Chapter Text
He wasn’t sure why they were being so furtive about it.
He wasn’t ashamed of her (on the contrary, he actually felt a rather alien pride when he looked at all she had accomplished).
Her reputation wouldn’t suffer (she’d earned her position with hard, accurate work, not because of whose bed she happened to occupy).
It would hardly rock any boats (in fact, their friends would probably be thrilled for them).
In spite of all this, they kept it a secret. They consigned any outward displays of affection to fleeting things: eyes meeting and crinkling in shared mirth, fingers brushing under tabletops, whispered conversations over the blood centrifuge, and nights—far too short—spent sharing the lyrics and poems of their bodies.
She made him happy. She had a wry sense of humor when she was relaxed. He actually experienced that singular sensation of a face hurting from smiling too much and stomach and throat muscles aching from hard laughter.
On one clandestine day, they’d nearly gotten kicked out of the National Gallery for disturbing the museum’s quiet. As they’d walked from painting to painting, she’d provided outlandish stories for each one (she’d had to remind him that she was joking during the first few and then, at the next few, convince him that silliness made practically anything better. After that, however, he’d enjoyed it). When they’d arrived at a particularly lurid depiction of some saint or other with a scythe buried in his skull and she deadpanned, “Maybe he’ll be okay,” he’d guffawed so loudly that she’d finally decided they’d better leave. They’d snickered as they hurried down the Gallery’s sprawling front steps and then she’d seated herself on the rim of one of the square’s fountains. He’d stood in front of her, bending down to kiss her, his gloved hands framing her face. They were still chuckling as their lips met.
She was perfectly content to carry on in secret. She saw great humor in telling him she was going to buy a stained, zippered dressing gown, wear her hair in curlers, and follow him around with a cigarette hanging limply from her lips, demanding to know why he never took her to the Pictures. She’d waved away his confusion as she giggled at her own imagery and then changed the subject by suggesting that they find an abandoned office to neck in during her morning break the next day.
Once, he’d asked her why they were keeping it secret. She’d smiled at him and said, “I’ve never been one for big announcements. They seem so… attention-grabby,” (sometimes, she made up words, much to his bafflement). When he’d asked her why she hated attention, she’d affably shrugged, replying, “So many people looking at me at once? No, thanks.”
Knowing what effect too many gawkers had on his brainwork, he understood her concerns.
So they carried on in secret for nearly six months.
Until he slipped.
They were at John and Mary’s, eating dinner. He’d been worried that she wouldn’t be invited, but when he came through the door, there she was, standing off to the side of the sitting room. She was waiting for their hosts to finish greeting Mrs. Hudson and him so that she could do the same.
He found the night surprisingly pleasant. He’d managed not to anger anyone by dint of being himself, and they were enjoying chatting long after they’d finished eating.
Someone asked her how work was going. She replied that it was fine before making a feeble joke about necrotic tissue being a metaphor for life. Everyone else smiled politely, but he just squinted at her from across the table.
She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly.
“I love you,” he said, before realizing he’d spoken aloud.
As much as he hated aphorisms, he had to admit that a pin dropping would have seemed deafening at that moment.
Her brown eyes widened at him, and he briefly thought about trying to recover. Something like, “I love you—r poor attempts at levity.”
But then he decided he didn’t want to try.
“Right,” he addressed the room at large. “Molly and I are engaged in a romantic and sexual relationship. I’m very happy and so is she. Who would like more wine?”
She still stared at him, stunned.
But, soon, she snorted indelicately, trying to suppress a laugh. Then she stopped fighting it and let loose a peal of giggles. At that, he started chuckling, too. The rest of the stunned party soon joined them.
They all laughed until tears streamed from their eyes and their throats and stomach muscles hurt from the joy and absurdity of it all.
And when Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper left their friends’ flat that night, they did so hand-in-hand.
The End
In case you were wondering:
Ambrogio da Fossano- Saint Pierre martyr et une donatrice agenouillée (vers 1494)
It’s really at the Louvre (hence my actually getting a [blurry] pic— National Gallery guards will kill a man if they see him using even flash-less photography). I just took the liberty of moving its location for the purpose of this ficlet because, really, it needs to be discussed.