Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks to Katya Jade for her beta. I feel I should warn you that this is complete and utterly shameless foof. Enjoy!

**HONEYMOON IN CROYDEN**

Grand Theft Molly

To be fair, Sherlock knows that what he's about to do is more than a Bit Not Good before anyone actually tells him.

After all, he's stealing Molly Hooper- soon to be Cranston's- wedding limo.

With Molly inside it.

In her wedding dress.

On her wedding day.

He knows he's done some… questionable things in his time, but this one does seem to top the list, now doesn't it?

Of course it bloody does, a voice which sounds suspiciously like John Watson's chimes in his head. But you're still going to do it, aren't you, you great ponce?

Sherlock gives a lofty, melancholy sigh, knowing that the answer is yes, indeed, the Great Ponce will. In fact, the Great Ponce won't even feel bad about it.

Being a higher-functioning sociopath has its perks, after all.

So he checks his rear-view mirror as he pulls out of the car park, reminding himself rather forcefully that faint heart never won fair maiden. He sees his brother's quizzical gaze follow the car as he pulls out of St. Martin In The Meadow's church and shoots him a chipper little wave, patently ignoring the elder Holmes' outraged, "Oh no you bloody don't!" as the limo lurches forward. Ignoring also the small crowd of wedding guests who have apparently heard stories of his prowess and try to block his getaway. (Thankfully they lose their nerve long before he actually has to hit any of them.)

Their efforts proven meaningless, the car pulls into traffic. He sees Molly in the rear-view mirror, touching up her makeup one last time and pulling up her long, white opera gloves: The movement of the vehicle is currently so miniscule (and the windows are so blacked out) that for a moment she doesn't notice she is essentially being kidnapped. Sherlock stares, distracted despite the danger this presents to oncoming traffic: Her face is so bright and fresh and full of promise that the detective almost loses his nerve entirely. Almost turns the car around and brings her back. After all, she's known Tommy Cranston since they were teenagers, and they went out on and off for years while she was studying in Edinburgh. She must know what she's doing marrying him. Even if he doesn't deserve her- and Sherlock sincerely doubts there's a man alive who does- he's the one who Molly wants, the first man she ever really wanted, and who is Sherlock to stand in the way of that?

A jealous, spiteful sociopath, that's who, the John Voice in his head snaps.

A jealous, spiteful sociopath who's merely kicking himself because, by the time he'd gotten his head out of his arse and figured out who he wanted, she was engaged to someone else.

But even as he thinks that, Sherlock reminds himself that there's more to it. Replays what he saw last night in his mind, Tommy sweating and moaning with some anonymous girl in the alley behind The Whiskey Trap, the Soho dive Sherlock had tracked him to. Cranston hadn't even taken off his engagement ring. Too busy getting his leg over to think about it Sherlock supposes, and as soon as he'd seen that Holmes had known he had to tell Molly what was going on. It was the least he could do for his girl- Woman- Pathologist. Molly- Person. (Not that she was his.)

Molly, he reminds himself sternly, will never be his.

He'd meant to tell her this morning, but an unfortunate tussle with a troupe of murderous Croatian soldiers of fortune intent on smuggling another batch of human kidneys out of the country had delayed him, leaving him to haul his backside into the church a scant few moments before the ceremony was due to kick off and with no choice but to try talking to Molly in the back of the limo. Which is when the whole kidnapping-the-bride-to-save-her idea had handily occurred to him. He'd thought it one of his better ideas, right up until the current moment, when he sees Molly register that the car is in motion and that he is not her designated chauffeur (and how did she even recognise the back of his head that quickly..?) Her eyes narrow, her fists clench together and she opens her mouth, probably to give him a piece of her mind, which is when Sherlock decides that some sort of explanation might be in order.

He really would prefer she doesn't deck him when he's driving, after all.

"Let me explain, Molly," he starts, even as he speeds up, trying to control this barge of a vehicle. Who the hell thought inventing something this large and cumbersome was a good idea anyhow? "I know you're a bit miffed but I promise, this is for the best-"

"What's for the best?" she demands, crawling forward, her wedding dress hiked up to her knees. She looks as close to furious as Sherlock has ever seen her and he's surprised how… attractive a sight that is. Hmm, perhaps I should cogitate on that some other time, he muses. "God, Sherlock," she's saying, "I know you don't like Tommy, you never have, but this is absolutely unacceptable-"

"It is completely acceptable, Molly," he says, wincing as he attempts to manoeuvre the limo around the corner of the church driveway and out into traffic. A Volkswagen bug sitting parked on the curve doesn't survive the transition; one tap from the limo and it's toast. Sherlock nearly winces but doesn't stop. "I understand that some may feel this is the wrong time and the wrong place, but I have to talk to you- It's important-"

"And my wedding isn't?"

Sherlock is tempted to pull over and see if he can shake some sense into her. But since she might use that as a chance to run back to the church, he restrains himself.

Besides, trying to shake sense into Molly is never a good idea, and if he pulls over, he's fairly certain the wedding guests are going to lynch him.

He won't come back from the dead twice.

"Look," he tries again, manoeuvring around the biggest Jeep he's ever seen, "I was out last night in Soho, and I saw something-"

"What?" she demands. "What? Some girl who looks like me with a couple of kids and a husband the same age as her?" She shoots him a ridiculously unimpressed look as the jeep driver shoots him the finger. "Some girl who looked happy because she did something normal and boring like settling down with a man she loves? Is that why you're throwing your toys out of the pram? Because you've told me I shouldn't get married before, and I've told you I don't care what you think-"

Sherlock shoots her an incredulous look. "You think I'd give a toss about that, Molly?" he demands, anger starting to bubble.

He nearly crashes into some yuppie sports car and just manages to save the limo in time.

"If you want a man to love," he snaps, "find a man to love. If you want a child- Well, that's a very different question and it's a much bigger issue but if you wanted a child then I'd help you get one- Make one-" He realises how terrible that sounds- "Find one- Or, or what have you. But there's something I've got to tell you, and I wanted to tell you last night but then I had to help Lestrade stop a Croatian criminal ring so I only got here ten minutes ago-"

He has to stop and breathe and in that moment he knows he has to get this out or he'll regret it forever.

She crosses her arms over her chest, her pout doing all sorts of interesting things to her lips, and the words just seem to fly out of him.

"IsawTommyshagginganothergirlinanalleylastnightandIreallydon'tthinkyoushouldmarryhim," he says, all in one breath.

He's surprised he doesn't pass out from it, truth be told.

"What?" Molly asks. Her voice is tiny. She's staring at him like he just punched her in the stomach and Sherlock can't really blame her. He forces his voice lower, slower. It's hard to keep his attention on the road: The image of strangling Tommy Cranston burns behind his eyeballs and he's genuinely surprised how difficult it makes driving safely.

After all, considering how alike they look, picturing Cranston's murder is quite disconcerting.

But he needs to explain to his passenger, and for once he knows he needs to use his gentler words.

"I said," he repeats more softly, "That I saw Tommy shagging another girl in an alley last night and I don't think you should marry him." A beat. "Which I don't. Because you're far too good for him. And he's an arsehole. A stupid, blind, moronic arsehole. Whom John and I will gladly beat up for you. Lestrade too, if you ask him nicely." He shrugs.

"But that's just my opinion on the matter. By all means, marry him if that doesn't bother you. But it would bother me. The shagging other women part."

Another beat. The silence in the car is deafening as Molly stares at him.

Her skin starts getting paler, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She looks heartbroken, and Sherlock hates it because he knows it's Cranston's fault, but it feels like it's his.

Slowly, she huffs her way back to her seat, pulling her wedding dress down, and for a moment… For a moment she looks completely lost. Her big brown eyes faraway and horrified, head shaking softly as if to deny his words. But she knows he's not lying; She knows he wouldn't do that to her. He is not the nicest man in the world, they both know, but he's not such a bastard as that. As Sherlock watches her face hardens in the rear-view mirror. He sees her surreptitiously wipe a couple of tears away with the back of her glove, her mascara leaves a wide black streak on it as she pulls it off though he doesn't think she notices. He gives her a moment, letting her pull herself together (something he knows he can't help her with) and feeling like an utter git. But then-

"You think you can go over the speed limit in this thing, Sherlock?" she asks him.

He nods once, curtly. Eyes on the road.

Should she want him to, he can drive the limo to Atlantis.

"Then get me somewhere that isn't here and has lots of alcohol," she mutters. "Somewhere really, really far away." Her eyes meet his in the mirror and he doesn't think he's ever seen her look so resolute. She looks almost… She looks almost pretty. "I need a drink," she repeats, "and you're buying."

And with that Sherlock shoots her a grin, earning a scowl in response. She pulls out her mobile phone and switches it off before tucking it back inside her white fake-fur stole.

They take off down the M6, heading into the sunset…

While, back at the church the guests stand about, asking one another questions, the groom trying to text or call Molly. Martha Hudson and John Watson grin and watch him stare at his phone, then his disappearing bride, then his phone, in horror.

It's all a Bit Not Good, really.

Former tenant and landlady look at one another, each cocking an eyebrow. And then, very discretely, they bump fists. As John takes out his phone to text Mary and explain what happened- she's stuck in Dublin, visiting relatives- he grins widely, very happy with the day's events. Because Sherlock finally got his oversized cranium out of his undersized buttocks and did something positive with his feelings-

And that's nearly always a good thing.

They head back into the church, arm in arm, and don't look back, grinning all the while.

Bulgarian Cava and the Road to Perdition

Sherlock and Molly drive until neither of them are entirely sure where they are.

They drive until it's dark outside and the stars are twinkling, platinum and gold against a royal blue sky.

They drive and they're silent, Molly staring out the car window and, dare Sherlock say it, brooding while town after town passes them. She doesn't look at her phone once and Sherlock is glad of it. She needs no contact with that miscreant, Cranston.

And then, when they can't drive any more, Sherlock pulls them into a little in-the- middle-of-nowhere pub just off the main motorway. There's a small hotel beside it, the sort that looks like a lice infection comes free with each bed, a large car-park beside that. He parks the limo, hops out and- in a display of manners he had thought long-abandoned- walks around to the other side to help Molly out of the car. Giving the day she's had and the size of her wedding dress, he feels it's the least he can do.

They head into the pub and it's a measure of how unfriendly the regulars are that the sight of a woman wearing a full wedding dress and ordering a bottle of whiskey doesn't even faze them.

In fact, one bloke actually wolf-whistles, and how asinine is that?

But since beggars can't be choosers and since neither he nor Molly want to go back out on the road, Sherlock pays for the alcohol and finds them a booth to sit in, glaring at the other patrons and daring them to say something to him as he does so. Plumping two glasses in front of Molly and pouring a liberal three fingers of alcohol into each. He sips his quietly, nervous- he is never nervous- and unsure of what to say to the woman before him. For a few joyful minutes all is silent and then…

Again the genius who wolf-whistled makes his presence felt, roaring out that, "What are you wearing under that dress, darlin'?"

Sherlock frowns, about to rise and tell him to sod off with his insinuations, but Molly winces and grabs his jacket sleeve. Pulls him back into sitting.

"Please, Sherlock," she says quietly, "Just- I don't want any trouble, alright?" She gestures to his suit and her gown. "We can pass for a bride and groom, so let's pass for a bride and groom. If he thinks that, he'll leave us alone. Besides, I don't want to have to, to tell people about what happened with Tommy-"

For a terrifying moment Sherlock thinks she's going to get… emotional, and things, and with the threat of that hanging over him, Sherlock would agree to just about anything. So he gives a curt nod. Takes another sip of scotch and watches her take one too. He holds up his glass in salutation- "Better off without him, my dear," he says bracingly before knocking back the whisky and watching Molly do likewise. Her throat is long, elegant, it works quite beautifully as she does so. Sherlock shakes his head at the thought, wondering where on Earth it could have come from-

And then their peace is shattered, because the universe seems intent on reminding him that 99.9% of his fellow humans are absolute wankers.

And that he shares a planet with them.

Because…

"Now this story, I have to hear," a new voice sounds at his elbow and inwardly Sherlock swears. He would really like another whisky rather than talking to this cretin. But it is not to be: He and Molly turn around to see the man who'd cat-called Molly standing beside them, the smell of beer and weed so strong that it seems like a force-field his body expels. He's grinning lecherously at the young woman, looking her over, and Sherlock finds that he likes that not at all.

She's been through enough today, he doesn't need sundry muppets ogling her.

And besides, his pathologist is not that sort of girl.

But the muppet in question doesn't seem to understand that, he's moving towards her. "Aye-up, sweetheart," he says in a thick Yorkshire accent, "you looking for a bit of company? Surely you can do better than a scarecrow like him, eh?"

And he gestures to Sherlock, makes to slide into the booth beside her.

"Your arse-cheek hits that chair," a voice- which Sherlock belatedly realises is his own- hisses, "and you'll be wearing it as a hat for a week. Sweetheart."

And he makes a show of putting his arm around Molly's shoulder, pulling her closer. Implying that they are together is, after all, the most expedient way of indicating that Molly is taken and is thus not to be molested like this. She was right about that. And if such an action feels a little… Not Quite Horrible, well, then, so much the better. It won't kill him.

Though The Muppet keeps eyeing his Molly, and the situation might kill him.

Molly turns and blinks at him, brown eyes wide as Bambi's, and despite himself, despite everything, Sherlock… winks at her. He's not entirely sure why, except that apparently it humanises him and he doesn't want her thinking he's angry at her. Which he isn't. And which she wouldn't normally think. But which she might think since he-

Oh bugger, he thinks in dismay, clearly idiocy is catching.

He shoots The Muppet an annoyed look.

He is certain he must have caught it off him.

For a moment Molly stares at him as if he's just grown another head, and then, to his utter astonishment, she… winks back. At him. And not The Muppet. Who is now glaring.

Well, I never, a voice which sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Hudson's chimes in Sherlock's head. I do believe you're in there, m'boy.

"I've got all the man I can handle right here," she tells The Muppet, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist and laying her head on his shoulder. "After all, that's why I married him." In the places where she's pressed against him, Sherlock can feel the tension in her frame: She's not as relaxed as she's pretending. But you wouldn't know that to look at her.

Molly Hooper has a stealth mode, he thinks, slightly admiringly.

Who'd have thought it?

And then, as if to complete the shock he's feeling, she pours herself and Sherlock another whisky and, toasting him, throws the shot back like a seasoned alcoholic. Nodding to him and daring him to do the same. This time Sherlock must allow that her lips and tongue, as well as that lovely long throat, move quite becomingly as she swallows it down. He realises with a start that he's staring, though he's not sure why and he's not really sure how to stop himself-

Not that he has time to dwell on that though. Because The Muppet leans down until his face is in Sherlock's and squares up to him. As if getting rid of him will make Molly any more likely to show an interest. It all looks very testosterone-laden and manly until Holmes stands up and The Muppet realises that he is, in fact, an inch taller than him.

And that he appears to be sober.

"Appears to be," being the operative phrase there.

The Muppet surreptitiously eyes the exit and takes a step back. Nods to Molly.

"I can see you're busy, pet," he says. "Congratulations," and he gestures randomly to her wedding dress.

"Get your arse back to that pool table and leave the newlyweds alone, Bodger," one of the barmaids calls. She's mid forties, dark-haired, wearing an obscene amount of eye makeup and a Black Sabbath t-shirt. "You're holding up the game, you idiot."

The Muppet- aka Bodger- nods and walks back to the other end of the bar, throwing the waitress who'd called him out a less than thrilled look before rejoining his game.

The waitress sees Sherlock and Molly staring and she nods to them. A moment later she appears at their table, a bottle of Bulgarian Cava in her hands (the mental image of Mycroft's face at being asked to taste such an abomination amuses Sherlock greatly.)

"Here you go, my lovelies," she says, grinning at the pair of them. "On the house, for your big day." She looks Molly over. "And don't you look lovely, pet?"

Molly opens her mouth to reply and for a moment Sherlock's certain she's going to tell the whole story from beginning to end, and that she's going to end up crying because of it. "She does, doesn't she?" he says, trying to cut her off. He forces himself to grin at the waitress. "I've never seen a woman look better than she did today."

"Thank you," Molly says quietly. She takes another shot of whisky, a small amount of redness at her cheeks. She worries her lip, one small, pearly tooth biting at it, and despite himself Sherlock finds the sight faintly… fascinating. "But do you want to know a secret...?"

She raises her eyebrows at the waitress and waits for her to supply a name.

"Cerys," the waitress says.

"Cerys." Molly nods. "Do you want to know a secret, Cerys?"

The waitress nods eagerly and she gestures to Sherlock. "I'm not married to him. We just ran away from my wedding, how about that?"

"No!" Cerys murmurs, hand to her breast. "Why would you do something like that, pet?" And then she eyes Sherlock, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Oh, well, I suppose I can see why…"

Molly grins. The waitress coos like Mrs. Hudson would. Sherlock rolls his eyes and prays for patience.

And then, to his utter astonishment, Molly Hooper starts lying through her teeth about everything to do with her big day.

Sherlock, on the rocks

Sherlock can't believe what he's hearing.

He's never appreciated just how good a liar Molly Hooper actually is before.

But from the moment the waitress, Cerys, comes over and offers them that God-awful bottle of Cava, she's on a bloody roll. Heaping falsehood upon falsehood with an ingenuity and quickness of thought which surprises even him. She makes up names, dates. Incidents. Comes up with an entire family tree which is a) completely erroneous and b) scarily believable. She adds details, credible ones, to the story of how she achieved her runaway bride status. And the most worrisome thing of all?

Within two minutes she manages to convince her waitress- and thence, the bar- that her father is a major London underworld figure and that Sherlock is her bodyguard.

With whom she's run away.

Because "the heart wants what the heart wants," apparently.

There's no end to what the mind will believe, either, from what Sherlock can see, but he keeps that notion to himself.

Besides, listening to Molly confabulate at this speed is actually rather… fun.

"Brainy and skinny," she's saying, "you need someone brainy and skinny for a body-guard. Because if you see some big, muscled He-Man type then you assume he's trouble and take him out. But nobody would think that about him, now would they?" And she chucks a thumb in Sherlock's direction, smiling gamely at the room and taking another shot of whisky before leaning over and giving him a shy peck on the cheek. "Which would be your big mistake. Because My Sherlock's quite the protector…" And she blushes prettily.

Sherlock takes a shot of whisky to match her, certain that if his face is red it doesn't look nearly so fetching as hers does. Still, he rather liked her kissing him.

Cerys The Waitress makes another cooing noise, bringing him back to Earth and he thinks he might have to start throwing bottles about if he doesn't get out of here soon- Not that the enrapt audience is going to make that easy.

"And is that why you legged it from the wedding, my love?" Cerys asks her. "You thought you'd be better off with him?"

Molly nods fervently. "Oh yes," she says. "I knew I would be better off. The sex alone proved that-" Cerys beams, Molly bats her eyelashes, Sherlock nearly chokes on his whisky- "Besides, I should never be able to do without my Sherlock. Why, there's nobody in all the world for me but him, no matter what Daddy says…"

And she shakes her head, Sighs dramatically. For a moment even Sherlock would swear she's a Mafia princess on the lam with her fancy-man. Who is him. Which is weird. Though not entirely unwelcome.

Nights out like John never end up like this, he thinks, somewhat desperately.

Nights out with me never result in Molly getting drunk and kissing you either, the John in his head says tartly.

So maybe you should just count your blessings while you can and go with the flow, you git.

Irritatingly Sherlock can't help but suspect that his inner Watson has a point.

Before he can really ruminate on that though, Cerys clucks her tongue sympathetically. Pats Molly's hand, then Sherlock's. "So your Da didn't like his little girl playing around with the help, did he?" she asks. "Tch, silly man."

Again Molly nods fervently. "Exactly!" she says. "That's what I said: silly man. As if he could know the mysteries of the female heart, or, or other parts." She giggles and it occurs to Sherlock that she's probably a great deal drunker than he.

Sure she is, his inner Watson snickers.

"He thought I'd just get over it and marry the person he picked out," Molly is saying. "He thought I'd just play along. But I didn't love Tommy Three Nuts and I never will do, I tell you! I don't care whether it settles a turf war or not, I only want my Sherly!"

Okay, that's enough! Sherlock slams his hand down onto the bar- loudly- making both women jump. He is not letting his primary school nickname get back into circulation, not even for Ms. Hooper.

Even if she is very lovely. And clever. And also entertainingly good at lying.

He frowns: Her being good at lying is a bad thing. Which he should not be encouraging her in. Even though encouraging her feels like a very good thing.

Oh yes, his inner Watson snorts, she's definitely waaaay drunker than you.

Molly blinks and turns to him, her eyes wide, two small, pearly teeth once again chewing on her lip, and for some reason it takes him a moment to regain his train of thought. Must be the whisky, he tells himself. Sure it is, the John in his head sniffs. He tells the John in his head to bugger off. It works about as well as telling his real-life counterpart to do so would- Though his real-life counter-part's laughter is not nearly so grating as this. Molly stares at him though, blinking rapidly and clearly waiting for him to puncture her story and tell everyone what a fool she's making of them. But there's no fun in that. And Sherlock knows it. So…

"Don't call me that, darlin'," he says in his best East End accent instead.

It makes him sound like he's just wandered off of Albert Square but he can't help it, his Wide Boy's a bit rusty.

He hasn't had to pretend to be a London gangster in a while, after all.

At Cerys' raised eyebrows he shrugs.

"My little Molly likes a bit of rough, don't you? Can't pretend to be posh all the time." She nods and grins winningly, taking his hand and twining it through hers. If he's doing this, he thinks, he's doing it properly so he plasters the most idiotically sappy smile he can manage onto his face and takes their joined hands, kisses her knuckles.

He feels like a pillock.

Luckily, he suspects he looks like one too. Which is nice. Tops with tails and all that.

"Don't you worry, darlin', they're never gonna to catch us," he tells her. He looks to Cerys, makes his face a mask of worry. "You're not going to tell them we were here, are you?" he asks.

The waitress scoffs. "Course not," she says like it's the most ridiculous notion in the world. "I'd never get in the way of true love." She smiles fondly, her expression turning nostalgic. "My da never did take to my Usman, but we've been together seventeen years and never a cross word between us. Fathers, they don't understand, but I do." Again she grins at Molly, shakes her head. She reaches out and gently pinches Sherlock's cheek. "Now you get that drink inside you, and I'll make sure Dmitri next door has the bridal suite ready-"

The sip of whisky Molly's taking sputters through her lips.

Suddenly Ms. Hooper looks a little panicked. "The, em, bridal suite?" she asks timidly.

Sherlock finds himself wondering caustically whether that's the room with the least rats. At least, that's the impression he got when he say the hotel this bar is next to as he was driving in. Wisely, however, he doesn't say that.

"Aye, the bridal suite," Cerys says. "When I saw you two coming in so late, I thought you'd need somewhere to sleep. It's very reasonable, and don't worry, Dmitri won't check any ID when you sign in." She taps the side of her nose in a vaguely surreptitious fashion. "So there'll be no paper trail for Daddy and Mr. Tommy Three Nuts to follow, now will there?"

And looking well pleased with herself, she pops the cork on the bottle of Cava and pours out two glasses of it, grinning all the while.

Molly stares at Sherlock and Sherlock stares at Molly, and though they both know they should come up with a way out of this, neither says anything at all.

Must be the whisky, Sherlock tells himself.

He can't be entirely certain but he thinks the John in his head is once again laughing.

That must be the whisky too, he thinks as he swallows the Cava down.

Rocka-Hula Holmes

"Well," says Molly.

"Well," says Sherlock.

"This is unexpected," says Molly.

"Not when you tell random waitresses that you're a gangster's daughter on the run with her bit of rough, it isn't," says Sherlock.

Though he wants to be caustic, however, his heart's not really in it.

He's not sure why. He and Molly appear to be stuck in the bridal suite from Hell, having been escorted there by the nosiest, friendliest, most well-meaning and soft-hearted barmaid in all of England. Who waited and made sure that he and Molly entered Beelzebub's Boudoir before pottering off. He supposes he can't really be angry at Molly, or at Cerys though: He's the one who decided to try his hand at being Danny Dyer, after all.

He just should have known that the universe would find a way to punish him over it.

As he thinks this he looks around, searching for a way out (or barring that, a place to sleep since even he has to allow that Molly should probably get the bed). The room is almost charming in its gaucheness, the bedspread and all the pillows covered in yellow, purple and orange images of Elvis Presley. Purple, orange and yellow lava lamps dot the walls too and even the heavy, ridiculously thick shag carpeting is in those shades. Every available inch of space besides the bed and floor is covered in raised velvet silhouettes of The King- even the ceiling- and when Molly knocks against the bedside locker it begins to play a tinny, muzak version of Love Me Tender.

Molly giggles at this.

The sound sets something odd and warm and ticklish settling in his belly which Sherlock elects to ignore.

So he scowls and she sticks her tongue out at him instead.

"Do you think this is funny?" He demands.

She nods. "Could be worse, Sherly."

And she gleefully- heartlessly- waggles her eyebrows at him.

He glowers at her, unimpressed with her use of that hated childhood nickname, and the waggling eyebrows turn into open snickers.

He stalks over to where she's sitting on the bed, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously down at her.

"How could this-" he gestures to the room, biting out each word through gritted teeth- "possibly be worse, Molly? Since we have to sleep here or go back to the car?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. Gestures to the walls. "All the pictures could be of Elvis in his jumpsuit days," she says. She flops back on the bed and grins up at the giant, beatific image of Presley from Blue Hawaii. Starts to snuggle into the covers. "Least it's covered in pictures where he was still young and tasty-"

"You think Elvis Presley in Blue Hawaii is "tasty,"?" Sherlock demands in horror.

He's- Well, Presley had many fine qualities but he's not tall or thin or posh or brainy and that, he has plenty of proof, is Molly's type.

He doesn't like the notion of her going off book.

Molly frowns at him though. "How do you know that's from Blue Hawaii?" she asks, chucking her thumb at the offending image. "It could be from any of those old movies, he made more than thirt-"

Sherlock sees the moment she deduces it, plastered on whisky and Bulgarian Cava as she is. It's quite disturbing.

He is suddenly monumentally grateful that she has neither a Twitter nor a Facebook account anymore, because he would never live this down.

"Wait, you can tell Elvis films apart?" she demands. "How? Why? Does John know?" She squeals in delight (there's really no other word for it) and claps her hands, kicks her feet in the air. It drags up the skirt of her wedding dress and presents him with two long, shapely ankles which Sherlock elects not to notice at all. He doesn't.

Ahem.

"That is soooo bloody cool!" she's crowing. "Can I tell people? Can I tell Mary? Can I tell Mrs. Hudson? Do you have a favourite, because mine is actually Fun In Acapulco but let me guess, you like Jailhouse Rock or King Creole-"

Sherlock sighs the most long-suffering sigh in the history of long-sufferingness, trying desperately to pretend this isn't the disaster he suspects it might be.

She's babbling on a mile a minute about how Flaming Star is actually an over-looked masterpiece and there's no way he's having her go on like that.

So he leans down and takes her wrists, trying to still her. Not in any sort of an aggressive way, more in a please-stop-embarrassing-me-I'm-posh-and-thus-not-built-for-that-sort-of-thing kind of way. For a moment he thinks he's succeeded, he sees Molly's brown eyes widen, her lip bitten again. She stares up at him, her eyes luminous, as if she's staring at something wondrously interesting, an expression she normally only wears when she's looking through a microscope. It's… Well, it's actually rather pretty, even Sherlock can allow that.

And that's neither the whisky nor the Cava talking.

For a moment a strange stillness descends. Like that pause in a conversation, when everyone takes a breath at the same time, together and separate at once. Like the moment before an audience bursts into applause, or a musician lifts his bow to strike the first note. All is silence. Anticipation. The knowledge that something is about to begin. And then… Suddenly Molly grabs him and yanks him into the bed with her. It's particularly impressive considering the fact that she's wearing a corset, a veil (still) and a full-length dress. "Do stop being silly and come to bed, Sherlock," she says. "I'll torture you about this in the morning."

And without even asking for his permission she strips him of his morning coat and tie and flops back onto the covers. Snuggles beneath them.

Sherlock opens his mouth to object and she shoots him a quelling look.

"The only thing I'm willing to talk about is which Elvis movie you like best," she says primly, "So unless you want to discuss that, get to sleep, Sherly."

Again she snickers, again Sherlock glowers.

He crosses his arms and opening his mouth to correct her, but he finds that he cannot. Because suddenly she's looking at him from underneath the bed's covers and she's- She's in her wedding dress. This is her wedding day, or it was supposed to be. And she's not with her groom- who, Sherlock must admit, doesn't deserve her- but here with him. Him, the higher functioning sociopath. Him, the man who used to torture her and manipulate her to get access to her Lab. And all she's doing is teasing him. Asking him about old films and calling him a funny name. Laughing when most people he knows would he crying by now, and he doesn't believe he'd blame her if she did. For a moment it occurs to Sherlock that today, as ridiculous and picaresque and awkward as it has been, has been fun. She made fun out of losing her dreams and discovering the man she'd agreed to marry was cheating on her.

He wonders how many other people could have done so, but he realises he doesn't want to know.

Because none of them would be Molly, and she is his only care in this.

So, very carefully, he reaches over and unclips the veil from her hair. She frowns as he does it, not sure for a moment what he's up to, though she lifts her head helpfully to let him pull the length of the white gauze away, her brow puckered in a frown. As she watches Sherlock turns it in his hands, never taking his eyes off Molly and then suddenly- Suddenly-

He tosses it over the other side of the room, where it lands on the head of a cardboard cut-out of The King from (if he's not mistaken) Viva Las Vegas!

It doesn't look nearly so fetching on Elvis as it did on Molly, but he's not really sure how to tell her that.

"It will help you sleep," he announces. He takes a deep, bracing breath. "I'm going to put the lights out."

He hops out of the bed and does so, leaving the room as darkness as even the lava lamps wink out.

For a moment longer, all is silence, and then he hears his own voice sound in the gloom. "My favourite's GI Blues,"he says."No, you may not tell anyone. Yes, I do know quite a bit about the movies. My mother loves them. Now go to sleep Molly, we'll have a long day tomorrow-"

He feels a kiss pressed against his cheek in the darkness. A hand reaches out and takes his own.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she murmurs, but for what… He's afraid he couldn't possibly say. So he doesn't say anything and they both go to sleep.

It may be one of the stranger days he's had, he thinks as he falls into the arms of Morpheus, but it's one of the better ones too.

Hair of the Dog, Holmes style

Three weeks later, Molly Hooper deigns to return to London.

She brings with her a tan, a very crumpled wedding dress, and a new partner in crime.

The new partner in crime happens to be the same old friend who stole her away in a wedding limo and managed to convince an entire pub that he and she were a gangland princess and her bodyguard, (though nobody save John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson, is being told that.) He also happens to be the world's only Consulting Detective, but nobody has to be told that because the universe and his mother already know.

After all, you'd be hard pressed to find a more famous man than Sherlock Holmes.

When she gets back to the capital after her holiday (it's not a honeymoon if you're not married before you go) Molly sits Tommy Cranston down and tells him precisely what she thinks of him. And precisely what she thinks of his excuses when he hears what she thinks of him. And precisely where he can shove his engagement and wedding rings, since he thought so little of her when they were about to be wed. Cranston complains and pouts but Molly's new boyfriend convinces him that letting the lady go is advisable- After all, if Molly's going to get married one day, it would be best she not be reminded of her first, unsuccessful attempt at the endeavour.

So Tommy leaves with little grace, unable to understand why the higher functioning sociopath is grinning at him.

He doesn't know that said maniac has plans that involve an engagement ring and a visit to Las Vegas, and this time when she gets into a wedding dress, there's nobody going to be taking her out of it but Sherlock Holmes.

Elvis movies will be optional, but the identity of the bride will not.