A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Morgue; dealer's choice for ship.
After this I will only have
five two prompts left to fill for the “give me a title and ship and I’ll write a drabble” challenge. Success is within my reach!
Rated K+/T, Set Post TFP. I hope this is close to what you had in mind, @sunken-standard!
“We’re going to see Molly Hooper.”
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, dropping his head to the back of the seat. It was like deja vu all over again. Only this time he wasn’t high - thank God for that or she’d do more than just slap him - but he was definitely not at his best.
“Do we have to?” he whined as John settled in grimly next to him.
“Yes,” his best friend (most of the time, definitely not today) replied, folding his arms across his chest and jutting out his chin in his most stubborn expression as he gazed out the car window.
“It’s not my fault,” Sherlock mumbled.
“Course it is, Shezza,” Wiggins, seated on his other side, replied cheerfully. “S’always your fault when it comes to the missus, innit?”
Much as he disliked admitting any such thing, Wiggins was right. “Fine, it’s my fault. But she knew what she was getting into when she…”
“If you finish that sentence, mate, you’ll regret it more than you can possibly imagine,” Greg advised from behind the steering wheel. Like Wiggins, he was entirely too cheerful about all this. “Cos if you even think about wiggling out of this by turning the blame on that saint of a woman, just because she had the poor taste to fall in love with you…”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped, trying not to show how rapidly he was backpedalling. “I just meant that she’ll understand, that’s all.”
“Yeah, right,” John snorted. “Least this time you don’t have to pee in a cup for her.”
Wiggins and Lestrade both giggled way too long at that asinine remark, while Sherlock continued to sulk - and tried his damndest to figure out how to put the best possible spin on things before they reached St. Barts.
It was a good thing they didn’t need him to pee in a cup, since she wasn’t in the lab. He tried not look at is as a bad sign that she was, instead, in the morgue. In the middle of an autopsy.
With a bone saw in hand and blood splatters on the faceguard of her headgear.
Even over the noise of the saw she must have heard the doors open, but she didn’t look up. Not even when Lestrade cleared his throat and announced, “We found him.” Whether from anger or out of professionalism he couldn’t judge, not without seeing her face.
He focused on her hands - so small, but so strong and so competent. Gloved. No betraying bumps to show that she was wearing a ring. That he could confidently put down to professionalism; she’d have it pinned neatly to the inside of her lab coat, away from the potential dangers of losing it inside an open chest cavity or down the drain when she removed her gloves.
“Molly, I -” he started, then fell silent when she snapped up one hand, palm towards him. He heard the doors open behind him but didn’t dare turn around, even when he heard what had to be the tapping of Mycroft’s brolly on the tiles and a stifled gasp from Mrs. Hudson.
After a few minutes during which Wiggins shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and John just stood on his other side in stoic soldier mode, the saw went silent. Molly carefully placed it in the basin on the counter, just as carefully covered the body with a sheet, removed the faceguard and her gloves, then finally turned to face him. “Well?” she said, watching him steadily as she unpinned her ring and held it between finger and thumb. “Do I give this back or not?”
He swallowed. Hard. “No, you don’t give it back,” he replied, daring to step closer and reaching out for it. “You let me put it back on your finger.” With his other hand he fished in his pocket, carefully pulling out the matching white-gold band. “And you let me put this one on, too. Please.”
“Did you get them? The bad guys who were worth running after the day of our wedding? Even though Greg told you his men could take care of it?” There was a slight crack in the facade now, a hint of a tremor in his voice, there and gone so quickly a lesser man would have missed it entirely.
Not him. “Yes, I got them.” He hesitated not a second before adding softly, “I’m sorry. I believe the expression is cold feet - not because I don’t want to marry you, but because I…panicked. And I wanted you to have a chance to back out if you wanted to.”
She nodded. “By reminding me just how idiotic you can be? Yeah, I got that.” Her expression finally softened and she nodded, giving him permission to move closer as she reached out and took his free hand in hers. The one without the ring he still held. “Sherlock, I love you. I’m not going to just wake up one day and stop loving you. I promise.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
She grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, that’s true. But looks like you’re stuck with me.” She took a deep breath. “So. Let’s do this, all right?”
He nodded, grinning back at her in relief. “Right. Let’s do this.”
Still holding her hand in his, he turned to face their gathered friends and family. Nodding regally at Mycroft, who had hooked his brolly over one arm and was paging leisurely through a black-bound hardcover book that held all sorts of government archania…
…including the ceremony he was about to officiate. Looking up, he cast a supercilious eye on the gathered crowd - their parents, John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Wiggins, Mike Stamford - before meeting his younger brother’s gaze. “If the bride and groom agree to begin…?”
“We do,” Molly and Sherlock replied together. Firmly. With no hesitation whatsoever.
And if anyone had any comments about the unusual venue…
Well. The pair of them had always been more Morticia and Gomez than Terry and June.