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Molly Hooper has never been the type to focus on herself. For as long as she can remember, she’s had an unfortunate tendency to watch the world around her, to observe the behaviours of others and determine what they’re lacking. There's never been a time—until very recently, it seems—when she hasn’t put everyone else in her life first, often to her own emotional detriment—sliding in just when they’ve forgotten she exists entirely to ask if they’re doing okay.
Even today, evidently. Today, of all days.
“Molls, come on,” But god, she couldn’t have asked for a better partner to show her that it doesn’t always have to be that way—that she, too, is worthy of something more. Sometimes she wonders if all her misguided do-gooding somehow karma’d him into her life. “Come on,” He’s got her hand clutched in his—warm and safe—and is currently attempting to drag her away from the cluster of cousins she’s been chatting with, stopping her from checking if they need refills on their drinks. “Let’s bloody dance.”
She follows him back onto the dance floor.
“Hello,” She says, as he grins his dopey grin at her, spinning her once before pulling her back into his arms. “Hello, Husband,” She corrects, the word tasting sharp and fresh on her tongue.
“Christ, I like the sound of that,” His big brown eyes are shining as they always do when he looks at her, and she feels seen. She’s always felt like he sees her, from the moment they’d met, really.
The two of them float across the dance floor, her white satin dress flowing around them as they step together. She looks a bit bohemian, she thinks. She had taken her time looking and chosen the one that suited her best—really it was the least she could do for herself. Today is important, after all—a day she’ll think of often for the rest of her life. A milestone.
The song fades into a slower one— wise men say, only fools rush in —and she lets her head fall to his chest, wrapped easily in each others’ arms as they sway in slow circles. She looks out at the room at large, at everyone she knows and loves all gathered in one place. All here to celebrate her, to celebrate them.
Darling, so it goes—some things are meant to be
Her gaze halts on Sherlock Holmes, who is seated by himself off to the side staring at his mobile, long legs stretched out in front of him—a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. Molly’s been so swept up with her enthusiastic out-of-town family and needy bloody bridesmaids and doting new husband that she hasn’t had a chance to chat with him at all. She’s surprised he’s still here. She’s surprised he even showed up, really. John must have forced him to.
They’ve remained friends, he and John. Somehow. They don’t live together anymore—those days are far in the past before feigned suicides and duplicitous wives and toddling daughters were ever a part of their lives. John and Rosie have their place and Sherlock has Baker Street. But John Watson has stuck around. He always seems to be there when he’s needed.
Take my hand, take my whole life, too
Right on cue, he appears behind Sherlock, handing him a drink and laughing when Sherlock throws the tiny umbrella onto the floor in disgust. John’s own pint sits abandoned on a nearby table and his hands land on Sherlock’s shoulders like they belong there. He’s standing very close.
“Molls,” Greg whispers into her hair, tone admonishing—teasing—and she smiles, knowing he’s well aware of her distracted spying.
“Look at them,” She says, watching as one of John’s hands slides down over Sherlock’s collarbone, his long fingers coming up to cover it with his own. “Something’s changed.”
“Observe and deduce,” Greg says in his best impression of their peculiar friend. “It’s been like that for a while now.”
It hasn’t though, not really. Not like this.
Sherlock tips his head back expectantly and without missing a beat, John leans forward and kisses him. They kiss like they’ve got a language all their own, like there are a thousand words contained in that simple press of lips. She can’t look away. As they break apart Sherlock sighs contentedly, gaze sliding forward to land right on Molly. He raises a single eyebrow to complement his smug smile when their eyes meet.
“Oh,” She breathes, as Greg spins her around again, laughing all the way across the room.
/
Six songs later, she finds Sherlock standing impatiently at the bar, glaring daggers at the swamped barman. He spots her approaching and smiles. It may even be one of the real ones.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” He says almost fondly, looking down at her in a way that causes him to gain three chins. She stares at him, still thinking about what she’d witnessed not half an hour ago—something she truly never thought she’d see, never thought was even possible for someone as thoroughly emotionally repressed as Sherlock. Or John, for that matter. She wonders what changed for them. She wonders how long— “Six days, twenty three hours and fifty two minutes.” He says, rolling his eyes. “You should learn to control your expression, Hooper. Or should I say Lestrade?”
“No, I’m keeping Hooper. Modern woman and all that. How did it happen?” She’s dying to know. Sherlock sighs exasperatedly, but she can tell he’s almost keen to talk about it. A shadow of the smug grin has returned. And anyway, not even he can deny her a love story on her bloody wedding day.
“It’s been a long time coming, I suppose. Things have been—” He trails off, accepting the two drinks the harried barman sets in front of him with a nod. “In the end I—fell asleep on him, actually—while being forced to consume one of his tedious films. Bond,” He manages to inject plenty of disdain into the single syllable. “When I woke, he was looking at me as though—” He clears his throat, a faraway glint in his eyes. She knows exactly what he’s trying to say. She’s seen that look on John’s face countless times, directed at his flatmate, his colleague, his friend. It seems he’s finally allowed Sherlock to actually see it. After a moment, he seems to shake himself, turns back to her. “Anyway,” he shrugs. “I kissed him.”
“I’m so happy for you, you know,” She says quietly, realizing that she’s beaming.
“Yes, well,” He’s uncomfortable, clearly, having shared more with her in the last thirty seconds than in their entire acquaintance. He shifts from foot to foot, awkwardly clutching their two sweating drink glasses. “I assure you, the feeling is quite mutual,” He adds. “I’d better go. Five minutes until our one week anniversary,” He winks. Molly shakes her head, letting out a giggle.
“Soon we’ll all be at your wedding,” she teases, grasping his arm affectionately for a moment before stepping back to allow him to flee.
“Yes,” he says, without a trace of humour, eyes locked on John where he stands across the room, laughing and chatting animatedly with Greg. “I’ve already bought the rings.”