Surprise!

I'd fully intended for the previous chapter to be the last one, but there seemed to be a consensus that I'd stopped too early - and I kind of agreed. So I bashed this out over the weekend, and hope that it fits the bill.

Completely unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are my own :-)

"So, you say you were on your way back to London?"

Sherlock's mother gave Molly another bright smile before turning her attention to her younger son, the target of the question. Sherlock had taken up position by the window in his parents' living room, leaving them in a strange diamond formation; his father by the fireplace, mother sitting on the sofa and Molly (his Molly) sitting – as she had been invited – in the big wingback armchair. Or, more accurately, perching slightly nervously.

The news had not yet been broken…but Sherlock didn't like the look on his mother's face.

"Yes, that's right," he replied, a thick feeling in his mouth. "And, well, it seemed…opportune."

She was still looking at him strangely, doing that…thing with her eyebrows.

"Well, you know, you both bang on about me not visiting enough," he added hastily. "And I was aware that you were…keen to see Molly again, and so…"

He finished this frankly-not-very-convincing justification with a dismissive wave that he hoped would end his mother's line of questioning. As a tactic, it didn't have a great success rate, but you never know. Much as he wanted to, he didn't dare glance at Molly for fear that the game would be up (how had he managed to keep his fake suicide secret for two years? The difference, of course, was that he hadn't been trying to hide that from his mother).

"It's just that – as you've delighted in reminding us so many times, Sherlock – we're rather tucked away here and not particularly on the way to anywhere," his mother said, smiling mildly. "We're just interested in how this has all come about. Not that you're not welcome, of course."

This final clause was chiefly aimed at Molly, who returned the smile, smoothing her hands over her skirt. Stop looking at Molly's hands - Sherlock reprimanded himself – and legs and, well, her everything. Plenty of time for that later.

Had they really only been there for eight minutes? Sherlock was surprised he hadn't just blurted it out by now – and he wasn't sure why he hadn't. What was he waiting for? It was that old satisfaction of I-know-something-you-don't-know, he supposed (which was better when it was Mycroft, but ordinarily almost as enjoyable with his parents), but it was a reflex that this time wasn't serving his interests.

"And," his mother continued, with a swift glance towards Sherlock's father before her gaze wandered more generally around the room. "We were starting to wonder how long it would be before we got to see our new daughter-in-law."

Sherlock's head snapped up. His eyes flew to his mother; her mouth was pulled into a thin line, but her eyes were doing the smiling. When he looked to Molly, she met his gaze with a combination of shock, bewilderment and amusement.

"Y-you know?" Sherlock managed.

His mother looked at him fondly and let out a chuckle.

"Oh, darling, everyone knows!"

Sherlock felt his mouth fall, words actually failing him.

"W-what?" he eventually managed.

"Sorry, old boy," his father added with a laugh of his own. "We couldn't resist having a little fun with you."

"But how do you know?" Sherlock demanded. Such was his discombobulation that for a second he wondered whether Rosie had somehow managed to convey to John what she had caught he and Molly doing in the hallway – but then he realised he was overlooking the obvious. "Mycroft," he growled, nodding at the predictability of it all.

"It wasn't your brother," his mother replied, brightly. "Although he sends his regards. He couldn't be here, unfortunately – some cockup with a project involving civilian agents, apparently."

"We actually heard it from the Mathers in the village," his father explained. "Their daughter has a Swedish au pair; reads the national newspapers online. It's a funny old world, sometimes, isn't it?"

"Not the word I would reach for," Sherlock muttered, offering a watery smile. But then he caught Molly's eye; she had her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh – apparently, in the future, it was going to be three against one.

"Anyway, darling," his mother continued, her tone now softer as the moved across the room to stand roughly halfway between him and Molly. "It wouldn't have been difficult to work out; all we would needed to have done would be to look at your face – Sherlock, you look as though you might spontaneously combust if you aren't able to touch Molly again soon."

At this, Sherlock felt his face flash with heat – his mother had read him like a cheap paperback.

"And the wedding rings were a bit of a giveaway, too," his mother added in a stage whisper, taking his arm and slowly tugging Sherlock closer to her. At the same time, she held out her other hand to Molly, wordlessly beckoning her over.

"Those deduction skills didn't come from nowhere," Sherlock's father told him, with a smile in his wife's direction.

Before he could remind his father about the many years of methodically honing his intellect and observation skills, and about his intensive study of human behaviour, Sherlock found himself being engulfed in a hug by his mother. The same thing had happened to Molly, his mother's arms now flung around them both and squeezing them tightly, leading to the slightly odd situation of Sherlock and Molly facing each other behind his mother's back. Sherlock offered her an apologetic grimace, and Molly responded by biting her lip in amusement.

"You'd better not be pulling a face back there, young man," his mother said, warningly. Before Sherlock could protest his innocence (or at least protest his lack of oxygen), he felt his mother gently pull his head down to her level and heard her whisper in his ear: "Well done, darling boy."

He couldn't help it; even though he did his best to maintain his impassive expression, he felt a warm swell of pride in his core. Once Sherlock's mother had stepped back - and both he and Molly had also been embraced by his father – he was finally able to wrap his arm around Molly's shoulders, and then marvel once again at how easily, naturally, her own arm slipped around his waist. The fingers of her other hand, the left one, met his on her shoulder; the sight of the wedding ring there still had the power to make Sherlock's heart jolt.

"You're not, um, you're not upset?" Molly asked, suddenly. "I mean, about the way we…it happened? It's not that we didn't want you there-"

- Sherlock coughed, then immediately felt the forefinger of Molly's right hand poke him in the ribs –

"…it was all just a bit unexpected, and we-"

"Didn't want to waste any more time?" Sherlock's father put in. "We understand. And we'll survive, won't we, my love?"

When Sherlock returned his gaze to his mother, he was slightly alarmed to see that she was crying. She had long ago hardened herself against crying at his self-destructive tendencies, or even his brushes with death – but Sherlock realised that she just wasn't prepared for a turn of events like this one.

"Let's have a drink before your mother needs the smelling salts," his father continued, leading his mother to the sofa as she dabbed at her eyes with a doily she'd taken from the windowsill.

Sherlock immediately assumed his father was talking about tea (which his parents drank so regularly it would have been as well for them to take it intravenously), but within moments, his father had returned with a bottle of Champagne.

"Popped across to Waitrose in Horsham yesterday," he explained with a crinkly smile. "Just in case."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then felt Molly squeeze his hand in what felt like a gesture of support.

His mother managed to recover herself enough to accept a glass of Champagne, followed by a sample of the akvavit, which Molly had suddenly remembered, along with the rest of the presents. The alcohol did nothing to stem the tide of hugs, touches, squeezes and general 'warmth' that flowed from his mother to the both of them – it was hard to be stoic in the face of so much parental affection.

After a short while, his mother patted him on the knee and asked – or rather told – him to come to the kitchen to give her a hand. She looked delighted as he and Molly exchanged a quick kiss before he fell into line behind her. On entering the kitchen, Sherlock was still dwelling on the myriad undesirable outcomes that could arise from leaving his father alone with Molly; it took him a moment to notice the huge array of food, in various stages of preparedness, lined up on every available surface. It didn't seem very likely that his parents had decided to become survivalists…

"Are you…having a party?" he ventured instead.

"Yes!" his mother replied, setting the lingonberry jam down on the table. "We've invited John and Rosie, of course, and Mrs Hudson, too. Oh, and I think John was going to ask that nice detective as well – the one with the French name."

Once again, Sherlock felt his mouth drop open. In the background, he'd been starting to think about those first conversations with their friends – and now, clearly, he would have to think quicker. And depending on their reactions to the spontaneous and secret nature of the wedding, it could end up being more of an angry mob than a party. But something else had to be established first.

"How could you possibly know that we would be coming here?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah! Now that was Mycroft," his mother replied, pausing by the table. "I believe he gets some sort of alert whenever your name appears on a passenger manifest. After that, I don't think it was terribly difficult; he seems to have people all over the place. Now, could you be a darling, Sherlock, and get that bowl from the top of cupboard? It gives your father vertigo these days if he looks up for too long."

Dutifully – and still stewing about his brother's incessant interference – Sherlock dragged a dining chair over to the high, built-in cupboard.

"Shoes off, darling," his mother said, jabbing a wooden spoon in the direction of his footwear.

He wanted to point out that he had spent most of the past week cloistered in a hotel room, his shoes cast somewhere into the corner, along with the rest of his clothes, but he imagined he might end up more embarrassed by this avenue of conversation than his mother. In the end, he toed out of his shoes and did as he was told.

"I…I noticed that Molly isn't wearing an engagement ring," his mother said, as the bowl exchanged hands between them.

Sherlock assumed he was about to be chastised for this oversight, but there was a slight hesitation in his mother's tone, her gaze fluttering between him and the bowl.

"I hadn't entirely planned on proposing," he replied, the memory of it enough to cause a replay of those feelings of anxiety and ecstasy. "Not there, or then, anyway. It just sort of…happened. And as it was, we were actually only engaged for about eighteen hours."

His mother smiled, reaching up to gently pat his cheek.

"Well, it's perhaps just as well," she said. "Because I would like you to have your grandmother's engagement ring, if you'd like it – and if you think Molly would?"

From nowhere – or possibly from the bread-bin, he wasn't sure – his mother produced a small, velvet-covered box. She took his right hand, lifted it, and placed the box in his palm.

"I…I had hoped that might be an option," Sherlock confessed. "I just hope that Molly will overlook the slightly backwards nature of it."

At this, his mother gave a short chuckle.

"She married you, Sherlock, so I'm sure she's used to that sort of thing," she said. This was true, of course, although it made him realise that it wasn't something he wanted Molly to settle for any longer; he could – and would – do better.

Instead of moving away, his mother linked her arm through his, her fingers curling lightly around his forearm.

"I am…I'm so very pleased that you two were able to…resolve things between you, after…" his mother said, trailing off. "On top of everything, all of the unspeakable things that happened, your father and I were devastated that Molly was dragged into it. I…I hope she can forgive us all."

His mother's sudden vulnerability came as a shock to Sherlock at first; his parents had grieved for Eurus' other victims, but he had never considered that they might in some way feel culpable for the pain that Molly had been put through. He gently withdrew his arm from his mother's grasp, and instead found himself putting it around her shoulder; she almost flinched, so unexpected was the gesture, but then she leant into his side.

"Molly would say there's nothing to forgive," Sherlock replied. "But then, she's a good deal better than I am."

His mother smiled up at him.

"Spoken like a true newlywed," she said, patting his hand affectionately.

With consummate timing, Molly then came wandering through to the kitchen; Sherlock felt his stomach dip just at the sight of her, which seemed ridiculous – but it was infinitely better than the gnawing ache that he used to feel. Molly beamed at him, and made a beeline for where he was standing; fully aware that his mother was watching, but not caring in the least, Sherlock held out his arm to allow Molly to slide into his side.

"Hello," he murmured, deftly secreting the engagement ring in his inside jacket pocket.

"Hi," Molly replied, softly. She arched up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

"I hope my husband has been looking after you, Molly?" his mother asked, setting a chopping board down on the counter. "Please don't tell me he's dozed off in there?"

Molly smiled.

"We've just been chatting," she replied. "And…wow, that's…a lot of food."

She was surveying the kitchen with the same look of confusion that he had been wearing several minutes earlier.

"Ah, yes, allow me to explain," Sherlock replied, giving his mother one final, weary glance.

Molly took the news of their impending wedding-celebration party very well, considering; so much so that by the end of the conversation she was offering both her own and Sherlock's help in the food preparation. Sherlock had to admit that a party had the advantage of getting it all over with in one go, and it would mean that once they did eventually get back to London, he and Molly would be perfectly justified in telling everyone to leave them alone for a little while…or several years, whatever they could get away with. That said, Sherlock had to acknowledge that he was particularly keen to see Rosie, hoping she would somehow understand that he had finally done the right thing by Aunty Molly.

"Nobody will be arriving until early afternoon," Sherlock's mother said. "So I wondered whether you two might consider staying overnight, just for the one night? It would be so lovely to have you here for a bit longer."

She obviously saw that Sherlock was formulating an objection, quickly adding with a smile, "We promise we'll allow you your privacy."

By this time, his father had sauntered into the kitchen

"There was a time, Molly, when Sherlock was a teenager, when we had to take his bedroom door off its hinges to prevent him from keeping any more little secrets from us," his father said, with a chuckle. From what Sherlock could recall, there wasn't much laughter at the time. "But don't worry, we've put it back now."

Molly smiled.

"We'd love to stay tonight. Thank you."

She followed it up with a little sideways glance to Sherlock that was intended to quash any notions he had of hightailing it into the night once the party was over. Not that it was very easy to hightail it anywhere from the wilds of West Sussex – and he should know.

"Right!" his father said, rubbing his hands together. "How about that drink now?"

Glasses of Champagne were soon being passed around, and they all migrated back into the living room, where Sherlock settled into the sofa with Molly beside him.

"This house is so lovely," Molly said, taking a sip of her drink.

His mother thanked her.

"We thought we'd never find somewhere that felt like a proper home…after Musgrave, I mean," she replied. "But this one has served us very well. Of course, there's plenty of space, should that ever be an issue…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted slightly in his seat.

"Sorry about my wife, Molly," his father said in a theatrical whisper. "She's been struggling not to say the B-word all morning."

"She's not the only one," Sherlock muttered, hearing a quiet snigger from his wife, as she simultaneously jabbed him lightly in the ribs.

"What was that, darling?" his mother queried.

"I was about to say that considering Molly and I have been in a romantic relationship for less than a week, it probably is, in fact, too early to be talking about when we'll be furnishing you with grandchildren, yes."

"Don't worry, darling, we're good at waiting," his mother said, undeterred. "And in the meantime, we've got plenty of lovely photos to show Molly from when you were a little boy. I'll get some of the albums down when I'm finished doing the food."

Molly offered again to lend a hand, but his mother waved her away.

"Sherlock, why don't you show Molly around properly?" she said instead.

Molly swallowed the last mouthful of her drink and set the glass down on the side table.

"If you're sure?" she said. "I was hoping that Sherlock might show me his old room."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"It's really nothing special, Molly, it's just a room with an old desk and a bed," he said.

"Yes," Molly said, slowly. "But still…"

He saw an odd look pass over his mother's face.

"Oh, do you know what it is? We don't have nearly enough bread to have with the meal," his mother said, clapping her hands to her knees. "Your father and I will just have to go up to town: they never stock the really nice varieties in the village."

He watched as his mother got to her feet, beckoning his father to follow - his father, he noted, looked roughly as confused as Sherlock felt, as his coat was handed to him.

"We'll probably be an hour or so," his mother added, as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.

Within a few seconds, Sherlock heard the front door being closed. He frowned, turning to Molly.

"Molly, I can only apologise for the bizarre conduct of my parents," he said. "I particularly don't know what's got into my mother; I counted four loaves of bread on that kitchen counter."

Molly gave him a long, querying look, and then rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock," she said, firmly, tugging him to his feet. "I definitely think you should show me your bedroom."

Ohhhh.

Oh. Right. Yes.

As Molly took him by the hand and pulled him in the direction of the stairs, Sherlock briefly touched his fingers to the small, velvet-covered box in his jacket pocket. He might get his moment rather sooner than expected.