"Oh my God, you said yes!"

"Yes. I did. I… did fill him in on a few details and do you know what he said? He said he's a detective, so he already knew a good bit anyway and didn't care. So long as I don't try to kill him, he's fine with it."

"I'm so happy for you, Olivia and… wait, what do you mean 'knew a good bit' and… wait, 'try to kill'…?"

"Never mind," Olivia laughed. "We're getting married next Saturday. My parents are flying in and two of my brothers might be able to make it, but the other two are stuck somewhere getting their asses shot at for crappy pay. I've got to pick out colors and whip together a wedding cake and carve out a guest list… "

"That takes more than a week, Olivia," Molly said, sitting down across from her friend and signaling a waitress to bring them a menu.

"Are you kidding? My mother threw together an elaborate and romantic wedding in less than an hour. My uncle is a JP and this girl and her fiancé showed up one evening wanting to get married right then and there. Well, Mama wasn't about to see a girl get married without all the proper trappings so she got a wedding dress from a much-wed cousin, altered it just right, got all the girl children to put on white dresses, and when the bride was comin' down the stairs, we all used crystal bells to play Mendelssohn's Wedding March. She didn't have roses—it was December—so we substituted glittery snowflakes for my cousin Madeleine to spread down the steps. The only thing she didn't have time to whip up was a cake, but the bride was so happy I think she was walking on air. We ate Swedish ginger cookies covered with cake icing instead."

"That does sound nice," Molly grinned. "She sounds enterprising."

"Comes from a long line of enterprisin' women, though I won't go too much into Great Aunt Claudia wearing her portiers to a debutante ball. She was just crazy. I've got a week, so I will follow Mama's example and put a something little more elaborate together. Not Will and Kate, obviously. Just Greg and Olivia. He's nervous about meeting my father and really jittery about meeting my mother."

"She sounds a little formidable, even for Greg," Molly laughed. "Wait… portiers? What are portiers?"

"Curtains," Olivia said dryly, shaking her head. She perused her menu and finally selected steak, potatoes and carrots.

"So she was… really… um… "

"Crazy as a bedbug? Oh yeah. I reminded Greg that crazy is very acceptable in the South. We love our crazy people… shoot, we bring 'em downstairs and show 'em off. He'll do fine."

"I know he will—he's made of pretty stern stuff. Aren't people from up north just as crazy?"

"Of course they are, and more so as they live up north. But they go to psychiatrists instead of walking invisible dogs or believing fairies are living in their spider plants. Nobody in my family has ever been to a psychiatrist, unless you count the ones that were institutionalized. Listen, I really want to ask you, Molly… could you see yourself being my maid of honor?"

Molly gasped, delighted. "Really?"

"Of course. You're the reason I met Greg. And I promise I won't make you wear something that makes you look like you've been tented for termites, either. No puffy sleeves, no taffeta—I hate taffeta, it's so hot—and no ugly colors. What's your best color?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't know. Sherlo—I've been told it's black, but… "

"My granny would roll over in her grave if I had a bridesmaid in black," Olivia said, studying Molly. "Well, you're a spring, I think, complexion-wise, so soft pink would be nice, or maybe pastel blue."

"It's your wedding."

"Yes, but I don't believe in making people miserable just so I can look good." Olivia shook her head. "An ungracious bride is generally just called a… "

"Bridezilla?"

"No, Molly, a heartless bitch. We can handle crazy kinfolks, but snotty behavior just will not fly. Aunt Claudia was nuts, but she was also nice to people, no matter who they were or if even if they weren't real. Now. Enough about genteel mental illness. Greg and I agreed that we wouldn't go wild on spending, and I'm thinking of using this place for the reception—the husband is from Texas, so he knows good cooking when he eats it." She smiled. "Oh, by the way, I met Greg's children, of course, and they're pretty excited about the wedding and they're so sweet. His little boys are charming little devils and his daughter… "

"Catherine. So adorable!" Molly laughed. "Can't do her 'r's yet, but who cares?"

"Yes—she's so excited about the wedding she won't sit still. She'll be the flower girl. I adore them, and I hope they like me, too. They seem to, anyway. Greg and his ex-wife share custody, but apparently she's willing to let them spent all of next week with Greg and be in the wedding, and when we get back from the honeymoon they'll stay with us about a week and then they'll spend Christmas break with us, too. I want to get to know them, but I don't want to push myself onto them. Let them adjust in increments instead of all at once."

"That's pretty nice of her, considering she's… "

"I won't say it again," Olivia smiled. She suddenly grinned and Molly turned to see Greg coming into the restaurant, trailed by John Watson. Olivia got up and kissed Greg warmly, which made Molly's eyes mist over. She wanted to ask about Sherlock, and John seemed to sense her anxiety because he gave her a 'he's alive' look and smiled.

"I asked John to stand up with me," Greg said, sitting down beside Olivia, who smiled and was pleased to meet Watson. John sat beside Molly. She felt her mobile buzzing and looked at it under the table.

I can assume this luncheon will be a long one. –SH

Probably. –MH

People all about. Come talk to me. – SH

Sod off. Stop being so selfish. It may be your area, but it's not anyone else's and we grow weary of your area. –MH

There was a long pause before he replied, and she wondered if her barb had hit home. Finally her phone buzzed again.

What can you contribute? Tell them you look good in lilac and be done with it. –SH

I don't know that I look good in lilac and it's her wedding, not mine. –MH

I'm sure Olivia will not tolerate a bridesmaid in black. It's a wedding, not a funeral. –SH

You said weddings represent everything specious and false. –MH

Not all weddings are such and your memory is far too good. –SH

Quite an admission from you, and I can almost FEEL you pouting. – MH

TALK TO ME, DAMN IT! – SH

If you're going to shout at me I will not speak to you at all. -MH

She switched her mobile off and looked up, and gulped when she realized everyone was staring at her.

"Been getting a lot of texts from Sherlock, eh?" John asked. At Molly's startled expression, he only shrugged and gave her a little wink. "This place serves American fare?" He was looking at the menu with interest. "What exactly is pulled pork? Wouldn't the pig do a great deal of screaming anyway?"

"Believe me, John, you don't want to know how pulled pork is made. And yes, I stumbled across this place a year or so ago," Olivia said. "Not just American, but Southern. They do it all right, though I must say the wife is from North Carolina and will put coleslaw in the barbecue, which is a sin worthy of death where I come from." She squeezed Greg's hand and he grinned at her. "But the chef—her husband—is from Texas. He can make a good meal out of a bone's smell, and he doesn't call himself a chef. He's a good ol' boy from central Texas."

"It's Olivia who does the grand cooking. First time she made pot roast and potatoes for me, I wept," Greg said. "Had no idea what I had been missing all my life. She put those little baby carrots in it, too, and made gravy with something called… Pioneer Biscuit Gravy Mix. I knew then and there I had found the right woman."

"Indeed you have," Olivia grinned, and kissed her fiancé, who was absolutely beaming.

"Oh, God, makes you want to vomit, doesn't it?" John told Molly with a wink and a smile while Greg and Olivia canoodled. "So what should I order?"

"You've got to try the chicken and dumplings," Greg said. "It's… my God, it's fantastic. Not as good as Olivia's, but close. For a model, she loves to eat and she loves to cook even more."

"Former model. I have high metabolism… yes, I know, I should be shot, but I can't help it. Runs in the family. While the other models were eating rice cakes and bowls of air, I was snarfing down Moon Pies and Tasty Kakes Mama sent in the mail. I'd make fried okra and chicken fried steak, and when in Milan, lasagna and spaghetti with marinara. They hated me. Even more, I've got every episode of Good Eats on DVD. I can tell you all about the quiet but passionate life of the rutabaga and how to deep-fry a turkey… though I still can't make myself tackle a turducken. Just can't do it. Sounds too awful for words. But it's not just cooking that I love. I love to feed people. It's one of life's greatest pleasures to see someone enjoy something you made."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say Garth was marrying Olivia for the food alone. She can't be marrying him for the money—he has none, and Olivia can forget all about attaining any social status through the match."

Everyone froze and Molly turned to look up into Sherlock's blue-green eyes. She huffed and turned away from him, crossing her arms, though she really wanted to leap up and embrace him.

"Allo, Sherlock," Lestrade said, unoffended by the detective forgetting his name again. "Injuries all healed up?"

Molly looked at Sherlock then, startled and concerned. "Injuries? You've been in a fight? Moriarty… ?"

Sherlock started to answer, but John interrupted. "Cracked shin. It's finally gone from purplish-black to a really lovely shade of yellow-green now. Skin wasn't broken, at least. Next time, his attacker should aim a little lower. Incapacitate him entirely by breaking his ankle. He solves most of his cases without leaving the flat anyway."

Molly snickered. Sherlock growled and sat down next to her. "I take it your holiday at home has done you well?" he asked.

"It has, actually. I've spent a great deal of time walking in the country, playing board games, watching telly, reading… doing nothing. All very relaxing, and I was very surprised to be told I had so many vacation days that suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Plus I went to visit my cousin's dairy, for his birthday. We had a wonderful time. Cannonballing into the pond, singing 'round the fire, and then my Uncle Wesley got into Aunt Muriel's homemade gooseberry wine and tried to put trousers on all the cows. It was a blast."

Olivia laughed. "Molly, I just know you're kin to my family somehow!"

Sherlock looked annoyed. "If I had been there, the evening would have ended with the sound of a gunshot."

"Why are you here?" Molly snapped, irritated. She folded her arms and refused to look at him, because if she did she would fall apart and kiss him.

"I need to talk to you."

"You need to be the center of attention, as usual," Molly snapped and caught Olivia's 'you go girl!' smirk. Lestrade looked amused and John looked like he might explode with laughter at any moment.

"Molly, I need to talk to you. I'll talk whether there's people around or not, though in general I hate having people around, as they are irritating. But since you won't take my calls and only just answered any of my texts, I can assume you're still nursing an irrational and unwarranted grudge."

"Grudge! More like righteous anger brought on by your idiotic behavior," Molly said from between clenched teeth, still not looking at him. The waitress came by and Sherlock asked for a menu. He opened it and scanned through it, expression becoming increasingly bewildered.

"What the hell is hash brown casserole?"

"Something absolutely delicious," Greg said reverently. "Potato and cheese, sour cream and some onion… " He sighed. "Next summer Olivia and I are going to Alabama, and I suspect I'll come back weighing fifty pounds more."

"Yes, but once we come back to England you'll lose it all if you'll just stick to the local cuisine. Though I daresay 'British cuisine' is an oxymoron," Olivia pointed out, which made everyone except Sherlock snicker—he was still perusing the menu, intrigued.

"He'll need a minute," John smiled at the waitress who came to ask what Sherlock would like. She shrugged and left. "Sherlock, this might not be the time… "

"So when will it be the time? Just the same, I am not actually here to discuss the reason for you injuring me in a market or your unwillingness to at least listen to me. I'm here to talk to you about something else entirely, though admittedly it is somewhat related."

She glanced out the window and was startled to see one of the Government hearses outside, which meant one thing: Mycroft Holmes. She looked quizzically at Sherlock, who shrugged. "Why is your brother here?"

"He brought me. Now will you talk?"

She sighed. "Fine. Only because the England expects every man and woman do to their duty." She started to get up and was startled when John and Greg stood as well. Sherlock did not immediately but suddenly remembered his manners and gave up on deciphering the menu. He got up and took Molly's hand, helping her up, which startled everyone at the table. Even Olivia looked a little surprised, and nothing ever seemed to shake her. Molly looked up at him and saw him carefully purse his lips, but he didn't release her hand. She stared down at their joined fingers, noting how tiny her hand was in his, and shivering a little at the jolt of electricity that passed between them. For a moment, she and Sherlock stared at each other, and her heart started beating fast. He still burns me like a brand, she thought.

"Wow," John said, voicing everyone's surprise. Sherlock looked at his friend, apparently puzzled but not releasing Molly's hand, but John only shrugged. "I'll explain it later."

"Come on. We've business to go over." He tugged at Molly's hand, but she didn't budge.

"Business?" she asked warily.

"Yep." He gave her another tug, and she finally relented. Sherlock led Molly away from the table and out into the bright sunshine, blinking a little. He looked up and down the little street of the village, taking in ancient cobblestones, thatched-roof cottages and a pretty bridge crossing over a little river where some swans were gliding by. The town square was anything but bustling, and the only sound was of the water flowing under the bridge and the swans getting into a squabble. He flipped up the collar on his Bestaff and seemed to be trying to restrain himself from something, as his hands were clasped behind his back. "I take it they're having their wedding here?"

"In the little church. St. somebody's… St. Anne's, I think."

"Ah. Yes." He gestured toward the black car, and Mycroft got out before assisting Anthea out as well, and Molly overheard them bickering.

"… sodding King of Norway?"

"I had to use something really impressive. He didn't even blink at Wendy's," Anthea answered mildly. "Please, Mycroft, do be calm. You'll need a pill if you don't. Sherlock… Doctor Hooper." She smiled warmly at Molly. "I've always wanted to meet you. The younger of the Holmes boys was bound to be conquered by someone so small, hm? It seems entirely right, I think."

Molly didn't know what to say, but Sherlock's exasperated huff made her almost snicker. She clasped her hands anxiously and glanced at Sherlock, whose cheeks had pinked a little, but he didn't argue with Anthea.

"The King of Norway does not collect pornographic material of any kind," Mycroft said, glowering at her while Sherlock looked away, toward the river and the still-quarreling swans. "Doctor Hooper, I'm sure you have not seen the headlines this morning, what with being out here… "

"There is a news agent in town," Molly pointed out, strangely unafraid of him. She wasn't afraid of Sherlock—why fear his brother? "And they do know how to read here, too. The King of Norway?"

"Never mind. The big news this morning is that Trevor Grant and Pierre DeForet are both currently in custody."

"Who is Pierre DeForet?"

"Sherlock, you want to field that one?" Mycroft said, giving his brother a sharp glare.

"Major drug and sex trafficker in France and actually all over the world. Seems that somehow, the money Trevor Grant received in exchange for the nine sketches and the portrait called The Girl in the Mirror was deposited into the account of Monsieur DeForet."

"But… " Molly stared at Mycroft and Anthea in complete confusion. "Grant sold them to Pierre DeForet?"

"Well, he thought he was selling them to an organization called SoftFocus, but as that organization does not actually exist… " Anthea shrugged. "Then it was a matter of noting several other transactions from Grant to DeForet in the past—we all know that a hacker can do marvelous things when called upon. So arrests were made, Victims No More swooped in and with Scotland Yard and French police assisting, several dozen young girls in France were rescued from the sex slave market. It's all over the news. Jolly good show all 'round, I'd say. The youngest girl was twelve." She shuddered slightly. "Anyway, you will be pleased, Doctor Hooper, that your portrait and the nine sketches have all been retrieved and were never shown on television, though we really couldn't prevent them being in catalogs. Just the same, I doubt anyone would really recognize you in them, though you really shouldn't take that as any kind of insult. I think they're all quite lovely, and very respectfully done… and worth every penny spent on them, too."

She stepped aside and Mycroft, grumbling under his breath, extracted a large flat box and a smaller, thick packet from the back of the car.

"Mr Grant's protestations of innocence last evening were amusing to say the least," Sherlock said, standing with his hands behind his back, Belstaff blowing in the breeze. "Crayola, Wendy's… what were the others?"

"Dow, for one," Mycroft grumbled. "I've never felt so ridiculous in my life! What if someone had seen me there?"

"Well, there was that all-boy's school production of Little Women. Your reviews were quite flattering, even if that dress wasn't," Sherlock said, expression deadpan.

"I seem to recall you wearing a red cocktail dress as part of a sting operation involving a Las Vegas blackjack dealer, a circus elephant and a Russian contortionist, so don't get too high and mighty with me!" Mycroft sneered at his brother, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose back. Had Anthea not shushed them both, a shoving match might have transpired.

"Wait a minute… " Molly said. "Wait… your brother and… who are you again?" she asked Anthea.

"I'm called Anthea."

"Oh. And the two of you… you both… "

"It's been a long time since I've been in on a con," Anthea said. "Honey trap, really, but the bee was icky. But Grant didn't realize his money was going to the account of an internationally loathed drug and sex trafficker, and besides he had already been dealing with DeForet on a more minor but equally revolting scale. Someone was able to hack into Grant's and DeForet's bank accounts, certain people were watching for the transaction to take place and simply did a bit of… switching around, and the rest was front page news this morning… "

Sherlock shrugged. He held up his phone and showed Molly the password: 2BigTitties*. "How unimaginative. DeForet's was a little more complicated, and my French is… "

"Hideous," Mycroft offered.

"…at best." Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and scowled at Mycroft, who scowled back.

"Oh my God… " Molly whispered.

"She's not going to kick you again is she, because if she is, I must beg Doctor Hooper for a moment while I get my camera," Mycroft said eagerly.

"Shut up, Lord Government," Molly snapped, and Mycroft looked stunned as she rounded on Sherlock, who took a step back, which made Anthea snicker. "You hacked into a man's bank account?"

"As I said, easily done," Sherlock nodded, keeping his distance from her feet, which were in boots.

"That's illegal!"

"For God's sake, Molly, don't talk to me about illegal, considering your own dealings with me in the past," Sherlock pointed out unhelpfully while ignoring his brother's rolling eyes. "The only losers in this entire case are Grant and DeForet. Both are in prison now, where they belong, and with the evidence now piling up against them, they will remain there for a long time. Many innocent young women are finally freed from disgusting imprisonment and can return to their families and their lives; a huge cache of illegal drugs are off the streets and your portrait and the sketches are now your personal property to do with as you please. I told you I would take care of the matter, and I did, because you matter. The case was a ten and it is resolved to, I hope, your satisfaction."

He bowed slightly and got into the black car. Mycroft looked Molly up and down and held the door open for Anthea, who climbed in, and Molly heard her laugh and say "I was going to say 'Burger King', but that would have been too weird… "

From inside the hearse, Sherlock said, "Well, you do look good in purple, I must admit."

Mycroft turned back to Molly. "Well, Doctor Hooper, I do hope you realize just how much trouble you've caused the government. All sorts of things had to be cancelled, money had to be transferred, phone calls were made at all hours, a network of agents had to be placed in position, flights had to be arranged; loud emotional arguments were conducted, one of which involved the destruction of a priceless Roman bust, and several expletives were shouted at me by an enraged and very high-ranking member of the Norwegian Royal Family, who was none too pleased to be mentioned to the press by a pornographer. I will say that it is perhaps worth it, as it has removed two very awful men from public life. Alas, they will likely both be replaced soon. Just the same, quite a lot of work was done on behalf of a pathologist incorrectly described as 'mousy'." He cleared his throat. "I will say the portrait and the sketches are very nice indeed. Quite lovely, really. Good day, Doctor Hooper. It is always a pleasure to see you and I admit I was quite delighted to assist you, even if it was on the bequest of my nattering git of a brother."

He climbed into the car, growling at his brother to move over, and the car oozed away. Molly was left standing in the main street, holding the packet of her sketches in her hands and the wrapped portrait propped against her knees.

John kept an eye on Sherlock as the detective paced back and forth, looking tired and nervous all at once. He hadn't slept the night before (and probably several previous nights) and had spent hours playing his violin, staring out the window as he worked on a new composition. John was no expert on such things, but the new piece was lively and sweet-sounding, but with a poignancy that could only mean it was for (or perhaps about) someone who mattered.

"So… " John said. "Nice that Greg is going to marry that Olivia bird. They seem a good match. He even asked me to stand up with him, so I'll need to borrow your best man speech book."

"Mm."

"Even nicer of her to ask Molly to stand up with her. I still can't quite figure out how they would have met. Maybe Molly went to the Grayson House to look at the paintings being sold and they met there? They come from different ends of the social spectrum, but they do seem to click pretty well. Besides, I discovered last night that that woman can cook. I still don't know exactly what pulled pork is, but I want more."

Sherlock absently grabbed a biscuit and ate it before correcting something on the music sheet.

"When did you eat last?" John asked. "Aside from biscuits and tea?"

"Yesterday… ?"

"And when did you sleep?"

"Who needs sleep? I've things to do."

"On a new case?"

"Nope."

Sherlock growled when he played a bad note and went back over the part three times before he was satisfied. He did a few more revisions on the music sheet and nodded, looking pleased. Finally he put the violin down and sat down in his chair opposite John. He took up his prayer pose and sat, clearly withdrawing into his mind palace. John could only wait and hope it didn't take much longer, as he was hungry and Mary and Rosamund were visiting a friend. He wasn't looking forward to trying to cook anything at Baker Street, considering what he might find in the refrigerator, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get takeaway.

"I have decided… "Sherlock said suddenly. "I have made a decision about my life, John."

"Oh?"

"I've decided to have one."

Watson's brow furrowed. "Aside from a lack of a real personal life, you do seem to have one, Sherlock."

"That's what I mean. I've decided I want a personal life. I'm just unclear on how to construct one."

"Well… what sort of personal life are you aiming for?"

Sherlock sat back, stretching his legs out. "Perhaps… a home, with someone here to… er… " He scratched the back of his neck. "Someone to come home to." He cleared his throat and John saw real anxiety in the man's eyes, if only for a brief, unguarded moment. "Someone who wouldn't mind me coming home to them, or perhaps coming home to me. Whichever way… " He frowned at John, who raised an eyebrow. "Seems best. Whichever seems best to… er… that person's… inclinations."

"You could get a cat."

Sherlock glared at him. "I said someone, not something."

"Cats are living beings. You can allow yourself to call a cat 'someone'."

"No, you can't. Besides which, cats are devious, deceitful creatures."

John bit back a snicker. "You like Molly's cat."

Sherlock's reaction to hearing her name was just exactly what John thought it would be: he stiffened and looked away, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Only because that particular cat does possess good manners, is intelligent, and is uncharacteristically friendly."

Gotcha, John thought. "Right. Sort of like his owner, I suppose. Though if he were to slap you he would leave scars. Like his tiny owner."

"Very likely," Sherlock said tightly. "Though she be but small, she is fierce."

John grinned. "Well, Shakespeare, you could get a dog."

"I don't want a dog. Already had one. If I were to get a pet, it would be a horse. Dogs look up to us, cats look down on us, but horses regard us as equals. Alas, horses cannot be kept in flats. They can, but it gets messy."

John nodded. He picked up the newspaper again and pretended to read. He waited several beats. "You could always get a girlfriend. You've legions of female fans, most of whom would be delighted to date Sherlock Holmes. How long they would be able to endure certain behaviors is debatable, of course, but we'd be going on individual tastes and levels of tolerance."

Sherlock said nothing. He cleared his throat. John waited several beats again.

"There are a few women in your personal circle, of course. Sally Donovan hates you, so she's out. Mrs Hudson is too many years your senior to be regarded as a candidate, and really, she's more of a mother hen. Janine would jump at the chance, but you wouldn't—you're indifferent to her—I think she could prance in here naked as the day she was born and you'd just chew on a biscuit and ask her about the weather. Of course, there's Molly, but you treat her very badly and she might be weary now of her affections for you being not only spurned but even mocked."

"Spurned?" Sherlock squawked, and John lowered the paper to look at his friend. Sherlock looked aghast. "What did… I mean… you think I spurn her?"

"And have even mocked her. Of course, I will concede that you apologized for your appalling behavior during that disastrous Christmas party four years ago, which was remarkable to say the least. And she's not afraid of you anymore, of course, as proved by her slapping you and giving you a sound ticking off, plus she helped you fake your own death, which means she can also really kill you if you annoy her enough. I've seen her tear into you at other times as well and I must say, she's got a great deal of steel in her spine now—I suppose we can, in some ways, credit you with making her start standing up for herself, though I give more credit to her on that count. Perhaps if you're looking for a life that might include a relationship, you could pursue that line of interest and see where it goes. She'd be good for you—would keep you grounded, out of a good deal of trouble, and she would give your arse a sound kicking when needed. We all know it will."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. John, enjoying seeing his friend at a loss, continued. "Plus she's a pretty little thing, and she's as sharp as you, too. Perhaps not a genius, but more than your match at deducing. Considering her line of work she'd have to be, and I think sometimes you're a little jealous of her."

The detective looked flabbergasted. "Jeal—you think Molly is pretty?"

"Of course I do. And lately she's been dressing a little more… oh, what's the word? I'd call it sexy, perhaps, but that's a new concept with Molly, though it does suit her. She's got nice legs." He resumed reading. Sherlock frowned.

"And jealous? You think I'm jealous of Molly?"

"She's capable of love. She has friends. She gives a damn. Even about you, in spite of you. Other women would probably just want to shag you for a bit until you finally drive them away with your misanthropic behavior, but Molly knows you and isn't afraid to call you all sorts of names when you deserve it, and she calls you on the carpet when you behave like an annoying dick. Plus she'd take good care of you. She'd at least make sure you eat and drink and sleep."

The expression on Sherlock's face was so priceless John wished he had his camera. "She… knows me." He swallowed. "She sees me. Not many people can."

"She sure does. And perhaps she'd be willing to give it a go if you'd just let her in."

Sherlock straightened in the chair and crossed his knees, indicating he was ready to talk tactics, which Mary would say wouldn't quite do—tactics were not what were required when pursuing a romantic relationship. Tactics had to go out the window, at least on the part of the man. The woman was allowed to scheme as much as she liked. "Well. Then tell me what I ought to do."

Surprised, John lowered the paper again. "You mean, you want to pursue Molly?"

"I am… open to possibilities."

"Mainly, you have some tall apologizing to do. Secondly, don't plan. Let things happen, though I would advise to let her set the pace."

"My shin can't take another apology," Sherlock said, looking rather glum.

"Hm?"

"She kicked me in the shin a few days ago."

"Did she? Good for her! I may need to contact the Army and ask them to present her with a medal."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "She deserves several."

"Aye, she does that. She deserves a great deal. Happiness, for instance, and kindness and respect. If you don't make your move soon, someone else might come along and see what a treasure she is and snatch her right up. Then you'll have to live here alone in your mind palace, sans horse, cat or dog. For some reason, I don't think that mind palace of yours is a particularly happy place."

Sherlock glared at him. "It's… necessary."

"Probably." Off Sherlock's haughty glare, John shrugged. "All right, for your work, yes, but people don't belong in a mind palace, particularly the people you love. You certainly don't need to live there all the time, and you don't need to live here alone. Hell, even Mycroft has a woman, and he's even less likeable than you. I suspect she kicks his arse when he needs it, and if he's got any sense he appreciates it." John got up. "I have to go get something to eat and I am not opening that refrigerator since you came in this morning with that suspicious-looking rucksack with what I hope was just a bowling ball inside. Do you want anything?"

"No."

"Not food, anyway, eh? Maybe a little pathologist instead." He handed the newspaper to Sherlock. "Lestrade's wedding is Saturday morning. I can't see them kicking you out of the reception, anyway, so if Molly won't talk to you before then I'd suggest giving that a go. If she will talk to you, she might tolerate you as her date to the wedding."

"Tolerate… ?"

"Endure?"

"Bugger off, John. I need to think."

John tapped Sherlock's forehead. "Not with that, you dithering prat. Use that thing in your chest. If it's there."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't have that anymore."

"I know. It belongs to Molly."

Her mother had been upset about the nudes, of course, but she had been even more upset with Emma for trying to embarrass Molly about them. A long discussion, over hot cocoa and roasted chicken, had left things a little more calm and Molly was glad to be home, sleeping in her old bed, sitting up late with her mother and eating popcorn, watching favorite old movies. She and her mother still loved Soapdish and could quote the dialog word-for-word ("At the current rate of inflation, her brain will laterally explore…"), and they had laughed their way through The Princess Bride again ("That word you keep on using… I do not think it means what you think it means.") and reveled in Strictly Ballroom yet again. They had popped in The Black Stallion and marveled again at the exquisite beauty of the black Arabian stallion, the gorgeous scenery and the lush soundtrack. Tonight it was British Costume Drama Night.

"Which do you want to watch, sweetheart? Persuasion or do you think you can stay up for all of Wives & Daughters? I know I could. I'll never get enough of Anthony Howell… yum!" She held up the two DVD boxes. "Poor Tom Hollander. I can't help thinking he looks rather… simian."

Molly smiled. "Wives & Daughters, for certain. Persuasion is for rainy days."

"Quite true. I'll get the popcorn going."

"I'm surprised you don't like Foyle's War as much," Molly said when her mother returned with two bowls of popcorn.

"Oh, it's all right, but there's no romance in that series, and I've never had an urge to shag Michael Kitchen."

Molly giggled. "Mum!"

"I'm a widow, sweetheart, not dead. Granted, if you put me in a bedroom with Anthony Howell, you'd be peeling me off the ceiling. Now. Speaking of romance… I know you ended things with Tom… is there anything new going on?"

"No." Molly put the first DVD in and waited for the series to queue up. "Nothing to report."

Sarah Hooper sighed and studied her daughter for a moment. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me all?"

"It's all right, Mum. I'm okay. I've got my cat and my work."

Sarah made a hrmph sound but held her tongue. Molly knew what her mother was thinking—a career wouldn't keep her warm at night or draw her barely-recognizable pictures of horses, and a cat was hardly a replacement for a husband. A career would get her a gold watch upon retirement and an empty flat. They had had that discussion a hundred times and while Sarah respected her daughter's choices, she could not make herself agree with them.

They settled in to enjoy the miniseries, reveling in the story of sweet, uncomplicated, trustworthy Molly Gibson and her father's new, selfish and vain wife Hyacinth and her flirtatious and thoughtless but good-hearted new stepsister Cynthia. They smiled at Squire Hamley's blustering bonhomie and his heartfelt grief at losing his beloved wife. They sympathized with poor Osbourne's secrets and adored Roger's solid decency. The scene where the Hamley boys were having dinner with the Gibsons was just starting when the doorbell rang.

"Who on earth would that be at this hour?" Sarah said, getting up. "Oh, dear, I hope it's not Olivia having second thoughts!"

"That would never happen. She adores Greg," Molly said, watching as Molly Gibson awkwardly played the piano and watched Roger flirt with Cynthia. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, sighing sadly and thinking of Sherlock again. As if even the romantic ups and downs of Molly Gibson could make Molly Hooper forget about him.

"Molly, luv, there's a man here to see you."

Puzzled, Molly stood and was stunned to see Sherlock striding into the room as though he owned it. Sarah dogged his steps, clearly unaccustomed to having her home invaded by an intense stranger. She glared at him as Sarah finally got in front of him and held her ground, herding him back like a skilled cow pony and clearly annoying him.

"Excuse me, sir, but who on earth are you and why are you here to see my daughter?"

He glanced briefly at the television, brow furrowing slightly. Obviously he had never seen the series. He looked at Molly again, and she put her hands on her hips. "Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes, who is leaving."

"I am not leaving until I'm ready to leave."

"If Molly wants you to leave, you will do so," Sarah said firmly. He barely glanced at her though, and settled his gaze on Molly again. "If need be we will even call the police."

"The local constabulary consists of a portly man with a lifelong tobacco habit that does him no good and an elderly bloodhound named Buford whose sniffing days are long past, though he is still quite excellent at eating. I'll be back in London by the time he wakes up, dresses and gets over here. Listen, Molly. I know I screwed it up. I will never be good at saying things I should, much less saying them right, but at no point did I ever intend to hurt you or to insult you. My behavior was wrong and stupid and… excuse me, who are you?" he said, looking at Sarah at last, who was still standing between him and Molly and showing no sign of budging.

"I am Molly's mother," Sarah answered shortly, glaring up at him.

"Oh. Right. Yes." He bowed slightly to Sarah. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"My… my what?" Sarah asked.

"Your husband died, did he not? Cancer?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "That was ten years ago, Sherlock. She's dating the local vicar!"

"Ah. Well. Still, I am sorry for your loss and sincerely hope things work out with the vicar. You and your husband had a very… remarkable daughter together. I would say two remarkable daughters, but the older one is considerably less so, as evidenced by her recent appalling behavior."

Sarah looked even more bewildered. Molly sighed and grabbed the remote control and paused the DVD at Squire Hamley telling his sons that he'd rather keep snakes in the house than hire a French maid for his wife. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"To speak with you. Alone." He paused, then looked at Sarah. "If you don't mind, Mrs Hooper."

Sarah looked between her daughter and Sherlock, clearly uncertain.

"If you hear shouting, it will likely be me, as your daughter has remarkable slapping and kicking skills," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off Molly.

Finally, Molly gestured to her mother and nodded toward the door. Sarah left quietly, looking back at Molly with a clearly confused and distressed expression. Sherlock and Molly eyed each other, him wary, her strangely calm. He finally stepped forward.

"I know that I've hurt you many times in the past, Molly. I've said terrible, awful things to you and I have taken advantage of you. I'm not good at apologizing, anyway, but of all the people I know, you are the one person I know that I can trust without even the slightest inkling of doubt. I am also completely convinced that I would not even be standing here now if it weren't for you, Molly."

She crossed her arms and eyed him coolly. "I know."

He stepped closer. She held her ground.

"And if you're thinking that I kissed you because suddenly I realized that I needed to… to show my gratefulness, or was just stringing you along again, you could not be more incorrect. I kissed you because I wanted to… and it wasn't because of the pictures either. Because while I did like them a great deal, I much prefer the real thing. Fully clothed, of course, at least for now."

She blushed but continued to look him in the eye.

"I'm not here out of any expectation to see you… er… I mean, I just wanted to apologize for apologizing and to say that I will never regret… that."

"Kissing me."

"Yes."

She drew in her breath and looked him square in the eye. "I will not be your doormat, Sherlock. I will not procure specimens for you any more without express permission from my superiors. You will not pay me insincere compliments, either, and you will be polite to my friends and family or a kick to the shin will be the least of your troubles."

"What if I paid you a sincere compliment?"

She shook her head.

"Let me try. All right?"

That made her start laughing.

"I should perhaps mention your legs, which are quite nice. I am quite serious when I say that, in your case, the mini skirt has its benefits."

"You like my legs?"

"Well, yes. I do."

"Hm."

"And I have always been quite astonished by your intelligence and ability to read me."

"Read… ?"

"Yes. You read me. You see me. You see me right through all my most horrendous actions and my bad manners and arrogant assumption that I had you wrapped around my finger, and perhaps in some ways I did and probably still do, but the odd thing is that you have me wrapped around yours. That's quite an entanglement, don't you think?"

"Yes, but I'm not manipulative or selfish," she said, lifting her chin.

"I'm… you think I'm manipulative?"

"You've used my feelings for you to your own advantage, and very callously. I will not tolerate that any more, Sherlock."

He paused, drawing in his breath and slowly exhaling. "And I am sorry for that, Molly."

"Not that it stopped me feeling that way. That's why I ended it with Tom, because I didn't… feel that way about him. Never could."

"Oh, you mean Meat Dagger? Well, I was frankly grateful to hear you had dumped him, and I was genuinely grateful for the lack of a ring the day you slapped me. Or… wait, he didn't dump you did he, because with one phone call I can have him assassinated, as someone that monumentally stupid cannot be permitted to contribute to the gene pool."

"I dumped him," Molly said, sighing. "I told him the truth. He wasn't happy but then I wasn't either. I was still carrying that ridiculous torch for you."

He pursed his lips, thinking. She suspected the entire concept was beyond Sherlock's scope, but wasn't up for explaining it all. Not yet.

"Should I be glad to hear that? Or has the torch been… extinguished?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, his expression cautious.

"I don't know. I'm still in shock over the pictures, actually. I'm guessing you got Mycroft and that woman to buy them?"

"Er… well, not exactly. Others were involved in the process. Mycroft only got involved because someone ordered him to and between those two sources, he didn't stand a chance." He cleared his throat. "I really didn't know about it until the next day."

"Oh." Molly looked down. "I do appreciate that. And I appreciate what you did. Or tried to do. But if you're expecting me just forgive you for years of what would technically be called abuse, you're dead wrong. It wasn't about the pictures, it wasn't about the kiss… I've just decided that I deserve to be treated with respect. I've worked hard for it, and I won't give it up for anyone. Not even you."

He stepped a little closer. "So you're saying you have to be finessed?"

"Something to that effect. You can go now."

"But you will speak to me now?"

"Go, Sherlock."

"Molly… "

"I said go, Sherlock. I'm watching a movie."

"Which one?"

"Wives & Daughters."

"Oh. Michael Gambon's in that one, I think. Might I stay and watch it with you?"

"No. It's me and Mum, only."

"What about your horrid sister?"

"She likes action movies."

"Well, then I suppose she loves the helicopter crash in Pride & Prejudice."

"Out, Sherlock."

"Will you be my date for Garson's wedding?"

"Greg's wedding," she said, shaking her head. "And no. I already have a date."

"Well, then I'll pick—wait, what?" He looked bewildered. "A date… ?"

"Yes. A date. Lord Blackwell asked me."

"Lord sodding Blackwell?"

"Yes. Lord Blackwell, though everyone just calls him Alastair. He's very nice. What's wrong with him?"

Sherlock cast about for something about Lord Blackwell that he found unpleasant or unworthy. But the man had a sterling reputation, was good-natured and actually worked for a living besides his diligent involvement in Victims No More and other worthy causes. Even more, he was closer to Molly's age, was good-looking, athletic and educated to match his level of intelligence, and if his marks at university had been any indication, Blackwell was a bleeding genius.

"He'll… he's… he wears torn dungarees and ratty jumpers and has cow dung on his boots," Sherlock said loftily.

"Somehow I can't see him wearing any of those to Greg and Olivia's wedding. Not even she would tolerate such a thing, and she's the most tolerant person I know after my Mum. She tolerates many things but there are some things she would never condone, and cow dung at a wedding cannot be countenanced."

"He might! He might arrive to pick you up in a Land Rover with busted-out windows, covered with… with hay and pig excrement and wielding a… an emasculator."

"Just so. I'm going with him."

Sherlock was utterly floored. "But… wait, is this… I don't understand… I thought… "

"You think too much. It doesn't always help you, Sherlock. I'm going with Lord Blackwell to Olivia's wedding. He's a very nice man, he asked me to go with him, I said yes, and that's that. You are more than free to attend the reception, of course, but the church only holds about fifty people and most of them will be Olivia's family. I'll see you Saturday afternoon, if I'm not too busy, at the Mason & Dixie Café."

Sarah returned then, having been unable to bear it any longer. She looked between Molly and Sherlock, clearly curious but determined to not interfere. Just the same, she saw the confusion on the man's face. "Mr Holmes, it's nice of you to drop by, I suppose, but it does look like your discussion with my daughter is over."

"Like bloody hell it is," Sherlock growled. He scowled, then stepped forward, nudged Sarah out of the way and kissed Molly firmly. Sarah gasped in shock at seeing her daughter being kissed so thoroughly in her living room, but she held her tongue. Molly's hand tentatively reached up to touch his hair, and he deepened the kiss, clearly unconcerned that he was kissing her right in front of her mother.

"Good heavens!" Sarah said. "Do I need to get a bucket of water, Mr Holmes?"

He didn't care. He pulled Molly closer, slipping his arm gently but firmly around her waist. Molly's arms slowly wreathed around his neck and he went on kissing her, reveling in her sweet softness and the rightness and strength and courage of her. Finally, Sarah cleared her throat loudly and he stepped back. For a moment, he and Molly stared at each, both a little bemused.

"I am not going to apologize for that!" he said firmly. "Good night, Molly. I will see you at the reception." He turned on his heel, gave Sarah a perfunctory nod and stalked out of the room. They heard the front door slam and Sarah turned to look at her daughter. Molly's face was flushed and her eyes were bright, but she calmly sat down on the couch again and hit 'play' again on the DVD. Osbourne was telling Roger that Aimee was with child, his joy tempered by his fear of what his father would say on the matter.

"I really do love this series," Molly said, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Sarah tentatively sat down beside her and grabbed a handful of popcorn. "It's just so... beautiful, with such human characters. I adore Molly, but Squire Hamley… what a funny, blustery, sweet man. I just love it when he tells Mr Gibson about his visit with Mrs Gibson. 'One of us was silly, and it wasn't me'. That just cracks me up, every time and I've seen it at least a hundred times." She smiled. "And I cry my eyes out when he screams over Osbourne's body. It's just so heartbreaking."

"Yes. Yes, I love it, too, sweetheart, but… what on earth just happened there?"

Molly shrugged. "Just catching," she said softly, resting her chin on her forearms.

"Catching what?" Sarah asked, exasperated.

"My dream."

"I've never seen a wedding like that," Mary said. "So… organized."

"Mrs Cowan could, I think, run the entire United States government and still have time to arrange a Junior League banquet in Mobile, see the silver is polished and get her nails done," Molly laughed. "It was amazing—Olivia and her mother had everything arranged in less than a week!"

"And all under budget, too. I still shudder when I think of what was spent on my wedding," Mary said, shaking her head. "Mrs Cowan told me it comes from having learned at the feet of her mother and grandmother—they taught her frugality, creativity and how to put on a show to rival anything on Broadway. Oh, the food is out!" Mary, having been introduced recently to the cooking at the American-owned restaurant, quickly made her way through the crowd to check out the buffet. Molly sat down and took her shoes off, knowing the bride and groom wouldn't be arriving for a few more minutes.

"Molly."

She looked up, recognizing that deep voice, and met Sherlock's gaze. He was in a sharp suit and tie and looked tired. She wondered if he had been sleeping or even eating. John wasn't around as much to remind him about such things, and Mrs Hudson wasn't allowed to use weapons as proper motivation. "Sherlock."

"Is your date with you?"

"Of course." She looked back and smiled warmly at Lord Blackwell, who was chatting with Olivia's brothers, and when he caught her eye he made his way over and, after greeting Sherlock politely, sat down.

Sherlock glowered at Lord Blackwell but said nothing.

"You should try some of the stuff they've got on the buffet," Blackwell told Molly. "It's fantastic. Tonight, what with the cold weather, they're going to make chili. I've never had chili, and I'm intrigued with the notion of something called 'Frito pie'."

"I'm sure it's wonderful," Molly smiled. "Sherlock, perhaps you'll actually eat something today?"

He growled something and stalked away, clearly miffed. She shrugged. Lord Blackwell leaned forward. "You don't think he's going to attack me, do you?"

"I can't imagine him doing that at a wedding." She paused, thinking that over—Sherlock had no social skills, almost no manners, and on an empty stomach and seething jealousy, he might do something… or anything… rash. Mary had kept her up to speed, in the past few days, on Sherlock's explosive temper, mumblings, growls, shouts, and, in one particularly interesting display of pique, a full-blown tantrum while ordering Chinese takeaway at three in the morning. He had also gotten into a heated argument with the pathologist covering for Molly while she was visiting her mother and loudly informed the poor, quaking man that he was a mere shadow of Molly Hooper's brilliance and should be ashamed of himself for being such a sorry specimen. According to John, he had gotten into a yelling match with Mycroft before being dragged away to the theatre to watch a performance of Oklahoma! with his parents, and had returned home needing a hot water bottle for his head and a bottle of whisky to drown the memory of such a trauma.

"Eh… what's the worst that can happen?" Blackwell said.

Molly swallowed and remembered poor Helen Louise. "Well… " She peered around Blackwell and saw Sherlock exchanging words with… oh, no… Olivia's father. She scrabbled back into her shoes and rushed over. "Sherlock, this is Mr Cowan. Jack Cowan."

Sherlock eyed the man silently as his eyebrows lifted. "I see."

Jack Cowan eyed Sherlock for a moment, and Molly wondered what they had been disputing over. Sherlock, however, seemed to have forgotten entirely about the American and focused on her. Mr Cowan looked between them and seemed amused.

"I have to say, the two of you probably make a wonderful person," he said, taking a sip of sparkling non-alcoholic champagne. "Friends of the groom, eh?"

"Hm?" Molly said, dragging her gaze away from Sherlock. "Oh. Yes. Both actually. Greg is a very dear friend, and Olivia is a good friend to me already. She helped me through a recent… difficulty and it was so nice of her to ask me to be her maid of honor."

"She does that. Ask her sometime about a difficulty she handled for a journalist who needed to get out of Iran." He grinned, bowed very slightly to Molly, and left them alone by the punchbowl.

They stood staring at each other, he admiring her soft blue silk dress and high heels, she dazzled by his sharp suit and tie. He looked good in his Belstaff and scarf, but when he dressed like he'd just stepped out of the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, he was something else entirely.

"You look… nice."

"Remember what I told you about insincere compliments."

"I'm not being insincere. You look nice. Smashing legs."

"Been drinking?"

"Why can't I pay you a compliment and not have you think it's something other than that?"

"Because you're a high-functioning sociopath with almost no manners?"

He huffed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair. "Molly, I will never be good at such things, but I am being very sincere when I say that I think you look nice and that you have nice legs!" His voice rose to a near shout, and he stomped, which caused many people in the restaurant to turn and look at him. "Yes!" he snapped, glaring around the room. "I think Molly Hooper looks beautiful and I also think she's bloody brilliant and I am trying to pursue her but she is being very uncooperative!"

"Will you calm down?" she hissed between clenched teeth.

"No, I will not!" he growled. "I will not calm down! I've had it, Molly! I'm here on my best behavior and you're here with a… a… boring but nice man when I know he's not what you want nor is he your type!"

"Gee, thanks," Lord Blackwell muttered, having sauntered over to provide protection, though he didn't seem certain about who he was supposed to protect.

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered. "You're being ridiculous!"

"That's because I am ridiculous! I've always been ridiculous, and I'll always be so, but I want to be ridiculous with you, dammit!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!"

Molly and Sherlock both jumped, startled, and barely had time to recover themselves when Greg and Olivia came into the room, arm in arm, smiling.

"For the first time in public, let me introduce Mr and Mrs Gregory Lestrade!"

Sherlock growled in frustration and turned away. Everyone applauded, smiling and laughing with the handsome groom and lovely bride. The newly-minted couple made their way to their table, and everyone sat down. Molly took her place at the bridal party's table, beside John, and glanced across the room at Sherlock, who had at least found a place to sit and sulk. Greg's sons and little daughter wiggled in their chairs but were well-behaved, needing only a gentle shushing when the minister led a prayer before everyone dove into the wedding breakfast. Molly was pleased to see Sherlock at least eating a little.

Speeches were made, everyone enjoyed their meals immensely, and finally the band began playing. First a very talented singer from America performed The Book of Love, to which Greg and Olivia danced alone, and then, inevitably, the familiar first strains of Sweet Home Alabama brought everyone out onto the dance floor. Molly laughed with Lord Blackwell as they danced together, and quite enjoyed grooving to other merry but unfamiliar American tunes: Dixie Fried and The South's Gonna Do It Again and a few others before things finally slowed down as the evening wore on. She frequently looked over at Sherlock's table to see him sitting alone, nursing a glass of champagne and very definitely not joining in the revelries. She knew, of course, that a party was torture for him, but he had come to the reception of his own volition.

She was relieved to sit down at last, her feet hurting a good bit, and accepted Lord Blackwell's offer to get her some water. She snagged a few strawberries and a bit of sugar and settled down to rest a bit, watching everyone dancing and having a truly fantastic time. No one had gotten drunk, no fights had broken out, and Olivia's brothers seemed to have found Greg up to snuff. John's speech had gone well, as he had spoken highly of Lestrade's abilities as a detective and his excellent character (and ability to cope with 'consulting detectives'), and Molly had given a short speech thanking Olivia for selecting her as maid of honor and for becoming such a good friend in such a short period of time.

Suddenly there was a loud thumping noise on the microphone and the dancing stopped. Everyone looked up and Molly was horrified to see Sherlock standing there, violin in hand. He paused, swallowing, and forged ahead.

"I am not part of the wedding party. In fact, I am not one would ever considering inviting to any party. But I have something I wish to present to a member of the bridal party."

"Oh, dear God," she heard John mutter.

"In case some of you don't know me, I am Sherlock Holmes. I am a friend… I guess… of the groom and a friend of the best man, John Watson. But this is not for either of them. This is for the maid of honor, Molly Hooper, whom I love."

He settled the violin on his chin and, after testing the strings once, began playing. No one made a sound as the detective performed the tune. It was a light, soft melody, with sweet but firm tones. The tune was beautiful, restrained, gentle and elegant, like its subject, touched with a feistiness that anyone could see perfectly suited Molly's spirit, and everyone was watching her reaction to the music. It ended, not with a dramatic flourish but with a quiet, hopeful question, and he stood for a moment before lowering the violin. Every eye in the room moved from Sherlock to Molly, who didn't remember standing up. But she was on her bare feet, staring at him in astonishment.

"So that's what he's been playing these past two weeks!" John whispered to Greg. "It was driving me mad! I've been humming it in the shower!"

Sherlock cleared his throat, nodded, and stepped off the stage. Molly didn't move, but watched him approach her slowly, oblivious to their rapt audience.

"Please forgive me, Molly," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I have been the most hideous, selfish, monstrous and unmitigated ass to you, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you."

She bit her lip. Lord Blackwell, still holding her glass of ice water, looked amused.

"Come on, lass, you can't turn him down now. He wrote you a song!"

"Wh-what is the song called?" she whispered.

"Well… er… rather unimaginative, I admit, but just… Molly's Song," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not good at naming tunes. I often mishear lyrics, even. For years I thought the Beach Boys were telling Rhonda to help them because owls kept puking in their bed, and Juice Newton wanted her departing lover to brush her teeth before he left her. Maybe you can name the tune."

She started laughing, her vision blurring through her tears. "Of course I forgive you, Sherlock," she said. "Of course I do."

He exhaled. "So would you like to… "

"Help you solve crimes?"

"… dance?"

"Wait… dance?" She looked up at him, startled.

"Yes. But I think that, in John's all-too-frequent absences, you could also help me solve crimes if you like. If you will indulge me, you'll be spending a great deal of time at Baker Street anyway." He held out his hand. The band had taken its place again and the singer was consulting with the bride on what to perform next. The singer smiled and stepped up to the microphone as Sherlock and Molly moved together to the dance floor. Everyone else joined them, and the party continued to the sweet lyrics of an old George Jones classic.

Take me, take me to your darkest room
Close every window and bolt every door
The very first moment, I heard your voice
I'd be in darkness no more

Take me to your most barren desert
a thousand miles from the nearest sea
The very moment, I saw your smile
it would be just like heaven to me

There's not any mountain too rugged to climb
No desert too barren to cross
Darlin', if you would just show a sign
of love, I could bear with all loss

Take me to Siberia
and the coldest weather of the winter time
and it would be just like spring in California
as long as I knew you were mine

Yes, it would be just like spring in California
As long as I knew you were mine
Take me, take me

"Looks like he's been caught," Olivia told Greg as they danced together, swaying to the romantic, heartfelt song.

"Eh?"

She smiled. "It's all right. I'll explain it all later." She kissed her new husband and embraced him. "You're in the same honey trap, sweetheart, and I'm never going to let you go."

"Good God, I hope not."

Olivia looked at Molly, whose head was on Sherlock's shoulder, and the two women exchanged knowing grins. The singer suggested livening things up, and began singing Shut Up and Kiss Me. By then, however, the maid of honor and the world's only consulting detective had left the party for some much-needed time alone. They had much to discuss, starting with where she ought to hang her portrait (he firmly held his ground on placing it over the mantelpiece) and ending with what to name their first baby. Molly stuck to her guns on their first son being name John, but he had no objections on their first daughter being named Olivia.

"Take Me", by George Jones & Leon Payne.