Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital in the heart of London, was trying to write her notes pertaining to the unusual death of a construction engineer. The man had tried to skimp on the glass used in the fenestration of a new highrise in the City. The architect of the building had called him on the use of the cheaper grade of material, and the man had been attempting to prove that the glass he had substituted was every bit as unbreakable as the architect's specifications. Fortunately, the glass did prove every bit as durable as the more expensive product. Unfortunately, the cheaper window frame itself did not prove so. When the unfortunate man tried to prove his point by throwing himself against the window, he wound up coasting to his death atop an intact piece of glass still resting securely in its framing. Molly's problem was trying to state the case simply, without resorting to morbid jokes, and she was finding this quite difficult. Especially so, as every minute or two her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock Holmes text alert going off. The detective just ignored each and every message. After the fifth or sixth one, Molly's mobile started making the same sound, and she looked down to note an incoming text from Greg Lestrade.

IS SHERLOCK FREE ON TUESDAY? - GREG

I HAVE NO IDEA - MOLLY

GET BACK TO ME - GREG

Molly shoved the mobile back into the pocket of her lab coat, and returned to her notes, trying to once again smother the impolite snicker in her mind. More signals from Sherlock's mobile were quickly followed by beeps from her own.

ASK MY BROTHER IF HE WOULD LIKE TO CONTRIBUTE TO A SHARED GIFT. OR IF HE WOULD LIKE TO GO IT ALONE - MYCROFT

"Sherlock, what the hell…"

"Shhh, Molly, can't you see I'm busy!", the detective responded, barely moving his eyes from the microscope on the table in front of him. Mentally kicking herself for being so compliant, Molly went back to her notes, only to be interrupted yet again.

SATURDAY 6 PM ST. PAUL'S 32A WILTON PL. RECEPTION TO FOLLOW - VIOLET HOLMES

Molly read the message, and quickly decided that she would not be so easily put off this time. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, Dr. Hooper," the detective lifted his eyes with a sigh and turned his attention to the small woman sitting across the lab table from him.

"Please explain to me why your mother, and others, are texting me about your activities. At least, I suppose, the last from your mum is about you, as I certainly have no idea to what it pertains!"

Sherlock took Molly's mobile from her hand and perused the messages. "It seems this Greg person want to meet me, although I have no idea why…"

"Get over yourself, Sherlock. That joke is just too old. Why is Lestrade texting me? And Mycroft. too! And your mother, of all people!"

"I suppose it may have something to do with a little remark I made the other day, Molly. A joke…"

"Go on…"

"Molly, let me ask you. Do people of your acquaintance ever ask you about me? About our relationship?"

"What relationship?"

"Bear with me a moment. I have some small following in the press. There has been speculation about us…"

"I know, Sherlock, but what has that to do with…"

"What do you tell them when they leer at you, and make suggestive innuendos, Molly? What exactly do you tell them?"

"I tell them the truth, of course. That we're friends! Have been for years."

"I see." Sherlock nodded his head, thinking about her response. "I suppose that works for you because you actually are known to have friends. I, on the other hand, am perceived not to have any such thing…"

"That's not true, Sherlock…"

"I did say 'perceived', Molly. Anyway, after putting up with a not insignificant amount of inappropriate questioning, I may have referred to you, in jest, as my 'social secretary'. It would seem that some of my friends, family, and colleagues are playing along with my joke."

"Your mother asks about our relationship, Sherlock?"

"Constantly, Molly! Don't tell me yours doesn't. The last time your mother was in town she questioned me about any family history of mental illness, and if she thought my eye color was a recessive or dominant trait…"

"Oh, god, Sherlock…"

"She was a bit distressed to find that it was probably recessive when joined with the gene for brown eyes. I did, however, point out the availability of colored contact lenses…"

"Sherlock…"

"Do relax, Molly. I'm kidding. At least about the lenses." Sherlock let go with a gentle snicker. "Molly, really, this kind of speculation always goes on with unmarried friends of our respective ages, don't you agree? At least John is now relieved that the speculation has turned from him to you. Mary, too, I suppose."

"So, what am I supposed to do?"

"Tell Lestrade I will visit his office on Tuesday afternoon. Inform Mycroft that he may select a joint gift from the Holmes brothers, and let me know what I owe him. Although he most assuredly knows that I will never pay him."

"That leaves your mother, Sherlock. What does this message mean? I suppose you know…"

"My cousin's wedding. This Saturday. I was informed that I must attend, or Mummy would be forced to withhold a portion of my trust which I would like to have…"

"You have a trust, Sherlock?" Molly rested her head on her hands, and her elbows on the lab table. "Damn, I always figured you were kind of posh, but a trust? Mycroft, too?"

"Of course, although he dips into his portion a bit more than I do. You don't believe that a low level employee of the British government can afford a house in Belgravia, do you?"

"I suppose I thought he was really good at budgeting!" Molly then looked at the detective with a bit of suspicion. "How come you don't live in Belgravia, Sherlock?"

"Boring! Can you imagine how many walls I would have to shoot at in Belgravia, Dr. Hooper? And there is a definite dearth of ethnic takeaway food outlets!"

"Sherlock Holmes, sometimes I wonder just how well I do know you."

"I would say you know me better than anyone, Molly. All the important things, anyway. What else do you need to know?"

"Just how posh are you, you git?"

"Half posh, I suppose. My father comes from an old family, a junior branch. But there is some titles floating around among the cousins. My mother is the child of a gifted artist, a brilliant man, and his model. She was well on her way to becoming an artist herself, or an exotic dancer like her best friend Martha, when she discovered a gift for mathematics, and earned a scholarship to Cambridge, where she met my father, who had long since abandoned the family quest for an indolent country life in favor of a life devoted to chemistry. He holds several patents in the field, thereby adding to the family assets instead of living off the wealth of the ancestors. Mycroft and I are examples of what happens when two brilliant, but unconventional people reproduce. Impressed?"

"Not really! But that may be because I just found out you have a trust fund, and owe me a fortune in back cab fare and grocery money!"

"Once again with the trust! I sense that you have 'trust' issues, Dr. Hooper…"

"Again with the jokes, Sherlock. The last joke ended with me being your 'social secretary', as it were…"

"And since you are now on the payroll, you can file an expense report for reimbursement of those monies owed…"

"So, in my capacity of social secretary, I have reminded you of your cousin's wedding. My job is done…"

"Not quite. I'll pick you up a five-thirty. Dress appropriately!"

"No way, Sherlock! I'm not going to a wedding in Belgravia, where I don't know anybody…"

"Nonsense, you know me. And Mycroft. And Anthea. And my parents. And Mummy wants you to come to keep an eye on me. You know I can't be trusted to behave in a socially acceptable manner. That's why she texted you. She just assumed you'd be accompanying me."

"Why would she assume that, Sherlock?"

"Because she's my mother. And she likes you. And I told her you were coming, because I do not relish being fixed up with some distant cousin with a receding chin and a penchant for fly fishing!"

"Is that why Mycroft is bringing Anthea?"

"Mycroft is bringing Anthea because they have been sleeping together for several years. It seems it takes a trained assassin keep my brother in line. Mummy hopes that eventually they will produce little bureaucrat/assassins of their own. I'm sure she would prefer mini detective/pathologists, but…"

"Look, Sherlock, I'll go with you, but only as a friend. You must make that clear to your mother. You can, however, keep it from any predatory weak-chinned cousins…"

"Agreed. See you on Saturday, then!" Sherlock rose from his seat, twirled his Belstaff onto his shoulders, and turned to leave, but not before adding, "Don't forget to call Lestrade, and my brother. If you're going to file an expense report, I expect you to do some work, you know!" And he left, winking as he walked away.

The week passed quickly, and by Saturday evening, Molly was comfortably settled into a table, with Sherlock's family, at an elegant wedding reception. Mrs. Holmes had taken great pains to assure her that she understood the nature of her relationship with her son, at least for the present, she added with a wink. And the conversation then turned to the detective's uncharacteristic presence at a family function.

"I tell you, Molly. It usually takes much more than a little bribe to get Will to attend one of these things. I once gave him a new microscope just to take me to the theater!" Molly had wondered where the new instrument had come from. "He left during intermission, sending in a substitute escort. Have you met Mr. Wiggins? Quite a colorful character, but rather entertaining, I must say. And much more fun at a pub than my Will, too!" Violet slugged down another gin and tonic, and laughed at the recollection, while Sherlock scowled in her direction.

"I can be a lot of fun, too, Mummy. Just ask Molly."

"I'm sure that Molly thinks of you as a lively, entertaining, life of the party type, Will, dear. But let's not forget she's used to dealing with cadavers!" Mycroft almost snorted his Scotch, and Siger Holmes placed a laughing kiss on his wife's cheek.

"Really, Mummy, you'll damage my delicate psyche if you're not careful. Look at how Mycroft turned out!"

Anthea covered Mycroft's hand with her own, and smiled gently at him. "Mycroft turned out just fine, thank you, Sherlock." Violet Holmes watched the interaction, knowing that her elder son and his "assistant" were getting closer to making their "arrangement" public. And she was counting on her younger son's competitive nature bring her hopes to fruition.

"Mycroft, Anthea, have you anything to tell us? Perhaps you have some announcement…"

But the woman was interrupted by her younger son, who asked her, rather urgently, "Mummy, have you brought that item you promised me? From Nana's trust?"

"Of course, Will," Violet said quickly, grabbing her evening bag, and pulling out a small velvet box, which she quickly handed to her younger son. Sherlock opened the box to reveal a rather large diamond and sapphire ring, which he hopefully presented to his pathologist. Ever the romantic, he quietly said, "I hope you realize that if you accept this, as my future wife, you will almost be contractually obligated to be my social secretary. And social conscious. And you will definitely have to deal with those "trust" issues of yours."

"I think we can work it out, Sherlock, as long as you reimburse me for cab fare and groceries. And you no longer have to worry about what to call me now," Molly spoke softly as she leaned in to kiss her new fiance on the lips for the first time. And the second. They were working on the third, when they were interrupted by Mycroft clearing his throat.

"Congratulations, brother mine. An excellent choice! Just what you need, and far better than you deserve."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Perhaps you will learn from my example. It seems I am the smarter brother, after all…"

"Ah, Sherlock. What is it you are always saying? 'You see but you do not observe'?" And with that, the elder brother removed his hand from that of the exquisite assassin who was sitting next to him, revealing the simple band on the third finger of her left hand. "As of nine o'clock this morning…"

"Ah! I suppose I must return the congratulations, then," the younger man said with a grudging smile. "But, tell me, are you considering children?"

"Yes, of course, in due time…"

Sherlock Holmes smiled broadly at his mother, father, brother, newly minted sister-in-law, and various weak-chinned cousins around the room. He grabbed Molly's hand, and hastily bid a good evening to his family. Molly had the good grace to blush as he practically pulled her toward the exit, not waiting to hear the rest of Mycroft's reply.

"...that due time being in approximately seven and a half months. But I wish you luck in your endeavors, little brother!"