Chapter Text
One Week Later
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what is the meaning of this?"
Sherlock turned to face his irate mother with a deliberately bland expression. "The meaning of what, exactly?" Something outrageous he'd done must have been brought to her attention (Mycroft, undoubtedly, interfering git), and he could only hope it had happened far enough in the past that he could soothe her into calmness by claiming it - whatever 'it' might be - would never happen again.
"This!" She brandished a sheet of foolscap in one hand, the envelope in which it had been delivered crumpled in the other between tightly clenched fingers. "Miss Hooper has broken off the engagement! She gives no specific reason, simply cites that you and she 'share too many differences to make for a stable marriage.' And she apologises for what she calls her 'foolishness' in expecting to be able to fit comfortably into our lives!"
"She what?" Sherlock was unable to completely hide his shock and dismay as his mother marched to a stop directly in front of him. He snatched the letter from her hand, reading it over quickly as she continued to rage at him.
"What did you do to that poor girl? She's perfectly lovely, and what's more, she seemed more than capable of putting you in your place whenever necessary! I know you've been on your best behaviour, but after you absconded with her last week-end - oh yes, I know exactly what you were up to, taking her along on one of you 'cases' so you could show off for her - I can only imagine you let her see exactly, much as it pains me to say this of one of my own sons, how boorish and thoughtless you can be! What did you do?" she raged on, hardly pausing for a breath. "Leave her behind the way you so often have Doctor Watson - oh yes," she added as he opened his mouth to try to wedge in a word or two, "I have read that twaddle printed in The Strand! So don't try to lie to me, my boy! Tell me what you did!"
Still reeling from the revelation that Molly had broken off their engagement in such a manner, without informing him first, Sherlock wasn't sure how exactly to respond to his mother's diatribe. A well-deserved diatribe, to be certain, but even he could find himself nonplussed by such an unexpected barrage. "I…" was all he managed before his mother huffed her exasperation.
"Whatever it is, you had better fix it, William!" she admonished him, shaking a finger under his nose. "That young lady deserves much better than you but it has been crystal clear how smitten you are of her - and that she was able to tolerate you long enough to become engaged to you speaks volume as to her capacity for love and forgiveness!"
Ignoring the painful clenching in his chest, Sherlock removed the letter from his mother's slackened grip and quickly scanned it. "I believe Miss Hooper has made her feelings quite clear," he responded stiffly as soon as he'd finished the brief missive. "Yes, Mother, I did manage to offend her during our most recent outing-" he refused to give his mother the satisfaction of admitting that yes, they'd slipped away for a case "-but we both know that was bound to happen sooner or later. I'm hardly husband material, and this ridiculous attempt at playing Happy Families has proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt."
Changing tactics without blinking an eye, his mother rested an appeasing hand on his hand, the one in which he now clenched the already-wrinkled note penned in Molly's neat cursive. A blue pen (Curzons, a decent model) that Molly used for all her correspondence, even though it had a slight nick in the nib which caused - "What?" he asked, his mother's words finally penetrating his mind's dive into useless trivia which he intended to delete at the first possible moment.
"I said, dear boy, that I was wrong." Yes, he'd heard correctly, words from his mother's lips that he absolutely had never heard before. One for the record books! "If seeing you at your worst has caused Miss Hooper to flee then it is she who is at fault, not you." She gave a decisive nod. "Yes, I understand now that she was entirely unsuited for life as a Holmes. You would do well to put this entire foolishness behind you and find some other way to finance the detectival life you wish to pursue. Your father's mother," she added, pursing her lips in disapproval, "could be very overbearing, in life as well as after her death, sad to say."
Sherlock gaped at his mother, once again struck wordless, and she gave him an understanding smile before tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek. "Whatever funds you need, I will instruct Mycroft to release to you, as long as you agree to wait to receive the bulk of your inheritance on your 30th birthday as instructed in her will. We've been wrong, trying to force you into a life you clearly aren't suited for, and I suppose we should all be grateful to Miss Hooper for showing her true colours before the actual wedding."
With a self-satisfied nod of her head, she patted him on the arm and left the sunny patio, her heels clicking bristly on the paving stones as she strode back through the French doors and into the east parlour.
oOo
It was a long moment before Sherlock could move; when he did, it was to collapse onto a gaily-coloured deck chair, all bright flowered canvas over a sturdy wooden frame. The cheerful print represented the exact opposite of his current emotional state. His head was positively whirling; he needed some quiet time to himself to order his thoughts and adjust to the sudden freedom his mother was insisting on bestowing upon him…
Why? Why was she suddenly agreeing to give him what he'd been begging for - demanding of - his family since the reading of his grandmother's will nearly two years previous?
What did it matter, in the end? He fumbled his cigarette case and lighter out of his jacket pocket and took a long drag, moodily watching the smoke as it dissipated in the light breeze. Molly had broken their engagement and his mother had decided to assist him in obtaining his inheritance early.
For him, there was no down side.
Except…
Unbidden, John's words to him only a few days earlier echoed in his thoughts. John's words, and his own response.
"My God, you do have it bad, don't you, old man."
"Yes."
He'd stayed away from Molly, reasoning that it would be best to give her time to calm down, for him to come to terms with his own feelings towards her and how they'd changed.
In short, he admitted ruefully to himself as he took another long drag of his cigarette, he'd acted like a damned fool - and now, in consequence of both his unkind (and untrue) words to Molly and his cowardice in coming forward with the truth, he'd lost her.
Or had he? He straightened up from his disconsolate slouch, eyes unfocused as he mentally reviewed the note Molly had sent his mother. Only a brief pair of seconds passed before he snapped his fingers and laughed aloud. Two things immediately stood out to his mind: one, Molly had addressed to note to "My dearest Violet" rather than to "Lady Holmes" - and two, even more tellingly, she had not returned the engagement ring he'd selected for her from the family vaults.
Suddenly energised, he jumped to his feet, tossing the unfinished cigarette into the nearest stone planter before rushing back into the house.
If he played his cards right, then Molly would never return the engagement ring.
At least, not permanently.
oOo
Molly fidgeted discreetly as she waited for Sir Henry to finish his thought, her pen held poised over her notepad. It was her first day at her new secretarial post and she was finding it horribly tedious. Sir Henry was very kind; unfortunately he was also quite elderly, a contemporary of her mother's employer, Lady Whistledown, in fact, and prone to fits of forgetfulness whilst dictating his letters.
He gave her an apologetic smile and gestured for her to read back what she'd just written. Obediently Molly did so, only to be told it was time for tea and they would take up again once he'd decided exactly what he wanted to say.
The tea was excellent, but Molly found herself taking it alone while Sir Henry pottered off to his game room "to clear his thoughts" which she'd already discovered was code for "to take a brief nap."
After finishing her tea she wandered around the study, taking in the view from the first floor window. Nothing but other stately city townhouses as far as the eye could see.
Molly sighed. She hadn't had the foresight to bring something to read with her, and didn't feel comfortable exploring Sir Henry's library, on her own. Especially since she hadn't asked permission to do so. I'll be sure to ask as soon as he returns, she resolved. I wasn't ever this bored with Sherlock, even when we were tied to a chair together!
Immediately she regretted her momentary weakness in allowing that, that cad back into her thoughts, however briefly. She'd heard not a word from him after their row, had stubbornly waited for him to make the first move, and of course he hadn't.
Why should he, when he'd made his feelings - or rather, lack thereof - abundantly clear to her? No matter how her own heart was breaking, she'd come to the reluctant conclusion that making a clean break was the best way to handle things. She couldn't bear the thought of continuing their 'arrangement' a second longer, and in the spirit of making that clean break, had penned a note to his mother informing her of the broken engagement.
Then, before she could change her mind, she'd sent her brother to post it, asked her mother about finding her a position, and now here she was. Her life was all sorted. Perhaps not as she'd hoped it would turn out, but she wasn't the only one doomed to disappointment.
Sherlock, for example, would be just as disappointed. If her jilting him meant he had to continue to wait for his inheritance, then so be it. At least he still had it to look forward to, unlike her, whose dreams would never be realised. "He brought it on himself," she said aloud, firming her lips as she gazed unseeingly out the window, trying not to feel sorry for herself and only partially succeeding. "At least I'm well rid of him, now that I know what he really thinks about me."
"Untrue."
Molly gasped and whirled around, staring at the man striding across the study toward her. "Sherlock? What are you doing here, how did you know I was - what do you mean, what's untrue?"
"I came here to clear the air between us, I asked your mother where you could be found and when she refused - telling me in no uncertain terms exactly how little she thought of me in the process - I bribed your brothers into telling me," he replied, coming to a stop directly in front of her. "As for what's untrue - you don't know what I really think of you. Nor is it true that you're well rid of me."
He grinned unexpectedly, a rueful curl of the lips. "However, I will acknowledge that it's true that I brought this temporary schism in our relationship on myself."
"Temporary - Sherlock, I broke off the engagement!" Molly exclaimed. A feeling of sudden dread seized her. "That is, I sent a letter to your mother. Don't tell me she didn't receive it?"
"Oh no, she received it," he assured her easily. "Received it, read it, confronted me about it, accused me - correctly, of course - of bollixing things up with you, decided you weren't worthy of being a Holmes after all - patently untrue and an obvious attempt at manipulating me - and left me to consider my options. Which I have done, and come to the only conclusion."
"What conclusion?" Molly asked, then shook her head and held up her hand as he opened his mouth to reply. "No, Sherlock, it's over between us. Even if it wasn't, it's extremely inappropriate for you to seek me out at my place of employment. If Sir Henry finds you here, he'll be well within his rights to sack me!"
Sherlock waved her concerns aside with a breezy, "That's of no consequence, as you're tendering your resignation and coming with me."
Molly had had enough of his high-handedness. "No," she said with a scowl, "I'm not. You're the one who's leaving. The engagement is over, this farce of a relationship is over, and I never want to see you again!"
"Then why haven't you returned the ring I gave you?"
Molly's face flushed with mortification. She had no right to hold onto it, had removed it from her finger and replaced it in its box, hidden it in her dresser drawer amongst her unmentionables - the one place her brothers were guaranteed not to snoop - and told herself it was only because she hadn't had the time to bring it to the Holmes manor. That she had other priorities. That if Sherlock wanted it, he could bloody well -
"Come and get it myself?" he finished her unspoken thought as if plucking it from her mind. But of course, that wasn't what he'd done, not at all. He'd deduced it, deduced her, and it was all she could not to push him out of the way and run all the way back home to hide under her bedcovers.
She turned her away, her eyes closing in shame, and gave a tired shake of her head. "I'll have it delivered to your mother," she said dully. "Or you can go and fetch it. I'm sure my mother will be happy to return it to you and get you out of my life for good."
"I'll be more than happy to put it back where it belongs," Sherlock replied, and before she could say another word, she felt him gently grasp her by the hand, pulling her around to face him…
…as he silently slid the engagement ring he'd selected for her back onto her finger.
Then he leaned forward, pulling her into his arms, and kissed her.
A breathless eternity later, Molly came back to herself, blinking as she slowly pulled away from Sherlock, who allowed her only a small distance as he kept his arms firmly around her shoulders. "Sherlock, please don't do this," she whispered, feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. "Don't toy with me. I'm sorry you won't be receiving your inheritance early, but I can't do this. I can't pretend any longer."
"Then don't," he replied, his voice husky with an emotion she feared was only feigned. But the look in his eyes - so tender, so hopeful - caused her own hopes to rise, however foolishly. "Don't pretend. And I'll stop pretending as well. Pretending that I don't…" He paused, took a deep breath, then continued: "Pretending that I don't…have feelings for you." Another deep breath, eyes closed, then immediately opened to gaze into hers. "That I don't…love you."
Molly could hardly believe her ears. Sherlock Holmes, declaring his love for her?
"Say it again," she demanded, unsure if she believed him or not. "Say it again, say it like you mean it, say it-"
"I love you, Molly Hooper," he repeated firmly. "I've been a damned fool, wanting you but pushing you away, saying things that I didn't mean instead of what was in my heart." He gave an unexpected chuckle. "Watson would have a field day, hearing me natter on like some romantic hero in a novel, but it's all true. I love you, and I don't give a fig about my inheritance. Well, except for how we could put it to good use and get you back into medical school to finish your studies."
Abruptly he removed his arms from around her, but only long enough to take both her hands in his. "So, Molly Hooper, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife - for real this time? In sickness and in health and all that twaddle?" He drew her closer again. "Till death do us part?"
With shining eyes, Molly nodded, then threw her arms around him and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until a shocked "I say!" from the doorway interrupted them.
"Sorry, Sir Henry, but I'm afraid I shan't be able to stay on as your secretary," Molly managed, giggling like a schoolgirl as Sherlock took her by the hand and drew her firmly out of the study.
"Offer the position to that parlour maid who let me in," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "She's far too intelligent to continue to be wasted on manual labour. Give her a try, and I can assure you, Miss Hawkins will make an admirable secretary!"
Then they were gone, pausing only so that Molly could fetch her handbag and jacket. It was madness, what they were doing - what she was doing in particular - but as she'd discovered, Sherlock Holmes was exactly her type of madness - and she was looking forward to spending a lifetime with him.
Which is exactly what she did.