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Chapter Text

London

St Bartholomew’s Hospital

1^st December 2017

“I love this place.”

The grass was deep green, not a fallen leaf in sight.  The path edges trimmed and neat, shrubs pruned ready for spring and the bare branches of every tree twined with fairy-lights.  They were not yet illuminated, tonight would be their first.  So as the London air seemed scented by a million little angel or star shaped chocolates prized from behind foil-backed cardboard doors, the first day of advent would also bring the kind of indescribable magic to the quadrant garden at the centre of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. 

If one believed in such nonsense, of course.  Sherlock turned to Molly Hooper where she sat by his side on the bench.  They had shared a portion of chips as their lunch, there were just five minutes left of her break.  Her face was suffused with a look of contentment equal only to that which he felt in her presence.  Rosy colour in her cheeks, her lips, brightness in her eyes he could attribute to her childlike excitement inspired by the oncoming season and also, simply, to her beauty.  Her spirit shone from her.  She was his very opposite.  Lightness where he existed in the shadows, openness teasing out his guarded nature.  Capability offering its hand to ignorance. 

Sherlock might not subscribe to the kind of giddiness Christmas seemed to bring out in others, he considered the fact that he dispensed with believing in fantastical dream-granters at an earlier age than most, as one of his greater strengths.  But what he did believe in, with all of his heart - such as it was - was Molly Hooper. 

He leant forward and kissed her.  Lost himself and his every ridiculous affectation in the love she embodied and had somehow decided he was worthy of. 

Their brows rested together as their lips parted.  Sherlock took hold of Molly’s fingers where they were laid against his cheek, his mind swirling in thought;

I attribute a certain lightness of spirit which comes from being in this space

to the memories of significant events which have taken place here.

The memory of significant people, significant words…

Not least your accepting of the proposal I never imagined I would make.

I may not hold the flagstones, tended earth or silver-birch in especially high regard,

but – unbelievably, incredibly…

“I love you.”

Molly smiled, pulled back from him and let him hold her gaze with his own.  Her smile widened, crinkling her nose and the outer corners of her eyes.  She shook her head.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” Molly replied, elation in her voice which was at once inexplicable and understandable.  “Nothing.  I just… can’t help it, sometimes.”

She took hold of his face and kissed him again.  When she released him, she stood, as did he.  She made her way back towards the eastern doorway turning back to him just once before disappearing, her face still alight. 

Sherlock remained amazed that he could not help but smile back, even now she couldn’t see him.  He needed to get a hold of himself – his reputation would be in tatters if, in public at least, he didn’t stop it…

Stop…

His smile did drop then.  He narrowed his eyes, tried to clear his mind to allow the straggling thought to take full form.  He needed it to explain the sudden niggling sensation at his centre.

A hand on his shoulder?… No…

Longed for closeness…

Aching in his heart…

Oh.

Sherlock felt a tremor rise from the souls of his feet up the length of his spine and into his brain, reducing his senses to white-noise for a fraction of a second.  When they returned, the scene around him had a hyper-real quality. His movements, when he finally convinced his feet to start carrying him back to Baker Street, felt liquid, as if he were floating.  Realisation did that to him, sometimes.  When it mattered as much as this instance.  His heart pounded, loud in his ears. 

Getting back to the flat took too long.  Seventeen was too many paces.  Mrs Hudson would probably not bring a mince pie with his tea in punishment of his failure to acknowledge her.  Thankfully, finding what he was looking for took no time at all because he would never forget where he put such an important article.  Lifting it from its safe place, Sherlock smoothed out the sliver of paper.

When you can’t stop yourself, text this number…

Eleven digits below.  Sherlock recognised the sensation, the tension and flighty possibility arising from the ball landing in his court.  He fumbled his phone from his coat pocket, almost dropping it.  He pulled off his glove with his teeth and quickly opened up a new message.  Typed in the number.  Paused, his thumb over the keys…

Ready.  SH

He pressed send.  As soon as he did, he felt an almighty sense of anti-climax which made him feel strangely weak.  He sat down heavily on his bed, pulled off his other glove, unwound his scarf.  He lay back, covered his eyes.  They prickled.  

      Oh God.

His phone vibrated on the bed next to him.  He took a fortifying breath before looking at the reply.

Very good, Mr Holmes.  Your reservation is made for sunset this evening.  Please do not trouble yourself, it’s on The House.  Or rather, beneath it.  0.5p will suffice. 

Sherlock was already stood outside the door of 221B when the black limousine pulled up at the curb half an hour later. 

Chapter Text

That same day.

St Bartholomew’s Hospital

Molly looked at the clock – still five hours until the end of her shift.  She sighed, rolled her shoulders.  Closed her eyes for a moment and told herself to get a grip.  She took back up the bowl she had just unceremoniously crashed onto the lab bench, slopping the bladder it contained around. 

Don’t be so childish – the lights aren’t going anywhere!  When was the last time you got to see them get switched on, anyway?

She shook herself and set back to work.  No sooner had the very tip of her scalpel made contact with the white-ish mass but she was startled from her newfound concentration by the lab door being thrown open.  There was only ever one cause for that.  Her head snapped up.

“Dr Hooper?” a man she had never seen before, dressed in a dark suit, a wire connected to an earpiece disappearing under the collar of his shirt, addressed her from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“I need you to come with me.  As a matter of urgency.”

“Oh God.”

Molly knew she would be in trouble for abandoning the lab, but in that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care.  If it wasn’t Sherlock himself throwing that door open, it would be someone who knew something about him that she didn’t.  The prospect terrified her.  She pulled her phone from her pocket as she marched down the corridor in the wake of the secretive stranger.  If he was still able to, Sherlock would kill her for not confirming the sensibility of getting into the car no doubt waiting for her outside.  Her heart was pounding as she fired off a text to Greg.  Then another to Mycroft Holmes.

Greenwich.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade pulled the fuzz-light from the footwell, threaded his arm out of the window and clunked it onto the roof of the unmarked car.  He heard the rear doors slam closed as Sergeant Atkinson and Constable Winter quickly took their seats. 

“I don’t believe it… I don’t bloody believe it…” he muttered to himself as he quickly pressed ‘reject call’ on his phone screen.  That conversation would have to wait a minute.  He indicated and pulled out of the parking space around the corner from the Observatory.  It looked like the investigation would have to take a backseat for now, too.

Lestrade ran through his mental list again, mapping his route and his schooling his thoughts internally for a few moments before he spoke.

“Alright - listen, you two,” he caught the eye of his colleagues in the rear-view mirror.  “You might see some things today you didn’t think you ever would…”

The sergeant and the constable were wide-eyed.  Wet behind the ears, too.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Traffic largely cleared a path in front of him, the strobing blue light making an ever-increasing impact as the December afternoon slipped slowly but surely towards sunset.          

Whitehall.

“Why wasn’t I informed?!”

Mycroft Holmes strode around to his side of the desk, having raced back to his office as soon as word reached him.  He dialled his brother’s number on the desk-phone, his calls having gone unanswered by mobile. 

“Get me Lestrade!”  An assistant scuttled out to follow his orders.  “And if he blocks the call again have him pulled over for speeding!  Oh for God’s sake!”

He slammed the handset down onto the receiver.  Slumped into his chair.  The office having cleared of subordinates, the sound of their hurried activities beyond the door carrying on the air, Mycroft allowed himself a brief moment.  He closed his eyes.  Brought a hand to his face, his fingers curled into his palm, thumb nail grazing the outer corner of his mouth.  His heart was behaving oddly, as only Sherlock could induce it to.  Mycroft heaved a sigh he was very glad there was no one to hear.  He sat forward and took up the sheaf of papers he had brought with him, his eyes scanning over a frankly alarming spread of information.         

His mobile phone rang.  As he lifted it, his eye was caught by the text message he had received from Dr Hooper.  He experienced another rather strange sensation in his middle before he answered the call.

“Lestrade – would you kindly enlighten me as to why… I… I see.  Yes of course, as soon as I heard.  Yes, that is correct.  Well, if you insist.  But why on Earth… Lestrade?  Lestrade?!”

Cursing the entire cellular network as well as the world which had clearly gone mad, Mycroft gathered up the papers, grabbed his coat and umbrella and startled several lackies almost into cardiac arrest as he swept from the building. 

Camberwell

Dread was a near constant companion to John Watson.  Most days it was an ignorable undercurrent, sometimes it rose to a dull ache.  That was being a parent, he supposed.  Probably not made any better by being a fairly unusual parent with a fairly unusual family.  But they got by.  They had their days.  They were happy. 

He was a bit late collecting Rosie from nursery.  Typical – he didn’t get to pick her up usually, but he wasn’t working today.  Even so, he had managed to end up behind schedule by spending too long deliberating in the advent calendar aisle.  Something else he would never know whether Mary would have found easier than he did.  He felt a pang in his middle.  Would he have found that out even if she hadn’t died? 

He looked at the pavement his feet were pounding, cleared his throat and told himself off for being stupid, for dwelling on the wrong things.  Mary, the love they had, it was a moment in time.  His memory of it didn’t need to be spoiled by circumstances which may or may not have altered or soured it.  He owed it to her to remember it as a whole, warts and all, but he had opportunity to carry the perfection of it for the rest of his life.  It was untouchable, now. 

That fact could still blindside him, two years on.  What he wouldn’t give, each and every single day, just to know she was beside him, looking out for him, for Rosie – for them all.  He’d take a living, breathing guardian angel over a whatever-the-hell kind he was forced to accept now, any day.

As he approached the nursery building along the side street, he caught sight of the rear-end of a black Jaguar he had never seen parked outside before. Come to think of it, he’d never seen any car parked right outside the main doors before.  Probably belonged to the head teacher – the fees here were eye-watering, had he himself single-handedly financed this particular purchase?  He rounded the corner, the railings between him and the nightmarish sight which greeted him. 

There were things every parent dreaded.  There were things Rosie’s parents dreaded more than most.  This was one of them.

“Oi!” John shouted – the infuriatingly familiar but still unknown figure holding his daughter in his arms, her little pink rucksack swinging from his hand, touched his finger to his earpiece and mumbled something as John raced through the gate.  “Just what the f…”

“Dr Watson!” Rosie’s teacher rushed out of the building followed by the Head, John almost knocked a mum and her son flying as he pushed past, absolutely no space in his mind available for the excuses the negligent staff were about to give him or the gawping of the people stood around whose worlds were not imploding before their eyes.

“Sir, let me explain…” the suit held up its hand towards him.  John saw red.      

London

1.30 p.m.

I can see where you are. 

Go along with it. 

Try and relax. 

Greg  

Molly swallowed painfully, her throat and chest were tight with anxiety.  Relax, Greg said.  She closed her eyes, blocked out the scenery whooshing past the windows of the car and the confusion it raised in her.  It didn’t help, though.  With reality blocked out, her imagination was free to run wild and a thousand horrific images flashed behind her eyelids and tears redoubled their threat-level. 

He’s all right, he’s all right, she told herself.

Nothing made it better.  She wasn’t cut out for this – there was a limit to what she was able to push down in order to get the job done.  This was something else.  Molly’s heart pounded in her chest – surely the driver would hear it, surely she was moments from blowing apart whatever scheme she had found herself in the middle of…

What do you need?

You.

In a heartbeat, a stillness settled over her.  Her fingers found the gold band on her left hand.  She raised her chin, took a deep breath and blew it out.  He could rely on her.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up halfway along the fanciest high street Molly had ever set eyes on.  It was gorgeous, she was so taken aback by the chocolate-box beauty of it that her worries completely fell away for a second.  The windows of every shop were dressed for Christmas, the café’s were full and fairy-lights twinkled.  There was a little Christmas tree above each brightly-painted doorway.  Molly watched a couple, a taller man in a dark wool overcoat and a woman in a lovely hat, her arm through his and her face pressed to his shoulder as they walked along… she smiled. 

Where the hell was she?

The car door opened and the driver stood back to allow her to get out.  Molly stepped onto the pavement, drawing her coat around her as the chilly air prickled her skin, concern seeping back in with it.  She turned to the driver, wished he would take off the dark glasses, wished she had the skill to ask the right question, that Sherlock had had time to prepare her for any of this…

Her escort smiled.  Warmly.  Molly was thrown by it. She watched as he gestured to the shop nearest to where they were standing.  Molly worked up the courage to slide her eyes from him to it. 

Sarah Angel

Bridal Boutique

Molly’s eyes widened, taking in the mullioned window decorated with cascading lights, snow-covered branches and, in it’s centre, a sparkling, full-skirted dress like something from a Disney film.  Hopelessly confused, she turned back to the driver and raised her eyebrows.

He merely smiled again.  "I'll wait here, Dr Hooper."

Chapter Text

Moments later.

A bell tinkled overhead as Molly pushed open the door of the boutique.  Inside, the small shop was lined with ornate brass rails hung with the most incredible, luxurious fabrics Molly had ever seen.  She supposed they must have been bridal dresses, but there were so many the display looked to her inexperienced eye like a waterfall of glittering snow.  There were two pink velvet chairs, a low table set with a tea service.  A curtained changing area in the corner and, next to that, Molly’s worst nightmare.  A gigantic full-length mirror. 

A woman appeared from in between the rails of dresses, though a door Molly hadn’t even noticed, making her jump. 

“Is it Molly?” this apparition asked, her smile as bafflingly bright and warm as that of the man who had brought her here.

“What’s this about?” Molly asked, finding she needed to clear her throat afterwards.  She was still clutching the door as if for protection.

“Oh, bless you – come in…”  The woman came over to her and took her elbow, guiding her into the shop and closing the door. 

“You look like you’ve had the fright of your life,” Molly found the tops of her arms held and she was bestowed with such a look of compassion that she felt the tears she had only just managed to supress come racing to the surface.  “Don’t worry, my lovely.  It’s just supposed to be a surprise, that’s all.”

Oh Christ!  Molly thought.  What the hell has he done?

“I… I don’t understand… did he… did Sherlock arrange… whatever this is?” Molly was close to screaming something far less polite if someone didn’t tell her he was at least alive in the next few seconds.  She hoped with all her being that he was.  She had a distant, bubbling urge to throttle him herself.    

“Sherlock?  Oh no, lovely.  Mary sorted everything.”

“Mary..?” Molly’s knees wobbled, a strange mist crowded her peripheral vision.  “I don’t… I…”

“Sit down, Molly.”

“Tea and tissues – no bridal shop is complete without them.  It’s not often me who needs them, mind.”

Sarah leant forward and took her third or fourth tissue from the box.  Having sat Molly down, made them both a cuppa and introduced herself, Sarah put Molly out of her misery. 

Mary - darling, bloody meddling, power fiend - Watson.  Two years ago, presumably around the time she was putting into action her plan for saving her husband and his best friend from themselves, Mary had decided she should also poke around in Molly’s future, just in case another little push should ever be required.  Sarah was yet to go into detail, but apparently some decisions had been made on Molly’s behalf involving this somewhat intimidating wonderland in which she now found herself. 

Sarah hadn’t got as far as detail because Molly had stopped her mid flow by expressing her relief that Sarah wasn’t some sort of agent or undercover criminal about to demand something of her in order to save her fiancé’s life.  Or something.  Then, perhaps without proper ceremony, and owing to the shock, Molly had casually dropped into the conversation that Mary was dead.  With her hands shaking and chills running up and down her caused by the adrenaline, saying it hadn’t hurt.  But now, Molly was wiping tears away just like Sarah. 

“Oh, Mary.  Poor Rosie, poor John,” she was saying, her highlighted blonde bob falling in front of her face. 

“Did you know her, then?” Molly asked, keen not to dwell on thoughts of her little urban family and how they had suffered.

“Only as a bride – she was one of mine,” Sarah smiled, looked around.  “She came on her own, bless her.  She was like a child in a sweet shop.  She was brilliant.  Were you her bridesmaid?”

“No, no,” Molly said, blowing her nose.  “She did ask, but I… I didn’t fancy the attention.”

Didn’t fancy all the ‘bridesmaid and best-man’ nudge nudge, wink wink crap.  Not in front of Tom.

“The way she talked about you, Molly, I was amazed when you had different surnames.”

Molly’s heart skipped, it was wrenchingly painful.  She felt the same; she had lost a sister. 

“Goodness…” Sarah shook herself, sat up straight, stuffed the tissue in her hand up the sleeve of her pale grey cardigan.  “Well, we’d better do her proud – she’s certainly done you proud, my goodness, now I see you!  It’s going to be perfect…” the boutique owner stood and made towards the door of the back room. 

“I’m sorry – Sarah,” Molly called after her.  “I’m still a bit confused…”

“All will become clear, lovely Molly, just drink your tea.”

Molly slumped back in her chair.  She felt exhausted.  Oddly tingly.  

So, as far as Sarah knew nothing sinister was going on.  Greg obviously knew something Molly didn’t and Sherlock probably had some serious explaining to do.  Molly reached for her bag on the floor beside her, pulled her phone from the front pocket.  Of course, Molly swore under her breath, out of charge.  She shouldn’t have left the map and tracing apps running.  She must find time to get a new handset with decent battery life.  Oh God, she needed to phone Bart’s.  She took a breath to call to Sarah to see if she had a charger just as the woman reappeared through the door with a very large bag.  Sarah beamed at her.  Molly’s stomach dropped.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Sarah’s shoulders dropped, she pursed her lips, a look of indulgence in her features.  “Dr Hooper, I don’t wish to insult your intelligence, and I think I’m right in saying you’re engaged to a detective.  Look around you – what do you think Mary picked out for you?  A new car?”

“But… but…” Molly struggled to know which objection to put forward first.  “We haven’t even… I’m not after a wedding dress.”

“Good job,” Sarah said, swooping towards Molly with the bag and pulling her from her seat.

There was this woman.  She was tall and elegant, sure in her skin, graceful and in control.  The warm ivory colour of her outfit suited her perfectly, her eyes shone, her hair was lustrous, as if this fabric had been waiting for her to come and pair it with her natural features.  A bodice with delicate straps and a sweeping v-shaped neckline which plunged daringly towards the fitted waist, hugged her slender top-half.  Her back was bare, the material caressing her sides and holding her waist as though it had been made for her.  Her hands were pushed confidently, assuredly, into the pockets of the trousers which skimmed and fitted her legs, finishing just above her anklebone, showing off the heeled sandals she wore.  Long, fine fingers came to touch the neckline, where the roses of the lace which overlaid the whole thing, had been skilfully allowed to bridge the gap between the fabric and the woman’s skin.  Molly was aghast looking at her.  In dumbstruck awe. 

Sarah appeared in the mirror, a similar look of wonder on her face.  She laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder.  Then it became real.

“What do you think?” Sarah asked.

“That’s not me,” Molly answered, honestly.

“I can assure you it is, Molly.”

Molly put her hand back into the silk-lined pocket, turned herself so she could see her back.  She loved her clothes, but that was just it – she loved her clothes.  She didn’t have time to shop, the choice bewildered her when she did, and never – in a million years – would she have taken a second glance at, let alone tried on, something like this.  Now she was going to struggle to ever take it off. 

“I’m so glad it’s not a dress,” she laughed, Sarah joined her. 

“Don’t you like dresses?” Sarah asked.

“They don’t like me,” Molly corrected.  “Well, they never seem to do me any favours.  I had one I loved to bits, but I lent it to Mary and never saw it again – blimmin’ typical!”

“Hmmm,” Sarah was knelt by Molly’s feet now, straightening out the already perfect trousers.  “You might be a bit chilly, that’s all I’m thinking.”  She stood.  “I have just the thing.”

While she dashed away Molly continued to look at herself in incredulous wonder.  She wasn’t cold in here at all, actually.  And it wasn’t really pressing to choose what she might wear with it, surely.  But whatever – she was enjoying herself, playing dress up.  She wished Mary was with her.  She was, in a way.

“Here,” Sarah returned, unwrapping tissue from around something folded into a cream box.  She lifted out a swathe of snowy-white wool and Molly couldn’t help but turn and put her hands on it.  The knit was incredibly fine, it was cashmere.  To a knitwear-fancier like her, it was Class A.  Sarah held it out and Molly realised it was a cardigan.  She slipped her arms into the sleeves and Sarah draped it over her shoulders.  The hem fell to her knees.  A line of tiny mother of pearl buttons ran from the cuffs which sheathed her hands like gloves, up to each elbow.  Was a girl supposed to love a cardigan?  As much as her wedding not-dress?  As much as her intended?

“Oh my…” Molly tried to wrangle her buzzing thoughts, a fizziness rising in her.  “I love it… these buttons…”  One particular thought suddenly stilled among the crazy-dance.  “Sort of reminds me of my lab coat!”  She laughed.  “But is it a shame to cover up the whatsit underneath?”

“Jumpsuit.”

“Jumpsuit, yes – sorry.”

“Does it feel like hiding yourself away?  Your lab coat, I mean?”

Molly thought about that, turned back to the mirror.  She caught Sarah’s eye, the woman’s raised eyebrows making her giggle.

“No.  It’s like becoming myself.”

“It’s your armour.”

Molly smiled at herself, this time.  “Yes.  It is.”

“Well then.”

Molly nodded when Sarah gestured to ask permission to take the bobble out of the end of her French plait.  She loosened Molly’s hair and brushed it over her shoulder, Molly pulled her fingers through the front, altering her parting to the side, smoothing out the waves.  Blimey. 

“Do you think there’s an outside chance Mary knew you better than you know yourself?” Sarah observed. 

Molly let out a long breath, feeling the last of the tension leave her.  “She certainly knew my… Sherlock… better than he…”  Emotion rushed in to fill the void.  She pressed her hand to her mouth, squeezed her eyes closed.  Sarah took her other hand in both of hers and held it tight. 

The bell rang above the door as it was opened.  Molly looked up and took in the slightly blurry vision of John Watson, Rosie in his arms, before she started sobbing properly.  She took a wobbly step towards her friend and found herself enveloped in a hug, Rosie’s chilly little cheek pressed into hers and her arm wound around Molly’s neck.  She wrapped her own around John’s back. 

“I had no idea, John, I promise,” Molly didn’t know where the guilt she needed to assuage came from, but everything was suddenly as wrong as it was right. 

“It’s okay, Molly.  It’s all good,” John pulled back from her, although Rosie didn’t, so there was then a tangled little moment where Molly was passed her God-daughter and she settled her on her hip, kissing her several times in the process. 

“Christ’s sakes, Mary.”  John shook his head, smiled at the ground, his hands on his hips. 

Molly wiped her eyes with the tissue Sarah passed her.  “I love it when she’s around, John.”

He laughed.  “Yeah… things are always better after she turns up.”

The friends shared a smile.  Only then, did Molly take in what John was wearing. 

“Oh shit!"  Molly covered Rosie’s ear too late, John laughed.  Molly whipped back around to look at Sarah.

“Take a seat, lovely, we’ve not got long.”  Sarah brandished a box at Molly, which rattled faintly, as she moved back over to the chairs by the window.  Molly noticed the sky was turning pink outside the slightly steamed-up windows.  She dithered, caught, jitteriness filling her middle. 

“John, I need to go home.”       

Chapter Text

London

At that moment.

Sherlock had managed to shake his minder.  He knew where he was going, he knew what time he had to be there, he could do without the babysitter. 

You know I’ll be there.

Taking a trip to his Marylebone tailor was never a chore as such, although generally he preferred to set his own schedule in all circumstances, disliked being outnumbered in terms of who knew what.  But he would let her off.  The suit was good.  And now he was back on his own terms.

Sherlock could hear Mary’s voice, feel her very essence upon the still, late afternoon air.  There was something of her in the bright linings of the clouds as the sun caught them on its way towards the horizon.  Something of the potential she exuded could be perceived in the way time seemed to be slowing, as if in anticipation.  His was the only living spirit in the garden of remembrance, but he was not alone.  He closed his eyes, watching the parade of images as they danced across his conscious; the usurper, the ally, the mystery, the decipher, the agent, the equal, the mother, the beloved.  The face rested upon his shoulder, framed by a veil, alight with love.  Sherlock felt his backbone strengthen, energy flow through him freely and uninhibited.  Mary’s voice rang clear in his mind as if she was stood by his side.

Get your feet off the grass, you prat – you’ll ruin those shoes!

Chapter Text

Trafalgar Square

Almost sunset

Before it sank out of sight, the sun had one last gift for the city.  Where its rays could insinuate themselves between the buildings, they gilded prominent features of the skyline, brought fire to the rippled surfaces of fountains where rooflines and towers and spires were reflected, creating such a dramatic opposing effect to the indigo skies above that it could take the breath away.

Sherlock strode across the flagstones, looking up to the summit of the column, reaching like a pointed finger to the heavens, the squared shoulders of the gallery and then, like the glint of an unavoidable gaze, the church caught his eye.  Bathed in the dying light, the pale stone drew him in.  The bells struck up, Sherlock followed the tune in his mind.

… you owe me five farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s...

Half a pence, in today’s money.

If only every wager cost so little,

carried such little risk.

The only currency I have to put down, Mary,

is the life you gave me.

How can it ever be enough?

The sanctity of a vow, the sincerity of it,

does not make it unbreakable.

Is it enough..?

As he approached the road, intending to cross, a limousine drew up in front of him.  He stilled.  Fought the urge to adjust his scarf, brush down the front of his coat, check his shoes.  He stood watching the rear passenger door.  It was opened by the suited driver, and Mycroft unfolded himself onto the pavement.

Here we go.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“You look gorgeous.”

Mycroft’s lips pressed together and Sherlock heard the quietly derisory sigh.  Mycroft buttoned his dress coat over the bottle-green three-piece suit, pale shirt and silk tie, carefully smoothing the paisley patterned scarf beneath the fabric as he did so. 

“I trust your own tailor required little notice, given the minimal variation in his repertoire,” Mycroft shot. 

Sherlock smiled.  “I fear there is greater trouble to come from a lack of notice,” he said.  

“Yes.”  Mycroft held out his hand and was passed a leather document holder through the open window of the car.  He extracted a piece of thick, cream paper and held it out to Sherlock, who took it. 

“Your banns were read, two weeks ago,” Mycroft said.

“No they weren’t,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes they were. I signed the register myself. Apparently.”

There was a pause.  “Will you do so again today?  Please?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at his brother. 

“There should be another,” Mycroft said. 

“Now that really would have required more notice.”  Sherlock watched Mycroft’s face carefully, saw his eyes flick away, his shoulders drop by the merest fraction. 

“It is what it is,” Sherlock said, Mycroft looked back at him.  “We’ll take the party to her.”

At this Mycroft rolled his eyes, suppressed a wry smile.  He took the license back and tucked it away, handing the file back through the window and dismissing the car.  He came to stand at Sherlock’s side and the two of them considered the grand sight of St Martin-In-The-Fields. 

“Well, hasn’t this been a long while,” Mycroft said.  “Midnight mass all over again.”

“Urgh, God.  Let us pray for less bloodshed today…”

The heads of the two men turned as one at the sound of a siren.  A police car drove into view, closely followed by another black Jaguar.  Sherlock chuckled.

“You should have put her on the payroll.”

“Did I not?” Mycroft turned to Sherlock, raised his eyebrows, gifted him that infuriating, omniscient look.  Sherlock didn’t have time to draw even the kind of shallow breath his tight chest and galloping heart would allow him to, in order to respond, before the two vehicles had stopped in front of them and a cacophony erupted. 

Two officers whose names he had little interest in climbed out of the police car, the male of the two opening the rear door and offering his hand to Mrs Hudson, who clambered out, wearing a long, fitted maroon coat and boots, a reasonably minimal (for her) hat impeding her progress somewhat.  She was beaming, she came fussing over to Sherlock and pulled him into a hug, an arrangement of flowers in one hand which was at complete odds with her outfit.  He didn’t have a moment to contemplate this minutely jarring detail, however, as he was then greeted by the sight of his mother and father getting out of the Jag.  Mycroft shook their father’s hand while Sherlock found himself the recipient of his next embrace.  His mother kissed his cheek and held him, words apparently failing her. Him too, a bit. Just for a moment.  Touching her hand to her lips, she moved on to straightening Mycroft’s coat and Sherlock smiled at his reaction before turning to his dad.  William offered his hand to Sherlock and he took it, holding the older man’s gaze for a long, steadying moment. 

“Might have to get my own chopper – don’t see why you kids should have all the fun.”

Sherlock smiled.  “You are privileged.  He only puts me in one when I’m in trouble.”

Sherlock searched for whatever it was he felt the urge to say in the pause which followed, keeping his eyes on his dad’s.  He was beaten to it. 

“Is Molly all right?” William asked him.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, truthfully, feeling a sharp twist in the region of his diaphragm.  “She can’t be entirely, can she?”

Sherlock’s father took hold of his upper arms.  “You do yourself a disservice, my boy.  We have to make ourselves worthy of them.  I have every faith in you.”

He winked at Sherlock and released him.  It was then that Sherlock noticed John; he had shared the car with his parents.  Sherlock met his eye and John nodded, smiling a tight smile.  Rosie reached for Sherlock from within his arms.  Taking the little girl’s weight on his left arm, Sherlock shook John’s hand.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“What for?”

“For choosing her.”

John let out a clipped laugh as Sherlock brought his hand to cradle Rosie’s head where she had laid it in the crook of his neck to hide from the cold. 

“She’s made one pretty catastrophic mistake, though, hasn’t she?” John said.

“Has she?”

“No… effing bridesmaids.”

Sherlock laughed.  “There’s always something.”

“Mr Holmes.”  The detective sergeant came to speak to Mycroft.  “I should move the cars, Sir, if that’s all right?”

“Yes, thank you.  Your services will no longer be required, feel free to…”

“Oh, sorry Sir, Inspector Lestrade told us to stay.”

“Did he, now?”

“Someone’s got to get it on video, Sir.”

Sherlock spoke over the sniggers of the little crowd, “speaking of Lestrade, where is he?”

Chapter Text

London

Sunset

Molly’s eyes were wide, trying to take in every tiny element of the scenery passing her by.  London, shaking off the day and preparing for night.  There were some parts of today Molly would readily shake off, but already the most magical parts were slipping from the forefront of her memory, turning hazy.  She would make sure she held on as tightly as she could, especially from now on. 

Greg looked at her sidelong from the driver’s seat, dapper in his dark suit and fulfilling his role as driver perfectly, the strobing light on the roof having sped up their detour.  It was a good job John had had the idea of the last-minute car swap, he’d told Molly.  This bit wasn’t in the plan.  Apparently. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Mm-hmm,” Molly practically squeaked. 

Greg laughed.  “What a day,” he said.

“What a woman,” Molly affirmed. 

Trafalgar square was probably a picture.  This was the first day of December, the first nightfall, there were almost certainly swathes of Christmas lights bursting into life which at any other time Molly would have been thrilled to look at.  But as it was, there was only one thing she wanted to see.  

Having closed the car door, she turned and looked up the stone steps of St Martin’s and straight at Sherlock.  She crossed the pavement, he came down the steps to meet her and she threw herself into his arms.  He gathered her up, so tightly, lifting her feet from the floor.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, closing her eyes, swamped by relief and the solid reality of him.  Holding her.  Here.  Now.

He lowered her to her feet, pulled back.  She took his hands in hers and waited.  He cleared his throat before meeting her eye.  Gave her that one-sided smile.  Gave her the desperate urge to kiss him.  She supressed a giggle which was part nerves part euphoria. 

“Hooper.”

Molly let out a breath.  “Holmes.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled.  “Do you want to keep it?”

“Do you honestly think I would miss the opportunity to make us Dr and Mr Holmes?”  She raised an eyebrow and Sherlock’s beautiful smile widened still more.  “I think I’ll keep it at work.  But I’ve only ever wanted to be yours.”

At this his brow furrowed, just a little, his head moved from side to side, almost not at all, and his eyes dropped to their hands.  Molly felt the corners of her eyes sting.  She shook herself and took a step backwards, holding out her arms.

“What do you think?” she asked him. 

She had left Mary’s long white coat open – she’d loved how it swished around when Mary wore it to Rosie’s christening.  Couldn’t believe her friend would give her such a wonderful gift – another.  A quick squirt of her perfume at home was all she added to the make-up Sarah had applied for her and she had left her hair loose over her shoulder and un-fussed with.  No necklace or earrings, just the white-gold band which had been Sherlock’s grandmother’s.   

While Sherlock took her in, she ran her eyes over him.  His black suit was definitely new, it was absolutely pristine, fitted to perfection, as was the deep aubergine-coloured shirt beneath.  Typically shiny lace-ups, typically covetable midnight-blue scarf.  And, of course, the coat.  In this light, it was the red buttonhole which drew her eye.  She imagined the brooch he had given her on her birthday, the grotesquely glamorous diamond-encrusted scull, winking its heart-shaped eye from where it was pinned to Mary’s coat.  She giggled.  Sherlock met her eye again.

“What do I think?”

He drew her close, making her gasp.  He lowered his mouth to her ear.  “I think you look… I think you are… incredible, Molly Hooper.”

“Mr Holmes?  Dr Hooper?”

Sherlock turned and Molly stumbled against him, dizzy, her hand on his chest.  Was that his heart..?

The bells began to peel, preparing to chime the hour.  Sherlock took Molly’s hand and they climbed the steps to where their friends and family were waiting, parted in the middle to allow a man wearing a shirt and tie and carrying a clipboard to call to them.  Sherlock shook the man’s hand and thanked him as they reached the top of the steps.  Molly received a kiss from Mrs Hudson, followed by a hand-tied bunch of hellebores and winter greenery (“the florist suggested red roses, but I know how you love your plants, dear,” she whispered, and Molly kissed her again).

“Beneath the house?” Molly returned her attention to Sherlock, along with the rest of the group, when he asked this odd question of the man looking expectantly at them.

“Of course, Sir.  Does that suit?”

Sherlock chuckled, raised his eyes skyward. 

“What?” Molly asked.

Sherlock put his hand into his jacket and extracted a square of paper.  Unfolding it into a strip he showed it to Molly. 

“When you can’t stop yourself, text this number… With all my like, Mary.”

When Sherlock finished speaking he looked at John.  Molly did the same.  Rosie waved at them from her position on his front, wearing the little white dress from Sarah’s boutique, with a sash sewn from the material of the (now slightly shorter) dress Molly had worn to her christening, beneath her coat.  Molly beamed at Rosie as everyone laughed.  Everyone apart from Sherlock and John, who Molly could see were silently saying a thousand things to one another it would do them the world of good to actually voice.  Get the hell on with it, boys…

“Are you ready?”  A clipboard swapped hands so its owner could indicate the way.

Molly gripped Sherlock’s hand.   

Chapter Text

The Crypt

St Martin’s-In-The-Fields

Moments later

There was beauty in the original, Sherlock mused.  Unspoilt, pure, simple in the most profound sense of the word.  Authentic.  These qualities stood the test of time while the ostentatious and the faddish fell into ruin.  He enclosed Molly’s hand with his own as soon as their coats had been taken, watched her face as she took in the uncomplicated grandeur of the space which had been made hers, just for one extraordinary evening. 

The brick vaulted ceiling above them was up-lit from every wide supporting pillar.  With very little other lighting, save a few stands of pillar candles, the crypt had reclaimed an atmosphere which was much more befitting than that with which it was ordinarily occupied.  The café tables and chairs were mostly gone, only a few placed to either side of the central walkway down which their echoing footsteps were making progress.  Lowly, only just audible, the sound of a single violin playing a haunting and painfully heartfelt waltz drifted across the cocoon-like space. 

Molly squeezed Sherlock’s hand in hers.  He looked down to where they were entwined between them.  The contrast of their attire, white and black, struck him somewhere deep in his breast and he felt… afraid. 

Molly pressed herself close to his side, he bent his head to listen as she tilted her face upwards. 

“Last time I heard this piece of music, I didn’t think I could possibly have loved you more.  But that wasn’t true.  I love you more now.”

They drew level with the two pillars furthest from the door and stopped, their feet upon the tombstones.  The party following them continued to chat quietly, casting their eyes around, smiling, staying close – no one seemed to want to take up a chair.  Sherlock tried to focus on the comfort their proximity, their ease, brought him, because Molly’s words had felt like shot peppering his skin.  He willed his hand not to shake as he raised hers to his lips.  

I have never made a vow in my life

And after tonight I never will again…

“Sherlock?” Molly ducked into his eyeline. 

My first and last vow…

“Molly… I…”     

I made a vow, remember?

“What is it?  Sherlock?”  Molly placed her flowers on the table they were stood in front of and moved her hand to his upper arm, the look on her face driving the shrapnel deeper.  He heard a rushing, his head and his heart were at war within him, his feet wanting to run and his hands unwilling to let her go…

What do I do?

He felt a hand on his back.  He looked up to find John at his side.

“You all right?” he asked.  “Not as easy as I made it look, is it?”

Molly smiled.  Sherlock swallowed, pushing the panic down enough to allow him to speak.

“John…”

“Mind if I say a few words?”

Sherlock’s brow creased. 

“No, that’s good, John – please do.”  Molly gave John one of her minutely precise looks.  Sherlock kept his eyes on her as John stepped to the side, turning to face everyone else.  Molly tipped Sherlock’s chin up with her knuckle, gave him a smile which seemed to invite as much reassurance as it offered.  He held the hand she threaded through his arm tightly when they turned to listen.      

“Evening, everyone – hello, yes,” John began.  The attention of the seven adults and a small girl, plus the other few people who were keeping a respectful distance, quickly settled upon him.  “I shan’t keep you.  Let’s face it, no best man’s speech could ever and probably should ever go on as long, or be as… absolutely bloody bonkers as Sherlock’s, so I won’t even try to compete…”  Everyone laughed at this, but Sherlock didn’t feel able.  “Truth be told, no other speech will ever be better, as far as I’m concerned.  No other person could ever fill that role more perfectly.”

John turned to Sherlock.  “Sherlock I would pay through my teeth to know what you’re thinking half the time, but I reckon I’ve got a good idea what’s going through your head right now.  Molly, you are brilliant and one of the loveliest people on the planet, but I’m afraid your soon-to-be husband is thinking about another woman.  But fortunately, so is everyone else here so he will probably get away with it.”

Smiles went around the group.  John cleared his throat, bounced on his heels and straightened his back.  “Mary could never leave anything alone, she was a walking catalogue of bizarre life choices and today she has taken premeditated meddling to a positively Holmsian level – no offense, Mr and Mrs Holmes, but your children are nightmares…” Lestrade chuckled and elbowed Mycroft in the ribs.  Having made sure his parents had also managed to smile at John’s joke, Sherlock allowed his enjoyment of his brother’s disgruntlement to bring a hesitant warmth.

“But I’ll say this for her,” John carried on, “Mary knew love when she saw it.”  He turned to Sherlock and Molly again.  “And clearly she saw it before most of us.”

Sherlock broke eye-contact with his best friend to look at Molly

“I’ll tell you now, Sherlock, because Mary can’t, but believe me she would if she was here.  Love isn’t about making vows it’s about making choices.  And fear of getting it wrong doesn’t make you a failure, it makes you human.  And a decent one.”

John took a breath, his fingers flexing at his side.  “Molly, I could not wish anything more for you than to be under this man’s protection.  He’s done a pretty good job of that so far, I reckon, and not only for you.  What you need to realise, Sherlock, is that showing up is a declaration of intent.  It’s faith.  It’s making a promise.  And, I hate to break it to you, but it’s not all about you.  The people in this room make the choice every day and have done for a long time, to be there.  For you.  And so did Mary.”

John fixed his eyes on Sherlock’s.  “You are enough.  You’re even likeable – ish…” everyone smiled, the tension eased - there was little room left for it in Sherlock’s middle, he was so full of, presumably, the same emotion which had compelled John to embrace him at his own top-table.

“Just… take the pressure off, mate.  Being human’s not all bad.  You’ve got one of the best things about it standing right next to you.  Forget making promises – both of you.  Just live.”

Chapter Text

London

A couple of hours later

Molly had the wild urge to stand up and lift her arms into the air as it rushed past.  She wanted to trail her fingers through the lights dripping from overhead, feel their glow illuminating her face and her soul as she flew among them. 

Tempting as it was, as weightless as her spirit felt, in reality nothing could induce her to peel herself from Sherlock’s chest.  She was sat with her legs across his, her head in the crook of his neck.  Every minute move she made he responded to, every time she shifted he accommodated her, every inch she moved closer he doubled by drawing her in.  They were completely together.

“Molly.  To be at your side, always, will be a kind of completion I did not understand until you taught me to.  Peace is your presence.  Thank you.”

She felt giddy, full up, grounded, sure.  Mary had chosen them a ceremony which was unscripted.  So many words had offered themselves up for Molly to choose from when it was her turn to speak, but she had managed to settle for telling him she loved him.  He had responded equally simply and briefly but Molly felt like she had had a poem or a five-act play penned in her name because he had said everything she had ever wanted to hear.

“Do you wish to exchange rings?” the registrar asked, quietly. 

Molly turned because, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Greg tap John on his front and shoot him a slightly panicky look.  John shrugged, his brow raised.  Molly smiled to herself.

“Yes.”

Molly almost jumped when Sherlock answered before her.   

“But… I already have a ring,” she said, holding up her hand for good measure. 

“Snap,” he said, smiling.  He took a tiny satin bag from his pocket and extracted from it a thin, pale-gold band which was channel-set with glittering green stones.  Prompted by the registrar, he took her hand and eased it onto her finger where it sat snugly, gorgeously, against her engagement ring. 

“Two can play that game, mister.”  She only just managed not to kiss the crease which appeared between his eyebrows as she pulled a ring from her own pocket.  She copied what he had just done, although she lifted his hand where she had raised her own.  He seemed to have frozen.  She breathed a sigh of relief when it fit his finger as if it had been made for him. 

“It was my dad’s,” she told him.

Molly watched the fact that there was not one single member of Molly’s family present dawn on Sherlock and shushed him with a look, a reassuring smile.  There were lots of ways to be there for someone.  They had all been reminded of that.     

Sherlock might have disdained the institution of marriage, but it was clear he knew the score.  He hadn’t waited for permission to kiss her.  Of course she would always remember the first time he kissed her, the kiss they shared in the snow when he asked her to marry him.  But this kiss Molly would never, ever forget, down to the smallest detail, because it was the first time she had felt the love they shared uninhibited by what-ifs, worries or the weight of the past.  A completely present moment.  They had all been reminded of the shortness of life. 

She was vaguely aware of their nearest and dearest clapping and cheering, the sound echoing around the crypt or maybe around her own head which had emptied apart from the sensations of being held and being kissed by Sherlock Holmes.   

Of him being her husband.        

Molly grinned as she replayed the memory for the thousandth time in an hour.  Having been fed and furnished with a couple too many glasses of fizz in the crypt, the little party had found themselves back out on the ever-moving streets of central London before 7.00 p.m.  Not even Rosie was showing signs of flagging.  Mycroft had suggested home, Greg had suggested the pub, but Sherlock had told them both to stop being so boring and followed that up by ordering his brother – her brother! – to commandeer an open-top bus so his wife could be taken to see the Christmas lights.

If there was one thing her relationship with the man in whose arms she now resided could never be described as, it would be a ‘whirlwind romance’.  Christ, if only!  But today had been that; her head was spinning.  Molly had spent the best part of a decade learning to accept and run with the bizarre and often sudden twists and turns which came with knowing Sherlock.  But she wondered – worried – about how he felt about spontaneity.  He was Mr Control and ordering the chaos most people could ignore or at least rub along with was his M.O.  Losing his grip, being reminded that life didn’t always take kindly to being ordered around; Molly understood that these were things which could trigger a rapid descent.  She had seen it flash across his face in the crypt.  It had broken her heart in an instant.   

Molly ran her hand up Sherlock’s front, slipped it between the lapels of his coat, under his scarf and settled it against the warmth of his chest, over his heart.  He looked down at her, loosened his hold so she could move back enough to look at him.

“This is lovely, Sherlock. It’s all… incredibly lovely. But are you okay?” she asked him.

He didn’t brush her off, and that told her a lot.  Quips and smiles and open-top bus tours were all well and good but Molly had never been able to resist letting him know that she knew.  That she saw.  He deserved that.  He had always come to her when he needed quiet and familiarity and consistency and a place in which he was free to be himself.  To be with someone who did not need to be dazzled by his intelligence.  She was a scientist, too.  A pragmatist.  A bit of a loner.  It might have been ego which first drew him back to the lab of the funny little registrar, as well as convenience, but Molly suspected he grew to appreciate, even when he did not recognise, being in the company of someone who liked him, purely, and because of those parts of his nature no one else even thought he had. 

His eyes moved to the strings of golden bulbs which festooned the walls of Harrods.  Molly waited, rubbing her thumb over the material of his shirt, feeling the soft rise and fall with each breath.

“I remain astounded, Molly,” he said, “that the kind of life, the kind of love, someone like me has to offer, could appeal to you.”

“There is no one like you, Sherlock,” she told him.  “And what you have to offer is exactly what I want.  Because I want you.”  She offered her lips up to him and he bent his head to meet her, cradling her face in his hand.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said when their lips parted. 

“No, you don’t.”  Molly smiled against his mouth, kissed him again.  “But you had me at ‘I need a corpse to whip with my riding crop’, so I think it’s probably all my own fault, really.”

He laughed, stroking her hair away from her face and turning up the collar of Mary’s coat for her.

“I hope today wasn’t too much of a shock for you,” Molly said.  “I know a trauma response when see one.”  She smiled, but she had to work to keep it there.  A faint pricking appeared in her arms, she swallowed the lump which rose in her throat.  Would she ever be free of the fear that her cloud-castle might come crashing down around her at any moment, or turn out to have been entirely the product of her lovelorn imagination..?

“Dr Holmes.”

Speaking of shock - Molly’s stomach plummeted.  At the bottom of its descent, it seemed to gather up every butterfly in the world and send them swooping back up through her.  Her breath left her in a rush.  She felt two heart rates climb.

“Mary Watson might have masterminded this whole event and it might have required the assistance of a great many individuals whose trustworthiness shall forever more be in serious question… but I sent the text.  I could not help it.”  Sherlock stroked his finger along her cheekbone.  “My eyes have never been more open than they were today.”

Molly’s heart followed the butterflies into the winter sky above them.  In the backseat of the top-deck of a London bus, she pressed a lingering kiss into the lips of her crush, all the while bearing the signs of being his for life.

“That is good to hear, Mr Holmes,” she said.  “All the better to observe me with.”

She raised her eyebrows.  His eyes bored into hers for a moment before he pulled back.  They flicked down the length of her, her heart skipped a beat.

“How… how did you notice before me?”

“Well, I am a doctor.”

Chapter Text

Baker Street

In the middle of that night.

Sherlock had been told he possessed enviable features.  His hands drew more attention than they warranted, in his opinion.  He appreciated that some players might not be able to shift across octaves with the ease he could, but the tools of one’s trade comprised of much more than the physical.  He had always assumed that whatever form he had been granted by trick of fortune would bend to his not inconsiderable will.

But this night, he could honestly say he was glad of the long fingers others seemed to crave for purposes of vanity, because they spanned Molly’s stomach in a way which gave him some sense of the physical security he was in desperate need of enacting.

Here, in his home, in his bed, shielded by him but in no way assisted in their miraculous endeavour by his superfluous actions, was a family.  A whole world.  His.  Theirs. 

John’s words had reached Sherlock’s heart in the very moments they were uttered, but in these hours he had lain wide awake holding his wife, feeling her breathe and quietly work away at manifesting a dream they had created together, those words had melded with his soul. 

If I had never taken the opportunity to voice my love and loyalty, that day,

I would have felt it nonetheless,

acted upon it regardless.  

This was quite an intervention, Mary.

Not the kind I had imagined when I found your note all those months ago. 

And here was I congratulating myself on not requiring your... assistance...

Will you ever need the other kind of intervention again, now?

Don’t they say promises are like pie crusts?

Easily made and easily broken.

These aren’t promises, though, are they?

No.  They’re purposes.

And I have never known anyone so grimly determined to

fulfil their purpose as you, dearest.

I miss you.

You won’t need me around now you’ve got a real

little dictator on the way.

Her face was alight.

Stop smiling.

It’s your wedding day!

Sherlock smiled into Molly’s hair, closed his eyes, began to drift…

Technically, yesterday was my wedding day…

Oh, shut up – you can’t talk about being late to the party…