Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch (thank, love!) Enjoy.

~ ERMINE ~

London,

St Martin in the Fields Church,

1892

"Do you, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

And Molly Hooper blinks. Holds her breath and tries to ignore the rapid thudding of her heart as she waits for the vicar to reach the end of her vows. As she waits to say the words that will change her life forever- The fateful I do.

He drones on about for richer, for poorer, etc as she tries to hide her impatience. She wants so much for this wretched day to be over with. She's so uncomfortable: Her corset's laced too tightly and it's making breathing difficult. Inside her silk white gloves, she can feel sweat beginning to pool in the gaps between her fingers, at the heel of her palms. It's trickling down her back, between her breasts, and she already regrets allowing Mama to talk her into wearing the ridiculous metallic tiara upon her head, as well as the extraordinarily long veil...

While both may look impressive in her wedding photos, both are also incredibly heavy.

In fact, if she didn't know better she'd think her head might snap clear off from the strain of pulling them along and if that's not a metaphor for this entire day then she doesn't know what is.

Eventually- mercifully- the vicar finishes the vows however, asks the question he has to ask, and in a quiet, calm voice Molly hears herself say, "I do."

To her relief, her voice doesn't shake and the breath she didn't know she was holding is released in a whoosh.

She has, for once in her life, managed not to embarrass herself.

That preliminary out of the way- the groom has already said his vows- the vicar nods and smiles. Praises God and presents the new couple to the congregation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he booms proudly, "I present to you Mr. And Mrs. William Holmes!"

Organ music swells; The room claps politely, the crowd getting to their feet. From the corner of her eye she can see her Mama and her new husband's mother gossiping together and wiping tears from their eyes. Her new brother-in-law, Mycroft, is making smalltalk with his father and hers, his elegant, heavily pregnant wife at his elbow and smiling. Patting her stomach. He smiles at her and for a moment Mycroft Holmes might be quite the handsomest man in the church.

Feeling slightly awkward at that thought- as well as her newly married status- Molly tries to navigate her way down the steps from the altar and nearly trips on her tent of a wedding dress.

Her new husband's hand comes down and grips her elbow to steady her just in time.

Immediately her stomach gives a little flip; She looks at him to thank him but he's not looking at her, oh no. Out of instinct Molly's gaze follows his and she realises that he's staring at a stunningly beautiful woman in a second row pew of the church. She's dark-haired and scarlet-lipped, covered in ermine and diamonds. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, mouth twisted in a bitter, joyless smile which Molly doesn't understand-

Molly looks at her husband's matching, coldly devastated expression and suddenly she does understand.

Oh God, she does.

Not even so innocent and closeted a creature as she can misinterpret the look that is passing between this woman and her new husband.

It is the look of one who has had their heart broken thoroughly and at exactly this moment.

Molly's stomach flips once again, this time as if she's been tossed from a great height. Her heart races, face flushing as she realises what this means. How foolish she has been. She'd thought… She'd hoped…

Lord, she was such an idiot.

She bites her lip, tries desperately to contain her emotions. She cannot make a scene, she reminds herself harshly. She will not make a scene.

But she can't help the disappointment, the hurt roiling within her: For as much as she has always known that her father wished her to marry into the aristocracy, she had allowed herself to believe that her groom felt some… approval of her, if not affection. And she had allowed herself to hope that his approval would lead to affection if given enough time. William Scott Sherlock Holmes might be an infamous bohemian, and have his hands soiled with trade to boot, but he had also seemed to Molly at their only meeting to be both ridiculously handsome and astonishingly clever. He had even gone to the trouble of asking her- privately, of course- whether she felt happy with the prospect of wedding him.

"No matter what your parents say," he'd told her, "you do not have to wed me if you do not wish to."

He had looked very hard at her, his expression piercing. Molly had been mortified by how brightly she'd blushed.

"I assure you, Miss Hooper," he'd added, "I will not have a wife who has been forced to wed me."

His thoughtfulness in ascertaining her feelings had touched her; Over the months after that meeting they had corresponded and as they did, her feelings for him had grown... warmer. More affectionate. More hopeful. She had allowed herself to believe theirs might end up a love match, for all the little they knew of one another now.

And yet, staring at him on her wedding day, watching him big farewell to another woman without even speaking, Molly is suddenly aware of how ridiculous those hopes of hers had been. Aristocratic marriages were made for money, for property and status, not for love. She has always known this. Money and property she has in abundance; status was to be provided by the Holmes' family's title, and their pedigree. That was all that this marriage was about. Love affairs were made from attraction and desire- Something her new husband clearly did not feel for her, not if he could stare at the ermine-clad beauty before him with that look on his face-

"Don't say anything," she hears him murmur in her ear, voice clipped. Strained. He's looked away from the woman and he's staring at her now. "For God's sake," he hisses, "don't make a scene."

He reaches out, takes Molly's hand. Though the gesture should look courtly, when he squeezes her fingers Molly realises that it's a warning. A sharp one.

Don't say anything, even if you're upset, he's telling her.

Don't embarrass me or yourself in front of all of these people, you silly girl.

For a split second Molly wants to rebel. To snap at him. She wants to scream bloody murder at him for not deigning to warn her that the woman he truly loves would be at their wedding- That there's a woman he truly loves in existence-

But then she takes a breath. Centres herself.

Aristocratic marriages are not about love, she reminds herself.

You know this. You've always known this.

And if you didn't before, she thinks darkly, then you bloody well do now.

So head held high, Molly clears her expression. Makes herself smile. She's had to bite back worse insults than this during their courtship, she reminds herself.

This is just one more task she must perform.

When he sees this, Holmes relaxes slightly and gestures for her to follow him down from the altar and through the church to the door.

From there, they'll get into his carriage and toss the coins, and then this whole, tedious charade will be over with- Thank the Lord.

On wooden legs, they walk down the steps and into a the crowd, the woman in ermine watching them as they do so. Holmes has plastered a smile onto his face and Molly makes herself do the same, makes herself concentrate on looking happy though it's the last thing she feels. There's a kaleidoscope of well-wishers, of ladies' dresses and smiles, of gentlemen's hands to be shaken, but Molly doesn't see it.

She sees nothing.

All she can think about, oddly enough, is the look on Mycroft Holmes' face as he looked at his wife.

Later that night, Molly lies in bed in Musgrave Hall.

Her new husband lies beside her and the two stare into the dark in silence. In expectation.

One could cut the tension with a knife.

Molly knows what she's expected to do tonight- She knows what a husband is entitled to from his bride, and she's resolved to give him it, no matter how little she might desire such a thing right now.

She can't stop thinking about that woman in the church, and what her presence might mean.

When she turns on her side to look at Sherlock though, she can't bring herself to say anything; She supposes that's for the best. A man ought to lead in matters such as these, she thinks. For a moment he looks at her, his mouth opening as if to speak, and then just as quickly he shuts it again. Turns his back to her. Surprised but slightly relieved, Molly does the same.

The silence stretches out and neither of them are willing to break it.

Molly doesn't realise it, but Sherlock will spend the entire night watching her sleep, wishing he knew what to say.