Scrabble

The plot bunnies are coming in fast and thick! After the angst and the drama and the humour, here's the fluff. Usual disclaimers apply.

E, H, I, M, O, P, W

They never played chess. Molly was smart but not devious, and Sherlock would always be able to beat her in little more than a handful of moves. But she could hold her own in Scrabble, winning roughly one game in three.

She rearranged the tiles on the rack – P, O, W, E -– and scanned the board for a free R. There had been one earlier, but no, Sherlock had just used it for SHROUD (double word score, 20 points). He was 24 points ahead.

They hadn't bothered switching any lamps on, as the fire was giving off sufficient light and they didn't want to disturb Rosie, who was sleeping in her daytime cot by the window. The little girl was exhausted after a long day of visiting her father in hospital, where John was recovering from a stab wound. (One stab wound/one human trafficking network routed: overall a good score.) Molly hadn't felt comfortable leaving the child to sleep alone in John's room; she wanted to keep her close by. Later they would carry Rosie to Sherlock's bedroom and they would all three sleep in Sherlock's big bed. It would look like something it wasn't. It would look like something she would probably never have.

H, O, P, E. It would fit if she added her E to Sherlock's QUIT, and with the P on a triple letter score, it might even put her in the lead. 29 points. It was a good move.

The word repelled her, though. Hope was delusive. Hope didn't lead anywhere. Sherlock had strung her along for years, giving her just a little hope every time she tried to get her life in order. No, to be fair, she'd strung herself along with her stupid hope. She could have had her own home and family by now if it hadn't been for stupid hope. There were all sorts of reasons she had professed to herself and him and others why she'd broken up with Tom, but ultimately it was because of that flicker of hope that had arisen from low murmured words and a chaste kiss in a stairwell. She didn't want any more hope; she didn't need any more hope. She needed something tangible.

Rosie awoke with a whimper and called for her father. Sherlock turned his head, but Molly was already out of her seat.

"Shhh, sweetheart, it's all right."

"Where's daddy?" Rosie sat up and raised her arms to Molly.

"In the hospital. He'll be home soon. Aunt Molly is here." Molly picked up the child and cradled the little head against her chest. "Look, Uncle Sherlock is here, too."

As she pointed at Sherlock, she caught a glimpse of the letters on his tile rack.

M, Y, M, O, L, L, Y

Molly stopped jiggling the child. My Molly. My Molly.

"Want juice," said Rosie.

"You can't have juice at bedtime, sweetheart; it rots your teeth. Here's water."

She gave Rosie the sippy cup and let her have a drink. When she looked Sherlock's way again, the letters we arranged differently: LLMMOYY. She hadn't heard any noise that indicated a shuffling of the tiles. Great, she was imagining things.

"There, now, sweetheart, time to go back to sleep." Gently, she settled Rosie in the cot and returned to her seat.

"It was your turn," said Sherlock.

"Yes, I know."

It wouldn't do to let him wait while she agonised about her move. She started to put her letters on the board. H, O…

Her phone vibrated.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Let me just get this."

She checked the message and a smile flickered across her face.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, nothing important. I have a date this weekend."

He frowned. "Are you still participating in that ludicrous circus?"

"I don't see what's ludicrous about going out with a nice man."

"He's nice, is he? Where did you meet him?"

"Um, dating website."

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

Anger welled up in Molly. "Why not? What's it to you? Why do you begrudge me any chance of having a life?"

"Do you not have a life now?"

"I mean a proper life. I'm not exactly a teenager anymore. I want a normal life for a woman of my age, with a husband and a home and children. I want a future. And you sabotage that every time."

Sherlock pressed his hands on his forehead and then dragged them down his face to his chin. He exhaled.

"Enlighten me, Molly. If you somehow obtained this wonderful future, what would you do on a rainy winter's night like this? Isn't the balance of probability that you would sit by the fireside with your husband, engaged in conversation or perhaps a board game, while you watch over your sleeping child?"

"It's not the same and you know that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Good lord, Molly, if you really can't do without sex then by all means let's consider how we can incorporate that into our lives. Would twice monthly be sufficient? I think I could manage."

"Sherlock!" Molly hoped that the firelight concealed her blush. How could he just come out with things like that? Was he serious?

"It's not about that," she said defiantly. "Well, not mainly about that. Can't you understand that I want my own home and family?"

He sighed. "I see I have been labouring under a misconception. I thought John and I and Rosie, and Mrs Hudson too, were your family."

There was a hint of indignation in his voice.

"But can't you see it's not the same? We're having a lovely evening now, fair enough, but tomorrow you'll go on some crazy case, chasing criminals all over London, and I won't hear from you until it's all over."

"And if you were married to some banker or chartered accountant, he'd be at the office all day and probably having to work overtime most days. How is that any different? I dare say we see as much of each other as most married couples do. Maybe more, since we're often working together on a case."

"You really don't understand, Sherlock, do you?"

"No, I don't. Hence my request for enlightenment."

"We are not a married couple. You are not my husband. Rosie is John and Mary's daughter, not mine. Everything in my life seems just temporary and, and, and…borrowed somehow, if you see what I mean. Second hand. My landlord doesn't even allow me to put up pictures. It's not like having a proper home."

"I thought this was your home. I mean, yes, you have your flat, but you're spending so much time here now, you might as well move in if that's what you want. And you're as good as a mother to Rosie."

"But a child of my own –"

"Pregnancy is too risky at your age. Don't tell me you don't love Rosie as if she was your own daughter. As she grows older it will matter less and less that you didn't give birth to her."

"Sherlock, she doesn't even live with me."

"Give up your flat then; move in here. We can deal with a cat. I'll keep the kitchen tidier if that's an issue. Then you can have your home with the man who loves you, with a child who will grow up to look upon you as her mother, with a loyal friend, and an awesome landlady who is neither your housekeeper nor your mother-in-law and who will certainly let you put up pictures. Seems ideal to me. Why isn't it good enough for you, Molly Hooper? Why are you still trawling those sordid dating websites for some 'nice' man? It's the sex after all, isn't it? I told you we could come to an arrangement about that."

Molly's fingers tightened round the tiles in her hand. She hadn't just heard what she thought she'd just heard. She was imagining things, surely. Just as with the letters, she was imagining things. But she had to make sure.

"Can you just run that past me again?"

Sherlock gave an impatient huff and counted up on his fingers: "Own home, own patchwork family, sex to be negotiated, no more dating websites."

"I mean the bit about the man who…"

She faltered. Sherlock's looked exasperated.

"Man who loves you, yes, what's the problem with that?"

"But, Sherlock… who… you mean… you?"

"Of course I mean me; who else would I mean? You didn't think I meant John, did you?"

"But you never said…" She struggled to keep a clear head. "You never said you loved me."

"Yes, I did. I remember it with perfect clarity. Out loud, in front of witnesses. Twice, I may add. And you said you loved me. What have I missed?"

He meant that time. Good god, he meant that time.

"That day on the phone?" she whispered. "It was true?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"Under those circumstances, yes, I think you would. To save my life, or anyone's life, really. And afterwards you never explained it. You never –"

"Because you forbade it."

It's okay, Sherlock. Greg told me everything. I get it; you were trying to save me. Don't worry. Just…please don't mention it again. Please let's not ever talk about it again. Promise me.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his.

"Molly, listen to me. This is just like Scrabble. You already have all the tiles you need. All you have to do is rearrange them in your head. Forget about the word you've been planning to play. Look for the word you can play."

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she'd been chasing a mirage. The ring on the finger, the white picket fence. She'd told herself she wanted that, but if she was honest with herself she had to admit that she really only wanted Sherlock. And from the way he looked at her right now, anyone would deduce that he wanted her, too.

She glanced at the board and at her tiles and suddenly she laughed.

"Look!" she said.

H, O, M, E.

Sherlock smiled.

"Quite," he said.

Later they carried Rosie to Sherlock's bedroom and the three slept in Sherlock's big bed, with Molly's and Sherlock's hands interlocked on the pillow above the child's head. And it was Q, U, I, T, E the thing.