Molly Hooper awakened in her fiance's bed just before the sun came up. As it was still dark, she had to turn on the bedside lamp in order to once again gaze unbelievably at her engagement ring. Her small sigh must have awakened her fiance, because she almost immediately heard him say, "For god's sake Molly, turn off the light. It's hard enough to sleep with you constantly fluffing my hair, but the light is the last straw."
Molly answered this by once again fluffing the hair of the world's only consulting detective, although not with the hand which bore her engagement ring, after turning to bury her face in his chest. "Sherlock, I love the ring."
"So did my grandmother," he muttered as he wrapped his arms around her. "My grandfather, not so much, as he had to pay for it!"
"It means so much to me, Sherlock, that you gave me your grandmother's ring."
"Me, too, love", he said sleepily.
"Really?"
"Yes, really. It means I didn't have to pay for it!"
Molly smacked the top of his head. "Not exactly the soul of romance, are you, Mr. Holmes?"
"You knew that before you fell in love with me, had sex with me, allowed me to impregnate you, and agreed to marry me, Dr. Hooper. A bit late to be complaining now, don't you think?"
"Perhaps, but I do reserve the right to complain from time to time," Molly sighed, and once again buried her head in his chest. "Do you want to talk about the wedding, Sherlock? When? Where?"
"Whatever you think best, Molly."
"Well, I think it should be as soon as possible. I am pregnant, and I don't want to wait until the kid is old enough to walk us down the aisle? Could we do it soon?"
"The sooner the better, love. My mother has indicated that she would prefer not to have a 'bumpy bride', as she calls it, at the ceremony."
Sherlock noticed that Molly, despite what she had described as overwhelming happiness at the thought of marrying the love of her life, had a bit of a sad look in her eyes. Finally, she spoke. "It's just that I've always dreamed…"
"Of a fairytale wedding? I thought so. We could pass as 'Beauty and the Beast', I suppose. Or I could be Prince Charmless?", he teased her.
"You can be very charming when you want to be, Sherlock, or I wouldn't be in such a rush to get married!"
"Point taken, although I can only take half of the credit for your current condition." Sherlock smiled as his bride-to-be. "Tell you what, let me take care of all the arrangements. I'll get us married as quickly and as suitably as possible. You pick out a dress, the bridesmaids, and I'll take care of the rest!"
"Sherlock, I don't know…"
"Don't you trust me?"
"With my life, yes. With my wedding…"
"Really, Molly, if I can topple the Napoleon of crime, I can surely handle a small wedding for about...How many of your family do you expect to attend?"
"Oh, Sherlock, they all live out of town. I have three aunts, and uncles to go with them, assorted cousins. no really close family…"
"Definitely one of the reasons I chose to marry you, Molly. No in-law problems!"
"You git!"
"I need an approximate number, Molly. And possible dietary restrictions. Are any of the vegetarians, vegan, pescetarians, lactose intolerant, glucose intolerant, kosher, shellfish…"
"They all eat like horses, Sherlock…"
"I refuse to serve hay and oats at my wedding feast, Molly. Mummy would not approve. A number, please."
"No more than thirty, tops, Sherlock…"
"Molly, trust me. I will give you the wedding that you deserve. And do so in record time." He then kissed her on the forehead. "And now, before you have to get up and go to work, how about…" And all talk of their wedding ceased rather abruptly.
Later that morning, after Molly had left for St. Bart's, Sherlock was on his mobile, talking to his brother mycroft. "Mycroft, I need a favor…"
"Do tell, brother mine. Does this have anything to do with your impending nuptials?"
"I see you already know about that. I just proposed last night. You work very quickly, brother."
"Not really a great leap of logical deduction, Sherlock. Mummy informed me of the unplanned pregnancy, and had me send you grandmama's ring. I take it you have now informed your circle of friends? I hope that they were suitably impressed that you had retired your virginal status in so spectacular a manner…"
"Mycroft, enough with the virgin jokes. You know that hasn't applied since puberty!"
"Well, yes. alright. What is this favor, brother?"
"I need you to arrange a fairy tale wedding, one which Molly deserves, and has always dreamed of, and one which I will certainly detest, which should make you very happy. And it has to be done as soon as possible, as my fiance would like to fit comfortably into a traditional wedding gown. Can you do it?"
"Brother mine, if I can arrange an invasion of a third world country given forty-eight hours notice, I can surely handle the details of your upcoming nuptials. But why should I do you this favor, Sherlock? What do I get out of it?"
"My word that I will take to my grave the secret of the destruction of Mummy's favorite teapot, her most important family heirloom, the precious gift handed down to her…"
"Yes, well, that's all well and good, brother, but that was thirty years ago. What makes you think she would still be upset…"
"Do you want to chance it, Mycroft? You know Mummy!" Sherlock listened intently to the silence on the other end, and, after a moment, continued, "Besides, don't think of it as doing a favor for me, but for Molly. I know you like Molly, and she's about to become family."
"Of course, put that way, how can I refuse…"
"Oh, and Mycroft, Molly would like you to walk her down the aisle. She has no close male relatives, you see. And she has become rather fond of you…"
"Of course, I will be glad to walk her down the aisle, not the least because I consider that I am not really giving her away, but giving you away, brother. And good riddance, I must say." Mycroft said with a good natured smirk. "Please send me any details that may be necessary, and I will see to the arrangements immediately."
Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath, and said, "Thank you, Mycroft. I really am indebted. I promised Molly a dream wedding, and, left to my own devices, it may well have turned out more of a nightmare.
"Good-bye, brother mine. And, by the way, congratulations. You don't deserve her, and she really doesn't deserve the likes of you…"
"Believe me, you are not the first to say that, Mycroft. But she seems to think she does, so who am I to argue?"
By the time Molly Hooper had returned that evening, Sherlock had been informed that all arrangements had been made. The wedding had been scheduled for two weeks come Saturday, Molly's family had been contacted, and arrangements had been made to put them up at the Ritz Hotel for the weekend. The bridal suite had been booked so that Molly could stay there the night before, with her maid of honor, and without her groom. The wedding was to be conducted in the lovely garden of the William Kent House, adjoining the hotel, with a reception to follow. The officiant was to be Bishop George Winstead Holmes, great-uncle of the groom. An appointment had been booked for the bride at a London fashion house, where she could choose from a selection of wedding dresses Email invitations were already delivered to prospective guests, and confirmations and good wishes were already being received. Molly could not believe it!
"How could you possibly have done all this in a single day, Sherlock?"
"Simple really. I had Mycroft do it. He's much better at planning and logistics than I…"
"Sherlock, why would he do all of this? What did you do?"
"Well...ah...there may have been a bit of blackmail involved, Molly…"
Molly was stunned. "You've always said you hated blackmailers, Sherlock. That they are the lowest of the low, remember?"
"Well, I must admit to a bit of self-loathing, which is a new experience for me, I must say. But Mycroft would have done it with or without the blackmail, love. He just needed me to give him an excuse, which I did."
"But this is too much, Sherlock. The expense! How can we afford this?"
"Mycroft can afford it, love. I suppose he gets government rates, after all!"
"But, Sherlock…"
"Molly, sometime in the near future I will have to sit you down and explain how my grandfather could afford such an extravagant diamond ring, which now graces your finger, and how I can afford tailored clothes and expensive Belstaff coats, and why my parents live in a listed 'cottage' in the country, but not right now. Now it's bedtime."
"Bedtime. I just got home from work. I'm not tired yet!"
"Neither am I, love," and he picked her up bodily and carried her off.
The next two weeks passed very quickly, and not quickly enough. There were decisions to be made about the menu, and the decor. Sherlock seemed to be overly concerned about the serviettes, for some reason, and Mary just nodded at Molly sympathetically. John had been working on his best man's speech, determined to outshine Sherlock Holmes' speech at his wedding. But, barring the solving of an unexpected murder, that was not likely to happen. Molly, accompanied by her maid of honor, Mary Watson, had visited the fashion house to select a gown from among dozens of possibilities. She had finally decided on a lovely lace concoction, flowing from a slightly empire waist, better to disguise her very slight baby bulge. "Perhaps, they'll think I'm just fat! Or bloated!" she moaned to Mary.
"You are neither, Molly," Mary assured her.
"No, I'm pregnant!"
"Don't worry about it, luv. Nobody will know…"
"Except all our friends, Sherlock's parents, his brother…" She sighed in a resigned manner. "But it's not them I'm worried about. What if, years from now, my son or daughter comes across my wedding pictures, and notices that Mum is a bit knocked up…"
"Don't worry about it, Molls. Just tell them to do what you say, not what you do. Then spike their oatmeal with birth control. It's what I intend to do with Claire, after all." Mary laughed at her concerns. All brides have nerves, but Molly was going nuts about the smallest thing. "No one is going to look at you in that dress, and think that you are pregnant. More likely they'll take a look at that preening peacock you're marrying, with his chest all puffed out, and suspect it!" Molly was now beginning to laugh as well.
The two women laughed, hugged, and went out to enjoy a cream tea. If she was going to look fat, Molly believed, she might as well be fat!
The day before the wedding, Molly's family had arrived, and were safely ensconced at the Ritz Hotel. Late that afternoon, Molly, accompanied by Mary Watson, and the Watson's infant daughter, Claire, checked in. When she gave her name at the desk, she was immediately fawned over, and escorted post haste to the elegant bridal suite. Molly couldn't believe her surroundings. She had been the the Ritz on only one occasion previously, to have afternoon tea in its marvelous restaurant. She was overwhelmed to think that she was to be shortly married in such a posh establishment. Mary and she were giggling girlishly, helping themselves to the small pastries and drinking tea in the sitting room of the suite, when Sherlock and John arrived.
"Well, Molly, what do you think? Nice enough for our wedding?"
"Oh, god, Sherlock, what was Mycroft thinking? This is a bit much, don't you think?"
"Oh, it was either this or the pub down the street from Bart's. That place is hardly fairy tale material, though." He took her in his arms and kissed her cheek.
"What are the plans for this evening?"
"Mary and I are meeting some of my family for dinner. You should join us. My aunts, at least, should get to see you before the wedding."
"Why is that, Molly. So they can give an accurate description in case I decide to do a bunk?"
"That won't be necessary, love. I think Mycroft could, and would, track you down. With extreme prejudice, as they say."
"Mummy would help, I'm sure."
"Look, mate, why don't you go and have dinner. I'll give Lestrade a call, and we can meet up later for a boy's night. I owe you one for my bachelor party, you know."
"I don't think so, John…"
"I don't really care what you think, Sherlock. Your fiance and my wife are off limits, for this evening, at least, so we might as well pass the time together. Shall I call Mycroft, too?"
Sherlock saw some glint of redemption in this suggestion. With Mycroft along, the evening was sure to come to an early grinding halt. Sherlock was not exactly the life of the party, but Mycroft was certainly the grim reaper standing in the corner, spreading gloom and despair over all he surveyed. "Certainly, John, we must invite Mycroft. He is my brother, after all. The more the merrier!"
Sherlock was the epitome of genteel behavior at dinner. Molly's aunts had fawned over him, his lovely curls, his beautiful eyes. He had actually kissed each of their hands as he took his leave. Molly couldn't decide whether to beam with pride, or be overcome with dread as to when he would revert to his normal self. As long as he made it through dinner, she didn't care. After that he became John's problem!
At nine o'clock, the pre-arranged time, Mycroft Holmes' car pulled up in front of the hotel, and Sherlock and John joined him in the rear seat.
"Greg is meeting us at the Pig and Whistle," John informed the Holmes brothers.
"Who?" queried the detective, while his brother remained silent.
"Lestrade, Sherlock!" John rolled his eyes once again at his friend's ignorance.
"What are we supposed to be doing at this 'Pig and Whistle'?" asked Mycroft.
"We're supposed to be getting pissed. telling tall tales, and giving Sherlock a sendoff into married life, of course," John looked at him. "Haven't you ever been to a bachelor party before?"
"I have very few friends, Dr. Watson. And only one brother. And since this his first, and hopefully, only, foray into matrimony, I have had very little opportunity…"
"Mycroft, have you ever gotten truly pissed?"
"In my university days, I was known to indulge…"
Sherlock leaned back into the seat, and said, "I do recall one incident, Mycroft, when you were delivered home, stark naked, by a chorus girl, who was wearing very little other than her skimpy costume. And your school tie. Mummy was not amused."
"Yes. I do recall that she burned the tie."
"She wanted to burn the chorus girl, but papa informed her that was illegal."
"Not to mention that it would have been a great waste," Mycroft smiled, remembering the incident, and the woman.
"Indeed, brother!" Sherlock also smiled, and John wondered if there was more to the Holmes boys than met the eye.
John reached into his pocket and pulled out some sticky labels, the kind they hand out at corporate meetings, on which you write down your name, and slap it on your chest. He had written his address on one, which he quickly slapped on. "221b Baker St." was written on a second, which he then attached to Sherlock. "Mycroft, I wasn't sure of your exact address, so just give it to me, and I'll fill it in now."
"Why in heaven's name would you need to do that, Dr. Watson?"
"Just in case. We may get so pissed we can't remember our address. I once would up in Guildford…"
"Really, John, this is my car, and my driver. He certainly knows where I live! And Sherlock! And even you! He may be unsure about Lestrade, if we are to drop him off, but I doubt if any such precautions are necessary."
"Suit yourself, Mycroft, just don't blame me…"
Sherlock was snickering, Mycroft was tsk-tsking, so John gave up.
But Mycroft Holmes did, indeed, blame him when he awoke the next morning on the couch in the sitting room at 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes was barely staggering out of his bedroom, when he stumbled over a man's shoe in the middle of the floor. It was not his. He glanced at the couch to find his elder brother staring at the ceiling, dazed.
"Why am I here, Sherlock?"
"You didn't have a tag, and the cabbie didn't know where to take you," the younger sibling said, as if that explained everything. "So he left you here."
"A cabbie? What happened to my driver?"
"You sent him home. Said he was putting a damper on the evening. I believe you just didn't want him around to inform Anthea if you managed to pick up another chorus girl."
Mycroft moaned, and rolled over slowly. "Please tell me there was no chorus girl, Sherlock."
"No, Mycroft. No chorus girl. Just a middle-aged barmaid with big breasts, and bigger hair. Mummy would have loved her."
Mycroft looked around the room in an agitated manner, but Sherlock was quick to put his mind at ease, "Don't worry, she didn't have a tag, either, and I refused delivery."
"I feel terrible, brother."
"If it's any consolation, you look terrible, too. But I'm getting married in less than eight hours, and I feel as as I have only four hours to live!"
"Not to worry, Sherlock. All will be taken care of!" And, having said that, Mycroft reached for his mobile, and blearily started to move his fingers over the keys.
Within the hour, help, in the form of his personal assistant, and possibly much more, Anthea, had arrived. She brewed coffee, had a physician administer vitamin B injections, and embarked on a campaign to rehydrate the men. They had massages, and facials. They were steamed, and exfoliated, and manicured to within an inch of their lives. Anthea, having possibly heard about the big bosomed, big-haired barmaid, enjoyed every moment of their discomfort. But by the time she had finished with them, they were ready to face the world.
The same could not be said for John Watson, who lacking the care of his loving wife, or the ministrations of a determined minion such as Anthea, turned up later that afternoon, tuxedo over his arm, and collapsed into his chair. They had the decency to speak quietly, and provide endless coffee and appropriate sustenance. When he had almost recovered, the three men, and Anthea, headed back to the hotel.
Mary was just helping Molly with the finishing touches, when there was a knock at the door. John had come to check on his wife and daughter, and the bride, soon to become the wife of his best friend. Mary took one look at him and said, "I bloody well hope that Sherlock doesn't look as bad as you, mate!"
"Please don't shout, Mary! And, no, Sherlock is fine. Mycroft and he were as pissed as I've ever seen anyone, but, evidently, the British government has discovered a cure for hangovers. I was just a little later to receive that cure, so I'm still feeling a bit under the weather. Keep some paracetamol in your bag, please. How do I look, really?"
"Just a bit pale, love. And your eyes are a bit bloodshot."
"You should see them from this side!"
Mary couldn't help but laugh, which caused him to rub his head a bit more. "Paracetamol?"
"In my purse."
On his way to the bathroom to get some water, John stopped to give Molly a smile and a squeeze on the arm. "You look lovely, Molls. Sherlock is a lucky man!"
John left the room to join his friend in the garden, just as Mycroft Holmes arrived to escort the ladies downstairs. He couldn't help but smile at his future sister-in-law as he took her hand in his. "Molly, welcome to the family," he said quietly as he kissed her on the cheek. "I know you love the git even more than I do, and that you will always take care of him. Because, make no mistake about it, he does need taking care of!" Now he smiled, and tucked her arm under his, to lead her from the room. "Ladies, shall we?"
A string quartet started to play the music Sherlock had selected for the occasion as Mycroft, with Molly on his arm, made his way into the garden. All eyes, including, of course, Sherlock's, turned to the bride. But Molly eyes were fixed on only one thing, and one thing only. And she knew then and there that this was better than any fairy tale. This was real. And this was her life.