Unwrapped
He feels dirty, for lack of a better term.
Somehow, that description fits him quite well at the moment.
Here, sitting in the head table in his own wedding, he feels dirty.
John is saying nice things about him and his lovely bride, Mary is teary-eyed, Mycroft is smirking a I-always-knew-you-were-going-to-succumb-to-romanti c-sentiment smirk that has just a hint of brotherly affection.
It almost makes him feel a bit guilty that he doesn't care about any of them now.
Not the luxurious place Mycroft had rented out for this reception, not the amazing gourmet food his mother had contacted connections for, not the mountains of gifts that people all over England, all over the world, has sent the happy couple.
Oh no, the only gift he's focused on is the one beside him, wrapped up in an immaculate white dress, modest with a hint of sensuality, smiling and giggling and basically just making him wish that time would go faster now.
Probably an hour more to go, he thinks, as he keeps up his smile for the guests, his mind flying off to a whole other place, where it's only him and Molly and no one else, no other ears or eyes and they would be completely alone.
He really can't wait to start unwrapping gifts, but there's actually just one gift that he's eager to unwrap.
Note: Traditional wedding night feelings is something that really really interests the author. It might be considered "OOC" for people nowadays, but there's still something about waiting for the wedding night.