Dedicated to leidibrf, who's been such a sweet and supportive fan, and buffyslaysedward (she knows why).

The first few weeks of married life flew by, and, to Molly's amazement, she and Sherlock acclimated to each other fairly quickly. Several years of working cohesively at her lab translated easily into living together. After some minor mishaps (Molly shuddered every time she remembered opening the freezer to put away groceries the first time), the couple fell into a comfortable routine of sorts.

Molly, whose schedule at St. Bart's was much more predictable than Sherlock's ever-evolving array of casework, woke at precisely 7:45am. She did not sleep quite as well as she had in Sherlock's bed (and Sherlock's arms), but she attributed that to the fact that she had been exceedingly exhausted after their adventure in Las Vegas. It most certainly did not have anything to do with the safety she felt when surrounded by Sherlock's scent.

Several mornings, however, she had opened her eyes to find Sherlock perched on a chair at the foot of her bed, fingers steepled as he puzzled over some query in his mind palace. He always looked so absorbed that she refused to disturb him, and she had no idea if Sherlock even realized she knew of this habit of his.

After a quick shower and breakfast, Molly would rush off to the morgue, sparing Toby a small scratch behind the ears. At the end of her shift, she would take the tube back to Baker Street, ready to kick back on the sofa and watch bad shows on the telly.

In Sherlock, she found a surprisingly considerate flat mate. He was up at all hours of the day and night, but at least attempted to keep the noise to a minimum when she was trying to sleep. (She wondered if all of John's complaining had finally taken residence in that gigantic brain of his.)

The kitchen was constantly stocked with her favorite edibles, though she suspected that Mrs. Hudson had more to do with this than Sherlock himself. The elderly woman remained mum on the subject, no matter how much Molly pestered her, and no evidence could be found to support Molly's suspicions, so she let it slide.

Sherlock and Toby had also come to an understanding. Sherlock ensured that the feline was fed and watered, and Toby would curl up in Sherlock's lap while he pondered over his latest case. Sherlock told her that Toby made a better thinking companion than his skull, as Toby was much more expressive, and his purrs were conducive to deductive reasoning. Molly knew he really just liked how soft Toby's fur was when he ran his fingers over it.

Either way, she was happy that her two men were getting along.

Sherlock, for his part, also reaped the benefits of their atypical union. Molly understood him in a way few others had. Instead of bemoaning his scientific inquiries, as both John and Mrs. Hudson had been known to do, she actively encouraged them, often participating in his exploits. It was normal for visitors to 221B to let themselves into the flat, only to find the pair huddled over a microscope slide or brightly-colored flask.

One thing Molly was particularly adamant about was that Sherlock always inform her when he was going to be away on a case. She didn't want to worry about him if he failed to return to the flat overnight. Sherlock took to texting her daily when he was away, keeping her updated on his progress and where he was.

If Molly also noticed that Sherlock seemed distracted, she recognized that, whatever was bothering him, he needed to tell her in his own time.

Molly had compiled a list of household chores early on in their partnership, withholding spare body parts unless Sherlock completed the tasks assigned to him. He grumbled, certainly, but even he could not deny that 221B felt more like a home with Molly there than it had in quite some time.

To outsiders, their marriage might have appeared odd, peculiar even, but the three inhabitants of 221B paid them no mind.

XXXXX

Molly had been nervous about telling their friends and family about their drug-induced matrimony, but, overall, everyone reacted kindly and supportively, agreeing to keep the marriage under wraps for the time being.

Mycroft, though he already knew about the wedding, was one of the first to come and offer "congratulations." He and Sherlock had stared at each other, conversing without words in the way only siblings can, when the elder Holmes finally sighed and turned to Molly. He spoke quickly, only two well-chosen sentences, but Molly accepted it as Mycroft's approval, reluctant though it may be, of her marriage to his brother. ("Good luck, Doctor Hooper. You're going to need it.")

Mary Watson had laughed at Sherlock's discomfort, but quickly enveloped him in a warm embrace. She hugged the new Mrs. Holmes as well; however, a few words whispered into Molly's ear left the pathologist both confused and mildly curious. She left with a knowing glint in her eye. ("I'm so happy for you, Molly. But if he ever does anything to hurt you, I know people.")

Greg Lestrade's reaction was perhaps the most surprising. Molly had dreaded revealing their wedded state to him, as she knew he had fancied her for a bit a few years back. Instead of the crestfallen look she expected, however, Greg practically bounced for joy, encircling both Sherlock and Molly in a bear hug. ("About time, Sherlock! I knew you loved each other!" "Greg, we're not actually together together. This was just the best option." "Oh." "Who's Greg?")

As Molly's mother was currently out of the country on holiday, she had to inform her over the telephone. Eleanor Hooper expressed her disappointment at not being able to attend her only child's wedding, as Molly feared she would, but stated that, as long as Molly was happy, she was, too. Molly didn't have the heart to tell her of her arrangement with Sherlock, electing instead to suffer through her predicament alone.

XXXXX

The most harrowing reveal did not occur until Sherlock and Molly had been back in London for nearly five weeks. On a Thursday, she returned from work, only to find a cream-colored envelope lying on the kitchen table, her name penned on the front in flawless calligraphy. (It never occurred to her until later to question how it had gotten there.)

Hands shaking, she retrieved a letter opener (because the gold writing was far too beautiful to callously rip it open) and carefully extracted the contents.

'Dear Dr. Hooper,' it read,

'Or should I call you Dr. Holmes, now? Either way, I am so thrilled that you have joined our family. I regret that we have not had a chance to converse since your impulsive nuptials to my son, and hope to remedy this situation. Please join me and my husband for supper this Sunday, September 21, 2014. William, of course, should tag along as well! I can't wait to meet you, dear! You must be an extraordinary young woman, if my son has chosen you as the keeper of his heart! I shall see you soon!

Fondest regards,

Violet Holmes'

Molly sunk down onto one of the chairs surrounding the table, wincing slightly when she accidentally sat on a spare slide. Brushing it onto the floor, she slumped into the seat, staring at the words on the page.

Sherlock's mother wanted to meet her? Based on Sherlock and Mycroft, she had always imagined their mother to be elegant, affluent, and refined. Judging by the letter she had just received, her assumptions had been spot-on. How did one go about impressing a woman such as that?

And most importantly, would she, Molly Hooper, be able to pull it off?

XXXXX

Molly was so caught up in her thoughts that she failed to realize when Sherlock zipped into the flat, slamming the door shut as he made his way inside.

"Molly?" He received no answer. "Molly?!" he called again, louder and more insistent this time.

Striding through the flat, he finally found her in the kitchen, gazing off into space. "Molly!"

Her head jerked up, and she blinked rapidly as if bringing herself back from some far-away place. "Y-yes, Sherlock?" she stuttered softly.

"Are you all right?" he brusquely asked, not waiting for an answer before he continued. "I just thought of a way we could finally use those feet you brought home the other day…."

Her mind drifted again at hearing him call 221B her home so casually, but she quickly brought herself back to the present. He was going on about some experiment when she interrupted him. "Sherlock!"

He stopped talking abruptly, peering down at her through his lashes. "What?"

Instead of replying she held out the envelope, urging for him to take it. As he read through the note, one eyebrow rose comically, and she had never seen him look more like Mycroft than in that moment. The thought brought a small smile to her lips, which was quickly dropped as she remembered the invitation, her anxiety returning full-force.

Finally, Sherlock finished reading and set the paper back on the table. Taking the seat across from her, he steepled his hands and scrutinized her over his fingers. "Ah, yes," he spoke at last. "I wondered when she would finally ask to meet you."

Her brows shot up in surprise. That was all he had to say? "So… what do you think?" she asked hesitantly, brown eyes meeting his for the first time since he'd walked through the door.

"Well, nothing for it, then. We'll have to go. There's no arguing with her once she's made up her mind."

Molly rose to her feet and began pacing vigorously. Well, as much as was possible in the small, cramped kitchen. "Fine, Sherlock. But what should I wear? Do you think it would be better to leave my hair down, or should I put it up to look more professional? You've told her I'm a pathologist, right? Does she think I'm some odd girl who likes to stare at dead bodies all day? Oh, who am I kidding, she's your mum, I doubt she'll care about that. What have you said about me, exactly? And what-"

She would have continued her rambling, but Sherlock cut her off with a hand over her mouth. He laid the other gently on her shoulder. "Molly," he spoke calmly, waiting for her to meet his gaze. "Breathe. She will adore you. Any woman who could convince me to marry is already a league ahead of the others in her opinion."

Molly nodded, relaxed by his words and the soothing timbre of his voice.

Sensing that her diatribe was over, Sherlock removed his hands and walked towards the doorway. Just before he left, however, he paused. "Wear that yellow sundress, Molly. It's her favorite color, and you always look lovely in that dress."

And then he was striding off without giving her a chance to respond.

XXXXX

Molly tried not to let her nerves get the better of her, especially when Sherlock assured her that she had nothing to worry about. Still, she trembled in her seat as they drove to the Holmes' cottage.

The scenery was absolutely breathtaking, and she focused on that as she and Sherlock rode in comfortable silence.

Sherlock turned off the main road, following a narrow path to a lovely country home nestled behind just beyond row of trees. It was bigger than the average cottage, to be sure, but still not as large as she had envisioned based on her knowledge of Sherlock and his upbringing.

Bringing the car to a stop, Sherlock switched off the ignition and stepped out, hurrying around to Molly's door. He had opened it for her before she had a chance to, although she suspected he was doing that more for his mother's sake than for hers. A man always behaved his best when he believed his mother was watching.

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her roughly to her feet, banging the door shut as he practically dragged her to the front stoop. To be fair, Molly thought to herself, it's probably the most efficient method of getting me up here.

Sherlock rapped on the door loudly three times, in rapid succession. It was opened almost instantaneously by a short, white-haired woman with Sherlock's eyes. They twinkled with mirth as she beamed at the couple standing in front of her, one half cowering slightly behind the other.

Molly smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress self-consciously (and, yes, she had worn the yellow one like Sherlock suggested), shifting from one foot to the other.

"Hello, Mummy," he muttered, gazing at Molly out of the corner of his eye.

She bit her lip to hide her smirk, catching his eye while his mother wasn't paying attention to her. "Mummy?" she mouthed, chuckling to herself as he rolled his eyes.

The woman patted Sherlock's cheek affectionately before pushing him aside to grab Molly's hands in her own. "Well aren't you a pretty little thing! You must be Molly! I'm so happy to finally meet you!" she exclaimed, squeezing tightly.

Molly bobbed her head in acknowledgement. She attempted a smile as she was once more pulled along, this time by the most jovial person she had ever seen in her life. Her anxiety lessened just a bit.

As they entered the parlor, the group was greeted by a sweet-looking elderly man, his dimples prominent as he kissed the back of Molly's hand. She grinned back at him.

After introductions were out of the way, Molly and Mrs. Holmes ("Call me Violet, dear!") retired to the kitchen to prepare supper (which Molly quickly realized was just a way to ply her for information without the men interfering), and Sherlock conversed with his father in his study.

Once the food was ready (a simple meal of grilled chicken and potatoes), the foursome gathered around the dining table, Molly and Sherlock on one side, their counterparts on the other.

The group was silent for a while, only the sounds of chewing interrupting the quiet, until Violet set down her fork with a loud clank.

"So, Molly, Sherlock tells me you work at St. Bart's hospital. Is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, after swallowing down the piece of chicken in her mouth. "I'm a pathologist there. That's actually how Sherlock and I met."

"I deduced as much. He's mentioned you several times, says that you're the only competent pathologist they have on staff." Molly's head whipped around, only to find Sherlock staring intently at his plate, his cheeks a vibrant shade of scarlet.

"It'll be nice to have another doctor in the family!" Sherlock's dad remarked amiably, grabbing his wife's hand. "My Violet was a brilliant mathematician, you know!"

Molly's eyes widened in surprise. She really shouldn't be shocked, she realized. Sherlock and Mycroft had to have inherited their genius from somewhere. Too bad they didn't receive her temperament along with it, she thought bitterly.

"Oh, Siger, stop it!" Violet brushed off her husband's praise, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. "So, Molly, back to the subject at hand. You and Sherlock have known each other for a long time, then?" She nodded, urging the older woman to continue. "That's good. That's very… good."

She went silent, picking at her nails. "It's such a shame Siger and I couldn't make it to your wedding, though..."

"Violet-," Siger cautioned, at the same moment that Sherlock exasperatedly exclaimed, "Mummy!"

Molly, uncomfortable with the sudden topic change, grabbed her glass of wine, downing a large gulp.

"Oh, I understand, of course! Heat of the moment, and all…." She sighed theatrically before meeting her son's eyes. "But, Sherlock, you know how much I was looking forward to this!"

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at his mother's dramatics, but Molly stopped him with a hand on his knee. He exhaled slowly. "I know, Mummy, and… I'm sorry." He grimaced as though the words caused him physical pain. "We said 'I do' before we realized what was happening." He failed to mention that neither of them could recall much of it, either.

"I forgive you, Sherlock. I remember what it was like to be young and in love," She gazed adoringly at her husband, "and I know how hard it is for you to articulate your feelings. Molly seems to be so good for you!"

Violet reached across the table, grasping Molly's hand and squeezing. Molly, relieved that the awkward conversation appeared to be finished, took another sip to steady her nerves.

"So!" Violet clapped her hands gleefully. "Grandchildren!"

Molly choked on her wine.

XXXXX

Molly and Sherlock stumbled out of the cab into the chilly, late-November air. Sherlock threw the cabbie a few too many bills before shutting the door and entwining his fingers with Molly's.

The pair were returning from a night out at the pub with the Watsons. John and Mary had "insisted" they take Sherlock and Molly out to celebrate the Holmes' three-month wedding anniversary. While both detective and pathologist had grumbled, they were secretly pleased to have friends who cared about them so much.

What was supposed to be a pleasant evening of conversation with friends quickly evolved into a competition when John bet Sherlock that he could finish a beer faster than the consulting detective. Sherlock, of course, took the bait, and the two women laughingly watched as their husbands chugged the cold liquid.

Molly was finishing her third glass of wine when she and Mary decided to bring the night to an close. Both couples had hailed a cab and went their separate ways.

Sherlock finally managed to insert the key into the lock, opening the door with a flourish that was more attractive than it should have been considering his inebriated state. Neither noticed the bright flash that lit up the street behind them.

Ushering Molly inside in front of him, the two staggered up the stairs to 221B, giggling all the while.

After removing their coats, scarves, and shoes, Molly followed Sherlock into the kitchen, looking around dazedly. Sherlock gazed at Molly thoughtfully for a moment before pivoting around and searching through one of the top cabinets. "Aha!" he called out victoriously before plopping an unopened bottle of vodka in front of Molly with a bang. "Care for a nightcap, Mrs. Holmes, to commemorate three months of wedded... bless or whatever it's called?"

She grinned mischievously.

One shot turned into two, and, the next thing Molly knew, she was sitting in Sherlock's lap on the sofa as they tried to determine the correlation between flame exposure and burn pattern on human skin. She knew those spare fingers would come in 'handy' eventually. Molly giggled at her own pun.

Sherlock's arm was wrapped dangerously low around her waist, and his chin was propped on her shoulder. She could feel his breath against her neck every time he exhaled.

Molly was concentrating extremely hard, biting her lip as she held a digit over the Bunsen burner with shaky hands. She cursed when she dropped it, watching as it rolled off the table onto the floor. Sherlock's chest rumbled against her back as he chuckled in her ear.

"Perhaps we should call it a night, Molly," he whispered, his deep baritone sending a thrill through her entire body. He reached around her to extinguish the flame.

Maybe it was the alcohol adding some liquid courage, or maybe she had it inside of her all along, but Molly suddenly felt a surge of bravery overtake her. This could be one of the best or worst decisions she'd ever made (ignoring their night in Vegas, of course). She turned awkwardly, nearly falling off the sofa, until she was straddling Sherlock, their faces inches apart.

She realized she'd never seen his eyes from this close before. They were a startling combination of blue and green, as beautiful and mysterious as the man himself.

"Sherlock," she breathed, before one final ounce of daring convinced her to close the gap between their mouths.

Their lips brushed for a mere instant, a shadow of a kiss, before Molly pulled away, eyes wide in shock and embarrassment. Sherlock remained stock still, unblinking.

"S-sorry, Sh-sherlock," she mumbled, trying to remove herself from his lap, but Sherlock's hand grasped the back of her neck, bringing her near once more.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my Molly," he murmured against her lips, and hauled her back to him for another, much more satisfying, kiss.

Sherlock's hands were everywhere: in her hair, cupping her face, running down her spine. She moaned in contentment as she pushed her body closer to his, their tongues battling for dominance. He groaned when her fingers found residence in his hair, tugging lightly.

After what felt like a lifetime (but not nearly long enough- she would continue snogging this man forever if she could), Sherlock disconnected their mouths. He swept a few stray locks of hair behind her ear with one hand, the other caressing her left cheekbone.

He gazed at her reverently, and the raw vulnerability she recognized in his eyes floored her. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him, too. She felt the flicker of hope ignite anew in her heart.

"Molly, I-," he began, but was interrupted by the tinkling of his mobile, alerting them to the arrival of an incoming call. His head fell to her shoulder as he muttered a string of expletives into her skin.

Molly stood up, picking up the offending item and handing it to Sherlock. "You should answer that. It might be important. I need to use the loo, anyway. We'll talk when I get back."

She hurried to the bathroom, hearing him speak tersely to whomever had interrupted their moment. And what a moment it was! Molly grinned foolishly to herself as she replayed the encounter.

Once she was finished, she quickly returned to the sitting room, surprised to find the room empty. "Sherlock?" she called, expecting to find him in the kitchen, but he wasn't there, either.

She searched the entire flat, but found no sign of the consulting detective.

When she realized his signature Belstaff was missing as well, she finally sunk down into the sofa and let her tears fall.

XXXXX

"Where are we, Sherlock?" John Watson asked as his friend knocked on the door of a modest house in the south of France.

Before the detective could answer, however, the door was opened by the last person John Watson had expected to see.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I was hoping you'd turn up."

If the time frame is a little confusing, I'm sorry. I tried to make it as clear as possible. Dinner with the Holmes takes place five weeks into their marriage in September. The Watson's take them out in November, on their 3-month anniversary. Also, sorry for the cliffhanger, but that was always where this chapter was going to end.

I know it's been forever since I updated this story, but, as you can see, this chapter was more of a filler, and I didn't know exactly what I wanted to take place. Writer's block is awful, let me tell you.

I appreciate everyone who's read, commented, and favorited this story, but please don't send me rude messages or reviews hounding me to update. I have to be in the write frame of mind (I saw the opportunity and I took it), and messages like that only make me feel worse. Please do review, though! Any comments, constructive or otherwise, are extremely beneficial to me as a writer!