Chapter Text
London
St Bartholomew’s Hospital
1st December 2017
“I love this place.”
The grass was deep green, not a fallen leaf in sight. The path edges trimmed and neat, shrubs pruned ready for spring and the bare branches of every tree twined with fairy-lights. They were not yet illuminated, tonight would be their first. So as the London air seemed scented by a million little angel or star shaped chocolates prized from behind foil-backed cardboard doors, the first day of advent would also bring the kind of indescribable magic to the quadrant garden at the centre of St Bartholomew’s Hospital.
If one believed in such nonsense, of course. Sherlock turned to Molly Hooper where she sat by his side on the bench. They had shared a portion of chips as their lunch, there were just five minutes left of her break. Her face was suffused with a look of contentment equal only to that which he felt in her presence. Rosy colour in her cheeks, her lips, brightness in her eyes he could attribute to her childlike excitement inspired by the oncoming season and also, simply, to her beauty. Her spirit shone from her. She was his very opposite. Lightness where he existed in the shadows, openness teasing out his guarded nature. Capability offering its hand to ignorance.
Sherlock might not subscribe to the kind of giddiness Christmas seemed to bring out in others, he considered the fact that he dispensed with believing in fantastical dream-granters at an earlier age than most, as one of his greater strengths. But what he did believe in, with all of his heart - such as it was - was Molly Hooper.
He leant forward and kissed her. Lost himself and his every ridiculous affectation in the love she embodied and had somehow decided he was worthy of.
Their brows rested together as their lips parted. Sherlock took hold of Molly’s fingers where they were laid against his cheek, his mind swirling in thought;
I attribute a certain lightness of spirit which comes from being in this space
to the memories of significant events which have taken place here.
The memory of significant people, significant words…
Not least your accepting of the proposal I never imagined I would make.
I may not hold the flagstones, tended earth or silver-birch in especially high regard,
but – unbelievably, incredibly…
“I love you.”
Molly smiled, pulled back from him and let him hold her gaze with his own. Her smile widened, crinkling her nose and the outer corners of her eyes. She shook her head.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
“Nothing,” Molly replied, elation in her voice which was at once inexplicable and understandable. “Nothing. I just… can’t help it, sometimes.”
She took hold of his face and kissed him again. When she released him, she stood, as did he. She made her way back towards the eastern doorway turning back to him just once before disappearing, her face still alight.
Sherlock remained amazed that he could not help but smile back, even now she couldn’t see him. He needed to get a hold of himself – his reputation would be in tatters if, in public at least, he didn’t stop it…
Stop…
His smile did drop then. He narrowed his eyes, tried to clear his mind to allow the straggling thought to take full form. He needed it to explain the sudden niggling sensation at his centre.
A hand on his shoulder?… No…
Longed for closeness…
Aching in his heart…
Oh.
Sherlock felt a tremor rise from the souls of his feet up the length of his spine and into his brain, reducing his senses to white-noise for a fraction of a second. When they returned, the scene around him had a hyper-real quality. His movements, when he finally convinced his feet to start carrying him back to Baker Street, felt liquid, as if he were floating. Realisation did that to him, sometimes. When it mattered as much as this instance. His heart pounded, loud in his ears.
Getting back to the flat took too long. Seventeen was too many paces. Mrs Hudson would probably not bring a mince pie with his tea in punishment of his failure to acknowledge her. Thankfully, finding what he was looking for took no time at all because he would never forget where he put such an important article. Lifting it from its safe place, Sherlock smoothed out the sliver of paper.
When you can’t stop yourself, text this number…
Eleven digits below. Sherlock recognised the sensation, the tension and flighty possibility arising from the ball landing in his court. He fumbled his phone from his coat pocket, almost dropping it. He pulled off his glove with his teeth and quickly opened up a new message. Typed in the number. Paused, his thumb over the keys…
Ready. SH
He pressed send. As soon as he did, he felt an almighty sense of anti-climax which made him feel strangely weak. He sat down heavily on his bed, pulled off his other glove, unwound his scarf. He lay back, covered his eyes. They prickled.
Oh God.
His phone vibrated on the bed next to him. He took a fortifying breath before looking at the reply.
Very good, Mr Holmes. Your reservation is made for sunset this evening. Please do not trouble yourself, it’s on The House. Or rather, beneath it. 0.5p will suffice.
Sherlock was already stood outside the door of 221B when the black limousine pulled up at the curb half an hour later.