Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine.

~ THE FUTURE MRS. HOLMES ~

Catherine Jane Watson is born at four AM on a dreary Monday morning, three hours after Jim Moriarty has finally been gunned down by Sally Donovan in front of the Latvian Embassy.

Her entry into this world is not an easy one.

Sherlock Holmes knows because he was there.

He had to be, you see- Her father was in an ICU on the other side of the hospital, recovering from injuries sustained whilst keeping his wife safe from the (now-deceased) consulting criminal. That Sherlock had been partially responsible for his gaining those injuries- he knows now that he should have tried to keep John out of the hunt for Moriarty- results in him standing in, literally in loco parentis, while Mary labours to bring her daughter into the world without the help of her husband.

Mary knows it's his fault John is absent and this is made obvious in every glower and glare.

Fortunately for Sherlock however, they took her Glock 9mm from her in the ambulance.

The birth itself manages to somehow be both harrowing and tedious, though he gets through it. That Mary doesn't kill him with her bare hands, Sherlock feels, is a testament to how much pain she's in, rather than any residual fondness she harbours for him. And he has no doubts about her level of agony: He's seen men tortured who seemed to go through less. Which is why he holds his tongue; She swears at him, he takes it. She tells him she's going to kill him, he tells her she's entitled. Sherlock has been briefed by Molly Hooper and his mother about what to expect, and he knows that expecting any sort of civility from a woman in labour is an exercise in fantasy-

A woman in labour is in far too much pain to really give a toss about him.

Mary survives more than fourteen hours' labour to bring her daughter into the world but when she finally arrives, Sherlock can imagine no more lovely sight than the expression with which she greets the newborn. Such love, such pure, unadulterated love, is new to him, and he finds himself slightly dumbstruck by it. Just as he finds himself dumbstruck when, again in lieu of John, one of the nurses asks him to hold her after Mary finally passes out from her exertions, her last conscious act being to call him a, "tosser."

He doesn't remembering agreeing before the midwife places the infant in his arms.

He stares at her, feels the weight of her fragility in his arms and for a moment…

For a moment all is quiet in the world.

She is small, he thinks, this Catherine Jane Watson. Pink. Mewling and noisy and- though neither of her parents might wish to admit it- surprisingly smelly. Sherlock peers down at the child, nonplussed; He doesn't, for a moment, honestly see what all the fuss is about. In fact, she reminds Sherlock uncannily of Mycroft when he's feeling hung-over and bad-tempered.

But then she opens her eyes sleepily and smiles at him, and in that moment she appears to be infinitely more wonderful than Sherlock thinks Mycroft could ever be. Than anyone ever could be. And that's it. He is- to use Molly Hooper's phrase- a goner.

Catherine Jane Watson has stolen his heart without any effort, and her skill is so great that he doesn't even notice the theft.

He is left with her while John and Mary recover.

Sherlock's not sure why, until one of the nurses informs him that Molly Hooper identified him as the child's uncle and asked that he be kept in the loop.

When he finds this out he texts Molly, thanks her, but she says to think nothing of it.

So Sherlock doesn't, he just goes back to contemplating the wonder that is his best friend's now-five-hour-old daughter. Goes back to counting her toes and staring at her scrunched up little face and protecting her, oh protecting her from anyone who would harm her.

Moriarty's gone but there are others, Sherlock knows this. There are so many others still out there.

And so perfect a creature as she must be kept from harm.

He takes her in, catalogues everything he can about her. Infants are impossible to deduce, a genuine blank slate, but he finds himself willing to speculate. She has her father's blond hair and her mother's bright blue eyes, this Catherine Jane Watson. She also has her father's mercurial smile and her mother's fierce intelligence, (Sherlock can tell just by looking at her, despite the fact that all she's doing is holding onto his index finger and sleeping).

As she rests in his arms, Sherlock gives into temptation and decides to test a hypothesis he heard Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper discussing: He reaches down and, quietly, takes a sniff to ascertain whether there is actually such a thing as a newborn baby smell.

If there is, he thinks, it's comprised entirely of faeces, milk and bodily fluids.

But there's something under it, he realises after a moment, something he can't quantify. Something altogether sweeter that whispers to him in some inescapable, biological way that bearsexamining. It's ever so slightly terrifying, for a man married to his work.

Sherlock would spend some time investigating, but even he knows experimenting on your best friends' new baby is A Bit Not Good, so, mercifully, he resists.

She speaks at barely a year- Mary's influence, he's convinced- and she stages her first jailbreak from her crib at the ripe old age of thirteen months.

Clearly, Sherlock thinks, she has inherited her parents' adrenaline-junkie ways.

She's fluent in English and Russian- Mary's teaching her- by the time she's four and she's skipped two years ahead of her classmates by the time she's six. (Mathematics seem to be her strong suit, art not so much. And they soon learn that she's actively dangerous at sports if you give her anything resembling a stick).

To Sherlock she is perfect. Sweet. The only child he could actually get along with. In Catherine, he feels, he has met the closest thing to an interesting infant he will ever encounter, and he is glad that he is in her life.

He and John bring her to her first crime scene when she's eight. She watches everything with wide eyes, watches Sherlock make his deductions. It's in the car-ride home that she says it.

"Just so you know, dad," she tells John with earnest, clear-eyed gravity. "I'm going to marry Sherlock when I grow up: I've decided.

He's way more interesting than anyone else."

For once neither John nor the detective know what to say. Mary thinks it's hilarious.

When Sherlock tells Molly she says nothing, just blinks at him and gives him this odd, sad smile and then wanders back into the Watsons' kitchen to give Mary a hand with the lunch.

Despite her being teased about it, Catherine- or rather, Kitty- continues in her predilection for Sherlock in the years that follow. She follows his blog, becomes- insofar as possible- his apprentice. When Molly (John's stand-in and sometimes successor as helpmate) needs an assistant, Kitty is always there.

She catalogues, debates, researches. She has the makings of a fine detective.

And if she looks at Sherlock with stars in her eyes, then so much the better; He's always appreciated an audience, and one so obviously clever fits the bill.

"We've been thrown over by our own daughter," Mary mock-complains one evening after Kitty comes home with her first ever police escort, crowing in glee at how she and Sherlock solved their first ten. (Turns out, the conjoined twins weren't really conjoined).

Molly laughs- she was called to the crime-scene with Sherlock- but there's something in her face that's a little sad, a little… ashamed, almost. When anyone seems to notice though, she brushes their questions away.

Sherlock puts it down to the fact that she's just broken things off with yet another unsuitable man- Why can't she just find herself a good one? he often wonders. Lord knows, she's attractive and amiable enough-

There's an answer to that lurking right on the surface of his thoughts, but as always he elects to push it away.

For the first couple of years Sherlock's baffled by Kitty's avowal that they'll be wed, but eventually he shrugs and accepts her assumptions the way he accepts everything else: With a pinch of salt. She's young, he knows. She's enjoying shocking John. She'll grow out of it.

And if she doesn't, well, her father will shoot him long before she actually tries anything, so one way or another Sherlock will escape the old matrimonial noose.

He tells Molly this one day when Kitty's about twelve and the pathologist shakes her head. Smiles at him.

For some reason he can't imagine she goes up onto her tiptoes and kisses him but her eyes are still so sad.

"Just keep telling yourself that, Sherlock," she says quietly, and then goes back to running her labs. Eventually he leaves for Baker Street.

Kitty and he manage to get as far as her teenage years in one piece, both unaware of the battleground that lies ahead.

He even teases her about her crush sometimes, for all he knows it's one of her few weak spots.

Because she's clever, determined- sometimes alarmingly so- though she has indeed inherited her father's sweet-tempered nature, and she can get along with pretty much anyone. She's not pretty in any conventional way but she's… attractive. Striking. And she tends to come across as older than she actually is, which sometimes leads to Sherlock having to step in and point things out for strangers.

Particularly if those strangers are older teenage boys.

When John does it he's a monster but when Sherlock does it he's dashing; For this reason Holmes finds himself relegated to Possible Boyfriend Frightener in the Watson household rather quickly, once Kitty hits her mid teens.

"It's safer than letting John do it," Mary opines once, when Sherlock and she are recovering from a bout with an Armenian drug smuggling ring. "He's still licensed to carry a firearm, you know…"

Since Sherlock does know this, and also knows how John would undoubtedly react to some of the male attention he's seen Kitty get, he feels he must agree.

It's the least he can do for his apprentice, as well as her parents.

That his constantly deflecting certain kinds of male attention may have encouraged her feelings regarding him isn't something which occurs to Sherlock, or indeed anyone else, except, perhaps, Molly.

But that is exactly what happens. For three years, between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, Sherlock manages to walk this fine line between being Kitty's mentor, friend and, well, he supposes the correct phrase would be "crush," but he doesn't like using it. Molly's advice in this area is helpful, but even she doesn't seem to realise how seismic the fissure Sherlock's standing on is. Because on the day or her seventeenth birthday, having needled and finagled and pleaded in order to get herself walked home (alone) from her party by Sherlock, Kitty Watson does the unthinkable.

She corners her father's best friend against the wall of her house and she… She snogs him good and proper.

Sherlock's more shocked than anything, and it's for this reason that she manages to get so close. Any other young woman who tried such a stunt would be pushed away, but he can't do that to her. After a moment though, when it becomes obvious that he's not going to do anything back, Kitty pulls away from him. She stares up at him with wide eyes.

"This sort of thing requires audience participation, Sherlock," she says good naturedly. "I know I got the drop on you, but still-"

She makes a move towards him and he puts his hand on her shoulders. Stops her.

"No," he says, quietly and earnestly. His tone does not brook disagreement.

Kitty though, used to getting her own way and knowing well that pushing boundaries is an excellent technique for doing so, merely laughs and tries again.

This time when Sherlock stops her, the hands on her shoulders are not quite so gentle.

She looks at him with such… betrayal that it makes his chest hurt.

"I wouldn't allow anyone to manhandle you, Kit," he says. She opens her mouth to reply but he silences her with a look. The teenager actually begins to pout. "And if I wouldn't allow anyone to do that to you, then why would I allow you to do it to me?"

He can tell she doesn't understand. "But this is what every bloke wants," she begins and then stops, frowning, at the look of distaste on his face. Sherlock's starting to feel angry, even though he doesn't want to be, but he knows he will have to keep his temper through this.

He would not damage his relationship with this girl for anything.

"No," he says. "Not every man wants this. Not from you. Not from anyone. It's- It's a good deal more complicated than that, and I believe you know it." He shakes his head to himself.

"And if you don't you should do."

For a moment Kitty looks horrified, but then she rallies. Crosses her arms, shoots him an arch look. "Are you saying I'm not pretty enough?" she asks bluntly. "Because you're always telling me I'm gorgeous, and smart, and talented, and kick-arse, and, and, well, wonderful-"

"And so you are," he says evenly. "You are all of those things. You must never doubt that you are all of those things. But I-" He draws himself up to his full height. "I am not interested."

"In anyone?" She says the words and for the first time in years her voice sounds tiny. Sherlock can't work out whether she's asking him for reassurance or reacting with horror.

She may be doing both, he has no doubt that Mary Watson's daughter can multi-task.

"Not in anyone," he agrees softly, and to take the sting out of it he reaches out, places a gentle kiss on her forehead. She gives a little gasp as if that action has burned her, and he pulls quickly away. This must cease. "Now there's to be no more of this, do you understand?" he says, trying to sound firm despite the fact that he feels so bloody rattled. "I do not seek out, nor do I enjoy romantic entanglements with either sex-"

"So this isn't because you've known me forever and Dad would murder you?" she asks, and again he hears it, that smallness to her voice. The pleading quality.

It's so at odds with the confident young woman he's watched her grow into.

Sherlock nods. "Exactly. I'm not interested in anyone. You may take that as gospel."

Kitty stares at him like she doesn't believe him, but she allows him to walk her the rest of the way home.

She is disturbingly quiet the entire way.

Kitty doesn't speak to him for several months after that.

She's going into her GCSEs and she has the excuse of studying, but even Sherlock suspects he's being avoided- And he's right.

After he walks her home that night he explains to her parents what happened between them, bracing himself for a punch from John which never comes. No, his best friend says nothing, merely throws his wife a look and shrugs.

"She's mine," John says. "I've no doubt whose idea the snogging was. I know you wouldn't take advantage, Sherlock."

The detective inclines his head slightly. "Thank you," he says, and with that he promptly leaves the house.

There will be no more discussion of the… incident.

Sherlock calls for her a few days later, hoping the whole thing would have blown over, but it hasn't. Kitty declares that she has to study for a maths test, and couldn't possibly come out with him- For the foreseeable future. Molly steps into the breech at the last moment, relieving him of his need for companionship and also providing a valuable sounding board as to the situation with Kitty-

"Her ego's bruised," Molly soothes. "Her heart too. It'll pass. And at least…"

She trails off but Sherlock knows what she was going to say: At least you were kind about it.

It bothers him a little, that she thought he wouldn't be, but as to the reason? The great Sherlock Holmes couldn't possibly say.

More months pass, and Molly Hooper once again becomes his de facto partner-in-crime (only when John's previously occupied, of course). Watson makes a point of sharing his and Sherlock's adventures with Kitty, but she feigns a disinterest nobody really believes. Her marks in school, despite her apparent uptake in studying, actually go down for a while, and for this Sherlock feels an inordinate amount of guilt: She wants to go to Cambridge, and any dip in her academic prowess will reflect badly on her. But he doesn't force the issue, because he knows he can't.

He remembers himself at that age, remembers how stubborn he was.

And besides, he has some more pressing matters to deal with.

Because Molly Hooper has finally found herself a suitable man. In fact, she's finally found herself the sort of man she should have been looking for long ago. William Healy is bright, kind, thoughtful. He works as a computer programmer, building open platform software specifically designed to help schools in the emerging world. Though he's Irish, Sherlock can find no link to Moriarty- "They entire country's not related!" John teases him when he finds out he's been looking, but the detective finds that he wants to be sure.

Healy though welcomes his interest. "It's good to know my Molly has someone like you looking out for her," he says when he finds out.

There's something about the way he says those words- "my Molly,"- that sets something rather… peculiar twisting inside Sherlock's chest.

He ignores it though. He's good at ignoring things when he wants to. And he has often thought that Molly should just find herself a nice man, which she now has. He's pleased. Delighted even. It's all he's ever wanted for her; Even he's noticed how reticent she's been around him recently, how mournful, and though he doesn't know why, he knows that marriage with a man she loves will change it, which is what he wants-

Just as he had with John, he wants her to be happy.

"What a person wants and what a person needs aren't always the same thing," Mary murmurs to him cryptically one night, when he's stating this opinion, however.

He can feel Kitty's curious gaze on him from the other wide of the room, though she's still keeping him at arms' length.

Once again, Sherlock feels that peculiar something twist in his chest but once again he pushes the thought away. "Of course what she wants is good for Molly," he says bracingly. "Besides, aren't you the one who's always going on about "carpe diem," and "follow you heart," and "yes, we have no bananas," etc. etc. etc?"

Mary looks at him narrowly, and to his surprise he notices her daughter do exactly the same thing, almost unconsciously.

It makes him feel like a specimen in a lab.

"I suppose you know best, Sherlock," he hears Kitty murmur, and both his own and Mary's heads turn at the girl's words. She hasn't spoken to him voluntarily in what seems like an age. But before he can question her she gets up, pads out of the room, taking her tablet with her. He can tell by the set of her shoulders that she's thoughtful.

Sherlock frowns, not understanding, but he sees Mary's little, secretive smile. "What?" he demands. "You only smile when you're up to something."

"That's not true! I also smile when I'm shooting things. And when I'm slagging off Mycroft." She shrugs, her grin turning mysterious. "Think you might be about to be forgiven," she says quietly. "Anything else, I'm afraid I couldn't possibly comment."

And with that she follows her daughter, leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen.

He can't help but feel somehow… outnumbered, though he is alone right now.

Spring turns into summer, and the plans for Molly Hooper's wedding continue apace.

Kitty starts speaking to him again, something which gives Sherlock more satisfaction than he could have imagined. But despite his many reassurances to the contrary, the girl still seems convinced she knows something he doesn't. It's obvious in her every interaction with him.

And it's really starting to piss him off.

Not that it's the only thing; at the moment, everything seems to be irritating to him. He supposes it's the constant talk of Molly's upcoming nuptials, something with which his entire circle of friends seems to be obsessed. Mary's going to be the maid of honour, and Kitty will be bridesmaid. She's being allowed to choose her own dress- so long as it's the same as the others'- and she seems immoderately pleased by this.

So every day, it seems, Sherlock finds out some new, tedious bit of information about Molly Hooper's wedding-

And every day he wishes he knew nothing about it.

Thinking about Molly getting married and becoming someone else's, even if it's what she wants, no longer seems that pleasant an idea.

He tries to convey this notion to Kitty once but she merely grins at him, that same, knowing smile which her mother specialises in. "I hear what you're saying, Sherlock," she says, and somehow the great detective knows he's being mocked. He doesn't like it.

Kitty amuses herself for more than an hour, refusing to tell him what she means.

But time passes and the weekend of the wedding eventually dawns. Sherlock puts on another suit- no morning suit this time, he's not in the bridal party- and, along with the Watsons, he heads out to the country house in which Molly's hosting her wedding. He scoffs when he sees it, knowing as he does that his pathologist would have preferred something smaller and more intimate in a location closer to her childhood home.

That this great monstrosity of a stately home has been chosen indicates that little of this wedding will be to Molly's tastes, and that Healey is not nearly so suitable a match as Sherlock once imagined.

Wisely however, the detective elects to keep that to himself. Bad-mouthing the groom at a wedding is, after all, a Bit Not Good, even he knows. He manages to make it through the wedding rehearsal without incident, manages even to hold his tongue through the rehearsal dinner. But when it's finished he excuses himself.

He can take no more of…this.

He just isn't really sure what… this is.

He's just making his way to his room when Kitty finds him, the teenager skidding to a halt in front of him, clearly out of breath. "Oh, thank God you're still awake!" she says and really, it's most alarming because the girl's not inclined to hyperbole.

"What is wrong?" Sherlock barks, immediately on the alert.

He knows well that he and weddings just don't mix.

"It's Molly," Kit says breathlessly. "She needs your help. She says- She's having a complete melt-down. She's saying she can't do the first dance tomorrow night and I've told her it's totes going to be fine but she just won't listen. She's, like, crying and stuff. And she says she's two left feet and she's going to humiliate herself, and then I remembered you and how you taught me to dance for this and I thought that you'd, like, absolutely do her a solid and show her a few steps-"

"Enough," Sherlock says severely. Really, he thinks, has this wedding driven everyone insane? And Kitty has always been such a sensible girl before. "Where is Molly?"

Kitty points down the corridor. "The Tudor Room. It's the one with the portraits of all King Henry's wives inside it." She smirks, despite her breathlessness. "The owner thinks they're genuine."

"The owner is an idiot." But Sherlock nods. He remembers where that room is. "Very well, I'll go and see what I can do for Molly. Find your mother and ask her to come along too; I'll need a hand if I'm putting up with feminine tears-"

Kitty nods eagerly. "Will do. Just- Be nice to her Sherlock. Molly's having a bad day, and she's getting married tomorrow." She gazes up at him, and suddenly she looks every bit as young as he knows she is. She really is going to be dangerous in a couple of years. "Be as nice to her as you are to me," she says quietly, "and it'll be ok."

And with that the girl's gone in a blur of blond hair and jeans, her footsteps echoing lightly as she heads towards the dining room to find her mother, another dangerous woman…

Sherlock watches her go, then squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath and heads towards Molly Hooper and a dance lesson he won't soon forget.

They've been set up. Or rather he has.

Sherlock knows it the moment he sees Molly, barefoot and dressed in a pretty little green and pink party dress while she silently curses her mobile's battery. There are no tears. There is no drama. She is not even contemplating dancing.

He doesn't know why, and he'll never admit it, but something that almost resembles…disappointment rumbles through Sherlock's chest.

Molly looks up at that moment. Notices him. She gives him an absent-minded smile. "Oh, hello Sherlock," she says quietly and gestures, somewhat uselessly, to the mobile in her hand. The familiar brown eyes sad but trying not to show it, and Sherlock thinks that he might have to hunt down Kitty Watson and give her a peace of his mind. "I was just trying to find somewhere to plug this bugger in- the reception's terrible out here-"

"Kitty said you were having an incident."

Sherlock doesn't mean for the words to come out quite so sharp and clipped as they do, but somehow he can't help it.

Molly stops, blinks in surprise and looks at him askance.

"Really?" she says, and her voice sounds a little less even this time. "Kitty was fine when she was here a minute ago, I can't imagine why she'd be telling tales-"

"So you're not upset?" Sherlock cocks his head at her as he asks and instantly suspicion rears its head.

Molly answers that question far too quickly and far too insistently for it to be genuine.

"No, not upset at all!" she says with a sort of forced cheerfulness. "Everything's perfect! Night before the happiest day of my life, and all…"

The words trail off a little, silence falling, and suddenly Molly can't meet his eyes. Suddenly, her mobile phone seems to be forgotten.

She stares at the carpet, her shoulders slumped in on themselves, and then suddenly- Suddenly she's… It sounds like she's crying, just a little bit.

Sherlock is ever so slightly horrified by this development.

Molly does not weep like Kitty or Mary Watson; both those women cry almost like Sherlock does, their mouths set into thin lines, their eyes facing off into the distance. Kitty's been like that ever since she was a little girl, as the detective well knows. Molly on the other hand covers her face, her shoulders shaking slightly, her sobs quiet and muffled, as if she's embarrassed by them-

Sherlock knows that he should probably call her fiancé, that he shouldn't be the person to handle this. But, he thinks to himself, if this was something she felt she could tell her fiancé then she wouldn't be crying about it in here.

So slowly, with as little awkwardness as he can manage, Sherlock crosses the room an holds out his arms to her. She shakes her head- "I'm fine," she mumbles- and with an impatient snort Sherlock yanks her to him by her skirt and folds her brusquely into his embrace. She tries to object again and he cuts her off. "Shut up and let me comfort you," he says sharply. "I'm your friend and this is what friends do. Apparently. Now what on earth's the matter?"

Molly hiccups and smiles, looking like she's upset and amused at the same time and isn't sure what to do about it. "You'll think it's silly," she settles on, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Well of course I will," he points out. "Normal people and their emotions are incredibly tedious. But this is you, and you're my Mo- You're my friend," he amends quickly. "Think how important to me you must be for me to even countenance hugging you and then get on with it and tell me what's wrong."

And so Molly starts talking about the wedding, and William Healy, and how she's not sure about anything. How it all seemed so perfect until it wasn't, and about how she doesn't think she can go through with it, she just doesn't know how to tell her fiancé or anyone else. Sherlock listens and nods, takes in the entire story and then waits until she's finished.

The silence stretches out, neither of them speaking for ages while he works out what he wants to say.

"So basically," he says, "you're not sure you want to get married tomorrow?"

Molly shakes her head. "I'm sure I want to get married, just not to the man who booked this hotel with me."

Holmes frowns. "But why is that?" he asks. "You and Will seem happy- John and I would have stepped in and spoken out had there been any problems-"

Molly's eyes slide down to her toes, her words mumbled. Even after all these years of knowing her, she still sometimes acts like a mouse. "I love Will," she's saying quietly, "but- but I'm in love with someone else. So in love that I don't think I can go through with the wedding, I don't think it would be fair to him-"

Sherlock frowns. "Then why don't you just marry this other bloke you fancy and be done with it?" he asks. "If you give me a name I'm sure I can have him here on time tomorrow-"

Molly lets out a laugh that's more hopeless than mirthful. Now she looks up at him, and her eyes are sad. "I can't marry him, Sherlock," she says, "because he's not in love with me. I think- well, I thought- that he was in love with someone else, someone a lot younger than either of us, but now I'm not so sure. I just know he's not interested in me." Her gaze darts away. "He's never been interested in me: We're not like that.

I don't matter. "

And with those words, understanding finally dawns for Sherlock Holmes.

Before the Watsons came into his life, he would never have made the leap which follows this. In fairness, he wouldn't have been listening for long enough to put two and two together, his interest in other people's problems being not at all developed. But the Watsons did come into his life, and he has improved his ability to listen to others, and it's this which allows him to hear Molly's words and say the words he needs to say, make the leap he suspects Kitty Watson has been pushing him to make.

"Molly Hooper," he says, slightly incredulously, "are you telling me that even after all these years, and even after all my bad behaviour, you're still in love with me?"

Molly looks mortified but she nods. She can't make eye-contact. "I-Yes," she says. She draws herself up to her full height, makes herself look at him. Even with this bracing behaviour, she still barely comes up to his chin. "Yes, I am," she says, "But I know you don't feel like that about m-"

She doesn't even get to finish the sentence before Sherlock's tightened his grip on her and decided to give kissing her a try. (He's not sure whether the experiment will be successful, but he elects to give it a go). Molly stills for one moment, shock making her freeze up, and then she's kissing him back with as much passion as she can muster, the Tudor Room suddenly becoming her favourite place in the world.

There's a pile of coats in the corner, and they soon discover the door's locked.

Considering what they get up to that night, it's probably for the best.

Neither Sherlock nor Molly see Kitty Watson on the other side of the door to the Tudor Room, turning the key that she "borrowed," from housekeeping and locking them in for the night.

Neither of them see her slipping back into the rehearsal dinner, and neither of them notice her giving both her parents and Greg Lestrade her most innocent grin. (For an older man, the .D.I. is certainly looking fine, she can't help but think.)

Her dad looks kind of worried, as if he's figured out the direction her thoughts have gone.

Kitty shrugs to herself: She's a complicated girl and he'll deal with it. He always has before.

By the time the weddings party wakes up the next day Molly and Sherlock are long gone, Kitty having helped them sneak out of the hotel and arranged a taxi. The Watsons get a postcard from a little church outside the Sussex town where Molly grew up a week later and, despite her disappointment that she's not the new Mrs. Holmes, it makes Kitty Watson smile.