Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was lying a bit uncomfortably on the couch in his sitting room, curled into a fetal position, dressing gown pulled tightly around him, when he heard the sound of voices at the door at the foot of the stairs. He sat upright, the better to hear without the muffling effect of the pillow which he had previously held to his head, and was disappointed to hear his brother's voice echoing up the stairwell and into his consciousness. How very frustrating that the only respite from his current bout of boredom would come at the hands of his brother Mycroft.
Mycroft Holmes was not in the habit of dropping in on his brother without warning, at least not recently. He had felt the necessity to do so for a number of years previously, in his quest to keep his younger brother off drugs and on the straight and narrow. But those days seemed to be well in the past, thank goodness, so today was an aberration of sorts. Sherlock looked at him strangely as he entered the flat, bearing a bottle of excellent Scotch.
"I come bearing gifts, brother, as I am sure you and what friends you may surround yourself with have already dispatched the last bottle you pilfered from my residence."
"John and Mary enjoyed it very much, Mycroft. Lestrade, not so much. I'm afraid the policeman's palate has been permanently handicapped by years of drinking rather unpalatable lager. And Molly said it burned. I hope this one goes down a bit smoother."
"Why, Sherlock? Are you planning on plying your pathologist with liquor? To what end, I wonder," the older man said with a smirk.
"Mycroft, what are you doing here?"
"I have an important announcement to make, brother. And a request. My announcement may require a toast, and my request may require loosening you up a bit. Hence the Scotch."
"You fill me with trepidation, Mycroft. I'll get a couple of glasses."
When the detective returned with the glassware, Mycroft filled each one with two fingers of the amber liquid, and took a deep breath before saying, "I'm getting married, Sherlock."
Sherlock gulped down the entire glass in just one swallow, before he looked again at his brother. "Perhaps you should have brought Brandy. I understand that works much better in cases of shock."
"I rather figured that you would react that way, Sherlock, although why it should come as a shock that a middle-aged man, in good health and with a secure position with the government…" He hesitated as his brother smirked a bit. "Well, why after all should it come as a shock that I intend to marry?"
"Are you speaking of your intention as one to act upon in the future, or have you decided on a particular person…"
"Come now, Sherlock. You of all people should know that there is only possible contender…"
"Well, I'll grant you, Anthea is quite beautiful. But she is a trained agent, brother. Have you considered the consequences if the marriage doesn't work out? She must know at least a dozen ways to dispose of you, and I don't mean through the divorce court!"
"She will have no reason to dispose of me, Sherlock. I intend to make her very happy, indeed. I love her deeply, and I have every reason to believe she returns my affections…"
"What happened to your views on sentiment, Mycroft, and caring, and emotional ties…"
"I have, it seemed, reversed certain of those opinions. Caring can be an advantage. Sentiment is necessary…" Mycroft trailed off as he sipped his Scotch. "I have decided that I am intelligent enough to admit my mistakes, and learn from them. I am surprised that you haven't done the same. But then, again, I always was the smarter brother!", he concluded with a wink.
"I am every bit as clever as you, brother, but I keep my conclusions to myself!" The detective refilled his glass as he said, "You hinted that I may need this as I listen to your request, Mycroft. Please go on."
"I want you to be my best man, of course. But please, do try to keep the speech a little less rambling than the one you gave at John's wedding. And keep the murders to a minimum, too, please, as a favor to Mummy. You know how she hates distractions at family weddings."
"Fine. Although I can't promise about the murders, having not become acquainted with Anthea's family…"
"Anthea has no family, Sherlock. She was an only child, orphaned young, and raised in a series of nondescript foster homes. I enter this union with the good fortune of having no inconvenient in-laws. The only ones in attendance will be colleagues from our line of work, and our family."
"As our family will, indeed, be there, I find I still cannot make a firm promise about the murders, Mycroft…"
"Just behave yourself, brother. John and Mary Watson, will, of course, be invited. As will Mrs. Hudson. And I'm sure Molly will keep you on your best behavior, as you will be joined at the hip for the entire day…"
"Why do you assume that? We are not that close…"
"First, Sherlock, you are, indeed, that close, even if you choose not to admit it. And second, Dr. Hooper is Anthea's maid of honor. I suppose I should have mentioned that."
"Why would Molly be Anthea's maid of honor? They're not that close, are they?"
"Sherlock, as I just told you, Anthea has no family. And it is rather difficult to make real friends in the world which we inhabit. But during your two year 'death', Molly and I became rather close, as we were the only two people who know you were alive. She took it rather hard, you know. She seemed to mourn you, even while you were still breathing. I kept her informed. She baked me cakes. I tried to comfort her, but I am sure she did much more to comfort me. Anthea would take her to lunch at least once a week. They would get together in each other's flats, doing whatever they do at these so called 'girls' nights'. They are, and have been, friends for quite some time, even if you've missed it. Perhaps you were so busy vetting her male friends that you tended to ignore the female ones?"
Sherlock scowled at his brother, but offered no further explanation, or defense.
"So, on this very evening, Anthea is breaking the news, and asking Molly to stand up with her. Mummy is overjoyed." As he spoke the last sentence, Mycroft Holmes eyed his brother curiously, seeking some reaction. But all he got was a grunt as Sherlock refilled his glass yet again.
Festivities leading up to the wedding proved to be a bit of a problem. Mycroft was rather adamant about not participating in any sort of bachelor party. Sherlock was equally put off by the whole thing, so, being the best man's best friend, John Watson decided to step into his shoes, and try to plan something. This did not work out well, as the only participants turned out to be the groom, the best man, and John Watson. The evening started off awkwardly, with Mycroft and Sherlock sitting by the fire in the Baker Street flat, slowly sipping whiskey while John attempted to encourage a more party-like atmosphere. Unfortunately, the only one who took to partying was John himself, who eventually found himself passed out on the sitting room couch, while the Holmes brother looked over him with alcohol induced affection.
"He really is a good friend, isn't he?" the groom said to his little brother.
"The best. And he can be rather amusing at times."
"Yes. I did rather enjoy the tarantella he performed. At least until he tripped over the rug."
"Yes. Obviously, he was attempting to perform the curative form of the dance, which originated as a folk treatment for spider bites. Perhaps the slower, more graceful courtship version would have been more appropriate, given the occasion."
"Perhaps. But that is a dance for couples, is it not? Did you really want to join him on the dance floor, Sherlock?"
"You're the groom. You would have been the more seemly choice, brother!"
"Sherlock, it would have taken considerably more Scotch than I brought with me to entice me to dance a courtship dance with Dr. Watson!"
The two brothers continued to drink until the ungodly hour of ten forty-five, when Mycroft made his way home, Sherlock retired to his bed, and John tossed fitfully on the couch.
The hen party, the same evening, was hardly any more of a success. Molly Hooper had invited her good friend Mary Watson to join Anthea and herelf. Mary had just delivered a baby girl a few months earlier, and was champing at the bit to get out of the house without an infant attached to her breast. Of course, Anthea knew Mary, and welcomed her. The wine was flowing freely, tongues soon loosened, and Mary and Anthea quickly found that they had quite a bit in common. Molly's head began to spin as the conversation turned toward choices in weaponry and body armor. It wasn't until the conversation turned to personal combat techniques that the situation became a bit unpredictable.
Molly had, of course, taken a self-defense course. Any woman living in a large city and forced to commute at night should be prepared, after all. But she was no where near the expert level of these two lethal ladies. She was urged repeatedly, "Go ahead, grab me from behind!" At first she resisted, but their entreaties became more insistent the more wine they consumed, and Molly was soon being flung about her own flat, a victim of their repeated demonstrations of how not to be a victim. By the time the evening ended, Molly, much like John, was stretched out on a couch, but she was all too conscious of the strain in her shoulder and the ache in her neck. Anthea and Mary, all too apologetic as they handed her an ice bag and a bottle of paracetamol, made their way to Anthea's waiting car, embarrassed about the damage they had done to their friend, but energized at the release of some pent-up frustration.
In the end, both Molly and John had recovered, almost completely, in time to make their way to the rather exclusive boutique hotel where the wedding was to take place the following evening. Rooms had been reserved for the wedding party, as well as for family from out of town. Molly had checked in before noon, and hurried to join Anthea in her suite. There she found Sherlock and Mycroft waiting, as they were all to join the Holmes parents for a luncheon before preparations began in earnest. Molly Hooper had met the senior Holmes on previous occasions, and always found them delightful, the seeming opposite of their two rather dour sons. Violet was lively and clever, always ready with laugh and a wink. Siger looked much like an older version of Sherlock, except for his eyes. Sherlock had his mother's eyes. Mycroft had his father's, even managing to display a bit of kindness in them on occasion.
The conversation soon turned to the wedding plans. Everything seemed to be in place. Flowers, dresses, music, everything was covered. The more animated the women became, the more bored the men looked. Typical. The group lingered over lunch until late in the afternoon, Molly growing more and more at ease with the family. Lord knows she had missed this kind of comfortable interaction, and she found herself laughing at Siger's bad jokes, commiserating with Violet over the lack of good romantic comedies currently in the theaters, and even rolling her eyes at Mycroft's description of his younger brother's pirate aspirations as a child. She was feeling very comfortable, indeed, until she noticed Sherlock studying her, and her comfort level declined considerably. Did he resent her presence here, at what was, essentially gathering? Violet seemed to pick up on this immediately, and came to her rescue, reminding both Molly and the bride that they should be on their way upstairs.
"Not that either of you need it, but we do have a bevy of professionals waiting up in Anthea's suite to make you look beautiful. Rather like gilding the lily, I would say, but it is expected. Now run along, you two. I'll babysit these boys until they have to go, too." As she rose from the table and turned away, Molly could have sworn she saw Violet deliver a smack to the back of her younger son's head, accompanied by Mycroft's derisive snort.
Hair and make-up were quickly dealt with, and Molly finally was able to put on her dress. It was a lovely pale pink column like sheath, sleeveless, with narrow straps, with a neckline low enough to be interesting, but high enough to be decent. Molly had been a bit surprised at Anthea's choice of such a soft, delicate color, but happy about it when she saw how the color blended so well with her own rather English peaches and cream complexion. She then helped Anthea get into her own gown, a beautifully sophisticated, yet romantic, concoction of satin and tulle.
Finally, as they both examined their images in the mirror for any necessary adjustments, Anthea turned to her, a small jewelry box in her hand. "Molly, I want you to have this. I want to thank you for being here with me, and it is traditional for the bride to give her wedding party gifts, after all."
Molly took the box from her hand and opened it to find a lovely necklace, with the rather large center stone, oval shaped, the perfect color of pink to set off her gown. Surrounding the large stone, were a series of smaller, but certainly not insignificant, brilliantly clear stones. Anthea continued. "Mycroft selected it, actually. He seemed to think it would complement your dress, and your complexion. I hope you like it."
"It's beautiful," Molly said as she fastened the clasp. The stone hung just below her collarbone, and caught the light as she played with it. "I love it! I'll always treasure it, Anthea. But you don't owe me anything for being here with you. You and Mycroft were so kind to me during Sherlock's absence. I don't know what I would have done without you."
"And I don't know what Myk would have done without you, Molly! He needed someone who was close to his little brother, someone who cared about him, someone to share the burden with. I'll always be grateful that you were there for him." She looked at Molly, and noticed the tears in her eyes. "Let's not start crying now, for god's sake, not after all the work they just did on us! Although, we'll probably look like a couple of raccoons at the ceremony, anyway!" And both women laughed as they made their way downstairs.
The brief ceremony went off without a hitch. Surprisingly, the only woman who turned out looking like a raccoon was Mrs. Violet Holmes. Whether she was crying for joy at her elder son's finally succumbing to marriage, or her younger son's refusal to do so was anyones guess. No doubt she would clarify the situation at a later date.
The best man's speech was brief, and to the point. There were not many funny stories about Mycroft Holmes with which to regale the assembled guests, although Sherlock did manage to produce a rather large picture of his brother, in full regalia, in his definitive role as Titania, queen of the fairies, during a boarding school production of a Shakespeare play. Her consort, Oberon, looked a bit put-off by the whole thing. The speech continued for a short time, with only one, or perhaps two, references to Mycroft's fondness for cake. When it ended, Sherlock did the completely unexpected, and leaned in to actually hug his brother. Mummy was crying again.
When the bride and groom finally took to the dance floor, followed by the best man and maid of honor, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Not a single murder needed to be solved!
Sherlock was holding Molly in his arms, guiding her around the floor, when he brought up the subject of her necklace. "That's a beautiful piece of jewelry, Molly."
"It is, isn't it? It matches the dress so perfectly. It was Anthea's gift to me, you know."
"Ah! Do you know what kind of stone it is, by the way?"
"No, not really. I'm not all that familiar with gemstones. It is rather large, so I assume it's a garnet, or a tourmaline, or something along those lines. She certainly shouldn't have spent the money for something this extravagant, though, even if it is lovely."
"It's not a garnet, Molly. It's a rather large pink diamond, in fact. And those white stones surrounding it are smaller diamonds, though of rather high quality."
Molly came to a complete halt in the middle of the dance floor, as if the music itself had stopped. Sherlock gently forced her into motion again. "If it's any consolation, Dr. Hooper, Anthea did not spend a single pound on it. It's a Holmes family heirloom, belonging to my grandmother Vernet. It was the first gift my grandfather gave her, before they became engaged. Obviously, it worked the charm, because she did, after all, become my grandmother. Mycroft obviously wanted you to have it. And I must say it suits you!"
Molly was shaking a bit, the idea of wearing such an expensive piece around her neck, along with the knowledge that it was a family heirloom, was causing her to become uneasy. Oh my god! What must Mr. and Mrs. Holmes think? How could she keep such a thing, whose great value was both monetary and sentimental. She was trying to come up with the words to voice her concerns, when Sherlock beat her to it.
"Molly, I know what you must be thinking. But Mycroft clearly wanted you to have it. And he wouldn't have done such a thing without consulting Mummy and Papa. If you're still uneasy about it, I have an obvious solution. I told you it was the first gift my grandfather gave to Nana. The next one was a matching engagement ring. I'm sure my brother can be persuaded to dig it out of the family vault if you will agree to wear it?"
"Sherlock, you're joking, surely?"
"I find marriage to be no joking matter, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock chuckled, looking down at her. "Is that a yes or a no, then? Do make up your mind quickly, as everyone in my immediate family, as well as some distant relatives and a busboy or two, is staring at us rather expectantly."
Molly could only nod her head to indicate an affirmative answer, but even this action was interrupted as he brought his lips down to meet hers. When the music ended, the new couple joined the family, to find Mycroft fishing in the pocket of his trousers for another small jewelry box, hopefully containing the aforementioned engagement ring. John and Mary Watson, still in shock over the unexpected kiss on the dancefloor, approached the small group to find out just what the bloody hell was going on. They got there just in time to see Sherlock place a ring on Molly's finger, and hear him mutter to his brother, "Well played, Mycroft. Perhaps you are the smarter one after all." Sherlock then glanced from his brother to his best friend, saying with a happy smile, "You two can fight it out over best man honors! I'm taking my new fiance back onto the dancefloor before Mummy corners me!"
But Violet Holmes was already whirling about that same dancefloor, cradled in the arms of her long time love, with visions of grandchildren pirouetting in her head.