course. Neither of them can.
“I got takeout,” he explains, leading her by hand to the dining room. “So there’s Asian and pizza and street tacos, and that one there has chips.” He points at the various boxes of food, scattered across the table like so many experiments he used to have out.
They look at each other for a moment, simply stuck in the idea that this is really happening, and then he takes his own step forward and wraps her in a protective hug. She tucks her head against his chest and returns the gesture, breathing in his smell, his safety, and his passion.
Kissing the top of her head, he whispers gently against her hair. “I love you, Molly.”
She huffs, giggling the way she does when she’s embarrassed. “I love you, too, Sherlock.”
He smiles and steps back, admiring her for a moment before he pulls out a chair. “Do you have very many things? We can bring your boxes up when we’re done eating.”
“You sure you don’t mind helping me move?” she asks, sitting down in the seat he offers and watching him cautiously as he sits across the table and reaches for a slice of pizza.
“No,” he laughs, taking a bite of the first kind of pizza he can reach. “Not when it means you’re going to live here with me.”