"Don't feed the animals," John says. "They'll get theirs in due time."
"Must we?" Sherlock groans, pouting at the mere suggestion of another interview. "Journalists ask the most tedious questions."
"Perhaps you should give an interview this time, Molly," Mary suggests, adjusting her daughter on her shoulder while spearing several dumplings on a chopstick. "You know, given the hand you had in this one. More than this sorry lot," she teases, smirking at Sherlock's glare.
Molly snorts at the idea, twiddles her chopsticks idly. "What me? Chatting with the press? No, thank you." A memory surfaces. The corner of her mouth quirks up at the recollection of one of Sherlock's offhand comments years before. "Besides, conversation really isn't my area, I'm told."
Mary jumps to her defense, bouncing little Sophie on her hip. "Says who?" she grumbles around a mouthful of noodles. "I'll knock his head into next week."
From the corner of her mouth grows a quiet, impish smile. "No one special. Just something this bloke I fancied once told me."
"Moron," Mary decides.
"Mm," Molly agrees. "He was."
"Massive idiot. Blind as well, I'm sure," Greg Lestrade grins.
"Definitely."
Sherlock scowls. "As a point in fact–"
"We know it was you, Sherlock," Mary interrupts, voice rising up and over his. "We are joking at your expense."
"Right. Well," he says, trying for dignity, and failing. "This must be what John feels like most of the time."
"Welcome to the club," John says, stabbing a spring roll with glee.
"Rubbish boyfriend," Mary says to Sophie. "You'll never have one of those, will you?"
"Perhaps I'd make a better husband, then," Sherlock says loftily.
The kitchen slows to a quiet.
"Curry?" he asks innocently, looking around the table.
"Say that again," John says, starting forward as though he had not heard him right.
Molly, for her part, blinks rapidly, wonders the same thing herself. "Did you just... propose?" she asks, slowly.
Sherlock considers a carton of steaming vegetables. "Well, technically, no."
"Utter git, mate," Greg exclaims, astonished.
"I see," Molly says, her voice calm. "Well, hypothetically, do you plan to continue that line of inquiry?" she says casually, reaching for the pad see ew.
"Isn't it supposed to be a surprise-y kind of thing?" Sherlock muses with a shake of his hand, addressing no one in particular.
"Boat sailed, Sherlock," Mary replies, leaning ever closer to John.
"So it would seem." Setting down his chopsticks, he sighs. "Then, in the name of expediency, and because I'd planned to do it anyway: Molly Hooper," he says, taking her hand. "Will you marry me?" he asks, brows raised in question. He appears as unworried as he seems unfazed.
Molly considers him, trying to assess if this is actually a joke or not. It's not she decides. The lack of fear comes only from the fact that the cheeky git is totally assured of her answer. She tilts her head, poking at her cheek with her tongue. "Depends. Will you still include me in your cases?"
"Of course," he answers, chin raised in mild affront.
"Hmm. Alright." She nudges a bit of broccoli, contemplative. "Will you love and honor me?"
"Obviously."
Mulling through her thoughts as she chews: "Will you do the dishes?"
"No, probably not."
"Well at least I can tell you're being honest. Will you satisfy my voracious sexual appetite and give me tiny, deducing, science-loving babies?"
He raises one eyebrow, looking sly. "I shall continue to do so, and yes."
"Too much information," Greg coughs.
"Try living in the downstairs flat," Mrs. Hudson says, stroking his arm in commiseration. "Oh, the things I hear…"
Molly flicks her chopsticks at the table. "Will you share the last of your pad thai?"
"Happily," Sherlock grins, handing her the carton.
She smiles, satisfied as she accepts. "Then you've earned my devotion, husband."
"Excellent, wife," he says and kisses her soundly. "That was both easier and less expensive than your pitiful attempt, John," he says when they've parted. Molly giggles, breathless, beaming.
"Yeah, well, I had some help with mucking it up," John laughs, utterly incredulous at the scene that has played out before him.
"Just a bit," Mary agrees. "You are serious, right, Sherlock?"
"Yeah, this isn't you trying to be funny?" Greg narrows his eyes.
"This would not be funny." Sherlock answers.
"You really do have to do the dishes sometimes." Molly says.
"No."
"You really do. Now and again."
"I really don't. That's why we have Mrs. Hudson."
"Not your housekeeper, Sherlock."
"Then I'll call Lestrade, say there's a crime in progress."
"Not my division."
"John."
"You're not my roommate."
"Mary."
"Not your wife."
He looks to Molly, scowling.
"'Not my area,'" she quotes again, grinning at his expense.
"Fine," Sherlock grumbles in defeat.
The conversation presses on, full of cheerful astonishment. Sherlock dutifully ignores all manner of taunting questions pertaining to possible dates, venues, flower arrangements, etc. Mrs. Hudson wipes at her eyes, crowing in disbelief while John cackles madly at what he'll say when he gives his own best man's speech. Greg delights at the many possibilities for the Stag Night ("Payback! After all these years, finally, the perfect form of payback!"). By the nefarious glint in Mary's eyes, Molly can tell she's got some ideas of her own. Headlines about the announcement are conceived (Boffin Bags Death Doctor). Bets are made as to how Mycroft will react to the news; if Mycroft will attend the Stag Night; what Mycroft would consider an appropriate wedding gift.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, pretending to be above it all. But beneath the table Molly feels her heart swell as her partner in crime – her fiancé – threads his fingers through hers, catches her eye, and smiles.