"In my conception," Sherlock began, "You are Alexandra Grigorievna Antonova, telecom heiress and socialite. I am your impecunious artist husband, Vasily Antonov, and John is our manservant and bodyguard, Dick."
"Cheers, mate," answered John, flipping two fingers up at him.
"In your conception," Mary said slowly, "You're my trophy husband."
"Naturally."
"Oh, naturally."
Sherlock glanced between the two grinning Watsons and rolled his eyes, "Oh, stop it. It's a simple fact that if Vasily were the one with the money in the relationship he'd be with someone a great deal younger and more conventionally beautiful than you, Mary."
"Of course," she replied icily, folding her arms across her chest as John cracked up next to her.
"I'm nearly forty, after all. Obviously I'd be on my second wife by now and the second wives of sketchy Russian oligarchs are subject to incredibly rigorous standards of physical perfection."
"Do keep digging, Sherlock."
"First wife, yes, you're certainly up to scratch there. Second wife, no. Though I suppose if you insist on being sentimental we can act like we are legitimately a long-term couple in love. There have to be some of them, even among the billionaires."
"If I were going to go along with this I'd have Alexandra constantly and blatantly sneaking down to the servant's quarters for a bit of rough trade, pretty boy," Mary snipped. She and John paused to high-five. "But I'm not. You know the rules, Sherlock. We're parents now. You don't get to take both of us on a dangerous mission-"
"Touring a manufacturer of luxury yachts hardly counts as dangerous by the standards of superagents-"
"Luxury yacht manufacturers that you do think are arms dealers on the side," John commented, "And anyway Mary can't leave for a two day trip."
"Whyever not?"
"Because Rosie needs to be fed on a semi-regular basis," Mary said, "Which I have to do out of my-"
"Yes, yes, all right," Sherlock interrupted, "I really wanted to have a woman, though-"
"Phrasing-" John muttered.
"Because there are places women can go that men cannot, and conversations that they are privy to that men do not get to hear."
"It's true. That's why we always go to the bathroom in packs," Mary said, "Why not bring Mrs. Hudson, if you really want to play gigolo? Or of course you could try going in drag."
Sherlock suspected he might have actually offended her with the remarks about her age and attractiveness.
"Or Molly," John suggested, "Right age, willing to work with you, pretty enough to be a first wife."
"That's a bit cruel, John," Mary said.
"Well I'm sorry but she's objectively not a supermodel or anything and-"
"No, Mary's right," Sherlock said, surprisingly, "Molly…"
He hesitated.
"I am aware that Molly still has feelings for me that are not… strictly platonic."
John and Mary blinked at him, and eventually John said, "What. No. That can't be."
"It's quite true. And so it's not appropriate for me to ask her to take a role that, by its nature, would require a pretense of romantic intimacy. It would be distressing for her and a reminder of what she wants but can never have. She's never been anything but kind to me and doesn't deserve that."
Sherlock gazed nobly at a point in the middle distance. John rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, but she's also a big girl with a good head on her shoulders. And of the literally three women you know she's your best bet, if you insist on bringing one along. It really couldn't hurt to ask."
He did ask Molly, ultimately. After Janine replied to his inquiry with a list of the photographs of him that she would require should she agree to play the role. Some of them were arguably illegal and all of them would be distasteful to have published.
Just as he had expected, Molly wasn't happy about it. She flushed, and got stuttery, and said, "Sherlock, it's not… I mean, I want to help you, obviously, I always do. It's just that, well…"
"Molly," he interjected kindly, "It's quite all right-"
"I really don't have anything to wear that would look at all right for someone who can buy a luxury yacht."
Sherlock cocked his head. He hadn't been expecting that.
"The clothing is included. My brother's PA will take you shopping."
Molly's eyes got big and round, and she said, "Ooooh," before digging her mobile out of her lab coat pocket and flipping through her calendar.
"Okay, yeah, actually, all I have on next weekend is a haircut and I can totally reschedule that," she said, all asparkle, "This will be fun! Saint-Tropez… undercover. I feel quite posh and dangerous. Like a Bond girl."
She actually did one of those friendly female slaps-to-the-forearm that Janine used to like doing. It stung.
"Ye-es?" Sherlock answered slowly.
"Let me know the specifics once you have them," Molly said. She pulled her hair back into her everyday ponytail, put on gloves and safety glasses, and continued, "Now I do need to start this autopsy. He's dying to get it over with!"
She chortled at her own wit. Sherlock took the hint and left the morgue, frowning.
Sherlock had to revise his original conception. Molly didn't speak Russian, or any foreign language besides an abysmal schoolgirl German. Also it seemed wrong to make the relationship a cynical transactional one like he had originally envisaged. Molly wouldn't do something like that.
(Mary would, definitely, which always made him wonder exactly what she was getting out of her actual relationship with a man with no money and no immediately obvious use to her, and then shudder and intensively think about anything else because he suspected he knew the answer and ew.)
But not Molly.
So he created Stephen Hauser. Stephen had adored Colleen Kelly from afar when they were at school together, but had never quite been able to work up the nerve to actually ask her out. They went their separate ways upon adulthood, her into medical school (though Colleen was a pediatrician rather than a pathologist… more dull and traditionally feminine and expected) and him to Oxford. Stephen dropped out just short of his degree and founded his own company which revolutionized multifactor authorization security in online banking and made him incredibly rich in exactly the boring sort of way that wouldn't make anyone want to ask him questions about it.
Stephen, Sherlock decided, wore wire-framed spectacles and hawaiian shirts and was quiet except when he was being really dull about software.
Anyway after his successful IPO had propelled him into the financial stratosphere, Stephen figured that he was finally worthy to approach Colleen. He looked her up on Facebook, and after a few humorous misunderstandings they decided to get married. The Hauser-Kellys had thereafter been happily wed for almost a decade.
John commented, "That's actually quite romantic," but what did he know?
Molly sat on the sofa at 221B Baker Street and looked inquisitively up at Sherlock, who was standing at the mantel, hands folded behind his back.
"We're taking a chartered flight Friday afternoon, then once we arrive there will be a welcome reception, a presentation, and dinner. Saturday is touring the various yachts and getting an idea of what's on the market that would suit our alleged needs, another dinner, this time with dancing, and then we leave, possibly with quote in hand, Sunday noon. Of course in the mean time, we'll investigate."
He smiled benignly down at her.
"Are you satisfied with your wardrobe?"
"Oh my God yes. Anthea and I had a wonderful time. One of the dresses is the same one Princess Kate wore two weeks ago. Even the underwear is insane… it's from this shop, in Belgravia, called 'Carine Gilson?' Just one bra cost three hundred quid."
Odd. His mouth had gone dry. It wasn't as though he was in any way a connoisseur of women's undergarments but he had seen that brand and…
"Duchess."
"Sorry?"
"She's not a princess, won't be until her husband is Prince of Wales, she's a duchess."
Molly rolled her eyes at him and said, "You didn't even know that we don't currently have a king until last year so I'll thank you to not critique my imperfect knowledge of royal title conventions."
"Noted. Now, as to the actual case, it's a fairly straightforward R&R-"
"Which means?"
"... reconnaissance and report. There's been a massive uptick in crimes committed with unlicensed Kalashnikovs… which doesn't necessarily indicate a Russian connection in and of itself, the model is obviously also manufactured in dozens of other countries…"
"Yeah, obviously-"
"And based on timing and chatter MI6 has a suspicion that the transactions are taking place on these little yachting sales occasions hosted by Mr. Alyakhin"
Molly frowned.
"That… I mean, it seems important, obviously, but… also kind of standard police stuff. Why'd they drag you into it?"
Sherlock frowned back at her. Now that she'd said it, it really didn't seem like the sort of case that would require his specialized attention, but Mycroft had been very insistent that Sherlock go undercover in person and bring companions-
"There's nuances that I can't discuss with you," he said, trying for lofty and mysterious.
"Right. So what do I have to do?"
"Mostly add texture and backstory to my character, frankly. But keeping your ears and eyes open will be only to the good. You have a charming and appealing personality which may well make people tell you things that they don't intend to reveal."
"Aww. That's sweet."
Sherlock frowned. He hadn't intended to be 'sweet' and if he had been he'd frankly have hoped for a more intense reaction than this.
"Now, this will," he said carefully, "Involve us… convincingly impersonating a married couple. I've not established us as newlyweds so you won't have to do anything too embarrasing-"
"Whew," Molly said.
Whatever.
"But there's a level of comfort and ease around one another that we will need to keep in mind. Here, stand up."
Sherlock was a bit leery about this, since all these sorts of things were not an area in which he had direct personal experience. He was clearly an excellent observer and mimic but observation and practice were two very different things.
"A long-term couple, as we are, will have a level of physical familiarity with one another. We might, for instance, hold hands as we walk-"
He matched deed to description, taking her small hand in his. Molly looked up at him with… mild detached interest and no yearning or particular sadness at all. She had definitely changed. Which was all to the good, of course.
"Or I could maybe…" Molly hesitated, reached her other hand up, and adjusted his (already perfect) collar. And then she quite casually trailed her hand down his shirt and rested it over his heart for a moment.
"Yes, very good," Sherlock said, clearing his throat, "Excellent improvisation and very realistic."
Molly, incredibly, burst into giggles and responded, "I wanted to fix your hair but if Stephen's anything like you then we'd have had to get a divorce!"
She snorted a bit when she laughed. This was all very unsettling for Sherlock.
Mary bounced Rosie on her hip and watched as John and Sherlock put on a remarkable synchronized display of their two variant forms of OCD. John put his precisely folded, precisely organized clothes into his suitcase… and Sherlock decided all of them were in some fashion wrong and tipped them out onto the floor.
"James wouldn't wear that-"
(John had put his foot down about being called "Dick.")
"I'm James, I get to decide what he wears-"
Rosie was enjoying this performance, clapping her chubby palms together and giggling, because Sherlock and John were kind of playing it up for her but since Mary suspected she was the one who'd be refolding all this laundry she interrupted them to ask, "So is Molly going to be okay with all of this?"
Sherlock snorted, huffed, and flung himself down onto the chair in the corner of their bedroom.
"Molly's fine," he sneered, "She's very much looking forward to wearing expensive clothes and spying on things and pretending to be my wife and not fancying me at all."
John and Mary glanced at one another, and John said slowly, "Well, that's good, isn't it? It shows that she's-"
"Fickle."
"Moving on from years of unrequited love is kind of a loose usage of the word 'fickle,' sweetie," Mary commented.
"Oh, yes, everyone likes to move on from me. John gets married, she gets engaged-"
"You do realize that Mary and me have a very different relationship from you and me, and you were also dead, right?" John interrupted.
"Obviously, but the same principle applies, doesn't it?" Sherlock spat, "Everybody gets bored with Sherlock once they figure out his failings and inadequacies and goes on and is happy someplace else. It's commonplace to the point of tedium. I'd just expected more of Molly, that's all."
Mary hesitantly said, "But Molly's still right here-"
"Yes, for all the good that does-" Sherlock interrupted himself, stood, and left the room, mumbling, "I need to go pack."
"You've already packed," John said.
"I've changed my conception!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder.
The door to their flat slammed behind him. The adult Watsons looked at one another with wide eyes.
"Okay, am I imagining it-" Mary began.
"No you are not. Holy hell," John replied.
"Bet you he's going to be a delight on this trip," Mary commented.
"Poor old git, though. He finally pulls his finger out, and it's too late."
"Ohhhh, I don't know…" Mary trailed off tantalizingly, setting Rosie on the bed and refolding one of the discarded shirts.
John cocked an eyebrow at her, and asked, "What do you know?"
Mary hesitated, and then said, "Molly and I had a drink together last week, and… look, it's not my story to tell. But you, John Watson, are going to text me updates. Hourly."
Meena had been the one to buy the book, since she'd never liked Sherlock. Molly wasn't normally one for self-help literature, and the text was was really designed for women in love with bad men as opposed to disinterested ones, but it wasn't too much of a stretch to say that it had changed her life.
She'd told Mary all about it over a few G&Ts at the White Lion, which was their local.
The whole point was that love was a feeling, and like all feelings, out of your control. But you could control how you responded to it.
She had a profound and meaningful friendship with Sherlock. It was a bummer that was all it was ever going to be, but it wasn't worth risking that friendship in the futile hope it could be something more.
And so, instead of doing stupid romantic daydreams about him serenading her or picking her up and carrying her across the threshold of a beautiful castle, when she saw Sherlock… Molly intentionally and purposefully cherished the relationship they actually had. She reminded herself how much she enjoyed his company, how special it was to be in the confidence of this prickly and remote man, how she was witty and beautiful and charming even though she was single.
Yes, all right, there were some affirmations but it wasn't silly at all.
Mary, who was a horrible cynic, had been dubious about this and said it sounded like, "AA fake-it-til'-you-make-it nonsense," until Molly told her she'd actually been doing it successfully for six months. She was good at it, by now. This whole "pretend married" thing, far from being stressful and upsetting, would be a snip, a fun and adventurous holiday with her dear, dear friend.
And John.
Who was leaning on a town car illegally parked on Baker Street, smiled when her cab dropped her off, and said how pretty she looked in her obscenely pricey coatdress.
"Where's Sherlock?" Molly asked as John loaded her (Louis Vuitton, good grief) luggage into the boot.
"Not sure. He's supposed to be here, but-"
"And so I am," Sherlock's deep voice purred from behind her.
Molly turned around and- odd. Her mouth had gone dry. Because Sherlock looked… beautiful. He was wearing light khaki trousers and a pristine white linen shirt with far too many of the buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms and expensive wristwatch. His wild curls had been tamed into a semblance of order with some sort of sandalwood scented product.
There may or may not have been a hat and the whole picture was basically a cleaner, Englisher Indiana Jones.
"Thought you were going to go for the computer geek look, mate," John remarked.
"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Sherlock replied. His voice was like butter, and he smirked devilishly, "Shall we all get into character? Colleen?"
And he literally kissed her hand. This might be tougher than she'd expected.
The hourly text updates thing wasn't really panning out. They'd left ages ago and all Mary had got was:
-Sherlock's peacocking. But Molly's really not paying him any mind. She's reading a book. He's cranky.
-This plane is weird. All the announcements are in haiku form, and the stewardess put a lemon into the top of Molly's handbag.
-Anyway the nobs are off to a three-Michelin-stars restaurant. We the help all got cold takeaway hamburgers and warm lager in the kitchen, and nobody here seems at all arms-dealery. Looks like most bodyguard/manservants are ex-cops.
-Shame I've got to spend the whole evening all alone here in the servant's quarters…
And then much less than an hour later:
-Hint hint.
But in the middle of a rather exciting chat, to her surprise she got something from Molly.
-This was a mistake, and now I'm going to die.
-Some poor French pathologist will have to do my autopsy and under cause of death they will write "sexual frustration."
-Which is apparently "frustration sexuelle" in French.
-He's wearing bloody black tie and he's 100% shoulders and bottom in it and he's PETTING MY BACK.
-Not even petting. Like… tracing his fingertips up and down my spine.
-Just casually while we sit through this boring presentation.
-Ugh yachts are dull.
-I admit it's technically in character as a man whose date's wearing a backless dress but it is NOT what I had in mind and the affirmations aren't working at ALL.
-I swear to God it's like he's doing it on purpose.
Mary rolled her eyes. These two, much as she loved them, were both incredibly incompetent at this. She could, of course, just text both Molly and Sherlock the truth and let them have an actual adult conversation about feelings, but...
-Yes, but deep down you know he's not. He's basically like a cross between an asexual and an idiot. Janine says he kisses like a dead trout
But it would be much more fun to escalate it. Which given what she knew about men would also work, and would coincidentally serve Sherlock right for his digs at her. She might be old, but she was crafty.
-You just have to be strong and stay the course. He's got no idea he's having any effect on you at all. It's like when a cat rubs up against you. They're not trying to get off.
They're bloody marking their territory, Mary thought. Molly was a cat owner, she might realize that, but it was the most accurate analogy Mary'd thought of in ages and she sent the text anyway so as not to waste it.
-Think of it as being an actress, and give back as good as you get. It's only for a day and a half longer.
And two nights. Mary giggled quietly to herself.
-I guess you're right.
-I need a bloody drink.
After the interminably long presentation, they'd been escorted to their rooms aboard the Nautilus, the largest vessel in dock and at half a billion euro well beyond even the absurd budget Colleen and Stephen allegedly had.
By "rooms," of course, they meant a tasteful entertaining area, a massive and fully appointed bath… and one bedroom.
Molly came out from the bath, hair down and loose around her shoulders, wrapped in a slip and kimono in gold satin with art deco black floral patterns. She noticed his expression and tugged it around herself shyly.
"I don't know why Anthea insisted that I get the pajamas too… not really that kind of party, nobody else is going to see them."
"There could be a fire," Sherlock blurted, "And then we'd have to evacuate. Better safe than sorry."
Because… oh, tell the truth, Sherlock… he really liked the nightwear. The rest of the clothes were entirely appropriate for a philanthropist wife of a software billionaire, flattering to her slim figure and well-chosen for the occasions on which she had put them on. But the gown and robe actually made her look like Molly, who enjoyed bright colors and cheery things in a life that by its nature contained far more grim and depressing than the national average.
If of course Molly were the type to drop a thousand pounds on a nightgown. Without any calculation, without meaning to test her newfound freedom from… romantic imaginings, Sherlock said, "It suits you."
"It is pretty," she said, smiling faintly, "I hope I get to keep it."
"As I said, it suits you."
Molly got a faint frown-line between her brows, then cleared her throat and said, "Anyway. Are you sleeping tonight, or do I get the bed?"
Just, totally calmly, planning their sleeping arrangements, without a hint of stutter or blush. She really was over him. It had finally happened.
"I've- got some thinking to do. And this sofa's longer than yours if I need to sleep. Take the bed."
"Yeah, you really wouldn't 'need the space' in here," Molly chuckled, "The shower stall is bigger than my bedroom. The rich have very different lives than you and me, don't they?"
"Mmm," he replied, steepling his hands in front of his face, "Sleep well."
Breakfast was served in their suite and was traditionally French, with croissants and very small pots of yogurt and incredibly strong coffee. John came in about halfway through carrying a McDonald's bag, looked at their setup, rolled his eyes, and sat down with them.
"I realize that I'm just intrinsically and by my nature a commoner but do you realize how crap it is to be a servant? It's no wonder they had a revolution here. Just twenty hours of being sneered at and sleeping in a closet and I'd be totally fine with all your heads getting chopped off."
He grinned winsomely at Molly.
"Not you, of course, Molls," John said, "You will be spared."
Sherlock snorted and started rummaging through the McDonald's bag, making a pleased sound when he found the p'tite pomme. John helped himself to a coffee and a pain au chocolat. Once the respective male appetites had been satisfied (dear Lord, Molly thought, once I get back I really do need to get a boyfriend if this is what I think when I see men eating) they sat back.
"Thoughts, John?" John asked.
The older man shrugged.
"Six groups of clients and their personal staffs… American, Russian, two French, Saudi, English. Assuming we can rule you and Molly out my bet would be on the American. The bodyguard he bought along, Cliff, by name and by nature, is a bit scary. Ex special forces, if I had to guess, heavily armed."
"More so than you?" Sherlock asked dryly.
"Which is what makes him scary," John replied smartly back.
"The Saudi is my preference. The man's just an average idiot but chatting with him he's got some distant Khashoggi connections… perfect for a small-time operation like this."
The two mildly bickered back and forth while Molly fixed her face according to the handy cartoons that Andrea had drawn for her. She personally liked one of the two French couples as the gun runners… the woman was Hitchcock blonde and glamorous and looked exactly like a criminal mastermind in a Bond movie. But nobody asked her and she supposed it wasn't really her line.
It was all a bit melancholy, though. She'd succeeded in what she wanted and now she was in the same category as John: a trusted friend, a confidante, and assistant. Sherlock was more relaxed around her than she'd ever seen him, comfortable with her touch…
So when it came time for 'Stephen' to take 'Colleen's' hand and be squired around the marina by their private concierge she reminded herself, "It's good that he feels able to do this with me. There's not many of us," and got on with it.
Yachts were, as she'd noticed the previous night, dull. Maybe if you were actually expecting to own one you could manage to care about tonnage and waterlines and all these exotic hardwood finishes but as it was they were just a big bunch of floating hotels and (even in the harbor) going on them made Molly feel slightly seasick.
They had just got off the Waterlily (40 meters, 460 tons, seemingly decorated by drunk mafiosi, dull) and Sherlock was making appropriate noises at the explanations the concierge was giving when all of a sudden he stopped dead in his tracks and then nearly dragged Molly off her feet with an, "I want to see this one."
This one was a rather smallish yacht, which unlike most of the rest was rigged for sailing. And his Sherlock was showing, because he climbed aboard with a wide-eyed expression of glee and immediately took hold of the massive wooden steering wheel
"This," he proclaimed, "Is what these things are supposed to be. The original yachts were light and fast, designed to catch pirates in the low countries. The word jagt even means 'hunt.'"
"You want to hunt pirates?" Molly teased, though it really made perfect sense.
"I want to be a pirate. Shame I'm just too good at... software."
He smiled, one of the rare genuine smiles that made his face crinkle. Molly sighed, and smiled back. This was the hardest bit. She could fuss about desire but at the end of the day she could ignore it.
Love was a lot tougher.
John, standing on the dock of the Nautilus, was trying to put on that rock-faced stoic expression that all the bodyguards he'd ever seen seemed to share. He was pretty sure it just made him look constipated.
He watched as Sherlock glided Molly smoothly around the dance floor. He'd known Sherlock was a good dancer (though a very impatient dance instructor) but Molly was a surprise. She tended to be a bit clumsy outside of the morgue, but in Sherlock's arms she seemed light as a feather, graceful and elegant.
The two of them made a handsome couple, John thought. It'd be nice if they could work it out… Rosie could use some cousins near her own age. And it'd be good for Sherlock to have someone. He'd needed that, for a while now.
The music came to an end, and with a smattering of applause, the dancers stopped. Molly excused herself, and Sherlock came over and stood by John and gazed out over the dark waters of the port.
"I didn't know she could dance like that," John commented idly.
"I did," Sherlock returned briefly.
John sighed, as he often did when confronted with a sulky detective. He soldiered on.
"She seems happy."
"She is. She's moved on," Sherlock hissed.
Well, sod, this wasn't sulk. This was about an inch from full-on Shakespeare-monologuing wall-shooting temper tantrum.
"Okay," John began, "I'm going to ask you this, just once, and if you keep moaning about it after this point then I'm going to punch you in the mouth."
"Oh, do inquire, Doctor. It's always interesting to hear your impression of intelligent commentary."
"Exactly what do you care?"
Sherlock bristled, and John went on.
"Because as far as it looks like there is absolutely no downside to this for you. Molly's… lending you body parts, and helping you with cases, and pretending to be your bloody wife, for God's sake. She does all the same stuff for you that she always did, she's just doing it without pining over you. She's your friend. So what. do. you. care?"
Sherlock was opening his mouth to say something flippant and sarcastic and John interrupted him with a, "No, Sherlock. Really think about it. Why do you care?"
Sherlock frowned, but he thought about it. Eventually, he said, "I liked it better when Molly was in love with me."
"Okay, fine, why? Just to stroke your ego? Because frankly you really don't need much help on that score."
"No…" Sherlock squinted into the distance, "It made me feel happy because-"
Penny in the air, John thought.
"Because I… feel… that way… myself?" Sherlock sounded uncertain of that fact.
"Really," John said, internally exulting. Penny dropped.
"My God," Sherlock said, wide-eyed, "For someone who's supposed to be good with all this emotional nonsense you really missed the mark on that one."
"Yeah," John sighed, "I'm the one who sucks. So what are you going to do about it?"
Sherlock was leaning heavily on the railing, staring off into the distance.
"I could set up a scenario in which she thinks we're both in terrible danger and then tell her-"
"No, that's a really, really bad idea. Just… just go and talk to her, all right? Tell her the truth. Mary says…"
"Mrs. Watson says what?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"Nevermind. I just think that if Molly thought she wasn't shooting arrows into the void you might find she's not as over it as you think."
"Yes! Okay, right!" Sherlock mumbled, running his fingers through his hair and straightening his lapels. He looked very young, just then, and John had to resist the urge to punch him on the shoulder and say, "Go get 'er, sport."
Molly hurried out of the ladies room and ran full-on into Sherlock's chest, who looked flushed and wide-eyed.
She interrupted whatever he was about to say with a, "Stephen. I overheard a conversation in the ladies room. It was Madame Vockrodt, you know, the blonde Frenchwoman. She was talking to one of the maids and saying…"
Molly frowned, because she was rubbish at languages, but did her best.
"Authentique izshevsk kalashnikovs, quarante caisses."
Sherlock stared down at her and said, slowly, "Forty cases of Kalashnikovs. You just randomly overheard this in the ladies room? I can't believe that actually worked."
"And then 'Tout va bien, la vache débile ne parle pas français,'" Molly finished triumphantly.
"Right, well, you… you may possibly have been made there. Come on, we need to get John and contact-"
Whatever Sherlock was about to say was interrupted by a sharp cracking sound. With cat-quick reflexes he dragged Molly to the deck and threw himself on top of her.
Andrea came into his office with (Mycroft sighed) yet more folders that he would need to read, and a cup of tea. It was amazing how a tiny banana republic could occupy so much of his time just by virtue of deciding to have a coup d'etat. It was already quite late in the evening and he had no prospects of finishing anytime soon.
She cleared her throat, tapped a manicured nail on the top folder, and said, "You might like to read that one now, sir. It's the transcript of a text conversation between Doctor Watson and his wife."
Curious, Mycroft opened and read:
JW: This is not a drill.
JW: This is not a drill.
JW: Sherlolly is go.
MW: Sherlolly?
JW: You know, like Brad and Angelina. Brangelina. Sherlolly.
MW: Do not give portmanteau ship names to our friends.
MW: But really?
JW: OH YEAH.
JW: He just realized how he feels and is off to tell her ALL about it.
MW: Oh that's lovely.
JW: Gtg gunfire
MW: Gunfire?
MW: JOHN TEXT ME BACK
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Andrea.
"Is my brother in any danger at the moment?"
"No, sir. The last texts were sent twenty minutes ago and if you look into the next folder you can see why we're not terribly concerned."
Intrigued, Mycroft opened the next folder and read over the list of the guests touring the yachts. His eyebrows rose, and for just a moment, the Iceman almost smiled.
"Sherlock will be so disappointed. But perhaps other consolations will occur to him."
"Bloody… stupide… trigger-'appy… Americans," Madame Arnaud, the second Frenchwoman, hissed into Cliff-the-bodyguard's face.
"Oh, well I'm sorry I went after gunrunners with my gun, how silly of me. Maybe a nice brie and a baguette would have been more appropriate," Cliff grumbled back.
"I don't quite understand…" Mr. Alyakhin, the owner of the yacht manufacturers, said hesitantly, "They-"
He pointed at the zip-tied Mme. Vockrodt and her associates, "Have been using my yachting sales as a cover for arms deals. And the rest of you are-"
"Interpol," Madame Arnaud said.
"NSA," Cliff admitted.
"al-Mabāḥiṯ al-ʿĀmmah," Mr. Asfour, the man in the Saudi couple said, "What in English you call the Saudi General Investigation Directorate."
"Foreign Intelligence Service," Mr. Trofimov commented in a thick Siberian accent, "And this is why we really do need to work on international cooperation on law enforcement."
Everyone was looking over at Sherlock who growled, "Mycroft Holmes, MI-6. This is Dick Darlington and Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard."
"Did no one want to buy a luxury yacht?" Mr. Alyakhin nearly wailed.
They had to fly commercial on the way back. Mr. Alyakhin wasn't too keen on paying for their charters now that he knew no yachts were to be purchased. But Sherlock produced his brother's black card and insisted on buying seats in first class, so it was still very nice, at least by Molly's standards.
It was a quiet trip. Sherlock was grim and Molly was melancholy and John had been told that this case was never going to be put onto the blog if he enjoyed remaining unthrottled so he was pouting.
When they all cleared customs at Heathrow they saw Mary bouncing Rosie in her front facing-carrier and saying, "Look, Rosie, it's Molly and Sherlock and the Action Man, who texts about shots being fired and then doesn't answer his phone for two hours!"
"Missed you too, dearest," John said dryly, kissing her and Rosie one after the other.
Mary glanced between Molly and Sherlock, and frowned, and looked to be making to say something until John said quietly, "Let's not just now, okay?" to her and she shut her mouth again.
Sherlock, because he couldn't be in a car without driving it, drove John and Mary's car back to the quiet suburban neighborhood where they lived near Molly. This ride was also quiet, apart from Rosie who was always a cheery, bubbly little baby.
("Try putting her to bed sometime," Mary commented when Molly said something on that subject.)
They unloaded the car outside Molly's flat, Sherlock commenting that he'd ring for a cab from there so that the Watsons wouldn't have to drive through central London at rush hour, and John and Molly left with Rosie. It was raining and drizzly, and the floaty Alexander McQueen dress that would have been perfect for Saint-Tropez's heat was entirely inadequate to the London chill.
She let them both in, and petted Toby who was mewling happily at the sight of her. And then going 'rrr' once he saw Sherlock, who he disliked.
Sherlock made no move to call his cab, but after bringing in their bags sat on Molly's sofa, rested his elbows on his knees, and steepled his hands in front of his face. She sighed. It had been all a bit much, this weekend, and she really wanted to order a takeaway and put on her warmest pajamas and curl up, and when Sherlock preying-mantised he tended to stay in one position for a while.
"I'm sorry," Molly said, eventually, "That the case didn't turn out to be that good. Sort of a waste of your time, I guess."
"Don't apologize, Molly. It's really not your forte," Sherlock said shortly.
"I'm not apologizing, it's not my bloody fault. I just feel bad for you," she snapped back.
"You feel... bad for me. And is that really all you feel?" he asked her.
Molly folded her arms and stared down at him.
"Sherlock, what's going on? You've been weird all weekend."
"Because what I feel is that I have been deprived of your love. And I dislike it. Intensely."
Molly blew a strand of hair out of her face and said, shortly, "No."
"No?"
"No, you don't get that. Not anymore," Molly spat, "Sorry but you don't get to have me trailing around after you hoping like an idiot."
"Well the prospect of trading places with you in that regard doesn't particularly appeal to me either but look at that, here we bloody are!"
Molly boggled.
"Wait… are you saying… what?"
"Isn't it obvious? Even John was able to figure it out. I finally managed to kill your sentiments… looking back on it that probably happened about six months ago, correct? Only just in time to discover that I return them myself and now I have to spend the rest of my life being the object of amused derision of all of our-"
He didn't get to finish because Molly had realized that the situation had changed, carpe'd the diem, and jumped into his arms and started kissing him.
It wasn't like Molly'd imagined, back when she let herself imagine. He was frankly a bit tentative and clumsy and didn't know quite what to do with his hands, but it was all right. It was better than she'd imagined. And anyway Sherlock always picked things up quickly when he tried.
"Is that what all this was about, this weekend?" Molly asked, once they'd come up for air, "The whole… handsome and charming thing?"
"I am always handsome and charming," Sherlock replied in an arch tone only slightly spoiled by the fact he was now wearing most of her lipstick, "But no. I only just realized this late last night."
He reached over and brushed her mussed hair out of her face, "This… is an entirely new conception. I'll have to work out how it goes. If you'll help?"
"Don't I always?"
Notes: Written for the Sherlolly fic exchange on AO3, from taleasolastimeandspace's prompt: Sherlock asks Molly to go undercover as his wife (it's for a case!), expecting her to be flustered. Instead, she's completely unbothered, and maybe even indifferent. Sherlock is miffed, and starts to worry that maybe she doesn't love him any more (but why on earth should that bother him so much?)