IF YOU'RE NOT THE ONE

A/N: I wish canibecandid a Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays, if that's more your thing)! Oh, sorry. Hello! I'm your Secret Santa.

This is also my first time writing soulmates AU, so please be gentle with the constructive criticism. I hope y'all enjoy this fic.

I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.

I.

On the morning of her 13th birthday, Molly sat at the kitchen table with her parents and her older brother. Their pet beagle sat at her feet and pawed at her leg. She tore a small piece off her bacon and fed it to the dog.

"Molly, please stop feeding Lulu bacon," her father, Edmund, chided her in a gentle tone.

She frowned at the dog before turning to her father with a sheepish look in her eyes. "Sorry, Dad." She turned to the whimpering dog. "Sorry, Lulu," she whispered.

Her mother, Ellie, forked more bacon and sausage onto Molly's plate. "Have some more, dear." She glanced at the clock by the doorway and smiled. "Five minutes before we find out the name of your soulmate!"

Edmund glanced at his wife and smirked. "We have a countdown now, eh?" He, along with his children, laughed when Ellie stuck out her tongue at him. "Who do you think it'll be?" he asked Molly, winking at her and making her giggle more.

"I don't know," she replied, her cheeks turning pink.

"Who's that boy that you were talking to yesterday? The one with the handsome eyes and pretty smile?" her mother asked.

Oh, him. Molly smiled as she thought of the clever and attractive boy that she had been fancying. She remembered how he glanced at her the other day when he entered the classroom. She blushed deeper at the memory of his gorgeous green eyes and his deep dimples as he chatted with her after school the previous day. I hope it's him. "No one. He's just in my science class and my maths class."

"Who's this guy, eh, Molls?" her brother asked with a mouthful of sausage. "I think I need to get a look at him. You know, make sure he doesn't break my little sister's heart."

"No, you don't. Shut up, Mark," she replied irritably as she took a large bite of her bacon. She lowered her eyes when her parents gave her stern looks.

"Fine, whatever. Are you still going to the movies with Andrea?" Mark asked.

"Yeah. We're going straight to the cinema after school." Molly finished her tea and stood up to bring her plate and cup to the sink.

"I hope you girls aren't watching something inappropriate," Edmund remarked as he gave Lulu the rest of his sausage. He winked at his wife, who only giggled and shook her head.

"Oh, we're just going to see Little Man T—Ow!" Holding her wrist, she doubled over, knocking the plate to the floor.

Her parents rushed over to her, while Mark winced. "Burns, doesn't it, Molls?"

Tears welling in her eyes, she bit her lower lip and nodded. Still holding her wrist, Molly straightened up with the help of her parents and leant against the counter.

Her parents guided her back to her chair. She glanced at the broken pieces of her plate and gave her mother a worried look. "Sorry, Mum," she whispered.

"That's all right, Molly, dear. Don't worry about it," Ellie assured her.

A few moments later, she sighed and smiled weakly at her family. "I think it's over."

"May we see it?" asked her mother.

Molly nodded and removed her hand from her wrist. "Huh," she uttered as she stared at the name imprinted on her skin.

Edmund glanced at the name and then turned to his wife, who had released Molly's wrist to dip a tea towel in cold tap water. "Sherlock Holmes? What kind of a name is that?"

"Sounds posh," remarked the 15-year-old boy before sipping from his mug.

Ellie dabbed at her daughter's wrist with the wet towel. "Well, I only hope that he grows up to be a man who will cherish Molly, who will never hurt her, who will respect her. Because if this Sherlock Holmes ever makes my baby cry, I will slap him until his cheeks are purple!"

"Harsh, Mum," the girl commented as she winced.

"Or I'll show him my serious face, as my students call it, and give him a good talking-to," Edmund added. "But if he ever lays a finger on you, I will hunt him down and punch him in the face. As your father, I'm not going to let a snooty posh boy hurt you!"

Molly covered her reddening cheeks with her hands. "Dad! Jeez, would you please relax? If he's my soulmate, then he would never hurt me. And I can take care of myself—"

"Says the crybaby, who cries every time the popular girls make fun of her," Mark interjected.

She scowled at her smirking brother. "Shut up, you… m-moron!" she shouted.

"Hey!" The jolly expression on Edmund's face quickly changed into a stern one. "Margaret Eleanor Hooper, we don't call each other names in this household. Today may be your birthday, but you are not exempt to that rule." He turned to the older child. "And Edmark Albert Hooper, stop calling your sister crybaby."

"But it's true!" the boy reasoned.

"It doesn't matter. It hurts her feelings, and she doesn't like being called that. It also makes you no better than the people that make fun of your little sister. Understand?" He glared at the two children, who lowered their heads and nodded. "Good. Now apologise to each other."

Molly looked up and pursed her lips. "I'm sorry I called you a moron."

"That's all right. Sorry I called you a crybaby."

"Apology accepted." She smiled at her brother, who smiled back at her.

Ellie bent down and kissed the top of Molly's head. "All right, birthday girl. Go on and get ready for school."

The girl smiled up at the petite, chestnut-haired woman. "Yes, Mum." She rose from her seat and hugged her mother.

"Happy birthday, Molly," Ellie whispered.

"Thanks!" She kissed her mother, and then her father, on the cheek. She stuck her tongue out at her brother before running up the stairs.

She sighed in relief once she closed her bedroom door behind her. Smiling, she raised her arm and gazed at the name on her wrist. "Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?" She grabbed her diary and began scribbling 'Molly Holmes' on a fresh leaf. "I wonder if my name's appeared on his wrist?" she muttered to herself. "I hope he's excited to meet me too!"

II.

Fifteen-year-old Sherlock was reading a book on physical chemistry in his mother's library when the name on his wrist caught his attention. He groaned in annoyance as he stared at the imprint on his skin. He put the book down on the desk and sat back.

"Why do I need a soulmate anyway?" he muttered to himself as he turned the leather chair round to face the oak bookcase. "I don't! I don't want to be involved, romantically or otherwise, with anyone. It's just a waste of time. And caring for Molly Hooper will just make me weak. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. So, no, just no!"

His gaze fell on the chemistry book. He picked it up again and continued reading. What if this Molly Hooper liked science too? "It doesn't matter," he growled, shaking his head as he did so, as if to get rid of his traitorous inner voice. What if she had a brilliant and clever mind? He paused as he considered the question. Clenching his fists, he slammed the book down on the desk behind him and shut his eyes in exasperation. "I don't give a damn if she's clever or if she's scientifically inclined. I don't want a soulmate. I don't want her!"

"But it's written in the stars," a male voice teased somewhere behind him. "You and Miss Hooper are destined to be together."

He turned to his older brother and glared at him. "As if I'm the only one with a supposed soulmate. What are you going to do if you met Miss Andrea Winters, eh, Mycroft?"

The young adult in the grey three-piece suit shrugged. "Nothing. I don't want a relationship with anyone equipped with an inferior mind. I will just have to be civil to Miss Winters if I ever had the misfortune of meeting her and assure her that I want nothing to do with that soulmate lark."

Sherlock smirked. "I do remember hearing you ask if she had soft, luxuriant brown hair."

Mycroft sauntered towards the leather sofa facing the desk. "I did not," he said as he sat down. "Quit making things up."

"Oh, I assure you I'm not. But I'll ask Mummy later. I'm sure she'll back me up." He grinned at his brother and picked up the book again.

The recent university graduate sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you know I'm right. Caring for anyone is not advantageous to the development of your deductive reasoning. Sentiment and emotions will only cloud your judgement and will keep you from being the best detective that you said you wanted to be. What if your involvement with Miss Hooper—"

"There won't be one," he ground out.

"—placed her in danger? What if an enemy of yours abducted her and demanded that you cease your, say, investigations in exchange for her life? What if one of your future nemeses held her at gunpoint and forced you to choose between your work and her life? Which would you choose, brother mine?"

He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "How do you know that I'm going to have nemeses?"

"You're, well, you," he replied with a brief chuckle. "And despite your claims that you will never let sentiment and emotions get the best of you, plenty of things may happen between now and whenever you are destined to meet Miss Hooper. You could still end up being a moony puppy of a man and settle down with your soulmate."

"No, I won't. I promise."

"There's no guarantee that you will have no feelings for her. You've always cared too much, little brother. Remember Redbeard?" Mycroft nodded when the teenager scowled at the mention of his old dog. "You cried for a week after Mummy and Daddy had to put it down."

"I was 12. Mum and Dad bought him for me when I was born, so he's always been my dog. You're just jealous because he always growled at you and tried to bite you several times."

The young adult heaved a heavy sigh. "Just listen to me before any idea gets in your head. Caring for Molly Hooper or anyone else will cloud your judgement and make you weak and stupid. It may even lead to their violent demise. So it is best that you avoid forming any kind of relationship with anyone, especially Miss Hooper. Am I clear, Sherlock?"

The younger Holmes levelled an irritated look at his brother. "Quite clear," he answered through gritted teeth.

"Good." Rising from the sofa, he nodded at the boy and left the library.

"I don't want her anyway!" he yelled after Mycroft. But his brother had already closed the door behind him.

He stared at the forgotten chemistry book in his hands and threw it at the library door out of frustration. He took a few deep breaths and leant back on the leather chair. "I'll have nothing to do with this soulmate lark," he whispered to himself. "Molly Hooper will only be a distraction. Any relationship with her or anyone else will only make me weak and will possibly end tragically. Mycroft is right: caring is not an advantage."

But what if she liked science as much as I do?

III.a.

Sherlock leant back against the wall in the lift. His hands slightly trembled as he pressed them together and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. Shutting his eyes, he organised the case facts in his mind palace.

His first case in six months, it involved a businessman who suddenly died in his home. According to Mrs Steele, the victim did not have any illnesses and never took recreational drugs. Anderson found no wounds or bruises on the body as well as no murder weapon at the crime scene.

He had deduced that the man was poisoned, most likely by his mistress, using cyanide. All he needed was proof. So he and DI Lestrade were on their way to look at the body, which the latter had sent to Barts for a post-mortem. I just wish the pathologists here were competent enough to reach the same conclusion as I did.

"Does Malcolm still work here?" he asked the silver-haired man that asked him for help in the case.

The detective turned to him and shook his head, just as Lestrade's text alert went off in the lift. "He had a stroke the day after you yelled at him. He's still undergoing rehabilitation. He's not expected to come back." He paused as he typed on his phone. "You know, it took them a while to find a replacement." He put the mobile back in his jacket pocket and turned to look Sherlock in the eye. "So, please be gentle to the new pathologist. Let's ease her into… well, your ways, all right?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine."

The lift doors opened, and the two men walked down the long and empty corridor. A faint but clearly female voice wafted out from the morgue.

"Is that her?" the consulting detective asked.

"Yes. Please, please, don't terrorise her, OK? She has a promising future here and she's really good, even if she's young and looks delicate, understand?"

"Young and delicate? Bit strange for someone who cuts up cadavers for a living, isn't it?" he remarked as he opened the morgue doors.

He stopped in his tracks and watched the petite, light-brown-haired woman dictate her notes to the tape recorder in her hand. He listened to her voice and noted the confidence with which she delivered her observations. His gaze followed her left hand—the third finger of which was devoid of a ring, he noted—as she put the tape recorder down on the trolley and began putting the organs back into the body.

"The patient likely died of cyanide poisoning. Further toxicological analyses are required before cause of—"

"Wait," the consulting detective interrupted.

"Damn it! What did I just say?"

Ignoring Lestrade's irritated tone, he strode towards the pathologist. He stopped within a few inches of the startled woman. "How did you determine that Mr Steele died of cyanide poisoning?"

"Sorry, wh-who are you?" She turned until she caught Lestrade's eyes, prompting him to step forward and drag the taller man away until they were standing across from her.

"Sorry, Molly. He's helping me out with Mr Steele's case. By the way, he's—"

Alarm bells rang in his head and his left wrist began to itch, but the consulting detective decided to ignore them. "What makes you think it's the cause of death?"

The small woman stared at Sherlock for a few moments before lowering her gaze to the body on the slab. "W-well, his stomach smelt of bitter almond and contained what looks like pureed fruit or fruits. I'll have to determine what fruits are included in that smoothie and if there's any poison in it. His blood was also bright deep red, sort of like a cherry, due to the increased venous hemoglobin oxygen saturation. Also, while the lungs were actually healthy, the pleurae show signs of inflammation. I took samples of his blood, urine, et cetera. I still have to run tests, but cyanide poisoning is on top of the list for possible cause of death." She chewed on her lower lip. "Er, why do you want to know? Are you a detective too?"

"I'm a consulting detective. I help out the police whenever they're stumped—which is always." He ignored Lestrade's groan of irritation but smiled at the pathologist's tinkly giggle. "I also take on other sorts of cases, as long as they're interesting."

Nodding, the pathologist resumed her work. "I see. Anyway, I'll get started on the lab work for Mr Steele this afternoon." She darted her eyes between the two men. "Unless, of course, you need the results soon."

"It's OK, Molly. Take your—"

"Could you, though?" He flashed the grin that he usually used for women. Judging by her little giggles, he would not be surprised if the new pathologist were already infatuated with him.

Her cheeks turned pink and she smiled. "Sure, of course. Anything for Scotland Yard."

"Thank you, Molly. Did I get your name right?" he asked in a honeyed tone, smiling and slightly leaning forward to look into her eyes. Brown, he noted. And rapidly dilating.

She had just replaced the heart in the chest cavity when she offered him her hand. "Yes. I'm Molly. Dr Molly Hooper. Pleased to meet you."

Alarm bells sounded again in his head. Then it hit him: that name had been tattooed on his left wrist since his 13th birthday.

He stared at her for a few moments until a sharp jab in his ribs pulled him out of his trance. He blinked and turned to the detective inspector, who had cocked his eyebrow at him. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the pathologist and smiled, though he did not shake her bloody, gloved hand. "Pleased to meet you too." He turned on his heels and strode away from Molly. "Come along, Lestrade," he said without looking back as he reached the doors.

III.b.

To his credit, Lestrade looked just as confused as she was. Sighing, the inspector turned to her and let out a nervous chuckle. "Sorry, Molly. I don't know what that's about."

"That's all right." She glanced at the morgue doors. "Who is he anyway? And why do you need help from him?"

"He's a private detective. Incredibly clever too. He can deduce a person's occupation, family history, lunch or dinner, guilty conscience, and so on, just by picking up clues from their clothing, hair, shoes, you know, general appearance. Honestly, I don't know how he does it. But he's helped me quite a bit before." He leant forward and lowered his voice. "He just got out of rehab for heroin and cocaine addiction. I hope that explains his strange behaviour today."

She nodded, although she disagreed with him on that last sentence. Then a thought hit her. Narrowing her eyes, she leant towards the inspector until their foreheads were merely half an inch apart. "Did he give Dr Malcolm a stroke?" she whispered.

Lestrade straightened up and laughed. "Yes, he did." He shrugged and chuckled some more. "That's Sherlock Holmes for you."

Molly's jaw dropped upon hearing the strangely attractive man's name. Her right hand began rubbing her suddenly itchy left wrist. She forced out a giggle to cover up her shock. "Well, his name suits him. Sounds posh too."

He laughed out loud. "You're right about that. Have I told you about that time when his brother had me ride in one of those black cars, just so he could ask me to spy on Sherlock?"

"What? Are you serious?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock and interest.

"Lestrade," a deep baritone coming from outside the morgue interrupted them. "We have suspects to speak with. Or would you like me to interrogate them?"

The pathologist and the inspector turned to see Sherlock glaring at the latter. They glanced at each other and shrugged.

"Sorry, Sherlock," the silver-haired man replied. "Just trying to explain your lovely behaviour to Molly." He turned to her and winked, prompting her to giggle. "Thanks again. Take your time with the lab work. It's not urgent. Just text me when you have the results, all right? Bye." He waved goodbye at her and left the morgue.

"Will do. See you later, Greg." She turned to the consulting detective, who seemed to be rooted to the floor. I thought you were in a hurry? "Bye, Sherlock," she said instead.

"Afternoon, Dr Hooper." He gave her a curt nod and then walked away.

"Well, that's a good start," she muttered to herself as she resumed her work in peace.

Later that day, she spotted curly hair that looked like Sherlock's on the tube. She craned her neck to see if the curls belonged to her supposed soulmate. But she did not find out who owned those dark curls. Wondering why she cared about some random man's hair, she softly chuckled and shook her head.

What were the higher powers thinking when they decided to pair me with Sherlock Holmes?

IV.

Sitting in the middle of his bed, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his palms together. Barely listening to the sounds of the guests awkwardly chatting, he propped his chin on his fingertips.

He could not understand why his chest tightened at the thought of Irene Adler lying dead somewhere. Was he attracted to her? Perhaps. At least he could admit that it would be a shame to lose a woman with a cunning and clever mind like the Woman had. She was so like him and unlike him at the same time. She was fascinating, and he wished that she did not have to die.

He took a deep breath and, in the momentary lull in his mind, Molly's voice slipped through. Slightly turning towards her voice, he heard her telling John and Mrs Hudson that she had to go.

"Could you tell Sherlock that I've gone?"

His housemates agreed, although he knew that they would not tell him anything, especially after what happened.

He sighed and leant back against the headboard. He replayed the scene in his mind and winced. He truly did not mean to hurt her. But, for some reason, the thought of her dressing up for another man felt wrong to him. I'm her soulmate, for God's sake! So he lashed out by deducing her clothes and the gifts that she brought, not knowing that the beautifully wrapped present was for him.

He remembered the pain in her eyes and in her voice when she called him out on his appalling behaviour. His heart ached, even as he apologised and bent to kiss her on the cheek. He would have tried to make it up to Molly—perhaps open her gift and show his appreciation for the scarf she chose—if the Woman had not interrupted them with a text.

His mobile rang, interrupting his musings. He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and rolled his eyes as he took the call. "You've found Irene Adler's body?"

"Yes," his brother answered.

"I'll be at Barts Hospital in 20 minutes." He hung up and rose from his bed.

I hope Molly's been called to work, he thought as he pulled on his Belstaff coat. Then he chuckled and shook his head. Wouldn't that be awkward?

V.

Molly paced across her office floor as she waited for Sherlock to be brought to the morgue. She paused when her mobile vibrated in her lab coat pocket. She fished it out and read the message.

Package delivered. - Unknown

She raced to the morgue, running down three flights of stairs instead of taking the lift. When she reached the basement, she slowed down to a brisk walk. She did not want to seem breathless to him, although he would probably notice that anyway.

"Sherlock?" she called out as soon as she pushed the doors open.

"Over here."

She turned to her left and sighed in relief as her gaze fell on the detective, who was sitting up on the furthest slab. She strode towards him, picking up a tub of disinfectant wipes on the way. "Please get down and go take a shower in the men's locker room. One of your brother's agents brought a change of clothes. I also borrowed a maintenance sign from the caretaker, in case someone tried to enter."

She ignored the roll of his eyes as he complied. But he remained standing next to her—she could feel his eyes boring into her head—as she began furiously scrubbing the surface. "What is it, Sherlock?" she asked without looking at him.

"I'm waiting for you."

She gave him a questioning look. "You can make your way to the men's locker room."

"I need you to make sure no one can see me."

"Mycroft's agents already cleared the floors you need. Go on," she directed as she resumed disinfecting the slab's surface. "I'll meet you there in a minute."

"Fine," he sighed before he left.

She glanced after him when he had gone, heaving another sigh of relief. Mycroft had assured her that everybody involved knew what they were supposed to do in every scenario. While they tried to include all the variables that they could think of, she knew that the best-laid plans could still fail. So seeing Sherlock move as gracefully as he usually would allayed her fears.

When she arrived at the otherwise empty men's locker room, he had finished his shower. He was standing in front of an open compartment and was applying deodorant to his armpits. She quickly took her eyes away from his buttocks, which were covered by the towel wrapped round his hips, and the muscles on his naked back.

"This deodorant hasn't been opened, so you can relax," he said without turning to look at her.

"Take that with you then. I don't think the guy you stole that from would want to use that after it's been opened." Ignoring the blush that was spreading to her face and the smirk on his face, she stepped in front of him and examined his face and torso.

He rolled his eyes again and let out an impatient sigh. "Look, I'm fine. No bruises or scrapes. I didn't twist my ankles. I didn't hurt anything."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm just doing what your brother told me to do." She nodded, prompting him to grab his boxers from the bench. "The car will be here in five minutes," she said as she turned away to give him privacy. She pulled out her phone and checked her e-mails, while she waited for Sherlock to finish getting dressed. "Oh, he's taking you to your parents' first before you go to your safe house."

He muttered a string of curses that made her smile. "I knew it was a bad idea to get my mother involved in the plan."

"Hey, I'm not a mathematician. Neither are you. This wouldn't have worked if we tried to do the maths."

"Perhaps you should get another degree in mathematics," he suggested, his voice dangerously close.

She whipped round and gasped at his proximity. She took a long, deep breath. "You do it. I'm already working towards my PhD during my specialist registrar training. I don't have time to get a degree in maths. Besides, I'm not very good in maths anyway."

"Right. I'll just do that while I dismantle Moriarty's criminal network, shall I? Do you think I can get my schoolwork done in New Delhi or Tibet?"

She rolled her eyes this time. She glanced at her wristwatch. "Your brother will be here in two minutes. You should have plenty of time to get down to the carpark before anyone sees you."

For a long moment, he only stared at her. Then he smiled, his dimples showing. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said in a low voice before he took her head in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers.

Her eyes widened when his Cupid's bow lips touched her thin and unkissable ones. Is he kissing me? Holy shit, he's kissing me! She did not wait another moment before she wrapped her arms round his neck and kissed him back.

But it only took a few more moments before he pulled away and chuckled at her frustrated groan. He lowered her left hand and kissed the imprint of his name on her wrist. "Goodbye, for now." Then he placed a tender kiss on her mouth before releasing her and stepping away from her.

He departed from the locker room without another glance, leaving her heart thumping in her chest and her lips yearning for another kiss.

VI.

Glancing behind him as he walked towards the chip shop, Sherlock half-expected to see Molly trying to catch up to him. Oh, he thought when he spotted her going the other way.

He really did want to thank her for helping him out with his fake suicide. He also wanted to spend some time with her and take her out to dinner, even if it was only fish and chips. He had hoped to tell her that, after years of resistance, he finally accepted that Molly was his soulmate. She could see and understand him like no one else could. She had always made him feel loved and accepted. She was one of a handful of people whom he could trust with his life and that helped him understand that sentiment was not a weakness but a strength. She was the woman he had learnt to love.

So when he came back to London, he went to see her at Barts. He hid in the women's locker room to surprise her once her shift was over. While he waited, he revisited the kiss that they shared after he jumped. So, as soon as she saw him, he strode towards her and kissed her—just like he did two years ago. But she pushed him away, opting for a tight embrace instead.

He could not understand why. Did she fall out of love with him? Was she being watched? But when she entered his flat and removed her gloves a few hours ago, he saw the diamond ring on her finger.

She was betrothed to another man. And it made his heart ache.

Why would she marry somebody else, when she knew that she belonged to me as much as I belonged to her?

When she asked him why he asked her to solve cases with him, he could not help but pour out his heart to her. Even if he could not say those three words, he carefully chose words that conveyed how he really felt. But even his heartfelt speech did not persuade her to have dinner with him.

When he kissed her cheek, he had hoped it was enough to tell her that he loved her. But it was not.

As he nibbled on a chip during the walk home, he wished that he were sharing the food with Molly and that she were coming home with him.

VII.

Sitting on the cosy couch, Molly flipped through The Dynamics of Combustion as Mr Holmes fixed his red bow tie in front of the mirror. Next to her feet sat a wrapped box with tiny holes on it. She smiled and lifted her eyes to the door when she heard Mrs Holmes, who was in the kitchen fixing tea for the three of them, arguing with someone over the telephone.

"I didn't know Sherlock had any female friends," the elderly man said as he sat down next to her.

"Oh, there's a few of us," she replied, giggling. "Although I wasn't sure he considered me a friend until he said I counted to him."

He sat back and smiled. "When was that?"

"Um, the night he asked me to help him with faking his death." She closed the book and replaced it in the storage basket next to the couch.

"Ah, I see. Thank you for that, by the way." His eyes dropped to her exposed left wrist, prompting her to cover it with her other hand. "Oh, no, Molly. Don't cover it up."

Keeping her right hand over her left wrist, she glanced at Mr Holmes. "Did Sherlock tell you about me?"

"Well, some years ago, his mother asked him about his friends. He mentioned John Watson, of course, and the inspector that gives him cases."

"Greg Lestrade? He's a great guy. A patient man too."

"Yes, yes, that's him." He crossed his leg and stared at her. "Then he mentioned Molly Hooper." He smirked. "Marguerite and I were with Sherlock when your name appeared on his wrist."

She nodded, just as the Holmes matriarch came into the sitting room with the tea tray. She smiled up at her as the elderly woman set down the tray and poured tea into a cup. "Thank you, Mrs Holmes."

After serving her husband, she sat on the chair near the fireplace with her own cup. "Oh, my dear, please call me Marguerite. 'Mrs Holmes' makes me sound pompous. I'm not pompous, am I, Molly?"

She swallowed a mouthful of tea. "No, you're not. Not at all. Sorry, Mrs—whoops!—Marguerite."

The former mathematician laughed. "That's all right."

"You know, it's funny, because you nearly have the same name as my mum. Well, her middle name was Margaret. I was actually named after her. My parents just switched my mum's first and middle names. Molly's just my nickname, you know, to avoid confusion, because my dad used to call my mum Margaret. Everybody else called her Ellie."

Marguerite stared at her for a moment. "You are Sherlock's soulmate," she stated.

"I was just about to tell you that," Mr Holmes piped up. He turned to Molly and grinned. "As you can see, our sons got their genius minds from her."

"Oh, stop that, Siger!" She laughed as she waved her husband's compliment off. Blushing and still laughing, she turned to Molly. "Don't you believe him when he says he's a dummy. Oh, he's far from it."

"I was merely a research assistant—"

"Who went on to publish a journal article on physical cosmology that, in the younger generation's words, blew the minds of the Big Bang theory proponents."

Molly turned to Siger, whose cheeks were red in embarrassment. "Oh, my God. If I received that kind of reaction from the medical research community, I'd be putting that on my blog, my CV, my business card, my e-mail signature, and everywhere it'll fit."

The Holmes patriarch only smiled at her. "But you won't, will you, Molly?"

The women shared a glance and a smile. "Yeah, you're right," the pathologist admitted.

"Miss Hooper."

Molly looked up and saw the Holmes brothers standing in the doorway. "Hello, Mycroft. Hi, Sherlock," she greeted the brothers with a shy smile and pink cheeks. "Merry Christmas!"

"Happy Holidays, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said as he stepped forward.

"Merry Christmas, Myc!" Marguerite kissed the wincing civil servant on the cheek. Then she pulled her uncharacteristically silent younger son towards her and kissed his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock!"

"Hello, Mum," he finally said. "Merry Christmas." He gave her a brief smile before giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Sit down, boys. I'll get more cups for your tea," she instructed over her shoulder as she left the room.

"And I will help out your mum," Siger said with a smile as he rose. He patted each of the brothers on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Dad," the brothers answered at the same time. Sherlock squeezed his father's hand and smiled at him.

Mycroft sat on the chair that his mother vacated, while Sherlock sat next to Molly. The former sat back and smiled at the pathologist. "Fancy seeing you here, Molly."

"Oh," she glanced at the silent man next to her. "Didn't your brother tell you that he invited me?" She turned to the consulting detective and glared at him. "Sherlock!"

"Sorry, it must have slipped my mind," he replied with a smirk.

"Slipped his mind, my arse," she muttered as she rolled her eyes. Ignoring his chuckle, she turned to Mycroft. "He invited me to spend Christmas here, because my brother just got married and he chose to go on his honeymoon during Christmas. He probably wanted to save on travel costs. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you."

"Do you know, Molly, that Mycroft's soulmate is joining us for dinner later?" He smirked at his brother, who only rolled his eyes at him.

"Really? Wow, that's great. When is Andrea—whoops, sorry!—Anthea getting here?"

The men stared at the pathologist. "You know her real name?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah, I do. We grew up in Northampton together. Of course, I know her as Andrea. She's only a year older. I remember her teasing me when she saw my wrist on my 13th birthday." She glanced at the detective with reddening cheeks. "She said we could be in-laws!" She giggled but stopped when neither brother joined her.

Sherlock stared at his brother with wide eyes. "You didn't know, brother dear?"

He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair before answering. "Of course, I did. I simply didn't see the need to tell you, since it doesn't concern you."

"You have surveillance on all my friends, but you didn't consider it necessary to tell me that my soulmate and yours knew each other when they were younger," he pointed out. "Really, Mycroft?"

"You didn't see it either," the older brother countered.

"I never saw the two of them together!" he reasoned.

"Mycroft, you haven't answered my question," Molly gently reminded him, effectively ending the brief bickering between the men.

"My apologies, Molly." He glanced at his pocket watch. "The car picked her up from the cemetery over an hour ago. She and the Watsons should be dropped off in an hour, provided traffic isn't heavy."

"She visits her parents' graves on their death anniversary," Molly explained to Sherlock, giving him a sombre look.

The door to the sitting room opened, and Marguerite stood in the doorway staring at her elder son. "Myc, come look at our present for Andrea. I want to make sure she'll like it."

Molly and Sherlock sniggered as the civil servant reluctantly followed his mother out of the sitting room.

"I know her as Anthea," the consulting detective remarked once his brother and his mother left. "It figures that her code name would be close to her real name. What's her surname?"

"What, you haven't deduced it yet? Tsk tsk tsk. You're slipping." She paused before smirking at him. "Ask her yourself. Just ask nicely."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "If I snogged you right now, would you tell me?"

"Nope," she replied, popping the last consonant.

The detective reached for her hand and interlaced their fingers. "I'm glad you accepted my invitation."

"Thank you for inviting me. I'm still not telling you Andrea's surname." She paused and narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't have anything to do with my brother going on his honeymoon during Christmas, did you?"

"Nope, none at all," he answered, shaking his head. However, the slight amusement in his eyes did not escape her.

She picked up the beautifully wrapped medium-sized box from the floor and gently laid it on the sofa. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." She smiled as she gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Molly, you didn't need to give me anything." He removed the bow-topped lid and lifted a piebald bulldog puppy with fawn fur on its legs and feet. "Oh," he uttered as he placed the puppy on his lap and ran his hand along its sleek coat.

"Well, a little bird told me that you had a dog when you were small and that you were devastated when he passed away. That same little bird suggested perhaps caring for a dog will make you feel a little less lonely, since John is married and just had a baby girl." Molly reached over and petted the dog as well. "Plus the breeder said most bulldogs have a friendly and patient nature and a good temperament. Apparently they're good with kids and other pets. He could help you with your detective work or when you're in your mind palace or something. Do you like him?"

She peered into the box when Sherlock said nothing. "All the paperwork is in here. The breeder volunteered to fill out the change of ownership form, so you don't have to worry about that. He's been checked by the vet and been pronounced as completely healthy." She looked up at him and smiled.

Still petting the puppy, he smiled at her. "Thank you, Molly. This is a generous gift. What shall we name him?"

"W-well, he's yours. What do you want to name him?"

Sherlock chewed his lower lip as he considered names for his new pet. "How about Barbarossa?"

"All right." She petted the sleeping puppy's head. "Hello, Barbarossa." She smiled at Sherlock, who was staring at her.

"Mrs Hudson would have a coronary when I return to Baker Street with a pet dog," he remarked.

"Well, if you'd like, I can help you take care of the puppy. I'll remind you to feed him, bathe him, have him neutered, and take him out for his daily walk."

"Thank you," he said in a quiet voice.

Relieved that Sherlock liked her present, Molly smiled brightly. "You're welcome!"

He set the puppy down on the sofa and rose. "Now it's my turn." He removed a black velvet box from his inner jacket pocket and opened it to reveal an infinity twist micropavé diamond engagement ring. The round diamond was nearly flawless.

This must have cost him a fortune. She gasped and stared at him. "Sherlock..."

Taking her hand, he got down on one knee and gazed at her with a tender look in his eyes. "Molly, when your name appeared on my wrist on the day I turned 13, I wasn't that thrilled. I didn't believe in love, particularly romantic love, because my parents' marriage wasn't exactly ideal at that point. Then my brother began teaching me that caring is not an advantage, that it'll only make me weak. That my soulmate would only meet a tragic end. And I believed him.

"When I finally met the woman that the so-called higher powers designated to be my soulmate, I didn't understand why it had to be you. You are gentle, kind, generous, clever, patient, tireless, thoughtful, caring, faithful, trustworthy—most of which I'm not. For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why we were soulmates. I never believed that I could be worthy of your love and affection. For so many years, I wasn't worthy of you.

"Then you saved my life. Twice."

"Twice?" she interrupted, her voice breaking and tears welling up.

"Yes, when I jumped from Barts rooftop and when I was shot. Both times, you kept me alive. I haven't even thanked you for the second one, but I tried to convey my gratitude the first time with a kiss. That's when I realised that the higher powers knew what the hell they were doing. Molly, I was learning to love you. And that was one of the things that sustained me during those two years away from London, from the people I care about and for whom I'd risk my life just to ensure their safety. Then I finished the job and came back. I was so happy when I saw you that I couldn't speak. So I kissed you—"

"But I pushed you away," she quietly reminded both of them. "I'm sorry."

His other hand reached up and caressed her cheek. "You didn't know if and when I was coming back. You didn't know how much I care about you and how much I love you. I understand why you tried so hard to move on, although we both know we belong to each other. I only hope that you still love me."

She let the tears roll down her cheeks. "Oh, Sherlock," she sobbed. "Of course I do. I've always loved you and I always will."

He sighed in relief and grinned brightly. "I know that we've never officially dated. We only had those kisses and our names on each other's wrists. But you love me and I love you. Honestly, that's all we need." He removed the ring from the box and held it up. "So, Molly Hooper, my soulmate and my beloved, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

The pathologist sniffled and kissed the hand on her cheek. "Yes, yes! Of course I'll marry you, Sherlock Holmes!"

He slipped the ring onto her finger and stood up. He pulled her up towards him and kissed her deeply.

Feeling like the happiest woman in the world, she returned his kiss. Oh, thank God!

"Are you a screamer?" he whispered when they broke apart. "Because I'd rather not wake Hannah when we consummate our relationship tonight."

Her eyes widened in shock. "Sherlock!" She shook her head before pulling his head down. "I can't wait for you to find out if I'm a screamer or not," she whispered in his ear.

Chuckling, the consulting detective wrapped his arms round his pathologist and gave her a passionate kiss. "I love you, Molly Hooper."

She traced his plump lower lip with her thumb as she gazed at him. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

The first two scenes are set in 27 March 1992. Scene 3 is set in 2007, while the last scene is set after Moriarty's been taken care of and a year after Sherlock killed Magnussen.

While the events in "His Last Vow" aren't depicted here—sorry, it's gotten too long—they still happened.

So, what do you guys think? Hate it? Like it? Love it?

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to everyone in the Sherlolly fandom, especially to canibecandid!