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There is a science to “falling in love,” and even a logic to choosing to be with someone, but even Sherlock Holmes knows that his list of logical reasons and scientific theories is both inadequate and ineffectual. Inadequate because Molly Hooper is the same person she has always been, so his recent and rather jarring discovery that he has feelings for her cannot be explained entirely with brain chemistry, ineffectual because she will see through him.
“Almost done then?” She walks into the lab at precisely the moment that Sherlock is about to either retreat to Baker Street or leave the room to search St. Bart’s for her, and if he were less scientific he would take it as a sign.
“Can we talk?”
Her eyes are surprised but shrewd as she meets his gaze; she’s picked up on his nervousness. “Of course,” she returns with her own nervous smile.
“You see me, more clearly than anyone else sees me,” he pauses for a moment, but then thinks better of it; the words have put her in an awkward position, and his next words aren’t going to soothe her nerves. “So what do you see now?”
Molly’s face registers confusion, then worry. Of course her mind would go to the worst possible place, to think that he’s sick, or in some kind of danger. Of course she would fail to see, once again, how important she is. “What’s wrong?”
Sherlock considers responding with “sentiment” but quickly realizes that it’s a bit of a red herring. “Nothing’s wrong, Molly. I’ve simply come to a realization which involves you.”
Confusion once again, and also wariness. “I don’t understand.”
It’s a brash move, but then again, he is still Sherlock Holmes. He leans in closer. “This is what I mean.” He kisses her, just a brush of lips against her’s, eyes closed, brief. He refrains from touching her, trying to communicate that he respects her space. He allows himself to bite his lower lip in nervousness, a gesture, a reaction, he would normally hide, but the moment calls for transparency.
Molly’s evident surprise creates an awkward silence that stretches beyond being uncomfortable.
“Would you like to have dinner?”
“Coffee. We are nowhere near dinner.”
**
“Why now, Sherlock?” Strands of Molly’s hair have fallen from her bun. They’re ridiculously distracting, and not because they’re out of place.
“Perhaps I am too old, too lonely, too bored to continue to overlook how remarkable you are.”
“I’ve spent a long time thinking about my fixation…infatuation with you, and exactly how…unproductive it is.”
Sherlock can’t help a derisive snort. “You know me too well to be infatuated with me.”
“No, I don’t. I’m not sure anyone knows Sherlock Holmes ‘too well.’” Her eyes are gentle, but shrewd.
“I thought that was the point of spending time together like this; to get to know one another better.”
“I suppose that’s a fair point.” The way she turns the coffee cup slowly 180 degrees and the half-smile she gives does something rather unexpected to Sherlock. It’s a marvelous new mystery.
“Now that we’ve had coffee, let’s have a proper dinner soon. This weekend?” Feeling emboldened, he takes her hand lightly into his own.
But Molly merely proves that she does know him too well. As if she’s read his thoughts, she responds firmly, though the smile doesn’t leave her face and she doesn’t pull her hand away. “No, we’re still not there. If we’re going to get to know one another better, we’ll have to have some walks, some lunches, some more coffee.”
Sherlock frowns. “And what gives dinner so much weight?”
Molly’s smile increases slightly. “By the time we’re ready for dinner, we’ll also be ready for dancing.”
Sherlock can’t help but mirror her smile. “Bit old-fashioned.”
“Sherlock Holmes, I have earned some old-fashioned wooing.”
**
It’s another week before Sherlock figures it out. Embarrassing, really. But he knows he’s made progress when he sees Molly’s surprised, but delighted look when he shows up at Bart’s with her favorite coffee.
If Irene knew Molly, she’d be impressed. Sherlock now knows what it means to be hungry, and Molly Hooper knows how to whet an appetite.
**
In another two weeks, they meet for dinner and dancing. Molly wears a black dress that’s similar to one she donned at the rather ill-fated Christmas party from a few years prior.
She’s done her makeup more suitably though, and this time the effect is not lost on Sherlock.
“You are a good dancer, Sherlock.” They’re at Molly’s flat at this point. Her face is flushed just slightly from wine, though rather prettily. She’s relaxed, happier than he’s seen her in ages. “I had a wonderful time,” she continues. “Thank you.”
“Let’s do it again, soon.”
“Of course,” she’s grinning at him, and Sherlock finds himself in the awkward position of wondering if he ought to kiss her goodnight.
“You weren’t so hesitant at the lab a few weeks ago.” Molly’s sudden ability to read his mind only serves to unnerve him further. It’s unclear if Molly is enjoying his discomfort, or
if she’s simply returning to her old habit of babbling, but she continues. “Actually, now that I think of it, you keep finding excuses to get close. It wouldn’t be obvious if it weren’t, you know, you, but…”
Sherlock leans in to silence her, not because he doesn’t want her to finish her thought, but because, although he lacks confidence in his kissing finesse, he doesn’t want to lose his nerve, and therefore the opportunity to end the night in the way that he wants.
He’s less tentative this time. He tries to catalogue everything about the kiss at the same time that he’s trying to lose himself in it. It’s messier than he’d like, but when he pulls away, Molly is smiling.
“I like the way you kiss,” she says simply. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”
**
Sherlock’s fantasies about being in bed with Molly haven’t included cupcake-print pyjamas, leisurely kissing, and reading the papers on Sunday mornings, but that becomes the reality that he enjoys. Molly seems to enjoy the kissing and cuddling, but Sherlock can’t help wondering if she’ll run out of patience with him.
She tries to hide her disappointment when he pushes her hands away. “I’m not ready,” he murmurs, burning with shame.
“I….I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t mean to push…”
Her sincerity eases his mind. “You’re not.” He threads his fingers in her hair, cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer. “It’s most decidedly not you,” he whispers before kissing her softly. “I’m…slow to warm, I suppose.”
“I like this,” Molly assures him. “It’s nice, actually, not to be rushed.”
**
John and Mary’s New Year’s Eve party is surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock has the excuse of holding his goddaughter throughout most of the evening, and playing the violin at other parts, so social expectations are directed elsewhere. Molly has him nearly flustered, however. She’s not overdressed, but fetching in her outfit, and she’s caught the eye of one of John and Mary’s friends, who takes to chatting her up late in the evening. Sherlock and Molly haven’t revealed their relationship, partly because of its relative newness, partly because the both of them welcome the privacy that’s assured by their mutual friends’ own preoccupations with their own lives and assumptions.
But now Sherlock is preoccupied with jealousy, and protectiveness, though Molly is adept at politely shunning the man’s flirtations. Sherlock nearly falters as he begins “Auld Lang Syne”, however, when midnight arrives and the party’s couples are embracing. The fool tries to lean in to kiss Molly, brazenly, but the clever woman chirps “cheers” and raises her wine glass to her lips, successfully deflecting the man’s attempt.
The party winds down but Sherlock finds himself decidedly wound up when the idiot offers to see Molly home. Sherlock finds himself equal parts relieved and frustrated when Lestrade swoops in to offer to see Molly home instead, lying that “it’s on his way.” Sherlock has already deduced that Lestrade has begun seeing someone, but can’t help but feel a fresh wave of jealousy when Molly brightly accepts.
When he’s finally able to extricate himself, he doesn’t even consider Baker Street, but finds himself impatient to arrive at Molly’s flat. When he walks through the door, he stops short. Molly isn’t in her usual whimsical pyjamas, but an ethereal dressing gown is thrown over underwear that is not designed chiefly for function. It’s not the first time Sherlock has seen Molly in such a state of undress, but he’s spent the evening stealing glances at her dressed carefully and prettily, and the lingerie that she has on was clearly chosen to suit the dress she’d worn.
“It was a nice party, wasn’t it?”
“For the most part.” Molly’s answering smile tells Sherlock that she knows exactly what he’s referring to. “I think I’m getting too old for late-night parties, though,” she continues.
“You say that as if you’re not in the prime of your life.” Sherlock doesn’t actually intend to punctuate his words by letting his eyes trail slowly down Molly’s body, but it happens nonetheless.
“Of course, I’m not that tired.”
“That’s…very good to hear.” Sherlock reaches a tentative hand out and trails his fingers down the side of Molly’s face, to her collarbone. He’s expecting a shiver, or a catch in her breath, but instead her eyes simply darken, and she leans just slightly into his touch. This realization that there’s more layers to his pathologist emboldens him, and he lets his hands slide to her waist, pulling her close for a lingering kiss.
When they finally part she reaches for the buttons on his shirt, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Sherlock calms his racing mind by focusing on her fingers, the same fingers he’s watched in the lab thousands of times. Her hands move with the same confidence and sureness now.
Sherlock wakes the next morning to the sound of the shower running. He watches Molly re-enter the bedroom wrapped in a towel, with her hair wrapped up in another. She sits in a chair next to the bed and picks up the book she’s been reading. It’s a ritual Sherlock has witnessed several other times, but this morning is different, for obvious reasons, but also for the fact that it occurs to him that there’s something he hasn’t said to her, something that’s seemed less important, but no less true.
“You’re beautiful.”
Molly looks up and flashes him a small smile. “I work out,” she responds before returning to her book.
It’s an unusual answer, one that makes him uncomfortable. It takes him a moment to puzzle out why.
“You’re prettier without makeup,” he says, knowing that it’s far from suave. He doesn’t know what response he desires until she gives it to him now; a look of pleasant surprise in her eyes, a slight blush, the way she bites her lower lip.
**
If it were a case, it would be a seven. It takes a fair amount of investigating for Sherlock to uncover Molly’s secret. He knows she’s not hiding anything that has the potential to be upsetting, so it’s doubly pleasing to discover that Molly has been published in one of the smaller but respectable peer-reviewed journals.
“You’ve already deduced it, haven’t you?” she asks when he surprises her one Friday at the end of her shift.
“I have.” He smiles. “I thought we might celebrate tonight. I’ve made reservations.”
He’s struck, at the moment that her eyes light up, that this is one of those days that normal people get excited over. He’s had a number of them since this relationship has formed, and it’s difficult to wrap his mind around, as Molly is far from normal, closer to extraordinary.
It’s an easy night; dinner and dancing and listening to Molly elaborate on the content of the article she’s published, her enthusiasm not only drawing him in, but, for lack of a better word, infecting him. The only frustration is finding a way to tell her exactly how he feels.
“You’re brilliant,” he tells her when they reach the door to her flat. It might be weaker than a certain sentiment, but it’s no less true.
A familiar blush spreads across her cheeks, and it’s not from the wine she’s had tonight. She slides her hands into his coat and rises on the tips of her toes. Sherlock leans down to meet her, and the moment becomes surreal as she reaches behind her to, somewhat deftly, open the door.
The chorus of “surprise!” is muted, or perhaps it only seems that way, sound seeming to come at him as if they’re underwater, lost in their kiss. When he and Molly pull apart, Sherlock scans the room to see John, Mary, Lestrade, Donovan, Stamford, Mrs. Hudson, and a smattering of Molly’s acquaintances, work mates, friends, all crammed into Molly’s flat, all looking surprised themselves, with the exception of Mary, who has a slight smirk on her face.
“I know you were keeping it secret, Molly, but when the journal came out, I figured it wasn’t so secret anymore, and I knew you would downplay it, so I decided to throw you a little surprise party.” Molly’s friend-Meena, probably, offers a slight shrug.
Sherlock takes a glance at Molly, who’s giving Meena an indecipherable look. The shift is imperceptible to all but Sherlock. Molly breaks into a delighted laugh, and it’s as if the ice is breaking.
It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to retreat to the window. Another time, it might be to seek out refuge, but now he finds himself wanting to observe, though he loses interest rather quickly in deducing the party-goers. Instead he’s enraptured by Molly, watching her laugh and interact.
“You’ve got it bad Mate.”
Lestrade’s smirking countenance should leave him irritated, but Sherlock finds that his spirits can’t be dampened. Still, he doesn’t leave it unchallenged. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s written all over your face.”
“Is this how it is then…” Sherlock stops, realizing he’s gestured toward Molly. As much as he berates Lestrade, he knows that what he can’t seem to say will be understood regardless.
“To be in love? Yes.”
**
It snows that Christmas at his parents’ house. It’s a rather fairy-tale-like addition to an already fairy-tale-like visit. Sherlock’s parents are enamored of Molly, who is likewise charmed. So practical in so many areas of her life, Molly insists that they ignore the cold and damp to take a walk. Sherlock purposely slows his stride for the simple pleasure of trailing behind and watching her, and he feels absurdly happy when she smiles at him and tugs eagerly at his hand. When she lobs a snowball at him and runs away laughing, he’s breathless, and not from the cold.
“However improbable….” He murmurs to himself.
The only thing better than chasing Molly is catching her in his arms. She’s still laughing as they both fall to the ground, and Sherlock decides that the only thing sweeter than such a sound is the feel her lips on his.
When he looks into her eyes, he knows. “I love you Molly Hooper.”