The next morning, Vesta woke up cozily, still snuggled against her fiance. Mycroft woke up moments later, groaning slightly. His arm was trapped and had gone numb. Carefully, he pulled it out from under her and flexed his fingers, shaking them out to get some feeling back. He gazed at Vesta, relishing her warmth as it was pressed against him. He smiled sleepily, seeing little observations orbiting around her. Originally left-handed, likes jazz, favorite Beatle...George, claustrophobic, uses "Sound of Music" as a unit of time, kills plants.

Playfully sleepy, Vesta found the feather in the covers, reached over behind her, and wiggled it in Mycroft's face. He sputtered and brushed it away. She did it again, giggling coaxingly. He sneezed and snatched it away, laying it on the nightstand. "Later," he muttered, kissing the back of her neck. She whined a little, but agreed by default, sitting up and sliding out of bed. Crossing to his side of the bed on the way to the bathroom, she stroked Mycroft's back and whispered, "It's seven o'clock, time to get up."

He grunted softly and rose as well. He'd just slept better than he could remember sleeping in a long time. He stretched, popping his back, and trudged back to his room to start the day.

Half an hour later, a slightly belated breakfast was served to them downstairs. Vesta already had her umbrella hooked over her end of the table just like Mycroft did. She scrolled through her phone, skimming emails and text messages, placidly responding to them in turn and coordinating her boss's calendar. She tossed it aside with a pert little pout and announced, "Done."

Sliding her a cup of coffee, Mycroft commented, "Nothing like a hard day's work, hmm?"

"I'm just the ringmaster, let the clowns and the trapeze artists do the actual work. And don't get me started on the sideshow freaks." They exchanged comfortable sniggers.

"I'll send them your regards, shall I?" Mycroft offered, getting a mocking salute in return. They fell into a comfortable silence as they finished up. Then, together, they rose from the table, taking their umbrellas in hand in perfect synchronization. He gazed down at her, brushing her cheek. "Call if you need anything. I'm off to sell tickets to the circus."

"There's one born every minute," she replied with a wink. "Get every one of them."

"And what will you do all day?"

"Oh, I have a few irons in the fire."

As soon as the door closed, Vesta sank down into the couch. She whipped her phone back out with a definite "up to something" look.

Her car pulled up to the agreed-upon location and she breezed into the cafe. Sherlock, John, and Mary had assembled there already and were eager to assist in this unique matter.

Sherlock wasted no time with pleasantries. "So? Data, now! Inquiring minds want to know!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what in the hell possessed the two of you to want to get married? I've known Mycroft all my life and he's never been remotely like this. He's actually looked happy! What do the two of you get up to?"

Vesta settled coolly into a chair, taken aback by his forwardness. "That's really none of your business!" A waitress hurried past, holding up a finger, signaling that she'd be right there. Vesta did a double-take before brushing it off, turning back to face the trio in front of her.

Sherlock pulled back just a bit, "Just curious," he shrugged flippantly. "I mean, he keeps you squirreled away at his fortress half the time."

The Watsons rolled their eyes and shook their heads in unison, muttering that they couldn't take him anywhere.

Sticking to what's familiar, Vesta turned her gaze first to John. She smiled at him and got one in return. "How've you been, Doctor? It's been a while since Mycroft's needed to get your attention."

"Good, quite good. We've, ah, got a baby now. A girl. She's been keeping us busy."

"Nice," she muttered, feigning interest, realizing that she really just wanted to get down to business. "Listen, I'm no good small talk. Sherlock, sorry, but you're not getting any dirt on your brother through me. I called you in because I need a hand navigating this whole engagement business. You all seem to have had more experience in these matters than Mycroft or I."

Their conversation was interrupted by the waitress returning. Again, Vesta's eyes fell on her and she blanched. The others all put in their drink orders while Vesta recovered. "Double espresso macchiatto, please," she murmured, "with chocolate shavings."

The waitress flounced away, scribbling everything down. Mary leaned across the table. "You knew her?" she murmured in a discreet undertone. Vesta nodded. "I don't think she recognized you."

"No, she didn't," she replied, looking depressed, as though this meant that the old her was really dead. "Her name's Angela. We were sort of friends back at my last job. She had the desk next to mine. She hated it, though. She needed to be around people."

Shaking off the shock, Vesta gazed over at Sherlock, testing her own observational skills. What she saw amused her, she let her shields down a bit and gave him an endearing look. "Oh, now that's sweet. Underneath all that, you're concerned about your big brother." Sherlock flinched hard, glaring at her suggestion. "You are so like him it's scary, you know."

"No, I'm not," he denied angrily. "I'm not remotely like him and I'm definitely not worried about him!"

"You are. The best of both of you is the same. Probably why I can see it on you. You both act like you can't stand each other, but woe betide the one who messes with your brother. From all he tells me about you, it makes me wish I had a brother. I don't think I want to know what he'd do if anyone 'interfered' with any of you. He loves you, Sherlock."

The hardness fell away from the man's face. He looked younger, innocent... "He does?"

Vesta nodded. "He's so proud of you."

"You're joking." He can read the sincerity on her plainly, though. It hit him hard; the last things he'd ever expected to hear about Mycroft, shot out in quick succession in perfect honesty. "Excuse me, I...I need to send a text." Sherlock whipped out his phone

M, Look, I don't hate you. -S

Mycroft heard the beep in the car and took out his phone to read it. His reaction to this pronouncement was much like Sherlock's. His expression reflected a revelation the like of which he'd never suspected. It was the closest thing to "I love you" or even "I'm glad you're my brother" that he'd ever had. It nearly broke him when he considered that that's what he actually meant, in their own maladjusted ways. He stroked the screen, wondering what his fiancee had said to him to provoke that. It had to have been her, he knew that much.

Once he put away his phone, Sherlock pulled himself together and looked as though nothing alarming had just been revealed to him. Their drinks were brought to them in the meantime. Before he could say another word, his best friend proved that he knew him too well. He grabbed him by the arm and sternly reminded him:

"No slights against his manhood, no making fun of his umbrella, no fat jokes."

This last one actually got Vesta's attention, "Fat jokes? Is that part of your usual repartee?"

"Oh, sure. Since we were kids," Sherlock admitted remorselessly. "He was always the porker of the family."

She thought of how upset he had been last night about seeing his body in the mirror. To find that her future brother-in-law was behind Mycroft's poor body image cooled her toward him. "I think he looks fine." Her tone was quiet and understated, but none of them could miss how clearly angry she was at him. John and Mary glared at Sherlock as well, closing in from either side.

"All right, all right. I'm sure he's perfectly scrumptious," he growled distastefully, rolling his eyes the whole time.

"I happen to think he is," Vesta replied, relishing the uncomfortable look on the detective's face as she sipped her espresso.

"Well, I'm happy for you both," John put in. "Everybody needs somebody. Even Mycroft." They exchanged grins over this, both of them knew that there wasn't anything malicious meant in his remark. It was simply the truth. He'd spent enough time with the formidable man and his assistant to know that they weren't shy about being different, and it was obvious at least to him where the attraction was. Mycroft Holmes wasn't conventionally handsome, and Vesta was unremarkable enough, but love was a great beautifier.

"Look, I know Mycroft isn't exactly Prince Charming, but that's not what I would have wanted. He is. I certainly wouldn't have gotten on with someone with conventional social skills or the normally-accepted moral compass. Our misanthropy is what drew us to each other, oddly enough. It's like we were waiting for each other all this time."

Desperate to find something above-the-belt to dig into his brother about, Sherlock muttered, "Well, if he ever asks you where you were all his life, the honest answer would be 'not born yet.'"

Rather than disturbed or annoyed by this, Vesta just sighed to herself. "I wish I'd known him earlier, I feel like I've missed him my whole life. Even if I somehow could have known what was ahead. Just to know there was someone out there waiting for me; that I would have someone in my future. I'm just so glad it's him."

"Aww," Mary cooed involuntarily. "So, what kinds of things do you do together? I mean...I'd say Mycroft is a bit...taciturn. How does he show you he cares?"

"We, uh, go down into the kitchen in the middle of the night and feed each other cake. Something tells me that's not how most couples do it, though. Look...John, Mary, you've done this before. What happens now?"

"Now that explains it," Sherlock remarked as he sipped his coffee. "I noticed a little while after you started working for him he was putting on weight again. I figured he was in love then. Took him long enough to realize it."

John scoffed lightly and turned to Vesta. "I'd say, whatever you're doing, keep it up. Nothing dramatic has to change just because you're engaged."

"Oh, it helps if you pull him out of a blazing pyre at some point, though," Mary added helpfully.

"I'll keep that in mind. Yeah, we sort of have a routine, I don't think he'd want to shake things up."

"Have you set a date yet?" John asked.

Vesta spun her umbrella in her hand. "Well, he just proposed to me with this last night. We've only been engaged for twelve hours. Dates haven't come up yet."

"Well, it's a good idea to start planning right from the start," Mary advised. "Don't get him involved until the last couple of days. I don't care if he is 'the British government', he's not going to want to be involved with wedding stuff. Grooms are rubbish at that. Oh, sorry, John." John waved it aside, it clearly didn't matter to him. He would have been the first to agree. Mary and Sherlock had been his team of planners.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with a fluttering hand gesture, "They're not going to want a real wedding! Can you imagine it? Flower arrangements and bridesmaid dresses, all that? Mycroft hates people! He'd require level ten clearance for anyone to get within a mile of the place. He's got no amiable contacts outside of work, and you're a recluse with no family..." he trailed off, looking at John and Mary, stricken with deja vu. He smiled and raised his mug broadly. "Welcome aboard, you'll fit in just fine."

"Thanks, I think I will. I don't want a big wedding, either. I could handle just doing it at the courthouse or something. Something simple."

The three conspirators nodded in agreement. Vesta looked relieved that there wasn't any important step she was missing. That they could continue being as unorthodox as they liked and doing what felt comfortable.

About the same time that the four of them dispersed and headed in their own different directions, Mycroft got a series of texts from Sherlock and his friends, all bearing a similar message:

She's crazy about you. Don't lose her!

Mycroft read this advice with a wicked chuckle, replying to each one, I don't intend to.

One month later, he was requested to present at another grand state affair. Thankfully, this time, dinner was free of emergencies. Mycroft and Vesta exchanged knowing smirks over this. He had been right, this one wasn't nearly as frightening as the first. Being out among so many strange people still wasn't fun, but who could feel morbidly afraid with the most powerful man in the country at her side? Mycroft's powers of perception were in fine form that night; in the few moments when Vesta became momentarily overcome with nerves, he held her hand under the table, soothing and securing her. He would never admit it out loud, but it was as much for his benefit as it was for hers. Another satisfying difference was being introduced as his fiancee. Vesta still got flutters from hearing it. Mycroft endured a fair bit of teasing from the other attendees, having been written off as a confirmed peculiar bachelor at that point. Many voiced surprise that he was marrying a woman. As they exited the building at the end of the night and got in their car, they didn't realize they were being followed. It was such a special occasion, Vesta had gotten him to agree to rent a limousine. They sat facing each other, grandly toasting their success. As they joined into a steady stream of traffic, the car marking them pulled along to the left side, rolled the window down...

Out of the corner of her eye, Vesta caught a glimpse of the barrel of a gun. "Mycroft, look out!" she shouted, shoving his head and shoulders between his knees, leaning forward against him. A gun fired, the car sped away, Vesta cried out in pain and lay across the seat.

It took Mycroft a second to realize, but he saw the broken glass, the hole torn through his fiancee's dress, heard her moans and shuddering sobs...

"No!" He cried desperately. Then he turned to the driver. "Take us to the nearest hospital."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." As he turned a sharp corner, he also took the liberty of calling ahead. After the emergency room was alerted, he also called Sherlock, figuring his employer could use the moral support.

"Don't...don't you leave me, is that clear?! I've not released you from my services yet for one thing! Stay with me!" Mycroft commanded as his mind went up like a wildfire: he saw her dying on a gurney, saw himself being taken home in a state of shell-shocked grief, a pale green stone accompanying the purple one on his watch...he covered his face in his hands before clasping Vesta's again.

She smiled weakly, making a choking sound in her throat, like she'd gotten the wind knocked out of her. "Here, Chief. Haven't...resigned my post yet."

They pulled in to the front doors of the emergency room, medics had to drag Mycroft away while they lay their patient on a stretcher. As she was being wheeled in, a cab drove up and out came Sherlock.

"What happened?" he asked, following along with them as Vesta was rushed in.

"She...she..." Mycroft muttered speechlessly. He cleared his throat, hoping to keep his voice even. "She was shot. She might be bleeding internally. No exit wound. She's...going to die," he uttered in a low voice. Blindly, he filled out the necessary forms to check her in, and the Holmes brothers went to sit in the waiting room. Neither of them knew what to say. Sherlock had never seen his brother so upset. He couldn't even think of a comfortably acid remark to make to lighten the mood.

"Her dress came back today, alterations were finished. She wouldn't let me see her try it on because it it's bad luck. Stupid girl. So stupid. Neither of us even wanted a real wedding but she at least had to have the dress. So stupid." Once again, he was assailed by horrible visions, wracked with nausea and vertigo, until he had to make a dash for the men's room to settle down.

While he was in there, a nurse came up to Sherlock. "You came in with the gunshot victim? The woman in the blue dress?"

"Um, yes?" He gulped, looking over his shoulder for Mycroft, wishing he'd hurry out. It didn't seem right to hear of her passing before him. "Is it over?"

"Sir? You may see her now."

See her? Why would I want to see her? I see plenty of dead bodies in my line of work. No need to add people I actually know to the list! Still, he followed her into a curtained-off room...

Mycroft stood at the sink, washing up, trying to keep the cold horrors from taking hold again. His phone beeped with a text alert.

Mithril –S

He stared, hardly knowing what to make of it, hardly daring to believe...but it was one of Sherlock's recognizable codes. He emerged, barely seeing where he was going. Sherlock drew him in and they stood over Vesta's hospital bed.

"Got the message?"

"Yes. Armor. Hidden armor. She...had Kevlar on under that?!" Mycroft gasped, pointing at the shorn remains of the dress she'd had on. Pity they had to cut it off of her, but it was replaceable.

Vesta stirred, giving a light moan. Her pain seemed diminished, though, since she'd been tended to. She smiled mutely up at her beloved, reaching a hand for him. Mycroft took her hand between his, utterly speechless. "Humans," she grumbled, wincing a little. While her injury was thankfully superficial, it was still very sore where it had hit. It had raised a large, tender-looking welt on her side.

He broke into a light laugh, "Yes, those damned humans."

"You all right, Chief?"

"Fine, fine. Who in the hell told you to take a bullet for me?"

She shrugged, grinning at him, enjoying the morphine. "I did," she answered before dozing off.

The doctor looked at her notes and couldn't help smiling at the positive outcome. "She's going to be just fine. She'll just need a few days off work. No heavy lifting, plenty of rest, and if there are any complications, just bring her back in.

Mycroft threw himself down into an adjacent seat, dumbfounded. "What in the world made her wear body armor under an evening gown?"

"Well, after what happened...to Anthea," Sherlock reminded him delicately, being uncharacteristically tactful for once. "Maybe she thought it best to be prepared. She knew that you were a potential target. You keep a low enough profile over-all but on nights like this... Look, I'm...glad she's okay."

"Yes, thank you."

"See you at the wedding."

"Do try to behave. At least remember to wear clothes."

"You're no help at all, either, you're not even registered anywhere," Sherlock pretended to complain. "I know, I'll bring the cake." He smirked, testing his brother out to see if he stepped over the line yet. "Might not be necessary, I know." Sherlock glanced significantly at Mycroft's figure. "I can tell she loves you." He then stood, patted his shoulder briskly, and breezed out without a care, leaving Mycroft with the feeling that a headache was coming on.

"Thanks for coming, Sherlock."

After that alarming incident, the pair of unlikely lovebirds were reminded that life was short. Vesta recovered from her wound, although she didn't follow doctor's orders to take time off. She pointed out that her job wasn't tiring or strenuous enough to count as actual work. Still, she lay in bed, conducting business while in her pj's through her phone. They were married a week later in their home. It was all quite simple and perfect for the two markedly unsocial people. Only a smattering of the people they knew and trusted were invited. Naturally, Mycroft's parents immediately took Vesta to their hearts as the daughter they never had. As they had with Mary, they wondered aloud if she was "the sane one." A mantle which she reluctantly took when she considered the basis for comparison.

They honeymooned in a small French town where boulangeries dotted every street. Even after a year of it, their habit hadn't lost its luster. It was still the easiest way for either of them to say 'I love you.'

Almost as soon as they had returned home and unpacked from their trip, Vesta received a message.

"Mycroft...there's a member of Parliament who needs to see you about something." Her husband peeked over her shoulder, moving his lips silently as he read the adjoining message.

"Oh, fine, if I must."

The drive down was quiet. Along the way, Vesta reached across to smooth Mycroft's tie, brushing his shoulders with a fond smile. He drew his finger along the pale pink scarf around her neck, and tucked a stray strand of hair back. They both seemed to enjoy these simple preening gestures. Soon, they pulled up to the designated building. The driver got each of their doors and they stepped off onto the pavement. Together, they pushed through the entryway. Side by side, they strolled easily down the hallway, swinging their umbrellas in unison. Along the way, a gaggle of Mycroft's usual political sycophants stood as they passed, murmuring:

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes."