Disclaimer: All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: You know Mycroft would do this. Deep inside that bespoke three-piece suit from Jerymn Street lurks the heart of a fairy godfather.


Paper Fortunes

By Alice Day


CHAPTER TWO

Molly swallowed hard, staring at the swathes of fabric casually hung on the changing room's hook. Up until now, her forays into Harrods had been restricted to occasional treats from the food hall. She'd never had the nerve to come up to the Women's Wear department, fully aware that the offerings there were completely and utterly out of her price range.

But Shanda had explained what was, in hindsight, a logical rationale - Molly should try on the high-end dresses first, find something that suited her, and then they'd start looking for a more inexpensive knock-off. "Designer dresses are always being copied by the High Street stores - we may as well start with the originals, then find something similar that won't require you to sell a kidney," the doctor explained, giving her a panther-like grin. "Besides, I always did like playing dolly dress-up."

And thus, Harrods. So far, Molly had tried on a McQ sheer shoulder dress, a Herve Leger contrast cutout bandage dress and something that was red silk and felt like water gliding over her skin. None of them met Shanda's criteria, and Molly was wondering if she should suggest they just go to Oxford Street and start looking in House of Frasier or Debenham's, when a knock came at the changing room door.

She cracked it open, and just managed to catch the dress thrust through the gap. "Try this on, Mols," Shanda ordered. "It's The Dress, I know it."

Nervous, Molly did as she was told, avoiding the mirror until she had the zipper up and fabric smoothed into place. Then she turned and looked at her reflection. And blinked, and looked again.

Shanda was right. It was The Dress. Wine-colored silk zibeline lent a wonderful touch of colour to her skin, and the pleated one-shoulder neckline, asymmetrical draping at the left hip and mermaid skirt was insanely elegant. When she stepped out of the changing room, Shanda beamed like the world's most fashionable fairy godmother. "Oh, yes," she purred. "Mols, that dress is you."

Molly took a deep breath. She didn't want to go shopping for a knockoff. She wanted this dress, the one that would undoubtedly be equal to whatever Sherlock wore to the ball, designer label for designer label. With fingers that were only slightly shaking, she turned over the price tag. She had about 500 quid saved up for a new flatscreen DVD and Blu-Ray player, but she could make do with her old set for another year-

She felt her eyes bulge as they registered the numbers. "Twelve hundred pounds?" she squeaked.

Shanda took the tag, tutting. "You're paying for the designer's vision, darling – actual material and construction costs are probably around two hundred pounds, less if it was made in Taiwan," she said briskly. "Don't worry - we can find something similar at Debenham's, I'm sure."

"Oh. Yes, of course." With a smile that felt tight and fake, Molly went back into the changing room, trying to ignore the sensation that she was peeling off her own skin as she took off The Dress.

###

As it turned out, Debenham's didn't have anything that came even remotely close to The Dress, although Shanda did find a rather nice little black number that didn't make her look entirely gormless. At £250, however, it wasn't what Molly thought of as an impulse purchase, either. She decided to sleep on the decision and headed back to her flat, tortured by memories of sleek wine silk and the perfect flaring skirt.

But the black dress isn't that bad, she tried to tell herself. And it's a huge improvement on that ruffled frock.

But it's not The Dress.

No, it's not The Dress, but you can't afford The Dress unless you sell a kidney, so stop being an idiot and settle for the Debenham's frock.

It wasn't until she got into her building and turned the corner on the stairs that she realized someone was waiting outside her flat. Well, two someones, actually - a tall man in a three-piece suit, holding an umbrella like it was an extension of his arm, and a sleek, beautiful brunette in a slim-fitted blazer and dark skirt. Even perusing a Blackberry, she made Molly feel like a frumpy cat lady.

The Avengers, Molly thought irrationally. They look like John Steed and Emma Peel.

"Ah, Miss Hooper," the man said as she approached, taking her hand. "My name is Mycroft Holmes - I was given to understand that you'll be attending the Great Ormond Street Hospital Ball with my brother Sherlock this weekend?"

Blinking rapidly, Molly managed a squeak that probably sounded like a "Yes" to dogs and other creatures with the ability to hear ultrahigh frequencies. Mycroft seemed to be one of them, because he beamed at her.

"Excellent - it always does me good to know that Sherlock is expanding his social horizons," he purred. "Now, I happen to know that this particular outing is in service of a small job I persuaded my brother to take on for me, so I feel it only appropriate to make sure that neither of you is out of pocket regarding clothing expenses. Have you already selected a gown for the ball?"

Molly twitched a bit, thinking of The Dress. The perfect, gorgeous, completely out of her price range dress. "Er, no," she muttered. "I did some shopping tonight, but—"

"Ah, then I'm just in time. Sherlock was kind enough," he smirked a bit at this, "to allow me to scout formalwear possibilities for him. While I was doing so, I picked up something that I thought would suit you.

Pausing her text work, the woman handed him a box, and Molly tried not to gawp as her brain merrily went into vapor lock. He doesn't know me, he doesn't know anything about me, he's Sherlock's brother, what did Sherlock tell him about me, does Sherlock talk to people about me-

After a moment, she registered the box in his outstretched hands. The dark green box with the Harrods label. Something warm flared inside her, a wonderful, impossible tingle of hope. Don't be stupid, she thought, clinging to some last shred of practicality. it's not The Dress, it can't be.

Her own hands shaking slightly, she took the box. And opened it, just enough to see wine silk inside.

It was The Dress.

"Oh," she whispered, stunned. "...how?"

Mycroft gave her an indulgent smile. "I have my little ways," he said. "And after all, it is a ball, and Cinderella does deserve a proper dress - even Anthea agreed."

"I did," his companion agreed, looking up from her Blackberry and giving Molly an approving look. "You'll look smashing in it."

Molly realized she was nodding, and made herself stop. "But the cost," she said, wondering if she'd be able to hand it back. "It's horrendous."

Still smiling, Mycroft glanced at his companion, who shook her head. "It comes under the national security budget, and let me assure you, it's a great deal less expensive than some of Sherlock's previous requisitions," she said.

"Well, then - that's settled." Mycroft pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and glancing at it. "Oh, dear. I'm afraid we must run - I do hope you enjoy the dress. Oh, and Miss Hooper?"

She looked up from The Dress, starry-eyed.

"Good luck."

###

The rest of the week seemed to drag by. The Dress hung on Molly's closet door, the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing she saw at night. And when she slept, she dreamed about being whirled around on a huge dance floor, in the arms of a dark, handsome man with silver eyes that burned only for her.

Sherlock's texted instructions weren't quite that romantic, of course:

Be ready at 6:30 PM sharp.
No ridiculous heels. You may have to run.
SH

She was ready by 5:30 PM. A long, long hot shower with three full bottles of lemon juice, makeup fresh and perfect thanks to a quick mini-seminar with Shanda that morning, hair in a marvelous updo, a lovely matching gold earring and necklace set (also courtesy of Shanda), and yes, low-heeled shoes as requested. All she had to do now was wait.

So she waited. And waited. And waited some more. By 7:30 PM she was on the verge of calling Barts to find out if Sherlock had gotten stuck into an experiment and forgotten the time, when the doorbell rang. "Finally!" she muttered, running to the door and flinging it open.

An older man in a black trench coat stood there, hands jammed in his pockets, looking...embarrassed. "Uh, hi," he said in a gravelly voice, giving her a once-over that paused briefly but appreciatively at her chest. "Molly, right?"

She couldn't help peering behind him. No tall, dark-haired detective there. "Oh. Er, yes. Can I help you?"

He pulled something out of his pocket - a warrant card. "DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he said. "I know this is all last-minute, but there's been a change of plan. Sherlock's decided to work the ball undercover as one of the catering staff."

Molly went very still, heat flooding her face. I knew it, a tiny, bleak voice said. I knew he'd never actually go through with it. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"Oh." She bit her lip, hating the choked sound in her voice. "Well...thank you for letting me…right…" She went to close the door before she burst into tears and completed the evening's humiliation.

"Wait." Lestrade reached out, hand flat against the door. "Look, he sent me because, um, you're still going to the ball. Apparently he needs 'eyes and ears in the crowd.'"

She looked up into sympathetic brown eyes, and saw the pity there. Pity for poor, stupid, lonely Molly, who was 31 and lived alone with her cat and smelled funny and was foolish enough to keep falling for men who didn't care about her at all.

Suddenly, hurt alchemized into fury. "I'm going to look a bit odd all by myself, don't you think?" she snapped, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Then again, she figured she was owed some bitterness by now. "Or didn't that occur to Sherlock?"

If possible, the uncomfortable look on Lestrade's face got even worse. "Er, yeah, it did. Which is why—"

He unbuttoned the trench coat, holding it open like a flasher. What it revealed, however, was a rather nice tuxedo. "—I'm going with you. As your date. If you still want to go, that is."

Molly glared at him, jaws clenched together so hard she could hear the high-pitched hum from the rising blood pressure in her ears. What she wanted? What she wanted was to find Mr. Sherlock Holmes and kick him right in the nadgers, then crawl into a pint of Häagen-Dazs and pull the lid over her.

She pressed her lips together hard, struggling for control. But. But. She was in the most beautiful dress she'd ever worn, and she'd never been to a ball before. And this Lestrade seemed decent enough for a copper, and there actually was some observation work to be done. What would Shanda do?

What would Mrs. Peel do?

There really wasn't any question. Both of them would give two fingers up to Sherlock Holmes, the world's biggest cock, and go to the ball anyway.

She nodded once, determined. "Let me get my wrap," she said.