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“He's dating that?”
It was something Molly heard too often, even a few months into their relationship. Every time someone new started at the hospital, they were warned about Sherlock Holmes, his manners and lack thereof, his insistance on working in silence unless he needed a moment to think out loud. And when people learned that the brilliant, mysterious detective was, in fact, in a relationship with the mousy, friendly girl from the mortuary, their surprise seemed to burst out without anyone's permission.
Maybe it was the way they presented themselves that people couldn't understand. She with her comfortable, often unmatched and always garish clothes, her unfaltering cheer, her passive demeanour; him with his dark suits, unnerving seriousness, and imposing presence. Molly could see how people would think it didn't make sense.
It could very well have been the way they interacted, or more accurately, the way they didn't interact. They kept their relationship to themselves, making absolutely no public show of it. They kept strictly professional at Barts and any crime scenes she accompanied him to. Their idea of a date was work, determining causes of death and solving the occasional murder. He would only ever steal a kiss when nobody else was nearby, his stoniness dissolving for just a moment before he flipped the switch back to productivity. Sometimes she would slip out an “I love you” when he left the morgue, and he would turn back with a smile before opening the door and going back to whatever job he was working on at the time.
They didn't live together, not yet, but they spent nights at each other's flats and were as intimate as any other couple behind closed doors. Just because they didn't publicly display their affections didn't mean they weren't there. He liked to use her lap as a pillow, listening to her describing the day's autopsies while she played with his hair. On the reverse, she liked to flop down on top of him where he lay, resting her head on his shoulder while he rubbed her back and told her about anything better than a five.
She loved him. He loved her. That was what mattered. Neither of them could care less what anyone else thought.
He heard it too, most often when he passed through the canteen during one of her breaks.
“She's dating that?”
Molly never appeared bothered by being referred to as that. Maybe that was actually a reference to her outward appearance, so much brighter than his own. Either way, Sherlock did not like being called that. It made him feel like some sort of creature, an it, a freak. He tried to care as little as Molly. He wished for her confidence. He supposed her love was enough.
It was, of course. To him, she shone like sun through crystal. The colours, the light she cast around her was art. He hadn't thought himself capable of such adoration, even less to receive the same love in turn. He understood people doubting, wondering, but it didn't make any difference in how he felt about her. Molly wasn't the only person to literally save Sherlock's life, but through some twist of fate, she ended up being the one he wanted to share it with. So, no, seeing people wrinkle their noses at their relationship didn't deter him from it. If anything, it made him more prone to showing Molly the affection she deserved.
And in the future when the question changed to “She married that?” he'd be more than pleased to hear it.