Author's Note: An anonymous ask on Tumblr asked for me to write a 'Mary as matchmaker' story, and something took ahold of me and I ended up writing a Midsummer Night's Dream, based on the ending to TSOT. Warnings for silly fluff and even sillier crack.

The glade deep within the forest was, on the surface, one that was similar to any other glade seen by a mortal's eyes. Yet, if that same mortal was to look a little deeper and to listen a little while longer, they would have heard the soft whispers and childish, innocent laughter that mortals did not often hear, and they would see sights that only the most superstitious of mortals dared to believe in.

Tonight was one of those nights. Music, soft and as tranquil as the call of the morning birds, filled the forest, and a gentle breeze moved through the air as fairies, elves and pixies danced and drank and made merry with one another.

Among them was Mariana, who regarded the festivities with a somewhat disinterested eye. It was not that she disliked her subjects nor disliked their propensity for celebrations, but after the first thousand years, one tended to find those same celebrations rather hollow.

Tonight however, was different. The wedding of her mortal twin, Mary Morstan, was—at that very moment—taking place, and as such, this was not the ordinary celebration of immortality that her subjects often partook in; it was instead a way for her and her subjects to bless and pray for the longevity of her mortal twin's marriage. It was a celebration of the joy, beauty and purity of love.

Yet even that fact did not stop Mariana from silently excusing herself from the festivities to slip outside for just a little moment of isolation.

She found herself wandering towards the hall where Mary Morstan's own festivities were taking place. As mortals did not have the privilege of witnessing fairies in their true form, Mariana felt no hesitation in wandering into and around the room where Mary and her new husband were celebrating their nuptials.

The guests themselves were merry enough, and danced happily to the music. The only three not dancing were Mary, John and a tall, pale fellow with dark curls. Mariana remembered his name to be Sherlock; Mary and John had spoken of him enough for her to retain a memory of it, especially since his name was often spoken with a degree of fond exasperation towards it. Anyone spoken of in such a contradictory way was someone to remember, and she would have been lying if she had denied checking up on him once or twice over the last six months. Such a man who was so devoted to the planning of the nuptials of his friend to Mary Morstan was someone Mariana was not going to let past her net. As she moved around the room, she caught snatches of the conversation shared by Mary, John and Sherlock.

"Both of you, now, go dance." Sherlock said, with his tone abrupt and short. "We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

Mariana paused in her stroll around the room. She had seen enough of mortals and their humanity to know when someone was distracting from the true subject in hand.

"And what about you?" Mary asked, tearful. Mariana didn't wonder why—her hand was on her abdomen, with happy tears in her eyes. Mariana gave a smile; she had finally figured it out.

John gave a chuckle. "Well, we can't all three dance – there are limits!"

Sherlock gave a short nod. "Yes, there are."

"Come on, husband," Mary said, touching at John's arm. "Let's go."

They conversed for a little while longer—Mariana found it strange that two men dancing together was considered so taboo, as it happened frequently enough in the immortal world—before Mary and John withdrew from their friend and began to dance, conversing happily with one another. Yet Mariana's gaze stayed on Sherlock.

Now he was alone, the smile he had once worn had faded into something else entirely; it had faded into what was clearly his true feeling. One of isolation; of loss. One Mariana had too often seen on a mortal's face when they had lost someone they loved, especially when that loss was one of a dear friend. That expression remained on Sherlock's features as he quietly made himself ready and departed from the room. Clearly, he was grieving dearly for what he perceived to be the loss of a dear friend.

Usually, people did not notice when this sadness overcame others—and it seemed that none of the revellers around Sherlock did so on this particular time either.

Apart from one, Mariana noticed. Dancing with another curly-haired gentleman and an elder lady, the woman was short, and smiled warmly at the dancing of the gentleman beside her. Yet as Sherlock made his way from the reception and the festivities, her smile too faded, but into an expression of worry and concern as she watched Sherlock leave down the long, winding path towards the road.

After her years of watching over mortals, Mariana had found that mortal love was different from immortal love. Where immortal love faded and returned akin to the crest of a wave against a sandy shore, mortal love was fleeting, and if let alone, it could very easily pass people by.

Now, Mariana was not one to interfere with the lives of mortals. She merely pushed them in the right direction. That was all. Interfering was to show oneself to a mortal and command them to perform tasks beyond their skills. To slowly move over to a woman and whisper a small incantation in her ear was not interference.

Certainly not.

Marriage changes people.

With a sigh, Sherlock wrapped his Belstaff tighter around him and burrowed his chin against the collar. Behind him, as he slowly made his way down the path, the muffled music continued to sound. Mrs Hudson was wrong, that was simple. John had not changed mentally or physically or emotionally; and neither had Mary. They were just married, that was all. How was that going to change them?

He'd of course seen Molly noticing his departure. Part of him was glad she'd remained silent. Of course she hadn't said anything. She knew him well—sometimes he wondered if she knew him better than he knew himself—and she knew when to step away and when to interfere. Of course, there was another part of him. It was the quieter, smaller, and yet no less true, part that yearned for her to speak up. It was the part that he thought had died along with Redbeard.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that it was only the sound of a twig snapping under his foot that caused him to realise that he was now standing in the middle of a forest glade.

"Molly! Molly!" She continued running, her breathing heavy in the cool summer air. Behind her, Tom continued calling her name. His footsteps were heavy against the gravel path. "Molly, please, just talk to me!"

"I – I can't," Molly said, her gaze turning in every direction, falling on dark spots where she couldn't possibly hope to see anything, let alone any person. "I don't—"

Tom gave a sigh of defeat. "Is this about Sherlock?"

"No!" The word came out of her as more of an automatic reflex than an actual denial, and on seeing the disbelief in Tom's eyes and expression, she knew; it was hopeless for her to continue any sort of deceit. "Yes."

Tom's shoulders sank. "How long has this been about Sherlock?"

"Help! Please!" A voice screamed out, pleading and anguished and hurt.

"I'm – I'm sorry, Tom, I've got to go—"

Turning on her heels, Molly ran into the woods.

How he had ended up in the woods, Sherlock didn't know, but as he was going to be making his way out soon enough, he didn't really care. People often wandered when stuck deep inside their thoughts. Giving a grunt of frustration, Sherlock swatted a stray branch from his face and continued pushing through the undergrowth. Through the branches, he could see the distant lights of the reception hall. A shot of a thrilled shiver raced through him and he felt himself smile as he accelerated his speed, his feet pounding into the dirt.

His smile soon dropped when he took another step forwards and straight back into the glade. Although it was a beautiful place, with rushing brooks and mossy riverbanks with garlands of wildflowers and gnarled trees arranged artfully over his head, it was also a place that Sherlock had visited five times before now and in such frequent periods of time, that on stumbling back into the glade for a sixth time, he sighed and muttered a singular "bloody hell". His Belstaff was stained with mud, his scarf was irretrievably ruined and his once pristine battle armour of a wedding suit was now entirely unlikely to retrieve any sort of refund.

Slipping off his Belstaff and his suit jacket, he folded them up and tucked them underneath himself as he lay down to sleep on the soft earth of the forest floor. If he was to be lost, he would rather have been lost in daylight.

As she watched many mortals who became lost in the woods, Mariana watched the man known as Sherlock lie down on the ground with a decidedly entertained eye. He was clever, yes, and he was wily, but even wits and intelligence were useless against magic, thousands of years of knowledge and a fair few parlour tricks. Kneeling beside him, she plucked the bright purple flower from her robes and held it over his closed eyelids, her smile growing wider.

"Flower of this purple dye, hit with Cupid's archery, sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, let her shine as gloriously as the Venus of the sky." Carefully, she traced the flower against his eyelids and watched as the spell made its mark, the deep purple of love's wound fading slowly from the flower, leaving it a dull, chalky white. She leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "When thou wakest, if she be by, beg of her for remedy."

Standing, Mariana slipped back into the shadows. One down and only one more to go, before Jack would definitely, and finally, have his Jill.

Molly forged a path through the dense undergrowth, gently pushing branches out of her way and sidestepping rather large tree roots which had encased themselves within the ground. Behind her, Tom still followed on, tripping and stumbling at almost every opportunity, fighting against the nature which Molly so easily continued to walk through.

"I just want to know – for God's sake, why are there so many trees – why you would date – ah, Christ! – me if you still loved Sherlock!"

Molly gave no reply to his ramblings, her senses still waiting, alert, for a sound or a sight; any clue that would lead her to the peril which had pulled her so quickly into these strange, unfamiliar woods. Tom continued to mutter and curse behind her about nature and the sheer abundance of it, not even when they stepped into what was, perhaps, the most stunning glade either of them would ever see.

"Come on, Molly! You upped and left me during a wedding reception! After a whole year! All I want is an answer as to why. Please give me an answer – give me anything!"

"I don't know!" Molly span around to finally look at her now ex-fiancé. "Okay? I don't know."

Tom shook his head. His eyes were filled with hurt, and Molly could feel the ache of guilt.

"Yeah you do," he said quietly. "The only problem is that you don't want to admit it."

Molly bit at her bottom lip. "I really think we should wait for daylight. I mean – we're clearly lost."

"Wow. Wow." Tom gave a disappointed sigh. "You really know how to avoid a subject, huh?"

Yet before she could provide an answer to that question or any other question he had directed at her, Tom had already stormed from the glade and back into the undergrowth. Sighing, Molly turned and promptly, despite her previous carefulness, tripped straight over a tree root and in a flail of limbs and a singular surprised cry, fell against something very warm and rather human, with her face gracefully acting as an impromptu cushion to her fall.

"Well, I suppose that's a good start as any."

Hearing the low baritone, Molly soon came to the realisation that she had fallen, face first, into the lap of Sherlock Holmes. Gasping, she pushed herself up onto her arms, her cheeks flushed red.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing h—?" Her diatribe was cut off by Sherlock pressing his finger to her lips.

"Don't speak."

If he didn't have his finger pressed firmly against her lips, reminding him of his warmth and his true, three-dimensional existence, she could be forgiven for thinking him to be a hallucination of some sort.

Her brows furrowed in a silent question, but this Sherlock she had been presented with seemed to prefer actions over words, for he quickly dropped his finger from her lips and replaced it with his mouth. A squeak came from her and she wrenched her mouth from his, her jaw dropping.

"Jesus! What was that?"

"Oh Molly, surely you know what a kiss is!" Sherlock said with a laugh, his eyes sparking with a seemingly renewed life, a spark she only ever saw when he was solving cases. He grasped at her arms, his grip vice-like against her skin.

"Forgive me," he implored. Imploring? Sherlock Holmes never in his life implored for anything. Just how drunk was he? "I've done wrong – so wrong, to you, to everyone I know really, but you especially—"

She didn't quite know why she slapped him, but she did, and the sound reverberated around the empty glade. He grinned, and realisation fell over her. So that's what it was. He was joking; he was playing a trick. She felt cold. She knew Sherlock could be cruel—but never that cruel. When she spoke, her voice shook.

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing Sherlock, but it isn't bloody well funny. Leave me alone." Turning away from him, she rose to her feet. Sherlock, still playing the dazzled fool, narrowed his eyes and his mouth dropped open, like he was not a grown man but nothing more than a toddler.

"Wait!" He scrambled forward on his knees. "Where are you going?"

"Away!" Molly spat, only to give a grunt as Sherlock actually leaped forward and wrapped his arms around her legs, hugging her tightly. His eyes brimmed with tears and his bottom lip stuck out as he looked up at her.

"Don't go," he pleaded. "I love you!"

"For God's sake!" Molly grabbed at him, wrenching his arms from around her legs and staring him straight in the face. "You don't love me Sherlock, and I've dealt with that – so for you to act as if it is all one big joke is frankly cruel and cold and horrible."

"It's not horrible!" Sherlock insisted, whining. "I love you!"

"Oh! What is wrong with you?" With one final grunt, Molly pushed Sherlock away from her, onto his back and ran back into the forest.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he sat up and propped himself up with his elbows. She had never reacted to him in that way before. Surely a woman was supposed to be happy when someone confessed their love to them? A joke—she thought of his love as a joke! She'd said as much. But why on earth would she think his love for her a joke? She was a pretty woman, a lovely woman, quiet but funny, plain but striking. She was a tangled mass of contradictions, and he loved her! It was so clear; it was difficult to remember just what had stopped him from declaring as such before now. Sherlock jumped to his feet.

If there was one thing he had to do tonight, it was to convince Molly that his love was most certainly not a joke, but true and damn well worth her time. First, he just had to find her.

Sat beside the rushing brook, soaking her feet in the cool water, Mariana watched him leave and gave a sigh, rubbing at her temple. Clearly she had been quite wrong about her theory. Sherlock may have been in love with the maiden, but the maiden was most certainly not in love with the man. Quickly, she snapped her fingers and her servant, Jasmine, appeared by her side with a loud pop.

"You called?" she said cheerfully, taking a gulp from the wine goblet in her hands. Mariana nodded.

"Yes. I need you to do something for me."

Jasmine cocked an eyebrow, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder and crossing her legs. Her voice was playful. "Oh? Have you been dabbling again?"

"I do not dabble, Jasmine – and if you say I do again, I'll turn you into a tree." Jasmine immediately paled at the threat and Mariana grinned, drawing her feet from the brook and standing. "There's a human in the wood, led here by me. Wait for him here. Take this flower and dose his eye with the juice of it."

As Mariana dropped a second purple flower into her servant's open palm, Jasmine frowned. "And what am I supposed to say? You know, when I—"

Jasmine's question was interrupted by a soft laugh and a dismissive wave of a hand from her queen. "You'll think of something, I'm sure. Don't worry yourself."

If she had hoped to gain any more answers from her queen, it was a false hope, for her queen had already disappeared. Jasmine sighed and gulped back the rest of her wine before she threw it to one side. Typical. Festivities going on, left, right and centre and she was the one who was forced to stake out for some paltry human. It couldn't be that hard to find him; as her queen had said, she just had to wait for the next fellow to come along and dose his eye with the juice. Jasmine lazily waved her hand, smiling when a crisp red apple appeared in her palm. Contented, she bit into it and, with a low hum, glanced about the glade for a sign of a mortal.

Such a sign soon came with a crashing of branches. Gripping the flower tighter in her palm and throwing her apple over her shoulder, she scrambled up. A gangly fellow, the intruder had a mass of curly hair atop his head and exhaustion was prevalent in both his eyes and his body. Up until she remembered he was a human and had no real reason to be clumsily stumbling about the hallowed ground of these woods as he was, she almost felt some sort of pity for him.

Dragging his feet forward, the man glanced about the gaze, just about managing to croak out a single name: "Molly". That was before he finally gave into the urge to sleep, closed his eyes and crumpled to the forest floor, right in the middle of the glade. His snores echoed against the ancient trees.

Creeping forward, Jasmine glanced over his sleeping form. He was fairly handsome, for a human. She knelt beside the man and held the flower carefully over his eyes. A spell—standard among pixies and other such fairy folk—came quickly from her tongue.

"Upon thy eyes I throw all the power this charm doth owe. When thou wakest, let love forbid and sleep his seat on thy eyelid."

There. Just as the queen had instructed. Grinning once more, she stepped back and sat in the shadow of the trees to watch her work unfold.

"Molly!"

Jasmine jerked upright. The curly-haired man she had enchanted so skilfully still lay peacefully asleep. Yet the voice sounded again, still calling the name.

"Molly! Molly!"

Unless the man in front of her was actually a warlock and not a human, then there was another mortal in the glade. Jasmine peered through the branches of the trees, watching as a second man, somewhat similar in looks to the first man, broke through the undergrowth and into the glade, only to immediately catch his foot against the first man's leg and topple forward, falling face first into the dirt.

The first man stirred, his eyes falling on the second man. Now wide awake, he gazed at the second man. A lopsided smile grew on his lips. Finally, he spoke.

"I love you."

The magnitude of her mistake began to dawn on Jasmine, and a giggle escaped from her mouth. The second man's look of utter shock and indignation was a sight to behold.

"I'm – I'm sorry?"

"Don't be sorry!" the first man exclaimed, laughing. He jumped up to his knees and grabbed at the second man's arm. "I'm in love with you!"

The second man's eyes widened in his shock, but his lips curled into an annoyed frown. He wrestled against the first man's grip.

"This isn't funny, Meat Dagger – get off!" he shouted. "I need to find Molly!"

The first man, or 'Meat Dagger', as the second man had referred to him as—humans did name their offspring very strange things—frowned.

"Who's Molly?"

"Surely you know who Molly is!"

"Of course not! I only know you!"

"Molly!" The second man huffed. "Molly Hooper! How could you not know her?! She's your fiancée, for God's sake!"

Well, that was a twist! Jasmine clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling the increased sounds of her laughter.

The first man frowned, utterly bemused by the words being said to him. "But I don't have a fiancée."

"Yes you do! And her name is Molly Hooper, and I'm in love with her!" The second man gripped the first man's shoulders and shook him, hard. "I'm in love with your bloody fiancée!"

"But I don't have a fiancée!" the first man repeated. "I'm in love with you!"

"What the hell is going on?" A woman's voice cut through the confusion of the two men, and Jasmine looked up to see a woman of petite stature, dressed in a yellow gown, muddied from her adventures in the woods and her feet bare of shoes. Ah—so that was Molly. It was nice to have a face to the name. (It was such a pretty face too.) The second man grinned and jumped up.

"Molly! I knew I'd find you!" He began to run towards her, but was immediately tugged back by the first man.

"Hey! How come she gets all of your love?!"

"Because I love her and I've always loved her," the second man retorted, wrenching himself free of the first man's grip and storming towards Molly, grabbing at her waist.

"Hey! No!" Indignantly, Molly pushed him away and stepped back, staring at the two of them, a decidedly wary look in her eye. Clearing her throat, she spoke slowly and firmly, as if addressing children. "Look, I think you two just need to calm down, okay? You've obviously had a little too much to drink at the wedding reception, and things have got out of hand and you both clearly think this is a very funny joke to play—"

"It's not a joke!" The two men spoke in unison, something which caused the first man to grin and the second to impatiently roll his eyes. Molly shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temple and rubbing slowly.

"Okay. Let me put this in perspective. Sherlock,"—as she spoke, she pointed to the second man—"you barely acknowledge me, even after I helped you fake your death. And Tom! Tom, you have met Sherlock once. Once. And after that, you called him, and I quote, 'a bit of a knob'."

Tom—a much better name than 'Meat Dagger'—bristled. "I – I was only trying to mask my true feelings!"

"So was I!" Hearing this, Tom practically made a leap for him, but Sherlock took a large step to the side. "But for her, for Molly – Molly Hooper. Not for you, Tom, despite what you seem to think. Because to all intents and purposes, you are basically a poor copy of myself, and the fact that you're now purporting to be in love with me is clearly indicative of some sort of virulent narcissism, which most likely stems for your childhood. Now, if you could run along and leave Molly and me alone, that would be wonderful."

Tom's only response to the deluge of words provided to him by Sherlock was to step forward and sock him straight in the jaw. Sherlock duly went stumbling backwards, and Jasmine thought she might've burst with the force of her laughter. Tom, so enraged by the words of the man he thought he loved, made another leap for Sherlock and the two were soon embroiled in a fight, with Molly exasperatedly trying to pull the two men apart.

Jasmine's laughter faded away when the three humans suddenly froze, suspended in time, just as Sherlock had Tom wrapped into a tight headlock, and she was met with the disapproving glare of her queen. She gave a one-shouldered shrug, her eyes wide and her smile bright with innocence.

"Oops?"

"Fix this," Mariana said sternly, folding her arms over her chest. "Or you will be a tree for the rest of your days, forever praying that birds don't make nests in the side of your head."

Jasmine huffed a sigh and hopped off of the log she had chosen as her perch. Still feeling the gaze of her queen burning into her, she stomped towards the three humans, still frozen in time as they were. A small hum escaped her as she drew each of their eyes closed and took Molly by the waist, supporting her weight and steering her towards a nearby grassy bank, where she gently laid her down. The second person she made to move was Sherlock, starting by gently prising his arms away from around Tom's neck before, with a series of grunts and increasingly mortal sounding swearing, she supported his weight and heaved him towards the grassy bank.

"Jasmine," Mariana said, with a warning tone to her voice. "What are you doing?"

"They look cute together," she answered with a shrug and she dropped Sherlock down onto the bank beside Molly before she carefully laid Tom back onto the forest floor. Mariana sighed and dropped her arms to her side, stepping towards Jasmine and pressing the two chalk white flowers into her hand.

"Remove the enchantments from both the mortal men's eyes, and leave the girl be. I shall be back at dawn to see if you've done it correctly."

Jasmine nodded once, taking the flowers. "Of course. I shall do as you ask."

Contented, Mariana made her departure as Jasmine, tucking her hair behind her ear, knelt beside the sleeping Tom and brushed the petals of the flower against his eyelids. The flower slowly grew back to the vivid, rich purple it once was and Tom stirred but did not wake, free of the enchantment that had once beheld him.

After repeating the process on Sherlock—who, she was pleased to find, also stirred, but only to shift closer to Molly and place his hand on her waist—Jasmine swiftly moved away and positioned herself on a high tree branch, gazing down over the glade. Seeing the three mortals sleep so soundly, she gave a smile and tucked her knees close to her chest. Her work was done. All she had to do was patiently wait for the night to pass and the sun to rise.

Tom was the first to wake. Slowly, and with a groggy groan, he sat up, clutching at his head. Drowsily, he peered at the sight before him, of Molly sleeping soundly with Sherlock beside her, and blinked. His brows furrowed into a thoughtful frown, but soon faded to be replaced by a fetching shade of pink blooming across his cheeks as the memories of the events of the previous night, dim though they may have been, touched at the edges of his mind. Quickly, clearing his throat, he stood and walked briskly from the glade and out of the woods. Jasmine watched him go with a smile on her lips. Poor Tom—he was a harmless fellow really. No doubt he would find true happiness with another woman, in time. Two months, most likely.

Jasmine's attention was swiftly brought back to the two other mortals, who were yet to wake, by the sound of Molly softly yawning. She smiled a peaceful smile as she stretched her arms and her eyelids fluttered open. However, on feeling Sherlock's arm around her waist, she appeared to freeze with shock and quietly turned her head to look to the man in question. She swallowed slightly.

"Sherlock?" She spoke his voice in a whisper and Sherlock grunted in lieu of properly answering her. She pushed gently at his shoulder, repeating his name. It was that second call of his name that caused him to open his eyes.

"Molly." He coughed a little. "Morning."

"Morning. Do you mind – taking your hand off my waist? I, well, I need to sit up."

"Of course." Sherlock obediently shifted away from Molly and watched as she carefully sat up. He soon followed suit. The soft dawn light falling over them, they fell somewhat quiet. No doubt their memories of the previous night were returning to them too. Unlike Tom though, neither of them immediately got up and made their way out of the forest, but they instead exchanged words, ones that were awkward and hesitant.

"Did you—?"

"I think I did."

"And did we…?"

"No – but I think we did um—" Sherlock gestured to his mouth instead of actually saying the word, but she seemed to understand what he meant, for she blushed briefly and looked away from him, fiddling with the hem of her dress. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well I've got an awful headache," he murmured, rubbing at his curls. Jasmine raised an eyebrow. That was one way to chat a woman, she had to admit. Not the best, but a way nonetheless. "It's probably a hangover – it's – well, I suppose that I'm in need of coffee. Would you care to – join me, perhaps?"

Molly considered him for a moment, and a flutter of a laugh came from her and she touched at her mouth, brushing her thumb against her bottom lip. Her smile grew knowing. "You didn't have anything to drink at the wedding, Sherlock."

He held her gaze. "I know."

"Well then," Molly said softly, and she let her hand drop to her side. Carefully, she threaded her fingers with his. Her eyes never once left his. "Coffee would be – good."

The grip they had around each other's fingers tightened as they stood. Jasmine felt her smile widen as the pair, stood closely side by side, smiled at one another. Licking her lips a little, Molly placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder and reached up onto her tiptoes, softly brushing her mouth against his.

That same joy was swiftly dispelled when she felt a particularly hard flick against the back of her head.

"Ow!" She whipped around, glaring at her queen who wore a similar look of fury.

"I told you to remove the enchantment from both men's eyes!"

"I did!" Jasmine protested, and she held up the two flowers. Seeing them and the vivid purple colour of their flowers, Mariana paused, blinking as if surprised that her order had been obeyed. (If she were honest, Jasmine wasn't too surprised at that—her track record for obedience wasn't exactlythe best.) Mariana's gaze dropped to see the two lovers, who were so very clearly lost in each other, her fingers in his hair and his hands palming at the fabric of her dress.

"Seems you were right Jasmine," she murmured with a growing smile.

"Sorry, what?"

"You heard me. You did well." She tilted her head. "They do indeed make a wonderful couple."

Unaware of the magic that surrounded them, the hazy memories of the night pushed to the back of their minds, Sherlock and Molly broke their kiss and with their features lit by their smiles, they held one another close in the early morning light as they delved back into the undergrowth and departed from the forest.