"So she said yes, did she? Told you," John Watson called as he sat in his Baker Street armchair.

From the kitchen, Sherlock called back, "It would appear so," before emerging with two tea cups and a plate of toast balanced on his forearms. He gently set them down on the coffee table before collapsing into his own chair. "I never thought she would, not after that scene I somehow managed to make-"

"Scene? What, you mean that scene Mycroft made?" John interrupted, reaching for his cup. "If I remember correctly, it was your bastard of a brother who brought that up, not you. And I'd like to point out that Molly seemed fine with it, given that she didn't insist upon fleeing right then and there."

The detective sighed, running a hand through his curls. "That was only because she was trying to be polite, John," he said. "I almost had to carry her out of that ballroom, seeing as she was so afraid that leaving early would be rude."

"See, that's where you're wrong," countered the doctor. "Anyone with a proper set of eyes could see that she thought you were perfect, her whole world. And as much as I know you're going to hate me for saying this, the same goes for you, too, Mr. Sentiment."

Rather than lashing out with some defensive comment, Sherlock simply straightened up and quietly asked, "Really?" He still was not convinced that his actions the previous night had not hurt Molly.

"Really. Unless you did something stupid in the cab?" John tensed for a moment.

"Nothing you wouldn't approve of," came the quick reply.

Molly had fallen asleep mere minutes away from their destination, so Sherlock had tapped the driver's shoulder and changed the address to her flat. When they arrived, he refused to wake her up, instead choosing to gently scoop her up in his arms. He carried her all the way up to her room, where he fought with himself over putting her down. Finally, he reluctantly placed her on her bed, covering her with the blanket draped over the foot. He had kissed her one last time before departing, heading home to his own 221B Baker Street.

Now, it was mid-morning, and John had come for a visit, mainly because he had received a text from Sherlock earlier.

Please come to Baker Street at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.

SH

The fact that the detective had said 'please' and the urgent tone of the message had John out of his flat and into a cab in minutes, only to find a rather relaxed Sherlock playing his violin. The soldier had stayed anyway, and the topic of discussion had now turned to the Holmes' Gala that had taken place the previous night.

"And you're sure about that?" John asked nervously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him. "Yes, John, positive."

"If you're completely certain that you did nothing, absolutely nothing that might have been considered the least bit offensive, then yes, really. I can't believe you're even having doubts about this, you idiot! Did you even see-" he broke off, waving his hand. "Never mind. Just trust me, she said yes because she loves you. I promise," he added at the detective's look of skepticism.

"But-" Sherlock was interrupted suddenly by the man sitting across from him.

"But what, Sherlock? Do you need me to prove it?" John crossed his arms, eyebrow raised.

As childish and as stupid as it sounded, Sherlock did want him to prove it. He just couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that sat heavily in the back of his mind, guilt because of the scene he had made, guilt because he had left her alone in her flat, guilt because he hadn't told her sooner. He nodded silently.

Now it was John who rolled his eyes, sighing. "Fine," he said. "Text her." He gestured to the mobile that lay on the coffee table beside Sherlock's untouched cup of tea.

The detective reached for his mobile, eyes wide.

"She's awake, no harm done. Actually, she's at Bart's now. I stopped by to say hello a few hours ago," John explained.

Silence. Sherlock stared at the mobile as if it would bite him.

"Go on," encouraged the doctor.

"What do I say?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"No need to panic, just tell her good morning," John replied calmly. "If she doesn't answer you immediately, I'll be surprised."

Hesitantly, the detective typed. Good morning, Molly. SH He placed the mobile in his lap, watching it carefully. One minute passed, and the tiny screen lit up again.

Good morning, Sherlock! I have three new corpses for you today, if you'd like to come and take a peek.

MH

John couldn't say for sure, but he figured it took Sherlock approximately ninety seconds to process that text. When he finally did, however, it only took him thirty to leap out of his chair, rush into his room, slam the door, throw on a perfectly pressed suit, grab his coat and scarf, and sprint down the stairs.

The doctor had just placed his cup down on the table when a head poked around the doorframe. "Are you coming or not?" The invitation was brisk and blunt.

John smiled. "That depends. I think you can handle this one by yourself, but I'll come if you want me to."

"Of course, I want you to come, don't be stupid," came the response, and as John closed the door behind him, he prayed to God that somehow, Sherlock wouldn't screw this one up.

ooooo

The morning after, the start to our new sequel.

Please, let me know what you think!

~London Belle