Chapter One

Molly blinked owlishly at the detective. "I… I'm sorry?"

He frowned. "I believe I was perfectly clear, Molly. We'll be posing as husband and wife."

She swallowed hard as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. Sherlock had explained the situation: his client was a maid at a rather elite hotel in the south of France, one that was a very popular honeymoon destination for the rich and famous. Several employees and guests—all young and female—had gone missing, inexplicably, and she had reason to believe she was next. She, the client, had elected to take a short holiday in England, and sought the assistance of the famous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had taken the case (despite his disgruntled complaint that it was "no more than a seven"), and for the purpose of working undercover, immediately called the first unattached woman who came to mind.

Molly still couldn't decide how to feel about being called. It would be easy to feel flattered, and just as easy to feel insulted. Though, with Sherlock, she knew neither was his intent. He was all business, just looking for something to help him with the case. So… maybe insulted was easier.

"When?" she asked plainly.

He regarded her with mild surprise; evidently, he had expected some level of protest. But Molly had learned, long ago, that when it came to Sherlock, it was much easier to just go along with it. Besides, she knew he would never take no for an answer, and would have several arguments handy should she attempt to disagree with him.

"I've arranged for a three-night stay weekend after next," Sherlock explained. "We will arrive Thursday, at approximately four o'clock in the afternoon, under the pretense of a wedding trip. Mycroft will be footing the bill—he owes me a favor—and we will be 'honeymooning,' as John so eloquently put it, while also investigating. With any luck, I'll be able to solve the case during that weekend, but if need be, we can always extend our stay. It certainly wouldn't break my heart to spend a bit more of Mycroft's money," he added with a playful smirk.

"Right," she said distantly, still astonished by the turn of events. Pretending to be Sherlock's wife…? It was as if her happiest dreams and her worst nightmares had collided. She loved the man with all her heart, and had wanted to be so close to him for some time, but for real, not for a case. This would undoubtedly be torture… of the sweetest kind. I should say no, she feebly attempted to reason with herself. She couldn't see any possible scenario in which this would turn out well. That is, the way she would like, with Sherlock proclaiming his undying love and asking her to be his real wife. But…

A new scenario played out in her head. One in which this fake honeymoon was just what she needed to finally get over him. She'd heard of marriages going belly-up because of hidden flaws and nuances found once the couple actually lived together. And though she believed she knew quite a lot of the detective, and his flaws, there might be one thing he had managed to keep from her, which would be so abysmal, so abominable, that she could never look at him the same way. And with that, she would finally be free of him.

So… it wasn't the ending she wanted… but perhaps it was the one she needed.

"Okay," she said with finality. "When do we start planning?"

The fated Thursday arrived, and Molly woke early to finish packing. She'd packed the basic essentials—clothes, shoes, etc.—the night before, and all she had left was toiletries and such. She packed light layers, knowing the French climate would be a good deal warmer than gloomy England, and even included a few sundresses which had been ignored for many years. She sincerely hoped they still fit, but hadn't had the time to try them on. If they don't, I'll just buy something new, she shrugged. She was by no means destitute, and though she would take care to limit her purchases, she could afford to splurge now and again. Especially with the greater portion of this trip's expenses being managed by Mycroft.

Despite Sherlock's cavalier acceptance—or rather, delighted encouragement—of his brother's financial involvement, Molly felt a bit apprehensive. She had only met Mycroft on a few occasions, and she was quite intimidated by the eldest Holmes brother. He always wore a sour expression, spoke as if he were above everyone else (which, to be honest, he was), and left one feeling dreadfully inadequate. Part of her worried this little excursion would encourage his disapproval of her.

Stop it, Molly, she scolded herself. You don't need Mycroft's approval. You're trying to distance yourself from the Holmes men, not get closer.

Despite this firm reminder, Molly sank onto her bed with a sigh. This was a tremendously ambitious undertaking. For the last five years, almost the entire time she had known Sherlock Holmes, she had been in love with him. Even when she was with Jim the Bastard and "Meat Dagger" Tom, she secretly carried a bloody torch for the impossible detective. And now, she didn't even have a boyfriend to use as a distraction. It would just be her and Sherlock, alone, in a romantic hotel, pretending to be married.

Several deep breaths later, Molly had rallied her spirits and resumed packing. She reviewed the clothing she'd chosen, and decided to add a few more dresses (courtesy of her mother, who never gave up hope that her eldest daughter would marry some rich, handsome man). She even packed a hanging bag with a fancy red dress, which she had never worn. Perhaps, she mused with a smile. And then, in a daring move that caused her to blush, she packed the strappy yellow bikini, given as a prank gift from her baby sister at her engagement party. "Wear it on your honeymoon," Laney had said. Well… this was as close as she was likely to get.

With her bags sorted and zipped, Molly turned her attention to her current attire. Having checked the weather report, she knew Nice would be a balmy 26 degrees Celsius. She also knew it would be a short flight, and therefore almost no point in bringing a change of clothes on the plane. Layers, she reminded herself, and planned her outfit accordingly. She donned the only sundress she hadn't packed—a navy blue, floral number—paired it with a white cardigan, added a belt at the waist, and a pair of boots to match (she wasn't in France yet, after all). Satisfied, she pulled on a long coat and gathered her hair at the back into a haphazard knot.

A moment later, she heard the buzz of the intercom, announcing Sherlock's arrival. Briefly surprised that he had even bothered with the intercom, Molly stood in silence for a moment. Snapping to her senses the next moment, however, she gathered up her bags and made for the door.

Sherlock stood with a vacant expression, which transformed into a rehearsed smile, which did not meet his eyes. "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," she nodded, and Sherlock helped her with her bags. Once inside the cab, Molly turned her attention to the passersby and looming structures of London. For the first time, she felt excited at the prospect of a holiday, even if the circumstances were a bit… strange. Still, she was determined to enjoy herself, and to achieve her goal of falling out of love with Sherlock. And as the cab pulled away from her flat, she felt almost as if the people on the street were cheering her on.

"You're uncharacteristically quiet, Molly," Sherlock observed.

A reflexive apology rose in her throat, but she stamped it down. She had no reason to apologize. In fact, he was probably grateful for her silence. He was always telling her things like, Don't make jokes, Molly, or, Don't feel the need to make conversation, Molly. So, in response to his comment, she merely gave a quiet shrug, and turned her attention back to the passing streets of London.

In the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Sherlock turn his head toward her, but she wasn't about to look at him to find out. Step One of her plan (the plan she was just now formulating) was to avoid temptation. Which meant not gawking at him like a schoolgirl. And not giving in to his flirtations. The man was notorious for using any means to achieve his ends, and on more than one occasion, he had flattered her into giving him what he wanted. Usually, that meant access to the morgue. Sometimes, an assortment of dismembered body parts. But whatever the favor he needed, his flirting was usually the same. A gentle smile, a sudden compliment, a kiss to the cheek. And she melted like butter. No more, she swore to herself. I'm going to be strong now.

The remainder of the ride to Heathrow passed in silence, and neither of them spoke as they boarded the plane. As soon as Sherlock sat down, taking the aisle seat, he assumed his "mind palace pose," as Molly had heard John call it. Eyes closed, hands steepled against his lips, and back straight, Sherlock became oblivious to the world around him. That suited Molly just fine, as his quick eyes and sharp tongue were always her undoing. She removed her coat and stuffed it into the overhead compartment, while keeping her handbag, and took her seat. She tried not to step on Sherlock's toes, and glanced at his face as she passed. He remained oblivious, and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

As the plane took off, she watched the city grow smaller and more distant, until nothing but clouds could be seen. At that point, she pulled Sense and Sensibility out of her handbag, and treated herself to the shameless flirting of John Willoughby. He really is a scoundrel, she thought with a silent laugh. She hadn't gotten far before she noticed a slight twinge at the back of her head, and pulled the knot out of her hair to relieve the tension.

In seemingly no time at all, the pilot announced their descent. Molly looked at her traveling companion for the first time since boarding. He didn't seem to have heard, or if he had, he didn't care. Of course, it might also be that he had important details to catalog, concerning the case. With this thought, she suppressed a sigh. It wouldn't do to be disappointed. She might be on holiday, but for him, this was work. To be fair, though, she mused, for him, they're almost synonymous.

When they landed, Molly took it upon herself to break the silence. "Shall we?" she asked cheerfully.

Sherlock started from his mind palace when Molly addressed him. He didn't bother to look at her, just nodded to whatever she had said, and stood. They were in Nice, and a car would be waiting for them outside to take them to the hotel, Le Château Diamant. He remained in something of a daze, still sifting through details of the case, what little he had gathered from his client. When he came to, it seemed he had lost sight of Molly. Not one to fret over such matters, he continued his path toward the terminal. He would certainly find her by the baggage claim. He paid no mind to any other faces that stood in his way, simply cutting a path through them.

"Sherlock, wait!"

He turned at the familiar voice, scanning for Molly. When he found her, he froze. Blinked once, twice, and stared. His mind came to a screeching halt at the sight before him. Was this Molly? He had never seen her like this before. He recalled a Christmas, some years ago, at which she dressed up and he tore her to pieces. And though he was genuinely sorry for being so cruel, he had to admit, she was an easy target back then, not to mention she had overdone it with the skin-tight black dress and ridiculous bow in her hair.

But this… this was an entirely new side to the pathologist. Her hair hung free and careless, and her short, floral dress, though it caught it by surprise, was also so thoroughly Molly, that it far surpassed the Christmas dress in his estimation. This was Molly, undoubtedly, but Molly unchained, Molly uninhibited. This, he thought with a suppressed grin, was Molly on holiday.

And he had never seen anything so beautiful.

Sherlock blinked again, even giving his head a little shake. What the devil? he asked himself. Beauty? No. It's just the heat. He was a creature of winter, of the stormy grey London skies, of long coats and scarves and rainy afternoons at Baker Street. And as such, the warmth of the French climate was certainly toying with his perception of reality. It had happened before. Oh, he could remember one dreadful heat wave, some years back… but never mind. The fact of the matter was, it was just the heat.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to Molly, who had reached his side, and was looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. Ah, yes, she probably wants some sort of explanation. "Just headed over to the baggage claim," he said.

"Oh, right," she nodded, then smiled. "Let's go, then!"

Sherlock led the way to the baggage claim, and they quickly found their bags and left the airport. A man in a very crisp, very expensive suit held up a sign with Sherlock's name, though it was hardly necessary; he'd spotted the man and deduced his intent before he was within range to read the sign. The man, likewise, seemed to recognize Sherlock instantly, and no words were exchanged as they ventured out of the airport.

"So, headed to the hotel now, yes?" Molly asked once they reached the car.

"To the hotel," he confirmed, "which reminds me." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced two rings, a gold band for himself, and the traditional diamond for Molly. "Make it official," he said with a sardonic raise of his eyebrow, slipping his own ring onto his finger.

"R-right," she stammered, but slid the ring on, and said nothing more.

Le Château Diamant was very aptly named; the very walls seemed to glitter in the warm, summer sun, and Molly had to shield her eyes from the glare. It certainly looked like a castle, complete with turrets, moat, and drawbridge. The moat, on closer inspection, was very shallow, and mostly for looks, with surprisingly clean water and no sign of fish whatsoever. A large, ornate fountain rested in the center of the drive, water bubbling up from the center and pooling below. And just beyond the chateau, Molly could just see a bit of the impossibly blue ocean, and white, sandy beach.

Inside, the hotel was extravagant, elegant, and a bit on the side of sensory overload. Luxurious furniture surrounded her, and the walls bore exquisite murals and designs. The carpet looked incredibly soft, and a quick, "accidental" act of dropping her handbag allowed her to confirm this hypothesis. And above them hung a brilliant chandelier, made of what was likely real crystal and pure gold.

Not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, she joked with herself.

Molly trailed behind Sherlock as he approached the main desk. He conversed easily in French with the concierge, undoubtedly earning great respect from the man as such. Molly picked up on a few phrases here and there, based on the two years of French she'd taken in school, but for the most part, their conversation was lost on her. Eventually, the concierge handed Sherlock two keys, a pamphlet, and gave a polite smile and a quick bow of his head. He gestured to a nearby bellman, who immediately came to help with their bags, and directed them to the lift. They stopped on the third floor, and were lead to room number 306. The bellman opened the door, and Molly gasped in delight.

Their room was spacious, but not over-large, with a luxurious bed at one wall, a sofa, and two matching chairs nearby. Every piece of furniture was of the classical French style, though with modern fabrics and patterns. The entire wall opposite the door was windows, windows, windows, only a few slices of plain wall in between, and thick drapes hung gracefully at their sides. It even had a vanity, just on the other side of the bed, and the walls and furniture bore a theme of pale greens, soft greys, and luminous whites. A door just next to the main entrance led to the bathroom, and though it was closed, she was certain it would be just as posh.

"Blimey," she whispered before she could stop herself. She felt like a princess.

"Merci beaucoup," Sherlock tipped the bellman, and retrieved their bags, before they were left alone in the room.

Molly let out a soft giggle. "God, this is posh, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "I suppose so. Better get unpacked. Dinner is served in twenty minutes, and apparently, they don't look kindly on tardiness."

"Oh," she frowned. "Well, then… I'll just go and change," she added, reaching for her bag.

"Whatever for? What you're wearing is love—er, perfectly acceptable."

Molly stared at Sherlock as he corrected his faux pas. He was going to say lovely, wasn't he? Her heart raced at the idea, and she started to smile, but fought the urge with a small shake of the head. Stop it, she scolded. It doesn't mean anything. You need to get over him, anyway.

"Nonetheless," she said, "I would feel better if I changed. Get the plane smell off me."

Sherlock frowned in obvious bewilderment, but made no further argument. Molly again reached for her bag, and opened it to retrieve one of the nicer dresses she'd packed (not the red one). A simple, light-weight frock of mint green, it flowed seamlessly to her knees, with a tasteful square neck. Sleeveless, as were most of the dresses she'd brought, so she kept the white cardigan, just in case it got chilly.

After changing in the bathroom, she emerged and went straight to her bag again. She pulled out a pair of beige ballet flats and slid them onto her feet, before turning to Sherlock.

He was staring at her again, the same blank look on his face as when they were in the airport. She'd thought it was just surprise to see her dressed this way. But now, she almost wondered… but it couldn't be, could it? After all these years, he couldn't… wouldn't… no. It was impossible.

"Dinner?" she reminded him.

"Er… yes," he mumbled, blinking rapidly. "Right." He was quiet for a moment, then he seemed to have regained his bearings, and was Sherlock once again. He opened the door and held it for her, and once he had locked it behind them, they made their way to the dining room. Once again, Molly didn't dare look at the handsome detective beside her, but she could swear she saw him glancing at her more than once, and if she was not mistaken, she thought she even saw him stumble a bit.

Sherlock Holmes… stumbling. She didn't know what to make of it. She was sure she'd never seen him out of kilter, not in the slightest. The man was ridiculously composed in every situation. And of course, he would never admit to it, would do everything in his power to make her believe she'd imagined it. But she was quite certain. Something had vexed the great Sherlock Holmes, and… if she allowed herself to hope… that something might just be her.