Hiya everyone!

This is my second Sherlolly fic, I hope you like it.

This chapter's kinda short, I promise the others will be longer :)

I don't own Sherlock or any of these characters, though I'd like to one day...

Love Misty x

Chapter One

"Ah, brother dear. So nice to see you again."

Sherlock glared at his older brother and started drumming his fingers on the mahogany wood of the table. He was even more irritated at Mycroft than usual; he had been carrying out an extremely important experiment at St Bartholomew's when that Anthea lady had burst in, demanded that he 'come with me right away, Mr Holmes' and then brought in an entire troupe of security guards at Sherlock's refusal.

"I can get rid of Moran on my own. I don't need anyone's help, especially not yours."

"Yes, but you do need a fake name and passport. I thought you'd be grateful to me for sorting all that out for you." Sherlock sighed, reluctantly admitting to himself that Mycroft was right. "I could have done that on my own," he snarled, annoyed at being beaten. It was somewhat useful of his brother to have done all this - he'd have had to do it himself otherwise, which would prove very difficult seeing as to everyone except Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes was technically dead.

"Here's the envelope with your passport, European Health Insurance Card, driving license, birth certificate and credit card." Mycroft stiffened as Sherlock opened it. "Benedict Cumberbatch," he said indignantly. "What kind of a fake name is Benedict Cumberbatch? It'll just make me stand out."

"Sorry about that. There's another slight problem with the identity, but there's a way of sorting that out."

Alongside the birth certificate was a marriage certificate. To someone named Louise Brealey. "Mycroft," Sherlock pronounced angrily. "This Benedict Cumberbatch person is married."

"Ah. Yes, there was a slight error and you got mixed up with another client. Somehow they got it wrong and.. well, your fake identity is married."

"Well, you're going to have to ask them to do another fake identity."

Mycroft straightened up and adjusted his tie. "They can't do one in time for the date you have planned. You could cancel, but -"

"No, I can't cancel because Moran is off to Bolivia the day after the event. It's the last chance we have," Sherlock growled.

Mycroft sat down. "But you forget," he said, quietly smug, "there is one solution."

"You can't possibly suggest that I get married! That's preposterous, you know there's no one I could marry and can't you just ask them to hurry up and to prioritise making my second fake identity above their other clients'?"

"Sherlock, you are forgetting someone."

He paused. "Molly. Molly knows I'm alive and we could divorce afterwards .. Thank you, Mycroft. I don't know if she'll agree to it but it's the only thing we can do." He rose to his feet and put his coat on, then hailed a taxi back to the hospital, and it wasn't just because he had an experiment to finish.

Molly was hurrying down the St Bart's corridor. She wasn't in a rush, just angry. She had been convinced that the date had gone well last night, and he was handsome enough - short brown hair, tanned, grey eyes, tall and well built - and then he'd broken it off by text, saying that he was getting back with an old acquaintance from university and was sorry but didn't want to be with her any more and that they probably shouldn't keep in touch because his new girlfriend might be mad at him for it. Why, why, why did she never meet someone who actually wanted to be with her? There'd been several men that hadn't gone further than the first date, probably because of her small bust and lips and general mousiness, and then there was Jim. Jim, who was sweet and made her coffee but turned out to be possibly gay, blew up a poor old lady, was arrested for stealing the crown jewels, and then shot himself. Molly wondered what going on a date with Sherlock would be like. They'd go somewhere special, not just to the cinema or to a restaurant or something, and then she'd admit that she had liked him for ages and -

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see where I was going!" Molly squeaked to the man she'd just bumped into, and then blushed crimson when she realised that it was him, the very man she'd just been daydreaming about. Sherlock Holmes. Great. She'd just walked straight into him like a bumbling idiot.

"No, it's fine," he said, then gave her a quick smile. "Look, Molly, I kind of need to ask you a favour."

"OK," she nodded. It was probably just something like another body he needed to experiment on.

"Molly, I have to track down Moran - Moriarty's sniper - and my brother's given me a fake identity. A fake identity who so happens to be married, so I need someone to pretend to be my wife, and you're the only woman who knows I'm alive." Molly couldn't believe it. Yes, it wasn't exactly for the reasons she'd imagined, but Sherlock Holmes was asking her to marry him.

He continued. "We could fake divorce afterwards, we wouldn't have to 'do anything.'" (To be honest to herself, Molly would quite like to 'do things' with Sherlock, but she was never going to tell him that.) "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Molly. Can I see you in the lab tomorrow to talk more about it?"

"OK, see you there," Molly said, smiling nervously. Sherlock left and she felt like she was going to jump for joy. She'd be married to Sherlock Holmes! Sort of!

She was almost glad the man from the night before had dumped her.