Chapter One: The Dismissal
The door to Holmes' flat flew open to reveal a clearly irritated, and very annoyed Doctor Margaret Hooper. As soon as she crossed the threshold she stormed over to Doctor Watson, who was in the process of evacuating his chair.
"How could you?!" Molly demanded of her erstwhile colleague, as she brandished the latest edition of 'The Strand Magazine' that contained Watson's account of the case he had titled 'The Abominable Bride'. "Thanks to you I've been dismissed from St Bartholomew's."
There was very little that penetrated Holmes’ sub-conscious while he was deep within his Mind Palace. He was of course well aware of everything going on around him, but he had trained his brain to tune out anything he regarded as irrelevant.
And so, although he was aware of Hooper’s dramatic entrance, he ignored it as he did everything else.
“Thanks to you I’ve been dismissed from St Bartholomew’s.”
Holmes’ eyes snapped open. He got to his feet and headed out the door, only to return a moment later when he realised Hooper and Watson hadn’t followed him.
“Come on,” he snapped impatiently. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”
This time when he raced down the stairs, Watson and Hooper were in hot pursuit.
ST BARTHOLOMEW’S - MORTUARY
When they entered the mortuary it soon became clear that their presence wasn’t welcome, from the newly promoted Head Pathologist Phillip Anderson at least.
But as he was not the one the detective was here to see, Holmes did what he always did when it came to Anderson, and ignored him. Instead he made his way over to the other gentleman in the room, Stamford, the hospital’s administrator.
“This is intolerable,” he exclaimed. “I refuse to work with that witless, snivelling buffoon,” he stated emphatically as he pointed at an outraged Anderson.
Stamford was entirely sympathetic to Molly’s situation, for it was he who had employed her, in the full knowledge of her gender, and had been complicit in her masquerade as a man. He was a kindly soul, and was well used to the world’s only Consulting Detectives overbearing ways. Totally ignoring Holmes, Stamford turned to Molly. “I am so sorry my dear, but once the Hospital’s Board of Governors became aware of your status, thanks to Watson’s write up of the Ricoletti case, I was given no option but to dismiss you.”
While Molly was more than willing to accept Stamford’s apology, given all that he had risked in allowing her to work as a pathologist in the first place. Holmes was not, and so he continued to rail against the situation.
“I prefer my pathologist to be competent and intelligent. And that is Hooper. I will not work with anyone else.”
“Well that’s fine with me,” Anderson stated smugly. “Because there is no way she will ever be allowed to work here again.”
“Oh you think not?” Holmes replied, an inexplicable solution to the problem at hand taking form in his mind. Without giving himself time to consider all the implications he put voice to his solution. “Hooper may not be able to work as a pathologist as a single woman, but that rule does not apply to a married one. Therefore to ensure that St Bartholomew’s continues to maintain the services of the best and brightest forensic specialist I will apply to my brother to procure a special licence, and use his influence to reinstate Hooper, in her female state.
“And to whom am I to be married?” Molly asked cautiously.
“Me, obviously,” Holmes stated, clearly pleased with himself.
Everybody else however, was understandably stunned by Holmes’ solution, their expressions ranged from shock, confusion, disbelief or horror, depending on how they viewed Holmes’ statement.
Holmes, completely oblivious, swept out of the mortuary, calling over his shoulder. “Come Hooper, come Watson. There is much to organise.”
With little other option, Molly and John followed him.
A Marriage of Inconvenience
And cold hard logic has reasserted itself...
HANSOME CAB #1 – OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON
“Be fair Holmes,” Watson cried his expression a mix of hurt and regret. “I take great pride to ensure that my narrative of our cases is a faithful and accurate one.”
“Yes,” Holmes responded testily. “And it is entirely due to your determination to be so faithful that I now find myself in this damnable position.”
Before Watson could defend himself, the cab came to a halt, and both men exited.
Meanwhile, a few minutes behind her groom, the bride was also having second thoughts.
As much as Molly appreciated Holmes’ gallant offer, she was becoming increasingly worried. For truth be told his hand had been forced, having been more or less goaded into it by Anderson’s assertions that she would never again be allowed to step foot into her beloved mortuary.
With these thoughts whirling around her head, she began restlessly fussing with the small bunch of flowers that were clutched tightly in her hands.
Her companion was Watson’s wife Mary, another woman who refused to allow her gender to define who she was, and what she was capable of when she applied her mind to it.
Mary smiled reassuringly as she placed her hand over Molly’s, effectively preventing her from bolting when the cab came to a halt.
“Everything will work out in the end,” she promised.
COURT HOUSE – JUDGES CHAMBERS
The ceremony was brief, but included all that was required to make it legal.
The groom slipped a simple gold band onto his bride’s ring finger, before leaning down to place a chaste kiss upon her lips.
Or at least that had been Holmes’ intention.
But the moment his lips touched Molly’s he was taken off guard by a tingling sensation that began at the point where their lips met, before travelling like wildfire through his body. Its effect most notable as blood rushed to a strategic point between his legs, causing that part of his anatomy to swell, making it rigid and uncomfortably erect within the unfashionably tight trousers that he wore.
His mind that valued cold, hard reason beyond all else shut down, to be replaced by one eager to explore the possibilities of these exquisite sensations that were currently raging through him.
It was only when Molly’s encouraging moan penetrated his subconscious, it was enough to break the spell he was under, snapping him out of his stupor.
The change was instantaneous. Once again in control of his senses Holmes deftly removed Molly’s hands that had become entangled in his hair. With as much dignity as he could muster, he disengaged himself entirely from their embrace, stepping back to ensure a safe distance, in an attempt to avoid the temptation she had so unexpectedly aroused within him.
Holmes ignored the embarrassed expressions of those gathered, the heightened colour in his wife’s cheeks, not to mention his own heavy breathing, Instead he quickly moved to thank the Judge for agreeing to officiate at such short notice. He then took Molly by the arm, and led her briskly from the room.
If Holmes believed that his hasty marriage would be of little interest to the press, he was to be sorely disappointed.
No sooner had he and Molly exited the Courthouse then they found themselves surrounded by reporter’s, who were all attempting to outdo one another in asking inappropriate questions.
“Will Hooper be wearing the pants at home too?”
“Have a thing for women dressed in men’s clothing, eh Holmes?”
“Are we to expect a new addition soon?”
Holmes was certain that the red spots on Molly’s cheeks had more to do with indignation than embarrassment. Nonetheless he did all he could to shield her with his body as they fought their way to the waiting cab.
When the couple were finally safe inside, the cabbie took off.
But as they pulled away Holmes spotted, skulking in the shadows, the two individuals responsible for tipping off the press. Phillip Anderson and Janine Hawkins...
Masquerading, Fakery and Untruths
As soon as the cab pulled up outside 221B, Holmes leapt out, paid the cabbie, and assisted Molly out before hastily getting them both through the front door.
He then ushered Molly upstairs, in order to avoid his landlady, Mrs Hudson and her need to engage in nonsensical chatter.
Once through the door to the sanctuary of his flat, Holmes shut it firmly, leaning his back against it, he let out a sigh of relief.
But that sense of relief was to be short lived as the other person in the room made her presence felt.
“Why was Miss Hawkins at the Courthouse, Sherlock?” the sound of his Christian name on her lips caused Molly’s heart to skip a beat.
But she immediately reprimanded herself. She could not allow such a thing, no matter how thrilling to distract her from finding out the circumstances of the woman’s unexpected appearance.
It was clear she was in league with Anderson, and that they had been responsible for the notifying the press to what was supposed to be a private ceremony. She knew Anderson held a grudge against her. But why was Janine there?
And then she remembered what had happened at the de-sanctified church...
Janine removed her hood, and stepped forward with purpose. “Emelia thought she’d found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too. Emelia was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her.”
Molly remembered Holmes’ expression when Janine revealed herself. His eyes had widened in shock. And as she spoke, he looked decidedly uncomfortable.
Janine’s words, she realised held another meaning, one that was directed at Holmes, and his discomfort confirmed that he understood exactly to what she referred.
So clearly they had history. And that made her more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.
She walked directly up to Holmes, and demanded “Why does she bear you ill will?”
Holmes had hoped that Molly wouldn’t spot, yet alone recognise Janine Hawkins. But he should have known better. For ‘Hooper’ never missed anything of importance. In resignation, he indicated the chairs by the fireplace. “I think it best as this explanation may prove a long one it be given sitting down.”
Once seated, Holmes began...
“I doubt you’ll recall the case of ‘The Master Blackmailer’ as Watson termed it, it took place a couple of years before you began working at St Bartholomew’s.”
He paused, to give himself a moment to compose his thoughts, and then continued.
“Charles Augustus Magnussen was a loathsome creature, a cruel and cunning individual who preyed upon the vulnerable. He paid easily motivated maids and valets generously to illicitly obtain letters and private papers that contained the intimate secrets of their masters and mistresses. He then waited for the most opportune time in which to strike. Contacting his victims, and advising them of what he has obtained, and the price, always well in excess of what the victim could afford, to be paid for the return of the documents. One such victim came to me in the hopes that I might be able to obtain better terms. Magnussen was threatening to give her letters to her fiancé’ a few days before they were due to be married. Should her groom read the letters, the end result would see the wedding cancelled.”
“But what does this have to do with Janine?” Molly asked. She knew Janine was not a woman of means, so she was unlikely to be the victim of such a man as Magnussen.
“Janine was Magnussen’s housemaid,” Holmes explained. “After Magnussen rebuffed my proposed offer that I put forward on behalf of my client, I set upon a plan to steal the letters from under his very nose. To do that I needed to learn the plan of his house, Appledore Towers, and Magnussen’s daily routine.”
Molly nodded her understanding, before silently urging him to continue.
“I disguised myself as a plumber, Escort by name. It was then that I cultivated a relationship with Janine, who was always more than willing to tell more than she ought about the goings on of her master. Unfortunately to obtain some of the more pertinent details I was left with no option but to become engaged to her.”
Holmes paused at Molly’s surprised gasp.
“Watson was naturally scandalised by my behaviour, but it was absolutely necessary that I discover the whereabouts of the letters. And once I knew all I needed to know, I allowed Miss Hawkins to discover my true identity, when I visited Magnussen again, this time at his home, as my true self.”
“Hell hath no fury...” Molly murmured.
“Quite so,” Holmes agreed. “Although I think you’ll find Miss Hawkins scorn had more to do with what happened to her after Magnussen’s death.”
“His death?” the concern in Molly’s voice was clear.
Holmes was quick to reassure her. “As much as I would have happily ended that vile little man’s life, that pleasure was left to another.”
“Go on,” Molly encouraged.
“It was my intention that Watson and I perform a little burglary. But our plans went awry when Magnussen instead of being sound asleep, entered his office just as I had successfully opened his safe. We were forced to conceal ourselves behind some curtains. It soon became clear he was waiting for someone. Shortly after his visitor arrived, a woman entered from the outside door. Magnussen believed her to be a ladies maid with incriminating letters, but it was not so. It turned out she was one of his previous victims, and she had come for her revenge. She shot him a number of times, before grinding the heel of her shoe into his monocled eye.”
“Were you able to retrieve your client’s letters?”
“Magnussen’s cries had alerted his household, that didn’t leave us much time. So I grabbed every document and letter that was contained within the safe, and threw them in the fire, destroying them completely. Then Watson and I had to make a run for it.”
“And what of Janine?” Molly queried.
“There are hundreds in this great city that would turn white at the mention of Magnussen’s name. Miss Hawkins was known to be in his employ, so I’m afraid she was tainted by association. That meant finding a new situation difficult, and I have no doubt she fell on hard times, for which she may well have held me responsible.”
By now it was quite late. Mrs Hudson brought the up a cold supper that they both ate in silence.
After they had finished Holmes got to his feet. “I’ve asked Mrs Hudson to prepare Watson’s old room for your use. I’m certain you’ll find it more than adequate.”
Holmes was making his way to his bedroom when he was pulled up short by Molly’s response.
“Certainly not,” she stated adamantly.
“I beg your pardon,” Holmes responded, clearly flummoxed by her vehement outburst.
“I said certainly not,” Molly reiterated sternly. “This may be a marriage of convenience, but it will definitely not be a fake one. We will sleep together in the same room, and the same bed.”
Holmes was left completely stunned, his brain quite unable to come up with a reasonable argument.
Taking his silence as agreement, Molly made her way determinably down the hallway and entered the bedroom at the end, leaving Holmes to follow meekly behind.
Chapter 5: Start As We Mean To Go On
221B BAKER STREET – BEDROOM
It was a rare occasion indeed that would find Holmes asleep in his bed for the whole night. With a mind as constantly active as his, he was usually too restless to settle enough to allow his mind to calm down for long. A couple of hours on the sofa were usually sufficient to reinvigorate his deductive processing abilities.
So it was with some disorientation that he woke up to find himself in his bed. He closed his eyes to better focus on the most recent memories to assist him in reconstructing the events that had led him there.
The answer chose that moment to snuggle up even closer to him, causing Holmes’ eyes to fly open in realisation.
Hooper... Molly... His wife was currently fast asleep on her side, facing him, her expression one of serenity and peace. It was a feeling Holmes definitely did not share. Now fully awake, he was painfully aware that his body was once again betraying him, his cock was once again erect and, more disturbingly he became aware of how dangerously close Molly’s hand was to it.
Moving cautiously so as not to wake her, Holmes edged his way back to his side of the bed, before getting out and exiting the bedroom. His destination the bathroom, where he intended to rid himself of his extremely inconvenient bodily condition.
The strangled cry was muted by the closed bathroom door. But it was enough to rouse Molly from her fitful sleep.
Far from being embarrassed by the unmistakable sound of Sherlock bringing himself to orgasm, Molly instead felt a spark of hope that Sherlock’s need to find sexual release was a sign that he did have feelings for her, a fact that was further emphasized by her name being wrenched from his cupids bow lips.
Unfortunately it was equally clear that he had stubbornly deemed it necessary to deal with his erectile problem himself, instead of the obvious solution, that of requesting his wife’s participation.
‘But that was Sherlock Holmes for you’, she acknowledged. ‘Completely blind to the obvious, especially when it came to her.’
She should tread carefully was the counsel of her head, her heart however had other ideas. Getting out of bed, Molly grabbed Sherlock’s blue bathrobe, and put it on before making her way to the kitchen.
Holmes stood before the mirror viewing himself now that he had washed his hands, and had tamed with the aid of cream his unruly curls.
Except for a slightly flushed complexion, his reflection showed a man back in control of his faculties.
‘The brain without a heart, the calculating machine.’
That was how Watson described him in the write up of the Ricoletti case. It had been one of the Doctor’s finest descriptive achievements. Not that Holmes would ever admit it out loud.
Satisfied that everything was back to normal, he left the bathroom to return to the bedroom to dress.
221B – KITCHEN / SITTING ROOM
When Holmes walked into the kitchen, he found Molly had made breakfast for them both.
However before he could say a word he caught sight of Molly in his bathrobe, and his brain once again shut down, while his traitorous genitalia went into overdrive.
Molly smiled before indicating with a nod of her head that he should sit at the table, in the place she had set for him.
The scene of domesticity was enough to snap Holmes brain back into gear, ignoring Molly’s silent request he grabbed two pieces of toast before making his way to his chair in the sitting room.
Setting the toast aside, he sat back in his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests, his palms pressed together, resting under his chin. He took solace in his Mind Palace, where he came up with the perfect plan of action with regards to his all too distracting wife.
Decision made, he emerged to find Molly sitting in John’s chair, waiting patiently.
Molly braced herself. If the look on Sherlock’s face was any indication, whatever he was about to say she was certain was not going to be to her liking.
In the same cool, detached tone that Hooper was all too used to hearing, Holmes stated. “As you are aware I hold reason and logic in high esteem, and I never allow sentiment to cloud or interfere in my decision making processes. The same is true of my decision to enter into this marriage state,” he paused a moment to allow his words to sink in, before he continued. “My primary concern in marrying you was to ensure that you were reinstated to your position at St Bartholomew’s, so that we could return to our usual routine as quickly as possible. This is purely a business arrangement. If you insist upon our continuing to share a bed, then it is done on the understanding that there will be no expectations of romantic entanglements.”
When Molly made no immediate response, Holmes took this as agreement.
“Well I’m pleased we have that all sorted,” he exclaimed as he got to his feet. “I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Lestrade left a message that he has a case that has him quite baffled.”
And with that he left the flat.
Molly remained where she sat for several minutes. All her hopes that Sherlock might actually feel some affection for her, was now utterly destroyed by his pronouncement.
His words hurt her, and she doubted that he would ever fully comprehend just how much. But she would be damned if she was going to let him see.
Over the next few days, when it became clear that he had indeed returned to his cool and callous ways, both at work and at home, Molly became more and more withdrawn emotionally, and physically.
Holmes either didn’t notice, or was quite unaware, until one night he returned to the flat, to discover that his wife had removed herself, and all her possessions, and moved into Watson’s old room.
It was with some surprise that he felt a little upset with this particular development. But then his cold, hard reason reasserted itself, and he reasoned that it was probably for the best.
And he went to bed, alone.
Holmes was reviewing some old, unsolved cases. It was something he rarely did, but he was desperate for the diversion. It was better than allowing his thoughts to drift to his...Molly. She barely spoke to him now, only at Bart’s, and only to give her findings on any particular autopsy he was interested in.
His ears picked up the familiar tread of Inspector Lestrade as he made his way with surprising haste up the stairs.
“What is it Lestrade?” Holmes snapped impatiently. “Another little girl’s rabbit mysteriously vanish from its cage?”
The reminder of the contents of the note he’d used as a means of escaping the uncomfortable situation he’d created between himself and Molly, pulled the Consulting Detective up short.
In an attempt to cover up his sense of shame over this little deceit, he moderated his tone as he again addressed the Scotland Yard Detective. “How can I help you Lestrade?”
Lestrade took a moment or two to regain his breath.
“There’s been an explosion at St Bartholomew’s Mortuary...”
Lestrade got no further before Holmes dropped what he was doing, rushed down the stairs, grabbed his coat, but forgot his hat, then rushed out the front door and hailed a cab.
ST BARTHOLOMEW’S - ENTRANCE
No sooner had the cab stopped than Sherlock was out, and rushing towards the mortuary.
He was temporarily delayed as he fought his way through the barriers the police had put in place to give the Fire Department easy access, while keeping the hospital staff, and members of the public at a safe distance.
But Sherlock didn’t give a damn about his own life all he cared about was finding Molly...
ST BATHOLOMEW’S – MORTUARY
“Molly! MOLLY!” Sherlock’s voice grew more and more desperate as he rushed towards the Mortuary that even from a distance was clear had suffered substantial damage.
Sherlock’s frantic movements slowed as he heard his wife’s voice. He turned to find her sitting on the floor a few feet away from the mortuary. He rushed over to her, and crouched down so that he could assess whether her injuries, should she have any, were serious or not. To his relief he found her to be completely unharmed.
It was only when he felt Molly’s hands brushing away the tears from his face that he realised he was crying.
“I’m all right,” Molly assured him. “I told Lestrade to let you know there was no need to be concerned. Clearly he didn’t.”
Sherlock felt his cheeks flush.
“Well he might have if I’d given him the chance to explain fully. All I heard was that there had been an explosion at the morgue, and I couldn’t bear the thought that I might have lost you.”
His impassioned words made Molly’s heart sing. Taking his face in her hands she met his incredible aqua coloured eyes head on as she made a solemn vow. “You will never lose me Sherlock, even if you wanted to.”
He pulled her into his arms. “I am such an idiot,” he confessed.
“I know,” she responded, before snuggling into the reassuring warmth of her husband.
Sherlock heard the smile in her voice, and he thanked God, even though he still regarded it as nothing more than a ludicrous fantasy designed purely to provide employment for the village idiot, that this incredible woman was not only in his life, but more importantly his wife.
‘But a wife in name only,’ his conscience chided him.
Breathing in her familiar scent, he felt his heart, and his body respond. This time however he was determined to no longer ignore what he felt for her.
And he intended to leave her in no doubt of his feelings. But he refused to do so here. What he needed to say, and do, required privacy.
A trail of hastily removed clothes littered the floor from the sitting room, down the hall and into the bedroom. An honest proclamation of the need to feel naked skin against naked skin, and to become as close as was humanly possible.
Sherlock and Molly’s ecstatic cries as they finally became intimately acquainted with one another had their landlady, Mrs Hudson rushing to get a sleeping draft to ensure she spent the rest of the night in absolute oblivion...
221B BAKER STREET - BEDROOM
The morning found the couple blissfully satiated. Even in repose their limbs remained entwined.
Sherlock lay on his side, Molly’s back against his chest, her bottom pressed into his groin. One of her hands rested on his hipbone, while the other was enclosed by his as he clasped her securely to him, his arm wrapped around her waist. His other hand cupped her left breast.
They awoke languidly. Awareness of each other’s presence confirmation that what happened the previous day was not a dream, or a drug-fuelled hallucination. But fact, an absolute reality, and one that could be explored, and enjoyed over, and over again.
Sherlock was forced to relinquish his hold when it became clear that his wife wished to turn over.
However once they were face-to-face Sherlock felt an immediate renewal of those passionate feelings they had spent the entire night engaging in to their fullest satisfaction.
When Molly reached up to slide her fingers through his unruly curls, grasping them firmly as she pulled his head down so that their lips met, it was clear she felt the same.
But their passionate exchange was interrupted by another form of hunger, one where the nourishment needed to sate it came in the form of food.
Sherlock sat in his chair, a bed-sheet wrapped haphazardly around him, with Molly on his lap, dressed in his blue dressing gown.
They had finally finished eating breakfast. A task that took considerably longer than normal as the couple insisted upon feeding each other, in-between pressing increasingly heated kisses to any area of naked skin within reach.
But when Molly reached up to suck energetically at the mole on Sherlock’s neck, she was made aware of something in one of the pockets of the dressing gown.
Curious, she reached inside and pulled out Sherlock’s pocket-watch. Before he could stop her, Molly had flipped the case open. On one side was the watch, while inserted into the other side was the photograph of a woman, a very beautiful woman.
As Molly gazed at the woman’s striking appearance, she recalled a conversation she had overheard in the mortuary several months before between Sherlock and Doctor Watson. They had been discussing an older case that had revolved around a lady that both men only ever referred to as ‘The Woman’.
Based on the little information being offered up at the time, Molly had formed the opinion that this woman was a high class harlot, come blackmailer. But who was nonetheless someone Sherlock held in high esteem. Something that was extraordinarily rare and practically unheard of when it came to the fairer sex.
Now confronted with a photograph of someone who could only be that woman, Molly felt an overwhelming need to understand.
“Her name is Irene Adler,” Sherlock replied honestly, taking the watch from Molly as he continued his explanation. “I have kept her photo because at the time I believed I would never come across another woman who could stimulate me, intellectually,” Sherlock confessed as he removed the photograph and threw it in the fire without a second glance, before placing the watch on the little table by his chair.
He then turned back to Molly. “Since then however I have had the good fortune to meet two others. One, Watson was clever enough to marry, while I have been blessed to marry the other.”
Once he had finished his explanation Sherlock found himself feeling quite nervous. How would Molly respond?
He didn’t have long to wait.
After a minute or two spent in contemplation Molly turned to her husband, a frown marring her brow. “You find me merely intellectually stimulating?” she queried, her tone cool.
But Sherlock caught the teasing glint in her expressive brown eyes, and the tension inside him immediately evaporated.
He had no doubt that his Molly would require a full explanation, but that was for later, much, much later if he had his way. And judging from his wife’s expression he was about to get his wish.
When she ran her hands through his errant curls, her fingers again gripping them firmly as she impatiently pulled his head down to capture his lips with her own. Sherlock let out a groan, as he came to the conclusion that having ones hair follicles grasped in such a fashion by his wife was one the most erotically, stimulating sensation he’d ever encountered, and one that required further and immediate investigation...
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
Caught completely off guard the usually unflappable World’s Only Consulting Detective reacted as one caught by his mother doing something he shouldn’t. In this case the literal truth. Bolting to his feet, while ensuring Molly was not left exposed, as he quickly manoeuvring her so that she was behind him. The same could not be said for himself, as his sheet started to descend at a rapid rate, and it was due entirely to Molly’s quick actions as she grabbed hold of the sheet before it could cause a very public spectacle.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Sherlock spluttered as he gazed wide-eyed at the elderly couple standing in the doorway.
“Don’t use that tone with me young man,” the formidable lady shot back. “Just when were you intending to inform us of your marriage? We had a right to know.”
She was absolutely right of course, Sherlock acknowledged as he gazed into the eyes that were the exact replica of his own. He read the hurt his decision to not inform them immediately had caused.
“My apologies Mother, Father,” he responded, his tone genuinely conciliatory. Standing back to reveal the petite woman who had stolen his heart, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Doctor Molly Holmes. As to the circumstances of our marriage...”
“Sherlock was only trying to protect my reputation,” Molly began.
“Your reputation was never in question,” Sherlock protested. “This is all down to Watson’s need to be so damned accurate in his write up of our cases.”
“Perhaps my dear,” Mr Holmes suggested. “It would be better we continue this intriguing tale over dinner tonight. By then I’m certain Sherlock and Molly will be more properly attired.”
“Of course,” Mrs Holmes responded. “A splendid idea, we’ll see you both at Mycroft’s at 8.00pm.”
And with that they turned to leave.
But before Sherlock could shut the door, his mother had other ideas. She turned back to him, a determined expression on her face. “I want grandchildren Sherlock We’re not getting any younger you know.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “As it so happens,” he informed her. “We were working on it, but were interrupted.”
Satisfied his mother finally headed down the stairs.
With a sigh of relief Sherlock closed the door, before making his way over to Molly.
“Now where were we?” he asked, as he let his sheet fall to the floor.
Chapter 7: Nine Months Later...
221B BAKER STREET - BEDROOM
“That’s it Molly, one more push. You can do it,” Mary Watson’s reassuring words reached Molly through the exhausting haze of childbirth.
“Ohhhhh.... Awwww... Ahhhhh...”
Sherlock’s right hand was completely numb thanks to the tight grip Molly had on it, but that didn’t stop him moving swiftly to support his wife’s back with his left arm as the final contraction caused her to go from a horizontal position to a semi vertical one.
Not long after their child was announcing its presence to everyone in the room.
“It’s a girl,” Mary informed the new parents, as she wrapped her up in a blanket before handing her back to her mother. “Have you decided on a name for her?”
Molly nodded. “Victoria Margaret,” she responded softly.
Mary made her way to the door, turning back she smiled as she observed the once cold hearted detective, still in his nightshirt, climb onto the bed and take his wife in his arms, cradling her protectively as she cradled their daughter.
Neither could take their eyes off the tiny scrap of humanity they had created together.
Sherlock was vaguely aware of Mary leaving the room. He needed to thank her for coming so quickly when Molly went into labour early. But for now he was content to stay right where he was, cataloguing and committing to memory every single detail about his baby daughter, while knowing Mary would forgive his tardiness.
He was brought out of his revere when Molly made an unexpected suggestion. “If our next child is a boy, I think we should name him John.”
Sherlock paled at the mere suggestion. Not because he didn’t want more children, but because after witnessing Molly going through all she had in delivering Victoria, he didn’t want to put her through it all over again.
But it was clear that Molly appeared to have immediately forgotten all the pain and effort she’d gone through bringing their daughter into the world.
As he watched his wife’s contented expression as Victoria began to suckle eagerly at Molly’s breast, he didn’t have the heart to argue with her. The same could not be said for her choice of name for their future son. “Why does it have to be John?”
“Well if he hadn’t been so accurate in his write up of The Ricoletti Case, we may never have found ourselves where we are now,” his wife pointed out.
Sherlock acknowledged that she had a point, not that he’d ever admit as much to Watson. But that was a discussion for another day.
Because all that mattered right now, as they settled more comfortably in their bed and closed their eyes, was that they had found each other and their lives had become infinitely better for it.
