Fic: 'Honorable Intentions' - Ch. 3: Sherlock's Proposal (sh/mh - PG)
1800 words for the 'Days' prompt...
~ Sherlock's Proposal ~
That delightful day, the garden, Sherlock’s parents, the birthday celebration, the long drive back to London in the moonlit night, all were becoming just a memory. Molly had half expected… half hoped … but Sherlock’s mobile had rung when they were still some way out of London.
It was Lestrade. And it was a nine. Possibly a ten.
Sherlock, afire with anticipation, would still have taken the time to walk her to her flat, but she told him no. “You won’t find an easy place to park at this time of night. I’ll be fine. And Lestrade needs you.”
His grin was electric. “You’re an angel!” he told her, and swiftly took up her hand and kissed her fingers. He did not actually say, Now get out! , but she suspected it was a close run thing. She couldn’t help chuckling at the sound of the Jaguar roaring away as soon as she’d set foot in the door of her building.
Amusement faded to disappointment, however, and as the days passed she began to worry. The case had taken him out of town and, with his dislike of phone conversation, they were reduced to texting. Unfortunately these were brief and infrequent.
S: It’s a nine.
M: :-) Be careful.
S: Yes.
*
M: Are you there?
S: John’s come out with us.
M: Mary told me. Be safe, both of you.
*
S: Almost finished.
M: When do you think you’ll be back?
There was no reply to that last one, so she thought she might see him soon, in the next few hours, perhaps. But there was no sign of him, that evening, or in the next few days.
On the fourth day she sent him one more text.
M: Sherlock?
Again, no reply. Worry nagged at her and she called Mary.
But Mary said, “No, no. Untwist those knickers, my girl. John would’ve told me if there was anything amiss. Sherlock’s just being Sherlock.”
Which might be true, but was of little comfort.
And then, when she lay sleepless in bed, just after midnight on the sixth day, she heard the sound of her lock being picked. Her blood ran cold, for his silent skill in this area was all too well known to her. Moreover, six months ago she’d given him his own key.
But it was he, as she saw when she jerked open the door, armed and ready with her enormous Maglite torch. “Sherlock!”
“Damn! I almost had it!” He straightened, swaying a bit, and eyed her torch with disfavor. “You’re not going to hit me with that, are you?”
“Oh my God. Get in here.” The torch was tossed aside, making a heavy thud as it hit the floor, and she hustled him into the brighter light of the flat, slamming the door. “Oh my God!” she said again. It was worth repeating. He was pale, even for him, and the blackened eye and cut lip stood out garishly. And there was blood, all over his right hand, dripping onto the carpet. “You should have been taken to hospital!” she exclaimed angrily.
“They would have done, but I eluded them,” he said with simple pride, then changed tactics, wheedling, “You can take care of it, can’t you?. It’s not as bad as it looks. Sorry about the blood on your carpet.” He looked a little guilty, seeing the small puddle forming, bright red against the beige.
“Into the loo now!” she ordered, her voice trembling with that combination of relief, fresh worry, exasperation, and laughter that only this man could produce in her. She grabbed the sleeve of his Belstaff and towed him toward the hall. “And if it’s bad, I am calling a cab to take you to A&E immediately!”
“Too dull,” he groaned, stumbling after her. “They’ll make me wait.”
“It’ll serve you right. I’ve been waiting for days!”
“I texted you!”
She emitted a sound that could only be described as a growl.
They reached their destination and, more importantly, the tile floor. Sherlock paused to examine his eye in the mirror over the sink, poking at the discoloration and grimacing a bit.
Molly said, “I’ll get an ice pack for it in a minute. Let’s get your coat off so I can decide about that cab.”
It was a knife wound, deep but not too long, delivered right through Sherlock’s sleeves, both the hideously expensive bespoke suit coat and his aubergine shirt, her favorite. A makeshift bandage had been tied around it at some point, but had long since soaked through, hence the dripping mess. Still, Sherlock was right: it was not as bad as she’d feared. Once she’d helped him remove the ruined clothing and bandage, she carefully wiped the blood away with a wet cloth. The wound could easily be sutured with the kit she kept on hand for just such occasions.
“Right then. No cab,” she said, more gently, now. “Sit down there and I’ll get the things.”
*
The cut near his lip looked worse than it was, too. He held the ice pack to his eye while she took care of it, then started on his arm. This was a more painful process, but he just set his jaw and sat very still, enduring the cleaning and small injections of lidocaine without a sound. Once the drug took effect, however, he visibly relaxed, and as she began to work he showed more interest in what she was doing. He said, after a while, “You see? That’s why I came to you. Neater even than John could do.”
“Thank you,” she said primly. “I’ve had lots of practice.”
He gave a careful half smile. “So you have.”
It took a while, and by the end he was drooping a bit. She asked him, in a casual tone, “When was the last time you ate or slept?”
He frowned, and she could see him thinking about it. Trying to remember. Trying to decide what to tell her.
When he glanced at her she raised a brow at him. “No fibbing.”
He gave a sigh. “Had breakfast yesterday. Lestrade brought doughnuts.”
“So that was what? Eighteen hours ago?”
“We were finishing the case!”
“You told me that. Six days ago.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Don’t move!” she snapped.
“There were complications.”
“Six days worth. It must have been a ten.”
“No. A nine, though.” After a pause he said, “Sorry about the lack of texts.”
“You do need to work on that.”
Suturing complete, she applied an antibacterial salve and had just begun to wrap when they heard a knock on her front door.
Sherlock said, “It’s John. Don’t answer it.”
“Of course I’m going to answer it." She called, “Come in, John!”
Sherlock winced.
Presently John appeared in the doorway of the loo. “Well, well! Not so pretty now, are we?”
Sherlock eyed John resentfully. “Shut up.”
Molly smiled. “Hello, John.”
“Hello, Molly. I hope you gave him hell for ruining your carpet.”
“Saving it for later. He’s nearly all in, I’m afraid.”
“Am not,” Sherlock grumped.
“And no wonder,” said John. “Thought he’d met his match with that big red-haired Armenian bloke at the end. Can I see the arm?”
“No,” said Sherlock, even as Molly said, “Of course!”
The patient made no further objection, however, as Molly unwrapped the arm.
John gave a low whistle. “Nice work, Molls! Deep, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Hence the carpet. He’ll need a strong antibiotic.”
“Come by the surgery in the morning and I’ll give him a jab.”
“No,” said Sherlock. “Write a prescription for pills.”
“You’ll forget to take ‘em.”
“Molly will remind me.”
Molly shook her head. “Until you’re called out on another case, or something else gets in the way. No, we’ll see you in the morning, John. I’ll bring him by.”
Sherlock groaned. “You both just enjoy sticking me with needles.”
“Of course,” said John.
Molly chuckled. “Will you stay for tea, John? I’m going to feed him when I’ve got this arm wrapped.”
“No, have to get back to Mary and the sprog. God, I’ve missed them -- but this was great, truly. Don’t hesitate to call me again, Sherlock. Can’t rot in the suburbs all the time. See you both in the morning, eh?”
He took himself off.
Sherlock sat quiet and disgruntled while she finished the neat bandage.
“Right!” she said at last. “No more pouting, now. Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Not hungry,” he muttered. But he slowly rose to his feet, and rather unhappily surveyed the mess all around him.
“I’ll tidy up later, don’t worry.”
“I’ll pay for the carpet to be cleaned.”
“Yes, you will,” she told him, but with a smile.
*
She got him to agree to a couple of Weetabix with milk and sugar which he ate in silence while she sipped a cup of tea and watched. Her heart swelled with love of him: battered, brilliant, and beautiful, even now. Oh Molly, she thought. You’ve got it Bad. All the B things. She chuckled aloud at this, and he looked up from his cereal.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said, pale eyes narrowing a bit under the dark, tousled curls.
“No,” she said. “I’m laughing at me.”
*
Half an hour later they were settled in bed together. Sherlock had always kept to his side of the bed in the past -- well, mostly -- but now he lay close and warm, his bandaged arm draped across her.
Why couldn’t the rest of her life be like this?
His breathing had begun to deepen and even out, but suddenly he gave a small jerk and stirred. Curled closer.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Take you to breakfast tomorrow.”
“That would be nice. After you see John at the surgery.”
He gave a non-committal Hmmm. Then, “We can shop for that ring after.”
Time stopped, briefly. “What ring is that?” It was a miracle she didn’t stutter.
“Engagement, of course. Silly Molly.”
She was silent for a moment, then managed, “Sherlock... are you asking me to marry you?”
“Already did.”
She frowned into the darkness. “No, you did not. We’ve only gone on the one date!”
“What’s that to do with it? And I did ask you. Remember distinctly.” He pressed his face closer, between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.
She said, rather faintly, “But you didn’t! Would I be likely to forget such a thing?”
“Must have,” he said, but then she could feel him frown, and he drew away slightly. “Thought you loved me.”
“I do! I mean… you know damn well--”
“Language, Miss Hooper.”
She laughed, torn between hope and despair.
“Talk about it in the morning,” he said, nuzzling again. “God, you smell good.”
“Better than red-haired Armenian giants?”
“Soooo much better. You’ve no idea…”
~.~
~ Sherlock's Proposal ~
That delightful day, the garden, Sherlock’s parents, the birthday celebration, the long drive back to London in the moonlit night, all were becoming just a memory. Molly had half expected… half hoped … but Sherlock’s mobile had rung when they were still some way out of London.
It was Lestrade. And it was a nine. Possibly a ten.
Sherlock, afire with anticipation, would still have taken the time to walk her to her flat, but she told him no. “You won’t find an easy place to park at this time of night. I’ll be fine. And Lestrade needs you.”
His grin was electric. “You’re an angel!” he told her, and swiftly took up her hand and kissed her fingers. He did not actually say, Now get out! , but she suspected it was a close run thing. She couldn’t help chuckling at the sound of the Jaguar roaring away as soon as she’d set foot in the door of her building.
Amusement faded to disappointment, however, and as the days passed she began to worry. The case had taken him out of town and, with his dislike of phone conversation, they were reduced to texting. Unfortunately these were brief and infrequent.
S: It’s a nine.
M: :-) Be careful.
S: Yes.
*
M: Are you there?
S: John’s come out with us.
M: Mary told me. Be safe, both of you.
*
S: Almost finished.
M: When do you think you’ll be back?
There was no reply to that last one, so she thought she might see him soon, in the next few hours, perhaps. But there was no sign of him, that evening, or in the next few days.
On the fourth day she sent him one more text.
M: Sherlock?
Again, no reply. Worry nagged at her and she called Mary.
But Mary said, “No, no. Untwist those knickers, my girl. John would’ve told me if there was anything amiss. Sherlock’s just being Sherlock.”
Which might be true, but was of little comfort.
And then, when she lay sleepless in bed, just after midnight on the sixth day, she heard the sound of her lock being picked. Her blood ran cold, for his silent skill in this area was all too well known to her. Moreover, six months ago she’d given him his own key.
But it was he, as she saw when she jerked open the door, armed and ready with her enormous Maglite torch. “Sherlock!”
“Damn! I almost had it!” He straightened, swaying a bit, and eyed her torch with disfavor. “You’re not going to hit me with that, are you?”
“Oh my God. Get in here.” The torch was tossed aside, making a heavy thud as it hit the floor, and she hustled him into the brighter light of the flat, slamming the door. “Oh my God!” she said again. It was worth repeating. He was pale, even for him, and the blackened eye and cut lip stood out garishly. And there was blood, all over his right hand, dripping onto the carpet. “You should have been taken to hospital!” she exclaimed angrily.
“They would have done, but I eluded them,” he said with simple pride, then changed tactics, wheedling, “You can take care of it, can’t you?. It’s not as bad as it looks. Sorry about the blood on your carpet.” He looked a little guilty, seeing the small puddle forming, bright red against the beige.
“Into the loo now!” she ordered, her voice trembling with that combination of relief, fresh worry, exasperation, and laughter that only this man could produce in her. She grabbed the sleeve of his Belstaff and towed him toward the hall. “And if it’s bad, I am calling a cab to take you to A&E immediately!”
“Too dull,” he groaned, stumbling after her. “They’ll make me wait.”
“It’ll serve you right. I’ve been waiting for days!”
“I texted you!”
She emitted a sound that could only be described as a growl.
They reached their destination and, more importantly, the tile floor. Sherlock paused to examine his eye in the mirror over the sink, poking at the discoloration and grimacing a bit.
Molly said, “I’ll get an ice pack for it in a minute. Let’s get your coat off so I can decide about that cab.”
It was a knife wound, deep but not too long, delivered right through Sherlock’s sleeves, both the hideously expensive bespoke suit coat and his aubergine shirt, her favorite. A makeshift bandage had been tied around it at some point, but had long since soaked through, hence the dripping mess. Still, Sherlock was right: it was not as bad as she’d feared. Once she’d helped him remove the ruined clothing and bandage, she carefully wiped the blood away with a wet cloth. The wound could easily be sutured with the kit she kept on hand for just such occasions.
“Right then. No cab,” she said, more gently, now. “Sit down there and I’ll get the things.”
*
The cut near his lip looked worse than it was, too. He held the ice pack to his eye while she took care of it, then started on his arm. This was a more painful process, but he just set his jaw and sat very still, enduring the cleaning and small injections of lidocaine without a sound. Once the drug took effect, however, he visibly relaxed, and as she began to work he showed more interest in what she was doing. He said, after a while, “You see? That’s why I came to you. Neater even than John could do.”
“Thank you,” she said primly. “I’ve had lots of practice.”
He gave a careful half smile. “So you have.”
It took a while, and by the end he was drooping a bit. She asked him, in a casual tone, “When was the last time you ate or slept?”
He frowned, and she could see him thinking about it. Trying to remember. Trying to decide what to tell her.
When he glanced at her she raised a brow at him. “No fibbing.”
He gave a sigh. “Had breakfast yesterday. Lestrade brought doughnuts.”
“So that was what? Eighteen hours ago?”
“We were finishing the case!”
“You told me that. Six days ago.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Don’t move!” she snapped.
“There were complications.”
“Six days worth. It must have been a ten.”
“No. A nine, though.” After a pause he said, “Sorry about the lack of texts.”
“You do need to work on that.”
Suturing complete, she applied an antibacterial salve and had just begun to wrap when they heard a knock on her front door.
Sherlock said, “It’s John. Don’t answer it.”
“Of course I’m going to answer it." She called, “Come in, John!”
Sherlock winced.
Presently John appeared in the doorway of the loo. “Well, well! Not so pretty now, are we?”
Sherlock eyed John resentfully. “Shut up.”
Molly smiled. “Hello, John.”
“Hello, Molly. I hope you gave him hell for ruining your carpet.”
“Saving it for later. He’s nearly all in, I’m afraid.”
“Am not,” Sherlock grumped.
“And no wonder,” said John. “Thought he’d met his match with that big red-haired Armenian bloke at the end. Can I see the arm?”
“No,” said Sherlock, even as Molly said, “Of course!”
The patient made no further objection, however, as Molly unwrapped the arm.
John gave a low whistle. “Nice work, Molls! Deep, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Hence the carpet. He’ll need a strong antibiotic.”
“Come by the surgery in the morning and I’ll give him a jab.”
“No,” said Sherlock. “Write a prescription for pills.”
“You’ll forget to take ‘em.”
“Molly will remind me.”
Molly shook her head. “Until you’re called out on another case, or something else gets in the way. No, we’ll see you in the morning, John. I’ll bring him by.”
Sherlock groaned. “You both just enjoy sticking me with needles.”
“Of course,” said John.
Molly chuckled. “Will you stay for tea, John? I’m going to feed him when I’ve got this arm wrapped.”
“No, have to get back to Mary and the sprog. God, I’ve missed them -- but this was great, truly. Don’t hesitate to call me again, Sherlock. Can’t rot in the suburbs all the time. See you both in the morning, eh?”
He took himself off.
Sherlock sat quiet and disgruntled while she finished the neat bandage.
“Right!” she said at last. “No more pouting, now. Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Not hungry,” he muttered. But he slowly rose to his feet, and rather unhappily surveyed the mess all around him.
“I’ll tidy up later, don’t worry.”
“I’ll pay for the carpet to be cleaned.”
“Yes, you will,” she told him, but with a smile.
*
She got him to agree to a couple of Weetabix with milk and sugar which he ate in silence while she sipped a cup of tea and watched. Her heart swelled with love of him: battered, brilliant, and beautiful, even now. Oh Molly, she thought. You’ve got it Bad. All the B things. She chuckled aloud at this, and he looked up from his cereal.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said, pale eyes narrowing a bit under the dark, tousled curls.
“No,” she said. “I’m laughing at me.”
*
Half an hour later they were settled in bed together. Sherlock had always kept to his side of the bed in the past -- well, mostly -- but now he lay close and warm, his bandaged arm draped across her.
Why couldn’t the rest of her life be like this?
His breathing had begun to deepen and even out, but suddenly he gave a small jerk and stirred. Curled closer.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Take you to breakfast tomorrow.”
“That would be nice. After you see John at the surgery.”
He gave a non-committal Hmmm. Then, “We can shop for that ring after.”
Time stopped, briefly. “What ring is that?” It was a miracle she didn’t stutter.
“Engagement, of course. Silly Molly.”
She was silent for a moment, then managed, “Sherlock... are you asking me to marry you?”
“Already did.”
She frowned into the darkness. “No, you did not. We’ve only gone on the one date!”
“What’s that to do with it? And I did ask you. Remember distinctly.” He pressed his face closer, between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.
She said, rather faintly, “But you didn’t! Would I be likely to forget such a thing?”
“Must have,” he said, but then she could feel him frown, and he drew away slightly. “Thought you loved me.”
“I do! I mean… you know damn well--”
“Language, Miss Hooper.”
She laughed, torn between hope and despair.
“Talk about it in the morning,” he said, nuzzling again. “God, you smell good.”
“Better than red-haired Armenian giants?”
“Soooo much better. You’ve no idea…”
~.~