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“Take my hand.”
“The last time I took your hand, I ended up handcuffed to the light post.” Molly laughed.
Sherlock and Molly walked through the snowy walks of London, the temperature frigid and the snow falling around them like white glitter in a snow globe. Why did it choose to snow on Valentine’s Day? And why, for the love of God, did it have to wait until after they were settled in the restaurant he’d worked hard to get reservations for?
Sherlock had a plan. It was written down step by step in his mind, how it would go, her reactions, everything. So far his entire plan, save the restaurant, had fallen apart like wet paper.
He huffed at her easy denial, her gloved hand wrapping around another light post as she gingerly walked along the snowy path, heavy boots keeping her feet warm. She’d insisted on boots, kept in the coat check, for when they left the restaurant. She wasn’t about to wear fancy shoes in the snow.
“Molly,”
She glanced up at him, a smile on her lips, snow on her eyelashes. He didn’t even try to resist the temptation, reaching out with a hand and brushing the snow from her face. Her eyes closed, the smile remained. It was obvious she trusted him, so why wouldn’t she just do what he asked.
“Hmmm?”
“Please? Give me your hand.”
“Nope. My boots will not keep up with a brisk jog across the London Bridge to catch a killer. Not sure my body would keep up after that delicious dinner. Have I properly thanked you for dinner yet? Because I really should.”
His imagination filled in all the lovely ways she could thank him and he was properly distracted for five minutes as they walked.
No. Focus.
“Molly…” he wheedled.
“I know you don’t want to just hold my hand because if you did, you’d ask straightforward instead of asking me for my hand.”
This wasn’t working. But then, they had never worked like that. So why did he think it would work this time? Straightforward it was.
“Molly,” He pulled her to a stop held out his hand, palm up. “Take my hand.” She gave a small frown.
“Why?” He huffed.
“I’m trying to ask you to marry me, so take my damn hand!”
A puff of air left her mouth as she exhaled sharply, brown eyes wide in surprise and beginning to fill with soon to be icy tears. Without a word, her hand was placed in his. Tugging at the glove, he tucked it into his pocket, then took the small box from his inside pocket.
“Better.” The snow was still falling, covering them both with white now that neither of them were moving. “I’m not kneeling, because I’m not getting my trousers wet and the ground is cold.” Singlehanded, he flipped open the lid on the box and showed her. The icy tears had slipped down her cheeks, leaving trails of iridescent silver.
“Sherlock…” her voice wavered, and he smiled down at her, caught up in the moment.
“I’m not the best man, but I have always been yours Molly. And I know proposing on Valentine’s Day of all days is trite and plebian, but I refuse to wait one more day. Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Oh my God. Yes.”
He grinned happily, taking the ring from the box without releasing her hand and carefully slipped it onto her finger.
Before she could move her hand, take a closer look at the ring, his fingers tightened against hers and…
Click.
Molly blinked even as Sherlock’s grin remained. She tugged her hand away and the silver links of the police issue handcuffs that now tethered them together rattled.
“Now you’re chained to me forever.”
“Sherlock!”
“It’s better than the light post, isn’t it?”
“Dammit. Sherlock! You’d better have the key for these.”
“All in good time, my Molly, all in good time.”