“Wait.” The beekeeper called out before he could stop himself, though his voice was low.
His visitor paused her hand just above the door handle. It wasn’t in response but rather simply coincidental to his word. Her movement had already been slowing as she approached the door, as if she was as hesitant as he was, agonising over whether to speak.
His cottage at Sussex Downs only occasionally saw visitors other than John and his brother’s PA. There’d been a few irksome journalists that’d somehow acquired his private address. And then there was him
twice Sherlock had opened the door to find a heavily (and amusingly) disguised young man with bright scanning eyes as sharp as his.
The Woman had gracefully arrived without notice on a foggy morning earlier that week, and that single knock, clear and crisp, was the most beautiful of sounds.
Since relocating he still took on cases now and then, but was mostly away from the public eye. And her..business could be expertly conducted at a distance. If he were to broach the subject, now would be the time. To discuss future arrangements, entertain possibilities. To..ask her to stay.
But then what? Games of puzzle-solving and wits over newspapers at breakfast, and a round of chess whilst waiting for the kettle to sing ‘afternoon tea’? Domesticity and companionship, night and day, each other’s moves turning all too predictable and never more a mystery? Until time diluted their inky hair to an ever lighter silver and further traced lines at the corners of their eyes, until one pair of charming blue jewels was losing its shine under an ardent but watery gaze, until trembling hands lingeringly caressed cooling skin in a painful, single-sided embrace?
No. He couldn’t continue that train of thought. He’d rather close his eyes and see the Queen of his Mind ever brilliant, ever wearing a challenging smirk, when all the lights of the Palace eventually dimmed as the Grim Reaper arrived to take him away. He’d rather them remember each other for their very best of times, as matching sharp minds, always. He knew she would want the same. He couldn’t..couldn’t have her stay.
“Allow me.” He gestured to the door instead.
There was relief written in her demeanour.
As he held the door open, she tugged at the lapel of his suit jacket and leaned up to briefly connect their lips.
“Thank you. Mr Holmes.” She said in a whisper as she pulled away.
For not bringing up what we’ve both been carefully dancing around to avoid. For not making it even more difficult for me to leave. Thank you, because to what you’d wanted but chose not to say, I might’ve..I might’ve answered yes.
Thirty years ago on a sunny day in London they had fatefully crossed path, a meeting that had since entangled them like a quantum mechanical paradox, and from that point began a story of many, many occasions of ‘could’ve been but never was’.
But perhaps it was better this way. Better to keep their timelines principally separate, marked with a controlled number of sporadic rendezvous. Better to continue with their intermittent texting, a little surprise and fondness with every sound of the familiar ringtone, a small smile with each 'message delivered’ that requested no response.
Better to imagine that the other simply grew disinterested when, someday, a text became their last.
Because unlike fairy tales that’d invariably come to a halt, unlike ‘together and happily ever after’ with an expiration date attached, this way, this way their story would never have to end. A story through time and distance, of what was spoken in silence. Of anticipation without expectation, the thrill without the burden.
Or so they told themselves.
After all, even death would be powerless to do them apart if they hadn’t been together in the first place.
As much as I love the idea of Sherlock and Molly having a big fancy wedding with hundreds of guests and a honeymoon on a private island that Sherlock was given as payment for a case, I also can’t imagine either of them wanting that kind of attention on them all day. My alternate idea for their wedding is when they’ve been together for a few years - Molly is 6 months pregnant when Sherlock puts his newspaper down and asks if she wants to get married. Out of the blue, but it’s not like they’re not ready to commit to each other.
The main problem is that it’s a week before Christmas, and they won’t have the time to plan a wedding when the baby arrives… so they hatch a plan. They invite their family and closest friends - 15 people in total - to Baker Street on Christmas eve, with a dress code of ‘semi-formal’. The women are sent to the living room of 221B, while the men meet Sherlock in Mrs Hudson’s flat, and it soon becomes clear that it’s not a normal Christmas party. After the situation is explained, there’s a rush to get Molly’s hair done and her dress on, while Sherlock gets the generic ‘how to be a good husband’ speech from his father, John, Greg, Mycroft, and Molly’s younger brother. Mycroft calls in a favour and the groomsmen make their way to the nearest registry office in a fleet of black cars, followed by the bridal party.
After the ceremony, they all go back to Baker Street, where Mrs Hudson and Mrs Holmes put on a slapdash wedding breakfast - including a Christmas pudding that Sherlock and Molly burn the brandy off (using a blowtorch) to a round of applause from their guests. The wedding party lasts until 9pm, when Sherlock’s parents kiss him and Molly goodbye for the 5th time, drag Mycroft from the chair he’s dozing in, and leave the newlyweds alone to celebrate with their first dance.
So it looks like there’s no time for them to film s4 this year. Honestly I can’t see when they’d fit it in?? It kind of pisses me off a bit, because Sherlock is constantly pushed to the bottom of the pile these days. If there’s not enough time to film for Sherlock then maybe you’ve taken on too many projects?
*throws the cushion off of the sofa; massaging her stomach*
*rolls onto her back, propping her feet in Sherlock's lap* Come on! This is ridiculous.
*glances at her* You're uncomfortable.
*grits her teeth* Yes, I'm uncomfortable. Your daughter is now two weeks overdue!
*chuckles* She's my daughter when she's irritating you *shrugs* Makes sense *turns the page*
*kicks the book out of his hand*
*sighs; playing with her feet* Tomorrow. I promise.
*rubbing her stomach* If you say that one more fucking time, I will sit on you.
*whines* I'm sick of being fat and hormonal, wavering between wanting to kill you and wanting to shag you. I'm sick of being sick, sick of the aches and pains. I want to see my feet. I'm sick of you, I'm sick of me. Sick of daytime fucking telly. I'm sick of needing the loo every five minutes. I just...want to be able to eat a bacon sandwich and drink coffee; I can't even remember what coffee tastes like *fanning herself; pouts* I want to fuck you in my black dress.
*shrugs* Might suit you better.
*giggles* Oh, I wanna be a Mummy.
We could try the peppers again.
*shakes her head* What were the other suggestions?
Umm *reaches for paper; reads* 'curries, pineapples, walking, hypnosis, nipple stimulation' *turns to Molly with a raised eyebrow*
*frowns* Over my dead body.
Or sex. Having an orgasm can stimulate your womb to induce labour.
*affectionate smile; awkwardly leans over to kiss him* You certainly know how to turn me on, Mr. Holmes.