Sherlock pouted and turned over where he was laying on the couch in 221B Baker Street. "No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be demeaned and reduced to publicity fodder PLUS risk hypothermia. No. No, thank you! Molly, get my checkbook, sign off a thousand pounds, and let's be done with the whole nasty business!" he huffed into the sofa's upholstered backrest.
Mary rolled her eyes and was about to hand John a fiver from her pocket when Molly, the newly-minted Mrs. Holmes, heaved a put-upon sigh that really should have been obvious in its fakeness to our favorite erudite detective. Said sigh got the newly-married sleuth to turn around again to peer at his wife. "What's wrong, Molly?"
The pout on Molly's face was so evocative of a five-year-old's that it almost put little Isabella Watson's best ones to shame. "Just the other day, Anthea was bragging about how Mycroft did the challenge for her. She also told me she'd bet anything you wouldn't do it for me," she whined. (Molly never whines about anything. That clue really should have rung Sherlock's bells but, oh well.)
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his bride as well as to all and sundry in the room, meaning John, Mary, and Isabella. "She said WHAT?!" Sherlock bellowed.
A deluge of icy water came pouring down upon Sherlock's head courtesy of his older brother who'd silently walked in carrying an ice bucket, Anthea filming the whole thing from behind him. "Oh, do calm down, brother mine. It's for a good cause. Now nominate someone, will you?"
Sherlock took in the sight of his wife giggling madly in front of him and snarled like a newly awakened dragon. "HER! MY DARLING WIFE, MOLLY HOOPER HOLMES!"