Why Are You Surprised?

[darnedchild]

Summary: Sherlock is finally ready to let their mutual friends know that he and Molly are dating. If only he'd thought to tell Molly first. - Written in memory of MaybeItsJustMyType.

Rating: T

A/N - I spent some time trying to think of a prompt to write for The MaybeItsJustMyType Collection in memory of @sweet-sweet-escape. I didn’t really get a chance to know her very well before her passing, but what I do know made me want to contribute to the collection if possible. Unfortunately, I’m really not comfortable writing about either of the two suggested topics (motherhood or coping with loss) for personal reasons, so I asked @lilsherlockian1975 what sorts of things @sweet-sweet-escape enjoyed. Lil told me that she loved to laugh and liked humour. Not long after, I found a funny prompt on Tumblr (by the time I saw it, it had already made the rounds and was on @incorrectsherlollyquotes).

Unfortunately, the humour sort of took a right turn into a wee bit of angst. Sorry. I guess I wasn’t successful on that front, but I had good intentions.

MaybeItsJustMyType had a fic of her own with a similar ‘Sherlock mistakenly thinks he and Molly are in a relationship’ theme (“Filing Mishaps and Other Adventures”), so I hope she might have liked this one.

And I’ve rambled long enough. This is written for The MaybeItsJustMyType (@sweet-sweet-escape) Collection.


Why Are You Surprised?





Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s huff of annoyance. What did he expect, showing up at Baker Street unannounced and uninvited on a Friday night? Did he just assume that Sherlock would have nothing better to do than listen to him blather on about ‘a matter of national importance’ or some other boring thing.

While it was true that Sherlock normally didn’t care what day of the week it was, and he usually abhorred having half a dozen people crammed into his living space (as there currently were), this particular Friday night was different.

After months of Molly patiently honouring his unspoken desire to keep their new relationship under wraps until he was at least ninety percent certain Eurus wasn’t going to spring out the shadows, Sherlock was ready.

Tonight he was going to tell their friends that they were a couple.

Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned on the handle of his ever-present umbrella. “I do apologize for dragging you away from your little tea party—"

“You don’t sound apologetic,” John butted in as he squeezed between the two Holmes brothers on his way from the kitchen to the sitting room. He held one of the two bottles of beer he was carrying up for Mycroft to see and waggled it slightly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Mycroft ignored him. “It’s a matter of—”

It was Sherlock who interrupted this time. “Utmost importance, highly delicate nature, blah blah blah. Not interested.” He turned his back on his brother and watched John hand the second bottle of beer to Mary, who had taken over John’s old chair.

John had urged his wife into the seat the moment they’d arrived. Mary had recovered from her gunshot wound for the most part, but some days she wore out quicker than others. She had insisted she was fine, John had insisted she needed to get off her feet after a full day at the clinic, and Sherlock had insisted they both shut up and sit down (Mary on the chair as it really was more comfortable than it looked) because no one wanted to listen to them bicker.

Not the best start to a gathering, but also not the worst Sherlock had ever been involved in.

He had planned to bring the everyone up to date as once as his last guest arrived.

The sooner he said it, the sooner they could dispense with the pleasantries and congratulations, and the sooner he could shove everyone back out the door and ask Molly if she were finally ready to move on to the next phase of their relationship. He hadn’t felt right asking for more from her than she freely offered, not while he was still reluctant to acknowledge they were a couple to the outside world. Even though he’d spent the majority of the last month desperate to feel her skin beneath his hands, he had continued to wait for a sign. Any sign. It was extremely important to him that she make the first move, that she be able to decide when she was ready to move forward with their physical intimacy without any pressure from him. Frankly, while he was ready (eager, even) to head straight to the bedroom, he thought Molly might prefer to take things slow and he didn’t want her to agree to move faster just to please him. They’d been together for more than two months already and there hadn’t even been a real kiss on the lips yet.

And that was something they would discuss as soon as everyone had left.

Unfortunately, Lestrade had barrelled in late and immediately asked if anyone minded if he ordered take-away because he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. All of Sherlock’s carefully laid plans dissolved into chaos at that point, and he’d been seconds away from kicking all of them out when Molly had chirped in with a cheerful, “I could murder some chips right now.”

What kind of boyfriend lets his significant other go hungry when there was something he could do about it? If Molly wanted chips, then Molly would have chips.

Which is how he came to have Mary and John sharing fish and the largest basket of chips that Charlie’s off Marylebone Road offered while little Rosie napped in a cot upstairs. Mrs Hudson perched in the centre of the sofa, nibbling on fish while she regaled Lestrade with some of the tamer tales of her misspent early-twenties (not that Lestrade seemed to believe all of them, the naïve fool). Mycroft leaning against the doorframe, visibly uncomfortable; mistakenly believing that Sherlock would grow bored with the goldfish swimming about the sitting room and want to escape into a case (even one of Mycroft’s) at any moment. And Molly curled up in his chair, looking as if she belonged there while she laughed at Mrs Hudson’s stories and Mary’s wisecracks and John’s faux-put upon sighs. She even spared a smile and a warm greeting for Mycroft, when he’d first arrived.

His brother, who had made some deductions of his own and clearly come to the right conclusion, had offered a pained but polite greeting in return.

Sherlock looked at Molly again. His Molly.

He knew that his feelings must have been written across his face in flashing neon from the way she blushed. That he could still bring a flush to her cheeks after everything they’d been through over the years was enough to make him want to pick her up and carry her back to his room, to protectively wrap himself around her small frame and kiss her until neither of them could breath.

He had no idea how or when it happened. One day she was his good friend (second only to John, and just barely edging out Mary); and the next she was his everything. As much as he’d re-examined their interactions over the years, he honestly could not pinpoint the moment when he stopped thinking about her as Molly from Barts and started thinking of her as His Molly.

It happened long before Sherrinford, that much he knew.

But it took that horrible moment, when he was certain that no matter what the outcome of Eurus’ challenge Molly was going to die just as the others had, for him to recognize what—exactly—he’d been feeling for so long.

They’d never discussed it again after he explained the phone call and Eurus’ tests. He had told her that he’d meant what he’d said, he really did love her. Molly had cupped his cheek and told him she knew. She’d always known. Then she’d given him a bittersweet smile, and he understood how much it must have hurt her to have their first declarations of love pulled from them in such an intrusive and public manner. She hadn’t said the words since; and he had followed her lead and refrained from repeating them, willing to wait until she was ready to hear them again.

In the meantime, they had gone on much as they had before.

He regularly showed up at her place to spend the night sprawled across her bed. Sometimes she’d huff and join him, complaining that he took up too much room on “her” bed (although he’d already begun to think of it as “theirs”). He’d ached to tell her she was more than welcome to come closer and cuddle up against his side; but, again, he had been determined to respect her boundaries and let her set the pace. Even though it meant wanting her to the point of distraction or needing far too many cold showers.

They spent quiet evenings at his or hers, she with a book and him lost in his mind palace as he worked through one thing or another. He’d paced his sitting room, verbally puzzling through a case, stopping to ask a question here or there, pleased when she’d sometimes pick up on something he’d missed. She’d binged watch DVDs of her favourite shows with her feet propped up on his lap, ignoring his sarcastic comments, and pretending not to notice when he’d get caught up in the storylines.

He often made sure she ate when she was too distracted to remember (his long-ago words to John about girlfriends feeding you up came to mind), even if he didn’t feel like eating himself.

“This was lovely, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson set aside her empty plate and stood, accepting Lestrade’s hand for assistance. “A bit out of character for you, but lovely nevertheless. Still, it’s getting late and I should be turning in for the night soon.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock shook his head and tutted. “Speedy’s doesn’t close for another half hour, which means Mr Chatterjee won’t be sneaking in your back door for another forty-five minutes, minimum. You can stay long enough to hear what I have to say.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson sat back down with an indulgent humf.

“All right then.” Lestrade tilted the neck of his beer bottle toward the Consulting Detective. “Why did you invite us all over here?”

Sherlock crossed the room to stand behind his chair. He reached down to settle his hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Molly and I are dating.”

Six different people reacted in six different ways.

“Oh my God, seriously?” came from Lestrade.

“What?” from Molly.

“About time. Took you two long enough,” teased Mary.

“When? How come I didn’t know?” blurted John.

“We’re really doing this sort of thing now?” sighed Mycroft, even as he pulled out his mobile and started to text his assistant.

“Oh! Oh, Sherlock! And Molly! I’m so happy for you both!” Mrs Hudson clutched her hands to her chest and beamed.

Sherlock took in everything a smirk on his lips. He’d predicted their reactions, and they had played out exactly as he’d deduced.

Except for one.

“Molly?” He looked down at the woman seated in his chair. She was staring up at him, looking a little shell-shocked. “Why are you surprised?”

“Since when?” She rolled out of the chair and stood in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Since what?” He was beginning to get a bit confused himself.

“Since when have we been dating?”

Sherlock sputtered. “I—Since—After—Months!”

“Months?” John whispered. “He means right after—” He hopped onto his feet and urged Mary up with him. “We do not want to be here for this conversation.”

“He didn’t? Oh, he did.” Mary blanched. “You get Rosie from her cot, I’ll grab the diaper bag.” She nudged John toward the door, then paused long enough to pull Molly into a quick one-armed hug. “Call me tomorrow. Or tonight, if you need someone to post bail. Rosie won’t need her college fund for years yet, you’ll have time to pay us back. Good night, Sherlock. Good luck.” She looked at the two on the sofa with wide-eyes and jerked her head toward the door. “Greg? Mrs Hudson? Wouldn’t you like to see us off downstairs?”

“Right, right.” Lestrade stood and gestured for Mrs Hudson to go first. “We’ll just . . . downstairs.”

Mrs Hudson held back long enough speak to Molly. “Knock on my door on the way out if you leave, luv. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll make sure there’s toast and jam enough for two in the morning, shall I?”

Mycroft shuddered and held his phone up to his ear. He turned and ducked into the kitchen. Sherlock could barely hear the low hum of his brother’s voice from the other room, and quickly tuned it out.

He took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, effectively closing himself off from the only other person left in the room. “Am I to deduce from your apparent outrage on the matter that you do not wish to be in a relationship of a romantic nature with me? Have you changed your mind now that we’ve informed our friends?” He paled and swayed for a moment before he managed to control his reaction to the intrusive thought that suddenly whipped through his brain. “Are you embarrassed for people to know we’re a couple?”

“What? No!” Molly reached a beseeching hand toward him, then snatched it back and straightened her spine. “If anything, I’m embarrassed that you told our friends we were dating when we are very clearly not. We’ve not been on a single date, much less enough to classify as ‘dating’. Up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know you were interested in me that way!”

“Of course I’m interested!” He threw his arms out wide. “I told you I loved you.”

Now it was Molly’s turn to pale. “That did not count.”

“How did it not count? I mean, I understand how, at the time, it might have felt a little . . .”

“Forced?” Molly huffed.

“Fair enough. But then I came to you and explained the phone call and my sister and-and that I meant it. I love you. You said you knew already.”

Molly sighed and dropped into John’s chair. Sherlock took her sitting down to mean she wasn’t going to bolt for the door, so he cautiously moved around his chair and sat in it as well. He leaned toward her, elbows on his knees, prepared to jump up and intercept her if she so much as looked as if she were going to try to leave.

“I know that you love me, Sherlock. And I’ve always loved you. But there are different kinds of love; and just because you say you love me doesn’t mean you want to be more than friends with me. I mean, it’s been months since then and you just said you thought we were dating but you’ve never, not once, even tried to hold my hand or kiss me or anything, and you never-you never said it again.” She pulled her legs up and hugged them to her chest as she stared at him with sad brown eyes that made him ache to comfort her.

Sherlock’s answer was a barely audible whisper, “You haven’t either.”

“I didn’t know,” was the only excuse she could provide.

“And now you do.” He took a chance and slid to his knees in front of John’s chair, reaching for her hands. “Believe it or not, I thought I was doing the right thing; giving you time and space to ease into us. Together. But I botched it, didn’t I?”

“No.” She flipped her hands so that they could link fingers. “Well, yeah, sort of. But I didn’t do much better. So where do we go from here?”

Sherlock’s mind raced. There were so many things he wanted to say. Too many options, most of them terrifying.

Ask her to move in.

Ask her to marry you.

Tell her you love her.

Make love to her.

“Kiss her, you idiot.” Both Molly and Sherlock jumped at the sound of another voice. Then, almost in unison, they rose to their feet and turned to look at Mycroft standing in the kitchen doorway. “I shall see you in my office in the morning.”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. “I already told you I wasn’t interested.” He knew he was going to give in and take the case eventually, but he wanted Mycroft to work for it. To sweeten the deal, so to speak.

“Word of your relationship will spread; these things always do. Remember how upset Mummy was after that incident with Miss Hawkins and her blatantly fictional accounts of your affair. If this ends up in the gossip rags before you speak to her yourself . . .”

“I’ll call her in the morning.” Sherlock didn’t want Molly to think he was going to try to hide her from his family. It would have been the other way around if he thought he could get away with it. He reached for Molly’s hand and ran his thumb across the back of it to reassure her.

Mycroft’s slow grin was very reminiscent of a shark. “I’m sure Mummy will be very eager to finally be introduced to the oft-mentioned Doctor Hooper. She could probably be here by tomorrow afternoon; unless, that is, I was to inform her that you were quite busy on a project for me and wouldn’t be available.”

The younger Holmes brother silently glared.

“I can buy you one week, possibly two, of relative privacy before she and Father descend upon Baker Street like a plague of locusts. Or I could call her tonight, and they’ll be on the next train to London before the crack of dawn. Final offer.”

“Done.” It was worth it for a week to spend with Molly without his mother’s irritatingly well-meaning interference. “Now go away.”

Sherlock didn’t wait to see if his brother was going to do as instructed, he turned to take Molly fully in his arms. He lowered his head until his lips were a hair’s breadth from hers. “I have wanted to ask this for so long. May I kiss you?”

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him breathless.