Sherlock Holmes had been back from the dead for nearly 17 months. He had been engaged in a relationship with the pathologist who helped him fake his death for about the same length of time. It was hard to say exactly how long, since they never talked about it. Their friends had seen moments between them—brief kisses, a gentle touch or smile. Some friends had accidentally seen far more than that, but they didn't tell Sherlock or Molly. The two dealt in murder. They faked a death together. It didn't take much imagination to know that they could be very dangerous if crossed.
No one knew when their first real kiss occurred. Most had been witness to the first actual kiss—but they were sure Molly didn't count that one (as a matter of fact, she and Sherlock both liked to pretend that one never happened). No one knew when they'd first said "I love you," or if they had ever said it at all (though John knew they had. Sherlock admitted as much). And certainly no one knew that nearly a year and a half after Sherlock's return from the dead, they decided to marry, even though Mycroft had taken the precaution to gift Sherlock with Mummy's engagement ring, featuring a large cushion cut diamond set in platinum, shortly after he learned that Sherlock and Molly were in an actual relationship. He didn't know anything. He simply hoped. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at the time and tossed the velvet box into a drawer.
They didn't deny loving each other, nor did they deny that Molly spent far more nights at 221B than she did at her own apartment. Toby had become a Baker Street resident and enjoyed sitting in John's chair when he wasn't there. John suspected Sherlock sometimes talked to Toby thinking it was him.
No, they did not deny anything. They just didn't tell anyone anything either. If asked directly about their relationship, Sherlock had a tendency to either ignore the question or to stare aggressively until you were uncomfortable, and Molly would smile, flutter a hand, and give a non-response. Before long, their friends stopped asking. It was clear enough what they felt for each other. They could see. They could observe. They could deduce. It was all rather obvious.
Even so, John did not suspect anything when he was summoned urgently via text one bright Tuesday afternoon in late spring to The Old Marylebone Town Hall. They'd had a case there recently as a matter of fact. While trailing a man called Norton, they had become impromptu witnesses at his wedding. At the time, John noticed Sherlock speaking to the clerk at the registry after the ceremony and picking up some paperwork. He simply assumed that it was for the case at hand. He'd never dreamed that it would be for the consulting detective himself.
Sherlock met John on the steps of the town hall, clad as usual in his coat and suit. It was just before 2:00. His hair was neatly combed and his shoes recently polished, but this was not necessarily unusual. Sherlock did like to be well groomed. Sherlock ushered his friend quickly inside and led him to a small yellow paneled room where a few chairs were set up facing a marble fireplace. Fresh flower arrangements were scattered tastefully about.
"So, what's this about then," John asked looking about, "Another wedding?" Sherlock was checking his watch.
"You might say that." He shrugged off his coat and handed it to John. "Here have a seat. I'll be right back," and he disappeared behind a closed door. John sat.
A few minutes later, Greg Lestrade wandered in, spotted John and spread his arms in a what's-going-on gesture. John shrugged and moved Sherlock's coat so Lestrade could sit down.
"Is this a sting or something? Weren't you here on the Norton case a few months ago?" Lestrade asked settling beside him. John nodded.
"Yeah, but he hasn't explained what's happening yet." They looked around the room—a pretty little spot to marry. Bright afternoon sunshine streamed in the windows making the yellow panels and marble fireplace almost glow.
"I don't know why it was so urgent we get here right at two p.m." Lestrade grumbled, "just so we can hurry up and wait for whatever this is. I barely got lunch today," he looked down and dabbed a spot of brown sauce on his shirt front.
The two men sat together, chatting aimlessly, waiting for instruction. To be honest, Lestrade was glad to be out of the busy office. It was quiet in the room, and he was feeling a little sleepy after eating. He closed his eyes and slumped in the straight backed chair. John scratched his ear and yawned. When they heard voices in the hall, both men perked up. John tilted his head, listening, those voices sounded familiar and were coming closer. He and Lestrade both turned to look at the new arrivals to the little room.
They started in surprise when Mrs. Hudson and Mary Watson were ushered in by Mycroft's ever cool and unflappable personal assistant. Mrs. Hudson carried a shopping bag of apples and kitchen cleanser and Mary looked as if she had come straight from work—she was a nanny for a young boy—the knees of her jeans were grubby and she had a smudge of purple finger paint on one cheek. Mrs. Hudson was fussing sternly and steadily at Anthea.
"I don't care who your boss is young lady, you can explain to me right now why we were kidnapped—yes, I said kidnapped—" she stopped her rant when she saw John and Lestrade. Mary was wide eyed and silent. She seemed stunned. Despite hearing stories from John, she'd never been gathered up in one of Mycroft's cars and swept away to an unknown location—well, not unknown. The town hall was a fairly distinct landmark, but she hadn't known where she was going at the time. She rushed over to John and grabbed his hand.
"What is going on?" she asked, "I had just put Danny down for his nap when his mum came home and told me that I could have the rest of the day off. Then this woman—" she gestured toward Anthea "pulled up in a black car with Mrs. Hudson in the back! Took me right off the street in front of the house."
Greg was shaking his head as he helped Mrs. Hudson to her seat, "Oh, you are kidding me," he was muttering in disbelief. He turned to catch John's eye, "Can you believe this? This is the way he's doing it. My God!"
The corner of John's mouth lifted in a slight, incredulous smile, "Well, you knew it wouldn't be normal if it ever did happen." Anthea sat down at the end of the row, eyes glued to her phone, tapping away.
Mrs. Hudson was looking around, "You can't mean it!" She smiled brightly at the two men and Mary before her face fell into fury. "And me in my housedress and carrying my shopping! He didn't even let me dress up! Oh, of all the things that he has done, I cannot believe that he would be so inconsiderate to—"
"Mrs. Hudson," interrupted John quietly,
"I'd just run out to buy some more cleanser—cleaning out that filthy hole he's made of my kitchen—I haven't put on a speck of make-u-."
"Mrs. HUDSON!" cried John. "It's okay. Look at Mary, for goodness sakes. None of are at our best exactly." Mary looked offended.
Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him, her eyes flitting over to Mary, and back to John, "Really, John, that wasn't very good at all, now was it?" John snapped his mouth shut and looked at his wife.
"You're always lovely, dear, I just meant-" he stumbled over his hasty apology before throwing his hands up in frustration.
"I know what you meant," she huffed and turned to face the fireplace, giving John her shoulder to talk to if he cared to continue to apologize, which he didn't. Just at that moment, Sherlock peeked out from behind the closed door to the left of the fireplace. They all spoke at once.
"How could you, Sherlock!"
"Sherlock, is it tr-"
"Look, mate, this really isn't the best way—"
Sherlock closed the door on them again.
"Oh for—" Lestrade cursed quietly, and cast an apologetic glance at Mrs. Hudson who pursed her lips shaking her head.
"No swearing at a wedding if you, please." She bent over to arrange her bags. A couple of apples had rolled out beneath her chair.
"My God, it is a wedding isn't it. It's not just a joke?" Lestrade looked around in amazement as if to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming. Yes, there were flowers. A little table set up for signing the official documents with the registrar.
"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable…" quoted John, almost to himself. Silence descended again, Lestrade tapping his fingers on his knee nervously. John reached over to push a lock of hair behind Mary's ear but she brushed his hand away, not unkindly, but she wasn't quite ready to forgive. Mrs. Hudson, dignified in her lavender housedress, gave the side-eye to Anthea who tapped away on her phone. The air was thick with anticipation.
The door opened behind them, and they turned as a group to see Mycroft Holmes entering with an alarmed looking dark-haired woman beside him. She was dressed in blue scrubs. John recognized her from St. Barts. Meena? That sounded right.
"Must be the maid of honor," he murmured in a stage whisper to Mary, who erupted into giggles. It was surreal.
"She was borrowed from St. Barts and she's wearing blue. How appropriate!" Mary added. John snorted and tried to keep himself from laughing. This was his best friend's wedding after all. At least he thought it was. They hadn't seen the bride yet.
Lestrade flashed a grin at the new arrival, "and are you with the bride's side or the groom's?" Meena, yes, that was her name, shook her head slowly.
"You've got to be kidding me. Molly didn't even tell me she was engaged." She slipped into the chair next to Lestrade and stared around the room with wide eyes.
"Yes, Miss Hooper is very good at keeping secrets, isn't she," Mycroft cut in smoothly. He looked bored and distinguished in a dark pinstriped suit, as always. "That's why we like her."
He raised his eyebrows at the group and wished them a good afternoon before disappearing behind the same door as Sherlock. He emerged just a moment later with the Superintendent Registrar, an elderly looking gentleman who stood at the front nodding hello to the guests. Mycroft seated himself next to Anthea and looked ahead.
The door opened again, and Sherlock entered, head held high, back straight. He was looking at the assembled group suspiciously. They sat silently, expectant, staring back at him, smiles on their faces. Even Anthea looked up. Sherlock looked like he was either getting reading to bolt or start accusing them of murder. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, clasping them behind his back, shoving them into his pockets. Mycroft saved the day by sneering at Sherlock who looked almost relieved for a second before he arranged his face into a haughty smirk, eyebrows arching, staring his brother down. However, he lost his bravado a moment later when the bride herself entered the room.
She wore a simple ivory sheath. Coming to her knee, it was sleeveless with a high neckline and a pretty belt at the waist. Her soft brown hair had been arranged into a simple bun, but it was adorned with tiny white flowers. She carried a small nosegay of lily of the valley. Molly was as sweet and beautiful as any bride could wish to be. Everyone could tell that Sherlock thought so.
She beamed and waved at the small assembly before she stepped up to Sherlock and took his hand. He was very pale.
"Are you okay?" she asked in an undertone that everyone heard. The room wasn't that big.
He nodded, "I just wish everyone would stop smiling at me," he hissed, glancing at the group from the corner of his eye.
"Well, it is a wedding!" Molly said with mock exasperation, "It's what people do."
Sherlock came up short for a moment, giving her a searching look. She grinned at him. He shrugged and turned his back on everyone to face the registrar. He held Molly's soft, cool little hand in his own, and the ceremony began.