A/N: This was written for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 on Tumblr. This covers Day 5 ("The Abominable Bride"). This is my first Victorian post-TAB fic.

Holmes woke to sunlight shining in his face. By the angle, he could tell it was just after four in the afternoon. He groaned quietly. Holmes hated the days after the resolution of a difficult case, when his body insisted upon getting the rest he'd neglected to give it previously. During his ablutions, his mind started to wander. That in itself was to be expected during such menial tasks, it's where his mind wandered to that was disconcerting – the face of Dr. Hooper as he saw her two nights previous, lovely in the candlelight of the suffragettes' gathering. I don't even know her Christian name. That thought, already uncharacteristic for a man who had sworn off sentiment, was immediately followed by another, even more uncharacteristic. I need to see her again.

As soon as he had finished dressing, Holmes raced down the stairs and took a hansom to St. Bartholomew's. Down in the mortuary, there was no sign of Dr. Hooper. In fact, the only person around was her assistant, Anderson.

Holmes bit back a groan but allowed his exasperation to seep into his voice. "Where is he?"

Anderson glanced at the empty slabs then back at Holmes, confused. "Where is who? We haven't had any new bodies come in today."

Holmes clenched his gloved hands into fists in order not to strangle Anderson with them. "Where is Dr. Hooper?"

Anderson stood a little straighter and puffed out his chest. "Dr. Hooper is gone, this is my mortuary now."

What?! He took a deep breath to calm himself then muttered, "Saints preserve us. Where is he?"

"He transferred to another hospital, said something about the conditions here being 'unbearable.'" Anderson went back to cleaning the floor and muttered, "I don't know what he's talking about, this is a nicer mortuary than most."

I am getting nowhere with this. "Where does Dr. Hooper live?"

"He has a flat on Marylebone Road," Dr. Stamford said from behind Holmes. "112C, to be exact."

Holmes was out the door before the man had finished speaking. In no time at all, he was knocking on the door to Hooper's flat. The door was opened by Hooper herself, dressed in a fine gown and jewels, her hair up except for an errant curl by her ear. She stared at him like he was, well, like he was the Abominable Groom.

"Good evening, Hooper," he said pleasantly, an amused smile on his lips. "I say, am I interrupting something?"

"I'm about to leave for my aunt's ball," she said stiffly after she got over her apparent shock, "not that it's any of your business."

"She is trying to set you up with a bachelor of her acquaintance," Holmes said as he entered the foyer uninvited. "You will just have to inform your aunt that you are already spoken for."

Hooper raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, her eyes shut. "I have neither the time nor the will to deal with you today, Holmes. I don't know how you found my flat but I ask you to please leave it."

"I see no reason to leave now that I'm here," Holmes said happily as he looked around the small foyer and into the open door to the sitting room. "It's quite cozy." He took off his gloves, coat, and hat and hung them on the coat tree then turned back to her.

Hooper lowered her hand then clenched both hands at her sides. "What do you mean, I am already spoken for? I don't have any suitors, how can I possibly be spoken for?"

"I decided I wanted to court you two nights ago, when I saw you in the church." He reached up to tuck the errant curl behind her ear.

Hooper stared at him for a moment then shook her head a bit and took a step back. "Wanting to court a woman isn't the same as actually courting her, Holmes."

"Is that right?" Holmes asked softly, taking a step forward.

Hooper's eyes widened but her voice remained steady. "Yes. If you want to court a woman, you must ask her permission first."

He sighed overdramatically. "Very well, if I must, I must." Holmes leaned down to murmur in her ear, "Will you do me the greatest honor of allowing me to court you?"

Hooper gasped softly then took another step back. If her eyes were wide before, they were saucers now. "Holmes…"

"Sherlock, please. And I may call you…?"

"Dr. Hooper," she said firmly. "Honestly, I don't know where you got this idea about wanting to court me, but I assure you, the notion is unrequited."

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. "This isn't just about wanting to court you, my dear. For the first time in my life, I see the world with true clarity." He noticed her assessing his eyes and the pulse in his neck. He decided not to take it as an insult. "I am sober, I assure you."

Hooper sighed quietly then walked into her small sitting room and sat down on the settee, waiting for Holmes to do the same. When he was sitting a respectful distance from her, she pulled off her white gloves, raising an eyebrow at Holmes' decided interest in every inch of revealed skin.

"I have the feeling this is going to be a long discussion and I want to be comfortable," she explained. "What is it that you see now that you failed to before?"

"You," he said softly. "Until two nights ago, I saw you as a colleague. The brightest mind in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, to be sure, but simply just a colleague."

She raised an eyebrow. "Now that you know I'm a woman, you suddenly want to court me?"

"I suddenly realize I am in love with you, wanting to court you is a consequence of that."

An attractive blush bloomed on her cheeks and she lowered her eyes to her bared hands. "You cannot possibly mean that, Holmes," she said quietly. "Even if you think you do, true love doesn't happen overnight."

Holmes brought a hand to her chin, gently raising her head until her beautiful brown eyes met his. "Allow me to court you, Hooper," he murmured, "and I will show you the sincerity and depth of my feelings."

"Molly," she whispered. "My name is Molly."

"Molly," he whispered. "My Molly." He lowered his head, his mouth mere centimeters from hers.

Breeep. Breeep. Breeep.

"Time to get up, Sherlock," Molly said as she got out of bed, her normal volume too much for his sudden headache. "We don't want to miss our flight to Phoenix."

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes then immediately shut them. "Must you have every light on?" he mumbled.

He heard her chuckle. "That's just the sun. I told you to have some water with your champagne. Here." He felt her put two painkillers in his hand. He dry-swallowed them, his eyes still closed. "Coffee will be ready by the time you're done with your shower." Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes again and saw Molly standing by the bed, smiling at him lovingly.

"Good morning, husband," she said, then she laughed softly. "I have to get used to calling you that."

"Good morning, wife," he murmured, smiling up at her. "I had the strangest dream."

"Oh?" Molly sat down on the edge of the bed and took his left hand, squeezing it gently. "Good or bad?"

"Good, except for the ending." He sat up slowly then glanced down at their intertwined fingers, their new wedding rings and Molly's heirloom engagement ring catching the light. "I dreamt I was in 1895 again."

She smiled a bit. "I assume I was there too." At his nod, she asked, "With or without a mustache?" He'd told her about her featuring in his mental exercise after they became engaged.

He chuckled. "Without. I was telling you I was in love with you and wanted to court you. I was about to kiss you when the damn alarm went off."

Molly giggled. "I should probably apologize, but you did want to be up early."

"You could make it up to me now," he suggested, his voice low.

"Mmm, I could," she agreed, grinning, "but then we'd definitely miss our flight."

"There's always another one."

"True," she murmured as she leaned to kiss him deeply.

A/N: I should mention that this is also a sequel to my post-TFP ficlet The Morning After. :)