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Molly had been dreading this day. She was sitting on her sofa, glass of red in one hand and the posh beige invitation in the other, slightly shaky, hand. Toby did his best to comfort his mistress as she read the irritatingly neat silver handwriting.
together with their families
Mr. Thomas King & Ms Candace Kane
Invite you to celebrate their marriage
Friday, 9th September 2016
3:00pm @ St. Mary’s Church, Marylebone, London.
“Her name is Candy Kane.”
Molly nearly covered herself in red wine thanks to Sherlock Holmes, whose deep voice had rumbled right behind her. She whipped around to face him, a cute frown set on her brow which only deepened when she saw the smirk on his face.
“It’s Candace, actually.” Dear God, she was actually defending the woman.
When she’d first heard of Tom’s engagement six months previously, in a fit of self-loathing and curiosity, the pathologist had searched the internet for information on the woman. Canace Kane, a thirty-six-year-old salon owner, mother to three sons under the age of ten and dog lover. Of course she had to be a dog lover. After slamming her laptop shut, Molly crawled into bed and refused to leave her flat for three days – resulting in Mike Stamford worrying and subsequently have of Scotland bloody Yard at her door, led by Greg Lestrade and the panic-stricken (if you believe the Inspector, anyway) consulting detective himself.
Presently, Molly did her best to ignore her unwelcome guest by turning her back and slumping against her cushions, swallowing her wine like it was water. She should have guessed from experience that it was pointless trying. Sherlock merely sighed and circled the sofa, plonking down beside her – she glanced at him, mentally cursing the gorgeous being. The purple shirt and rolled sleeves somehow made her feel even worse.
“You’re unhappy.”
Miraculously, Molly managed to refrain from rolling her eyes, “what do you want, Sherlock?”
“I’m here to cheer you up.”
Molly looked at him, an eyebrow raised, “do you know how to do that?”
“No,” he murmured after a while, smiling uncertainly, “I was hoping Candy Kane would work. Candy King when they marry if…that helps.”
Molly didn’t say anything. She appreciated the effort even if she was convinced Sherlock didn’t have a damn clue why she was so upset. After all, she was the one who called off her own engagement in the first place, she was the one who decided against a future with Tom. Why should she care? Nevertheless, Molly was upset and there was nothing she could do about it. She swigged at the wine still in her grasp and sighed.
“Tom told me he never wanted kids. I thought he meant in general…” she shook her head excessively, her voice bitter, “nah, he just didn’t want them with me.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock replied distractedly, prising the flailing wine glass from Molly’s fingers and setting it on the table, far from her reach. She groaned pathetically, falling forward limply; she would have hit her head on the coffee table if it wasn’t for the firm yet gentle grip on her upper arms, pulling her back and sitting her upright, “it’s not fair. Why- why should he b-be allowed a family when, when he’s not the one that wants one?”
“You’ll get one,” Sherlock said, quite sincerely even if he didn’t sound it. He was too busy inspecting the alcoholic percentage of the empty wine bottle on Molly’s coffee table.
“Sod off,” the pathologist muttered, sticking her tongue out when the detective rolled his eyes.
“He hasn’t been made yet.”
Her head snapped up immediately, her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, “so…that means you think I fancy younger men?”
“Oh, for God’s sake-“
“Well, that’s it, then,” Molly shrugged, throwing the invitation across the room before throwing herself back against the cushions dejectedly, “I’m gonna die alone. Unmarried and unloved…like a flea.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally deciding he’d had enough, “you are not a flea, Molly. There are plenty of people out there that love you.”
Molly, currently curled on the sofa with her thumb in her mouth, snorted derisively, “yeah, like who?”
The words left his mouth before his brain could stop them, “like me.”
Her thumb slipped from her gaping mouth, her brown eyes blinking rapidly as she processed his words. The detective himself also seemed to be reeling from the confession, suddenly becoming abnormally still. He’d always found Molly fascinating, intelligent, in possession of a poor sense of humour and fashion, far too attached to a temperamental feline…and she was too damn cute for own good. That wasn’t news. Before now, Sherlock had simply assumed everyone felt that way about her. Then again, he considered if every single person had the mutual desire to snog her she wouldn’t get much done. Even now, with Molly sitting there in her oversized jumper covered in cat hair, odd knee-high socks and messy bun she was the most adorable being on the planet and he was thankful. Thankful to be the only one to feel so strongly for her.
“How do you mean?” She was still looking at him, slightly sobered by his startling words, “in, in a ‘let’s have lunch’ or…’you are lunch’ way?”
He couldn’t help but smile. Even tipsy, Molly was still a terrible flirt. “Whichever means I’m your boyfriend,” before Molly could even move, he added, “but don’t call me that.”
Molly grinned happily and lunged forwards, planting a sloppy kiss on his chin. Minutes later, after several drunken repetitions of the word ‘boyfriend’, the pathologist was snoozing on her detective. As Sherlock watched her sleep, smiling dreamily, he decided that maybe boyfriend wasn’t such a repulsive term after all. He very much was Molly’s boyfriend and, in that moment, nothing delighted him more.