Saturday, September 14th 1895

I've no idea what I was thinking. To have hope can be such a cruel thing. A fortnight ago, I was married to Sherlock Holmes. I have loved him for such a long time but I do know he does not feel the same. To him, it is a marriage of convenience; I am able to keep my position as pathologist and he can avoid the likes of Irene Adler as well as cease his parents' complaints of being unmarried. I hope they do not expect grandchildren, for their son does not wish to have any at all. There are times where he looks at me like he might feel the same, but I know it is only my fanciful thoughts that imagine this. I do hope he can grow to love me. There it is again; that word, hope. Until then, keep your head up, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper. Holmes. I keep forgetting that.

Sherlock Holmes stood facing the hearth of the fireplace. He was deep in his mind palace. Molly crept quietly into the sitting room, careful not to disturb his thoughts. The case he was on was one of utmost importance. He could feel her presence in the room, though she was quiet as a mouse. Her natural scent filled the air around him; it was just so Molly. Shaking the sentiment from his mind, his eyes snapped open and found her deep brown ones. Without a word, he swept out of 221B, breezing right past her. Molly's heart ached. She was no longer hungry, and even though Sherlock did not eat during cases, Molly made sure a warm meal was left for him before turning in.

Upon returning home, Sherlock noticed the meal waiting for him. The soft sobbing coming from the bedroom did not go undetected. It was then he realized that the way he stormed out was 'a bit not good.' Though he was still on the case, Sherlock ate the nice dinner she had prepared for him. It was the least he could do.

When Molly heard him enter the room, she stopped crying for fear of him hearing it. Her back was facing him as she pretended to be fast asleep. What surprised her was the fact that he wrapped an arm around her as if he was hugging her to him. The last thing she heard before truly falling asleep were two whispered words from his usually cruel lips.

"Forgive me."

Friday, September 20th 1895

Sherlock has been very kind to me as of late. He converses with me more often and one morning, he made breakfast for me. I think he feel just awful for what happened a few nights ago. He can be very sweet when he wants to be. I think he's grown fond of our convenient marriage, but it is not enough to completely dull the ache in my heart. It is enough to make me happy for a little while. Did you know we have never even consummated our marriage? Everyone assumes we have, but we never did. It is not something he wanted to partake in, so as his loving wife, I respected that. I would not want to unless he felt the same anyhow, so it is probably for the best. I do long for his touch though. I often wonder what it would be like; intimacy with the man I love. It is most unfortunate that it shall never happen.

"Oh I simply cannot wait to see Rosie!" Molly exclaimed. She and Sherlock were taking a carriage to the Watson residence. John was to be helping Sherlock with the case as their wives socialized with one another, unless of course, Molly was needed at the hospital.

"I do not understand why they would name me as godfather of their child," Sherlock complained. "It is not as if I am any kind of father figure."

"You are John's best friend, Sherlock, surely you must know that is the reason," Molly informed him.

"Perhaps, but I suppose they could not name you as godmother without having both of us be included in such a ceremony," he countered.

"Do not sell yourself short, my dear husband. I am sure they see something in you that you do not see in yourself," Molly smiled.

"Preposterous," Sherlock remarked.

"Is it? I see you in ways that you do not agree with," she told him sincerely, gingerly placing her hand atop of his. His gaze cast downward at the sudden touch and she pulled away quickly. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Sherlock had wondered what she meant by that. He pondered about how she might see him. The softness of her touch had made his heart jump and he did not understand why, nor did he want to. Romantic entanglements were nothing but a distraction from The Work.