Author's Note: Ha! See, I told you I'd update soon!

Well. Soonish.

Thanks to Icecat62, the-art-of-escape, Stargazer, and Guest for reviewing, and thanks to LouLouBear1213 for following! It really means a lot.

Icecat62: Haha, you'll see! I think you'll like it ;)

Guest: Thanks! I love experimenting with Sherlock and emotions, and wondering how his character would react to certain situations.

the-art-of-escape: Thanks! And BELIEVE me, I know about being behind on Fanfiction!

Stargazer: Thanks so much for your input! Good to know what you want to see—I'll make sure to incorporate it.

Chapter Thirteen

Molly

He smiles at me—a smile so soft and so sad that my heart aches to kiss it away—and he leans in to touch a kiss gently to my cheek. That moment freezes—time stops and everything else goes away, and his lips breathe warmth into my skin, a warmth that spreads throughout my entire body, a warmth that pumps through my veins and swiftly grows into fire, a fire that consumes me, overwhelms me, a fire that screams the wrong name.

He pulls back and I take a shuddering breath, feeling a pain almost physical as I curse him for striking the match under my dry timber. I let him walk away, alone, into the snow before saying, "Maybe it's just my type."

My type. My type is sociopaths.

No.

My type is Sherlock Holmes.

I sit bolt upright, panting hard. I feel the wet tears on my face, and quickly wipe them away. Gosh, I hope I didn't wake—

"So," a cynical voice cuts into me, and I snap my head to where it's coming from. Mindy is sitting at my desk chair, staring at me, amusement flirting in her eye. "What is your type, exactly?"

I turn crimson, then frown at her and turn on the lamp by my bed. "Do you watch me sleep often?"

"No," Mindy says with ease, crossing her legs on my desk, "just when you scream 'Sherlock' instead of the name of your fiancé."

I purse my lips, my mind whirling to come up with a response. "He—Sherlock was just—"

Mindy gives me a disapproving look. "Don't lie to me, Molly. I know when you're lying."

I sigh, pulling my covers around me, and Mindy's eyes soften. "Okay! Okay. We won't get into it, at least not today."

I cock my head at her. "Today? What's so special about . . ." My eyes widen. "Oh!"

Mindy laughs. "Go get ready for the wedding. I'll be waiting."

I throw off the blankets. "Are you sure you don't want to—"

"No, no, no. You go have fun with . . . your fiancé." I could've sworn Mindy hesitated before she said "fiancé". "I don't even know John and Mary."

I give my best friend a rueful smile as I speed-walk to the shower.

"I thought the ceremony was beautiful, didn't you, Molly?" Mrs. Hudson gushes, still clutching her handkerchief.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," I agree, trying to keep up with the rather oblivious Tom as he makes his way ahead of the crowd, dragging me along with him.

We go into reception area, a bright, cheery place with big windows, and lots of sunlight streaming through them, and Mrs. Hudson goes off with Lestrade to find something to drink, leaving me alone with my fiancé.

I love Tom—I do. I really, really do. But I can't help but think how handsome a certain best man looked in his sleek black suit.

No. I grab onto Tom—always so hard because he's so tall—and start kissing him—really kissing him, kissing him hard, kissing him long, kissing him all over. He seems surprised and a bit taken aback and is about to say something when the wedding photographer comes over. He takes a couple shots, thanks us, and walks off. I slow my attack and come to a stop. I can't meet Tom's eyes.

Because while I was kissing him, I didn't feel a thing.

Finally, I hear the words I have been both looking forward to and dreading—"Pray silence for the best man."

Here it comes.

They're not going to know what hit them.

We all clap for Sherlock as he stands up, and I can feel Tom stiffen next to me as he realizes who it is. I put my hand comfortingly over his, but his gaze doesn't waver from Sherlock.

Sherlock puts his hands behind his back and stares at us all. He's nervous, I realize with a little thrill. How . . . human of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, and . . . um . . ." I swear to God he looks straight at Tom—" . . . others."

"Uh . . ." Sherlock stares at us, each of us individually, I can visibly see his train of thought crashing. "Also . . ."

I stare at him, hard, silently willing him to keep talking. John mutters something, and Sherlock starts, and fishes around in his pockets.

Oh, dear.

"First things first," he says, holding up several index cards. "Telegrams!" He pauses, and amends, "Well, they're not actually telegrams, we just call them telegrams, I don't know why. Wedding tradition." He says it like he's saying, "gum stuck to my shoe". "Because we don't have enough of that already, apparently," he mutters as an afterthought, and John and Mary—and the rest of the congregation—look at him sharply.

"Greg," I say as he comes into the morgue.

"Molly—"

"I just had a thought," I rush on, cutting him off. He glances down at the bowl in my hand. "Is that a brain?"

"What if John asks Sherlock to be his best man?" I ask, ignoring him. Lestrade tears his eyes away from the cerebrum in my arms and replies, "Well, he will, I mean, he's bound to."

"Exactly," I say worriedly, anxiety attacking my every nerve.

"So?" Greg doesn't seem concerned.

"So, he'll have to make a speech." I wait for the gravity of my words to sink in. "In front of people. There will be actual people there actually listening."

I can see the gears turning in his head. Like, What? Oh . . . Oh . . . craaaaap. "Well . . ." he says, his face convoluted with sudden realization. "What's—what's the worst that could happen?" he tries.

I bite my lip. "Helen Louise probably wondered the same."

"Helen Louise?" Lestrade inquires doubtfully.

I look down at the brain in my arms, and back up at him. He swallows.

"Oh, hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson says on the line.

"I—I was just thinking," I say later that day, clutching the phone in one hand and a neuralizer in the other. "If John does ask Sherlock . . ."

"What, the speech, dear? I know, it'll be fine," Mrs. Hudson says cheerfully, as unconcerned as Lestrade was. Why am I the only one freaking out about this?!

"It's not just the speech though is it?" I tell her, and there's a long pause, and then a loud thud, and then, in the background, something like hysterical laughing. I just hang up.

I have to physically keep my hands down to keep from burying my face in them. Tom gives me a side glance, like Can you get a load of this guy? My cheeks turn pink.

"John Watson," Sherlock proclaims loudly. He gestures to his ex-flatmate. "My friend, John Watson. John.

"When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused."

I stifle a titter. Oh, John told me about this. John had spent nearly five minutes trying to explain to Sherlock how much he cared about him. Sherlock had no idea.

Which is so . . . cute?

"I confess at first I didn't realize he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and surprised."

I frown and look at Greg just as he looks at me. That's not the version we were told.

"I explained to him that I had never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it."

I remember ". . ." being the main response Sherlock gave, according to John in the group text with the three of us.

"I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated."

I can feel a smile spreading, unbidden, across my face.

"Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very . . . close to being moved by it."

John looks baffled.

"It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud—"

The room bursts into the small titters acceptable at a wedding, and Sherlock looks surprised—but nevertheless continues on, getting yet more notecards from his jacket.

"So . . ." Sherlock mutters, thumbing through the cards. "Done that . . . done that . . . done that bit, that bit . . ." He suddenly straightens and looks at us all. I swallow.

"I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you."

I take a deep breath and grip Tom's hand. He looks down at my own like he hasn't quite seen it before, and I remove mine and set it under the table.

"All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things." A chill runs through me, and his eyes meet mine, and for a second, they seem sad. Then they drift away, glancing around the crowd. I look down.

"A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world." A cool, dead tone has overtaken Sherlock's voice, and all the laughter from before has been dried up, the audience wary and almost combative.

"Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species."

Even Greg's looking at him as if he's mad now. John and Mary are exchanging glances, the guests whispering. Tom's surely mentally gloating—that'll be fun later. I have no idea how this is going to work at all.

Sherlock's gaze seems to hold a bit longer after this phrase, as if—shock!—noticing people's negative reactions. "But, anyway, let's talk about John.

"If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me."

John smiles, hiding his—not exactly embarrassment, but my-best-friend-is-Sherlock-Holmes-this-is-how-I-live-and-if-you-judge-me-you're-just-an-arse -ment—and just, sort of, accepting it.

"Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes in truth from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

John takes a breath, and lets it out. I feel a sudden anger for Sherlock. How could he do this on the single most important day of John's life? Insult him in front of everybody? Embarrass him in front of his family and friends? In front of his new wife's family and friends?

"It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day—"

That whore maid of honor, Janine—who was falling all over Sherlock before, like the disgusting tramp she is—looks up at Sherlock now like he's—well, like he's insulting her in front of everyone. Come now, Janine! It can't be the first time it's happened.

"There is a certain analogy there, I feel. And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation—" Here Sherlock stops, considers, and amends it with, "Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to offer a career opportunity for the family idiot."

Mary buries her head in her hands. And Tom mutters, "What a tosser." I fight the urge to smack him—both of them.

And it's like he's realized what he's done again, and he takes a deep breath, as if preparing for something hard. I hold my own breath.

"The point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet."

I feel the tears starting in the back of my throat because I know, I know that he believes what he's saying wholeheartedly. And I know that he knows it, and accepts it . . . is maybe a little sad about it, but does not believe he can change.

Oh, Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock, you already have.

"I am dismissive of the virtuous . . ." A glance towards the priest he's already severely insulted—"unaware of the beautiful . . ." One for—a look for Janine?! Janine, beautiful?! What about—there's a whole room of beautiful girls here! What about Mary or—or Mrs. Hudson—or—or—or me?!

"And uncomprehending in the face of the happy." He gives John and Mary a sad smile. "So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

Sherlock. Sherlock. Never expected to be a friend. Never expected to be a lover. Never expected anything because he didn't deserve it. Didn't want anything out of life, didn't wish for anything. He certainly wasn't the child who left lists out for Santa, eagerly awaited morning so he could check for change underneath his pillow, burst outside to search for eggs in spring, dress up and ask for candy in the fall. No. No, that clearly wasn't Sherlock.

But he seems to be wishing, to be wanting now. And, dammit Life, you better give him a chance.

I look at Greg and fight the lump forming in my throat. Not here. Not here. Not in front of Tom, oh God above.

"And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

I can just hear Mindy in my head now: Funny, the crowd seems to love him now. If only she'd been able to hear this!

John seems to be fighting tears as well. "John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship." He takes a breath. "But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion." He pauses, and I see a flicker of a smile on his face, as if he were remembering something, something important, and I see warmth in his eyes—not so much see the warmth as feel it, radiating all the way back to this table. "Actually, now I can."

John looks up at Sherlock, surprised, and Mary's face explodes with into a grin. My heart melts.

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss—so sorry again about that last one—"

I burst into laughter, even though the lump in my throat is still present. Tom shushes me and I glare at him. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

"So know this, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife, and the man you have saved . . ." He stops. Swallows. I can see the words running through his head: Saved. Saved? Yes, saved.

"In short, the two people who love you most in all this world."

The guests adore him.

"And I know I speak for Mary when I as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

I can hear Mrs. Hudson sobbing quiet loudly in front of me, and I pull out my handkerchief and dab at my eyes. This is much, much more than a normal wedding-cry. John clears his throat and pretends like he's scratching his eye. Greg sitting next to me is scrunching up his face like he's holding his own tears back and Tom—Tom looks very, very unmoved. I suck in a breath.

Sherlock thumbs through his cards again. "Ah, yes, now on to some funny stories about John—" He cuts off abruptly, suddenly noticing the significant increase in crying guests. "What's wrong, what happened, why are you all doing that?"

I sit back in my chair, biting my lip to keep myself from smiling too hard, a warm happy feeling growing inside of me.

"John?" Sherlock sounds worried, scared. "Did I do it wrong?"

And that was the exact moment I knew I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

My breath stops.

My blood freezes.

All I can see is his beautiful blue-green eyes.

All I can hear is the cadence of his voice, rising and falling in perfect harmony with the beats of my heart.

And my heart explodes into a frenzy.

"Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?" Sherlock asks, and I turn at Lestrade next to me . . . as does the rest of the room. Lestrade looks like he wants to disappear.

"Yeah, you," Sherlock continues, about the "Mayfly Man" case. "You're a detective, broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

I swallow, feeling rather like I'm back in primary school, where the teacher calls on students at random for the answer—don't make eye contact, don't make eye—what am I doing.

"Er, um . . ." Lestrade struggles to remain casual. "If—If the blade was propelled through the, through the um . . . grating in the air vent . . . maybe a ballista or a catapult, someone tiny could crawl in there . . ." Lestrade trails off, obviously knowing he's bullshitting, just sort of saying words to say them. It would be funny if it wasn't so embarrassing for him.

"So yeah, we're looking for a—a dwarf," Lestrade finishes, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Sherlock looks at him. "Brilliant."

"Really?" Lestrade asks hopefully.

"No."

Lestrade sits back, expecting nothing more from this point.

"Next!" Sherlock calls, just as Tom whispers to us, "He stabbed himself!" like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Before I can respond—

"Hello, who was that?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, please no. God, please no.

Sherlock's eyes come to rest on my finance. "Tom?"

Tom pushes back his chair so LOUDLY, the screeching like nails on a chalkboard, and stands up. I can already feel my face getting red, and every fiber of my being begs him to sit down and shut up.

Sherlock looks at him, sizing him up. "Got a theory?"

Tom shifts from one foot to the other. "Um, attempted suicide with a blade made of compacted blood and bone."

I want to disappear.

"Broke after piercing his abdomen like a meat . . ."—don't say it—"dagger."

Cancel that last order. I want to die.

There's muffled laughing from the back of the room, and I burn with sudden fury towards Tom. It's like everyone's judging me, everyone, because I chose this idiotic, pompous fool to be my wedded husband.

"A meat dagger," Sherlock repeats, disbelief meeting disregard meeting incredulity with just a little bit of amusement thrown into the reunion.

"Yes," Tom says, sounding way too confident.

And I can't help myself anymore. "Sit down," I hiss, and he looks at me, almost confused, but does as I say, still looking bemused as to why Sherlock hadn't accepted his theory.

"No," Sherlock continues, "There was one . . ."

But I don't hear any one it, burning with shame and mortification as I am. Until I hear—

"Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night," Sherlock says—rather too cheerfully, based on my recollection of what happened. "'Course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

I almost laugh, forgetting my wretched feeling for a moment as I remember Sherlock coming into the lab a day before.

"Murder scenes," I ask confoundedly, looking up from the papers Sherlock's given me, fighting through my confusion to be normal around him. "Locations of murders?"

"Mmm, pub crawl, themed." He seems pleased with himself.

"Yeah, but why couldn't you just do Underground stations?" I ask, squinting at the paper again.

Sherlock makes the most atrocious face. I have to stifle a laugh. "It lacks the personal touch! We're going to go for a drink in . . ."

"In every street where you found a corpse," I finish for him, looking up and into his eyes, as if to say, See, Sherlock? I still know you better than you know yourself.

"Delightful!" I continue. "Where do I come in?"

"Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it, spoil the mood," he says. He seems remarkably . . . normal. Like he's not Sherlock. Like he's . . . a normal person.

It's weird.

And confusing. "You're a graduate chemist, can't you just work it out?" I ask him, my heart rate accelerating, and my mouth burning to ask the real question: Is that really the reason you came to see me, or is it just an excuse?!

"I lack the practical experience," he tells me, then smiles one of his rare smiles, like he said something oh-so-funny.

My throat tightens and I turn to stare at him. "Meaning you think I like a drink?"

He nods. "Occasionally."

"That I'm a drunk?" I say, my jaw locking. It was just one time, one time in my youth—

"No—no!" he replies quickly, his eyes widening as if startled. Satisfied somewhat with this response, I say nothing, just continue to stare at him. The silence drags on as I wait for him to say something.

He swallows uncomfortably. "You look . . ." I see him giving me a once-over with his eyes and I internally flinch with self-consciousness—" . . . well."

I pause for a moment, then slowly nod, considering the events that happened with Sherlock not in my life—my brother's wedding, meeting Tom, Mindy coming to stay. "I am," I tell him mostly truthfully, trying to believe every word, but I know my eyes tell a different story, the story of a young girl, innocent and alone, corrupted by a criminal mastermind and in love with a pathological asshole, only to have him leave her, standing alone at the funeral parlor, with a burden to heavy for her to bear alone.

"How's . . ." Sherlock takes a minute, eyes flicking this way and that, as if trying to remember something, even though I'm not sure if I believe him. He looks at me questionably. "Tom?"

"Not a sociopath," I respond cheerily, purposefully trying to stab him.

"Still? Good," he nods.

"And we're having quite a lot of sex," I say, trying to sound happy. I peer at his face, seeing if I can get a reaction to my bold-faced lie.

He squints, eyes darting everywhere but my face, and he swallows. I can just see the words in his mind palace, Okay, enough with that.

"Ookay," he says aloud, exhaling swiftly and taking a folder out of his coat. "I want you to calculate John's ideal intake and mine—" He slaps the folder, full of remarkably detailed diagrams, on the table—"to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Lightheaded good—"

"Urinating in wardrobes bad," I finish, looking over the charts. He glances at what I'm inspecting. "Hmm," he says, a satisfied sound.

Tom thought Sherlock had gone mad, but I knew that wasn't the case. I remember stabbing my ever-so indulgent fiancé with that plastic fork without regret, though I'm sure there will be a severe case of injured pride when we get home. But right now I don't even care.

It's night now, and everyone in the hall has that nice feeling of having consumed a comfortable amount of alcohol. I make a point of not being near Tom as the guests surround the dancing hall for John and Mary's first dance as a married couple, abandoning him by Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I find myself next to that purple whore, Janine—I mean, who wouldn't prefer yellow to a wedding, yellow is a prettier color and besides it's happier, and why would she wear the dress so low-cut, it's like she's trying to attract the bad kind of attention, what is wrong with her—and while all the guests watch the new Watsons dance a classic waltz, the smiles on their faces bright enough to make up for the lack of sunlight, I can't seem to keep my eyes off of Sherlock. His bow glides gently across the string in a smooth, beautiful fashion, and the look in his eye and the small smile on his lips make him seem content. Happy.

Not a look I'm used to seeing on his face.

I sigh, looking up at him, the man I thought I once loved, the man who broke my heart, the man—the man who wasn't actually all that rough. Or abrasive. The man who could actually be sweet, and kind, and not realize it—just like he was doing now. John did that to him, I think—though perhaps John would say I did it to him, if he knew what I had done. But maybe not. Maybe I did absolutely nothing to Sherlock, made absolutely no impact, that I was like a gentle breeze to him while he was a storm to me, maybe, just maybe, he'd actually forgotten my name when he was gone and he was just being Sherlock, just being manipulative, and just deceiving me again.

But maybe not.

I can't think like that.

Because I can't live in a world where that's true.

The song ends and everyone claps . . . Janine maybe a little bit more energetically than most. "Whoo!" she yells, looking at Sherlock. "Yeah!"

Sherlock eyes her, then tosses his boutonnière to her. My smile sours as she catches it, screeching like a demented monkey.

Sherlock approaches the mike. "Ladies and gentlemen, just one last thing before the evening begins properly.

"Today we saw two people make vows. I have never made . . . I have never made . . ." Here he falters, and he looks over at me, and our eyes meet, and I can tell he's remembering the time, oh so long ago, when his mouth was on mine and mine on his and I could just taste the joy and merriment on his lips.

Because a kiss is a kind of vow, too.

And suddenly I know that I cannot marry Tom.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I have never made a real vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again." I swear his eyes dart over to mine once again, and for some reason, I feel tears stinging at the back of my throat. I look down.

"So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow." Sherlock looks at the happy couple in the middle of the dance floor. "Mary and John. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you."

Um.

"Uh, I'm sorry, I mean two of you, all two of you. Both of you, in fact, I just miscounted." Sherlock looks nervous as he hastily amends his statement, but I don't buy it. I narrow my eyes and fix them on the newlywed Watsons, now shifting uncomfortably in the middle.

Could it be?

I resist a gasp. Of course! Mary is pregnant!

"Anyway! It's time for dancing! Play the music again, please, thank you." The music starts up, and Sherlock steps away from the mike. "Okay, everybody, just dance. Don't be shy. Dancing, please, very good." Sherlock makes his way towards John and Mary in the middle, trying to act as innocent as possible.

I walk away from the purple slut and try to get lost in the crowd so Tom won't see me. I watch Sherlock and the Watsons talk in the middle and, judging by the couple's reaction, I was correct. I stifle a squeal. They'll tell when they're ready.

Sherlock smiles, and John and Mary go off to dance, mingling in and out of the crowd.

I watch them dancing, dancing for the world to see, and I see John twirl Mary around, and Mary's face crinkle in a smile, and John's eyes sparkle, bright and warm and full of love. I can't help but imagine what might be my own wedding, and Tom's eyes on me, and know that somehow, I won't be nearly as happy.

And that I just can't do that.

"You look sad."

I turn, startled. "Oh, Sherlock! I didn't hear—"

"When you think he can't see you," Sherlock continues, ignoring my small talk. I let my facade drop and he notes it, walking forward and staring down at me. Sorrow is dripping off his words and his eyes are rueful, showing me all the if-only's and what-could've-have-been's in my life. The music fades to a distant hum. He stops only a foot away from me, and I feel the once-familiar rush of heartbeat bombarding me once again. His blue-green eyes gaze at me. "Are you okay?" He searches my face, and I hear my own words made new in his voice. "And don't just say you are, because I know—I know—what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

I let out a breath, staring at him, and this time I can't stop a tear from spilling over onto my cheek. I laugh a little and wipe it away. "You can see me."

He takes another step forward, and then we are way too close, way too close, and I want to lean my head in a little and—

I take a tiny step back, and his face changes. His eyes are sad. "You must have realized by now, Molly."

I hold my breath. Another tear is just a second away from falling.

"I don't count."

He turns away, and I watch him go, feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach as he picks up his coat and leaves the dance hall.

"Great wedding!" Tom says, taking off his coat and setting it on my couch. I bite my lip and turn to face him. "If you don't count the part where you embarrassed me beyond belief."

"What?" Tom looks genuinely confused. "When?"

I sigh, throwing my own coat down. "The meat dagger, Tom! The—the—" I bury my head in my hands and exhale.

"Molly, the man was being an arse!" Tom exclaims, stepping forward. He places his arms on my shoulders and I look up from my hand-grave, glancing at them. He looks me in the eye. "It doesn't matter now. We're going to get married and be happy."

That does it. I step backward out of his clutches and finger my ring. "Tom . . . that doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore."

Tom opens his mouth, then closes it again and swallows before he says, rather harshly, "Molly, what are you talking about?"

I stare at the cheap, one carat diamond on my finger and look back up at him. "I'm not sure I want to get married."

He tightens his jaw, gesticulating jerkily. "Well, you said 'yes', didn't you?"

I slowly remove the ring from my finger and look up at him. "I've changed my mind, Tom."

He inhales sharply. "It's because of Sherlock, isn't it."

I bite my lip—hard—to keep from screaming at him. "Why does everyone think that? I am my own person! No one makes me change my mind!" I stare at him. "I change my own mind!"

He pauses. Swallows. Then, "Other people have been saying it too, huh? That proves it."

I curl my hands into fists and then close my eyes, counting to ten silently in my head. "Thomas—"

"Give it up, Molly!" Tom throws his arms in the air. "He's never going to love you back! Why do you possibly think you can change him?!"

"OUT!" I scream, pointing to the door. "Get out! And if you ever come back I swear to God I will call the cops!"

Tom grabs his coat and stalks towards the door. At the last second he hesitates, turning around and starting, "Molly—"

I hurl the ring at him with as much force as I can. It hits him squarely in the nose, the hard, the sharp diamond drawing blood, and falls to the floor, where it rests, the dark crimson adulterating the sparkle of the gem.

I look up, but Tom is gone.

Author's Note: Aha! That was fun.

I'll be updating fairly soon, I believe. After next chapter, as I will have run out of canon scenes to adapt (not counting the newly released Sherlock Special *squeal*). I'm excited! Are you? (But don't worry, Sherlock and Molly still have many a hardship to triumph over before we can lay their story to rest.)