Chapter Text
A person removed from the situation might have guessed that it would be easy to work in a morgue, surrounded by people who had died before their time, while dating a man whose career also relied heavily on corpses. Incredibly easy. Maybe even a little bit fun.
Unfortunately, this was rarely the case.
But then, many people, seeing their significant other come striding into their place of work with a bag of food and a thermos of tea would inspire feelings of great affection, gratitude, fluttery butterflies in the tummy. In Molly's case, it just made her wary and a bit tired. Though that quick kiss Sherlock bestowed upon her cheek still made her blush and grin. Moving with that same frantic energy which Molly had grown to dread, Sherlock dumped his effects on her desk, peeled off his gloves, and bounded over to the nearest gurney, leaving a trail of half-melted snowflakes in his wake.
“Has anybody interesting died since I last came in?” he asked, squinting down at Mr Henry Markem's toe tag. Molly sighed, rifling through paperwork until she found the list she had been compiling, a list of any suspicious deaths she had encountered in the past week. It had become a sort of ritual for the pair. When cases were running dry, Sherlock would dash over to St Bart's to search for any sort of clues that a murder may have been committed. More often than not, there was no criminal activity to worry about. It was mostly a way to focus his energy so that he wouldn't start shooting at things again. But it had been three weeks without a case, and Sherlock, for all his wondrous qualities, and for all that Molly loved him, was beginning to get tiresome. The detective snatched the list away from her, glaring down at it while he bounced on the balls of his feet. Molly kept half her attention on him as she turned back to the mountain of paperwork hiding her laptop. For the next little while, the room was almost quiet, save for the occasional banging of a mortuary door. Well, and Sherlock's muttering. Sherlock muttered a lot when he was restless. Molly was about an hour into her work when she was startled by a shout.
“NOTHING. There is NOTHING here.” She whirled around with a tiny shriek in time to see Sherlock throwing a clipboard onto a table with a great scowl on his face.
“Really Sherlock, do you need to yell like that?” she asked as she tried to get her pulse back under control. Sherlock didn't say anything, but turned his fierce scowl on Molly. She scowled back, and then sighed, turning back to her work. After about an hour of Sherlock reading and rereading the toe tags and staring grumpily at the bodies, he gave a great heaving sigh.
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Sure, that would be really lovely actually. What do you have?” Sherlock rolled over a free gurney and began laying out the food; two grilled cheese sandwiches, a container of fried tomatoes, a can of beans, two fried eggs, and, of course, the tea. They tucked in, chatting about how the day was going. Molly was backed up with paperwork, she had just dealt with a teary woman who had come in to identify her nephew, and she was really longing for a bubble bath. Sherlock had spent the morning going over some of Lestrade's cold cases, had solved four of them, and was now feeling bored and agitated. Molly thought that was right on schedule, but she didn't say it out loud. When they had finished eating, Molly cleaned up, expecting Sherlock to sweep out and find something else to do, but instead he stood up against the wall staring fixedly at Mr Markem's corpse. He looked bored, even a little morose, and Molly shook her head. She knew how exhausting it was to have nothing to do. So she went to him and hugged him hard from behind. She could feel him twitching gently with nervous energy.
“If you need anything, just let me know,” she murmured, before kissing him gently between the shoulder blades. He stiffened a little, which Molly took as a sign that she should leave him be, so she went back to her desk to finish the remaining files. She was just turning a page when she felt a pair of hands at her waist. She made a small sound of alarm, right before she was turned around, and Sherlock picked her up, sitting her down hard on her desk. Molly had enough time to think that it was a lucky thing she missed her laptop when Sherlock crashed up against her, kissing her with unexpected ferocity. As was often the case when Sherlock kissed her, Molly's mind short-circuited momentarily, and she froze completely. It was at that unfortunate moment that the doors to the room swung open, and a tall, frowning woman with red-rimmed eyes came stomping in, partway through removing her scarf and gloves.
“Dr Hooper, I know this is unorthodox, but I-” the woman began, but she stopped once she caught sight of Molly, who was blushing furiously at Sherlock, who was between her knees and in the midst of kissing her neck. He stopped to glare at the woman, who made a strange choking sound before whirling around and dashing from the room with her fist pressed to her mouth. Molly immediately began pushing Sherlock away, making odd little squeaking noises. The detective frowned down at her, though his ferocity was fading into confusion.
“Sherlock, get off me! What do you think- You- I- I am working! I am at work! That was, oh my god, that-” Sherlock stepped over to the door and pushed it open, staring at the woman who was now trotting down the hall, making those same choking sounds of distress. Then, he looked back to the corpse on the gurney, who was still uncovered following Sherlock's examination of the body. He looked up at Molly, looking as though he was beginning to grasp the severity of the situation.
“Friend or relation?” he asked.
“Aunt turned legal guardian after his parents died, she was just in an hour ago to identify the body,” Molly squeaked. She was frantically pulling off her work shoes, trading in the comfortable trainers for snow boots, ready to run out after Mrs Markem so that she could apologize. “Sherlock, just because you're bored and antsy doesn't mean you can have sex with me when I'm at work! I mean, at home, yes, it's fine, I get it, but do you have any idea how bad this looks? I could get- Oh, god, I could-” she trailed off, trying not to panic. She abandoned her boots, only half on, and began fiddling with her hair, trying to tie it up into a more professional looking bun. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the doors banging open again. Mrs Markem had returned, Mike Stamford in tow. Tears were streaming down the older woman's face, and she pointed a shaking finger at Molly.
“Her! She's the one!” she shrieked. Mike gaped and stared back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. He took in Molly's flushed face and messy hair. Then he looked at the desk, where files and papers were scattered and crumpled. Then he looked at Mr Markem's corpse, which was uncovered, the sheet flung over a chair. He was awfully quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“Uhm, Ms Hooper, I was just speaking with Mrs Markem here, and she, well, she's just voiced to me a concern,” he said, very clearly trying to sound diplomatic. Mrs Markem, however, was not in the mood for a civil chat, as evidenced by her shriek of panicked laughed.
“A concern?! I should say I have more than a concern, you bloody fool, this, this woman has just been defiling my nephew! Having sex practically on top of him!” Molly gaped, the blood draining from her face.
“I wasn't, I, I didn't! I would never!” she squawked, panic rising in her throat like bile. Sherlock was frowning.
“Having sex on top of your nephew? Do you imagine we carried him to the desk, laid him out and molested him, and then moved him back?” Mrs Markem shrieked, but Sherlock ignored it. “Only a moron would look at the body on the slab and think there was any way an act of sexual misconduct had just been performed on it, just look at it!” Mike pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.
“He molests my nephew, and then calls me a moron? Stamford, what sort of lunatics do you hire around here?” Mrs Markem screeched.
“Mrs Markem, please, I can explain!” Molly piped up, wringing her hands. “This is Sherlock Holmes, he's my- Well, I mean, he doesn't exactly work here, I mean, he does work here, but he doesn't work here, you know?” Mrs Markem gave a great, scandalised gasp.
“So you thought you would just invite your boyfriend to work so that you could- could sully my poor Henry?” Sherlock scoffed in the corner. Molly waved a hand at him frantically and began rambling to cut him off.
“Nonono no no, no it wasn't like that at all! He dropped by with lunch, and to see if there were any new cases! He's sort of like a detective, you see,” she explained, trying desperately to stay calm.
“A detective?! Oh yes, I am sure there were many things being detected around here!” the older woman exclaimed. “Mr Stamford, I demand that you fire this dreadful girl, and have this lunatic thrown out!” Molly frowned and piped up immediately, before poor Mike could say anything.
“Fired for what? For kissing my- For kissing Sherlock at my desk and not on a corpse thank you, after he's just looked at your nephew to see if he was murdered?” Mrs Markem blanched, her mouth falling open.
“He hasn't been, for what it's worth,” said Sherlock, who was glowering at everyone.
“And, yes, it's maybe not the most professional thing I've ever done, kissing a man at work, but I was on my lunch break, and, well, it's not actually any of your business what I do in my spare time!” Molly was practically bouncing now, her guilt at upsetting a mourning woman melting away into righteous indignation at being slandered in front of her boss. “And frankly, I think you ought to apologize for being rude to Sherlock, who hasn't done anything wrong!”
“He was looking at my poor, sweet Henry!” cried Mrs Markem, fresh tears streaking down her face. “He was defiling him, he was invading his privacy! He was intentionally dishonouring my poor boy! He is a pervert and a psychopath, and he should be punished!”
“Sherlock is not a psychopath!” Molly said loudly, ignoring the way Mike was frowning and trying to get everyone to calm down. “Sherlock is a lovely man, a really lovely man! And he doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. And he wasn't invading anyone's privacy, he was inspecting a corpse to see if it had been-”
Molly was cut off suddenly as Mrs Markem swung around and slapped her, hard, across the face. The move was so unexpected that, for a brief moment, the room fell silent, echoing with the sound. Molly's eyes immediately welled up with tears as the shock gave way to a vivid, stinging pain. She could taste blood on her tongue. Her face felt like it had been burned. She took a deep, gasping breath, trying to keep from crumpling to the floor in tears.
“No, Sherlock, stop it!” Mike's sudden shout drew Molly's attention. Sherlock had grabbed Mrs Markem by the upper arms. His face was hard and cold, and the look in his eyes was frightening. He had a tight hold on Mrs Markem, who was whimpering a little now, her face gone very pale. Sherlock did stop at Mike's command, and he turned a little to stare at Molly, who gave a little shake of her head.
“Let go of Mrs Markem, Sherlock,” she said in a small voice. As the tears spilled over her cheeks, she turned away, shaking, and angry at herself for feeling ashamed.
“Mrs Markem, I think it best you leave now,” said Mike in a tense voice. There was silence for a moment, then uncertain footsteps. “I, um- I hope you're okay, Molly, I'll handle all of this,” he added cautiously. The doors swung, first open and then shut. Molly clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to regain control of her emotions. She had the warning of three loud footsteps before she was gently turned around. Sherlock brushed the hair out of her face and wiped the tears from her eyes as he scanned her face. Molly had been analysed by Sherlock before, but there was concern in his eyes, and he was so tender with her as he brought his fingers to her cheek that she couldn't hold back the hitch of her breath, and then, almost inevitably, she was sobbing openly, her tears coming all the more violently because she was completely angry with herself for crying at all. Immediately she turned her face away, knowing how uncomfortable and awkward big displays of emotion made Sherlock feel. But he surprised her, pulling her in closer for a tight hug, and kissing the top of her head. His rigid stance was the only clue to how uncomfortable he really felt.
It didn't take very long for Molly to cry herself out. Somehow, through the course of it, she and Sherlock ended up sitting on the floor, him squeezing her close with a sort of grim determination. It meant that their legs tangled awkwardly, but Molly didn't really mind. Sherlock being sweet was worth the pins and needles. So they sat together in silence, Molly trying to decide whether or not it was a silence that needed to be broken.
“I'm sorry for, um, crying on you,” she said finally, frowning at her own awkwardness.
“Don't be, I understand,” he replied curtly. Molly bit her lip hard, worried by his tone. She risked a peek at his face, and saw that he was staring at the wall, face stony. Not good. She swallowed hard, and cleared her throat.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, perfectly,” he replied far too quickly. Molly sighed.
“Sherlock, it's okay, if I've made you uncomfortable, you can say,” she said, glum. Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.
“It is nothing you've done, don't be stupid,” he snapped. Molly tensed a little, but didn't say anything. She just bit her lip harder, wondering if she ought to pull away, go home, take a back and drink all the tea in her flat. Sherlock sighed heavily, just in time, and she peered up at him anxiously. This time, he met her eyes.
“In future, while your attempts to defend me were admirable, I'd prefer it if you would give up before you are assaulted,” he said, sounding completely exasperated. Molly squinted up at him, frowning.
“That's what's bothering you?” she asked. Sherlock arched a brow at her in response. Molly gave a little snort of a laugh, and snuggled closer to him. “She didn't hit me for defending you, Sherlock, she hit me because I called her nephew a corpse. I mean, technically he is, but really, it was sort of insensitive for me to say it,” she said.
“You would not have said it were you not trying to defend me,” Sherlock retorted. Molly shrugged. “I fail to understand why you were defending me in the first place, or did you not notice that she was trying to have you sacked?” he said grumpily. Molly gave a little laugh at that, and gave the detective a squeeze.
“Mike wouldn't fire me for something as silly as kissing you during my lunch break. And he knows that neither of us would disrespect the bodies here.” She paused. “Well, unless it was for scientific reasons, obviously. But Mr Markem hadn't checked the right box for that, so there was really no need for all the fuss. Anyway.” She shrugged. “I think, if anything, it was for a worthy cause. She shouldn't have insulted you like that.” Molly yawned, and her eyes drifted shut. Crying always made her tired, and she hadn't slept well the night before anyway. She wondered fleetingly if Mike would let her go home after all the drama, she was exhausted.
“People insult me all the time,” Sherlock said after a moment. His voice sounded a bit wooden and strange, and Molly frowned, giving him another little squeeze.
“Doesn't mean they should, you're lovely,” she argued sleepily.
“Not a good enough reason to inspire violence, Molly,” he said. Molly huffed.
“Look, I am a grown woman, I get to decide how I inspire violence,” she said. And then she giggled. “Seriously though, Sherlock, I'm fine, it was only a slap. It's not like she left any lasting damage. And besides, I can't think of a better reason to get hit than by standing up for someone I love.” Sherlock said nothing. He said nothing for quite a while, actually, long enough that Molly actually did nod off for a moment. The low rumbling of his voice brought her back to present though, and she cleared her throat sleepily.
“Mm? Sorry, what was that?”
“I said, I think that we ought to get married,” Sherlock said.
The words took a little while to settle in Molly's ears. When they did finally make sense to her, her eyes snapped open, and she sat up too quickly, getting a brief dizzy spell for her efforts. She turned to face him, blinking furiously.
“You- You think that you and I- That we should-?” The words refused to leave her mouth in any sort of order which made sense. Sherlock gazed at her, looking a bit pleased. Then he sighed, untangled his legs, and stood, extending a hand to help Molly up.
“There is no need to look so shocked, I did tell you of my intentions when I first broached the subject of our relationship,” he said, yanking her to her feet. “I had planned to propose in a more romantic setting, but honestly, I don't feel like waiting any longer.” Molly just gaped at him. He sank to his knees in front of her, and she gave a little squawk, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as new tears sprung up in her eyes. Sherlock took her hands in his, and gazed up into her eyes.
“Molly Hooper,” he said softly. “Would you do me the greatest honour, and consent to becoming my wife?”
Molly stared down at Sherlock, who looked blurry through her tears. Her heart was thudding so hard in her chest that she felt as though it would knock her down. A memory came jumping to her mind, standing in the sitting room at 221B, surrounded by friends and family, with Sherlock pressing her to his chest and demanding that everyone applaud the most sarcastic proposal of marriage that had ever been performed in all the history of the world. She gave a watery little laugh at the image, and beamed down at Sherlock.
“Yes, yes of course I will,” she said.
Sherlock gave her a breathtaking smile, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Then he stood and pulled her close, kissing her cheek, her forehead, her hair. Molly wrapped her arms around him, and nuzzled against his chest with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. It was the most delicious feeling of deja vu she had ever experienced. They stood like that for a long time, just holding on tight and breathing each other in. But a curious little voice popped up in Molly's head, and she cleared her throat, breaking the silence.
“Sherlock?”
“Mm?”
“Did you really have a more romantic place planned?”
“Yes, of course I did.” He paused. “I was going to propose in your flat.” Molly snorted. “That's more romantic, is it?” “Than a mortuary? I should hope so.” Molly smiled at that. And then she giggled.
“I do have one condition, though,” she said.
“Oh good. What is your one condition,” Sherlock replied flatly. Molly bit her lip, grinning.
“This time, we have to stay married at least three months.”