A/N: The Holmes parents' first names are from William S. Baring-Gould's Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.

"Welcome to Musgrave Hall," an older man Molly assumed to be Sherlock and Mycroft's father said proudly.

He looks just like Sherlock, she thought. The woman with him must be their mother, Sherlock has her eyes.

The woman gave the man a gentle nudge in the ribs and the man laughed softly. "Where are my manners? I'm Siger Holmes and this is my lovely wife, Violet. The boys would be here to greet you except that Mycroft is stuck at Whitehall, he won't be here until tomorrow, and Sherlock, well…"

"Sherlock has taken to hiding like a small child," Mrs. Holmes said, her disapproval clear. "You'd think he was three instead of thirty."

Her father chuckled. "Some people are simply anxious around strangers, or near-strangers as the case may be. I'm Edward Hooper and this, as I'm sure you've guessed, is Molly."

Mrs. Holmes' expression went from disapproving to beaming in an instant. "Aren't you lovely, my dear? And a doctor! I'm very glad that Sherlock will have a wife who can keep up with him intellectually." She took Molly's arm and walked with her towards the manor. "You'll be in the Blue Room, Sherlock insisted on it. It overlooks the lake. Dinner is at eight, that gives you plenty of time to rest after your journey, you must be exhausted."

Not a bit, Molly thought. "Actually-"

"We have so much to discuss," Mrs. Holmes continued, and Molly couldn't tell if the older woman was ignoring her or simply hadn't heard her. "Since you are without a mother, you poor child, and I am without a daughter, I insist on helping you with the wedding preparations."

"Oh, um, thank you?" Molly said, surprised at her declaration. "That's very kind of you-"

"Nonsense," Mrs. Holmes said, smiling a bit as they walked through the front doors. "I'm not about to let you tackle such an undertaking by yourself. After all, with over five hundred guests, and that's just on our side, there is much to do."

Molly stared at her. Five hundred?! Is she inviting half of London? "I … thought the wedding would be a private affair, considering it's not a love match."

Mrs. Holmes scoffed. "Your wedding will be the high point of the social season, love match or no." One of the maids approached them and Mrs. Holmes let go of Molly's arm. "Here's Abigail, she'll be your lady's maid while you're here. I couldn't believe it when Mycroft said you don't have your own." She shook her head in disbelief. "Sherlock will fix that after you're married."

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed, all Molly could say was, "Yes, Mrs. Holmes."

Mrs. Holmes smiled a bit. "None of that, call me Violet."

"Er, yes, Violet."

After Abigail showed her to the Blue Room, Molly insisted she didn't need any help undressing. "But you can help me dress for dinner later."

"I'll be back at seven then, Doctor," Abigail said then she curtsied and left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Molly nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that Sherlock had been hiding behind it. "Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock quickly put a hand to her mouth. "Quiet," he murmured, "unless you want to have your reputation ruined. I've waited all day for you to finally arrive. You're late."

Molly stared at him. "You waited all day in this room," she glanced around the light, feminine, pale blue and white room before turning back to him, "for me?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We started on the wrong foot last time."

I'll say. Molly raised an eyebrow. "So, after seeing you in your sitting room without a stitch on and rudely revealing the real reason for our marriage, you thought scaring the life out of me in my bedroom would be an improvement?"

"Er … yes, I see now how that I may have misjudged the situation…"

Molly took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten then she said coldly, "You, Mr. Holmes, are no gentleman. I will marry you because I have no choice, but until then I suggest we spend as little time as possible together, and certainly not alone in my bedroom."

"Despite what Dr. Watson's stories would have the general public think, I have never claimed to be a gentleman. I have neither the time nor the desire to deal with false niceties and I have never suffered fools at all, let alone gladly."

"And what would you consider me?" she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock's eyes briefly strayed to her bosom before he brought them back up to meet hers. "Not a fool, certainly."

"Then what?"

"An intelligent woman who is nonetheless unwilling to face change with an open mind."

She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are unwilling to see this marriage as I do – a chance at a fulfilling professional partnership."

Molly could feel the beginning of a headache. "Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please," he cut in.

She ignored him. "Mr. Holmes, we do not work together-"

"But we could," Sherlock said, looking almost gleeful. "When my brother informed me that you are a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's, I immediately went there and inquired after you. Dr. Stamford, he's an old acquaintance of mine, said that you are the most competent pathologist he has ever worked with. As the pathologists at the hospital I currently work with, which shall remain nameless, are incompetent, I have convinced Detective Inspector Lestrade and the others to have their interesting corpses brought to you."

Her headache now fully-fledged inside her skull, Molly reclined on the chaise lounge. She closed her eyes and wished sending the exasperating "consulting detective" out of the room was just as easy. Bringing a hand to her forehead, she muttered, "Mr. Holmes, I have only been working at the morgue for five years. In that time, I have autopsied no more than two dozen murder victims. Surely there is someone else with more experience who is qualified to help you."

"Nonsense," Sherlock declared and Molly couldn't help wondering if he knew how much like his mother he sounded at that moment. "You have more than enough experience to start with, and when you consider the number of corpses that will be coming your way, you will soon have all the experience you need."

She heard him move closer to her and she opened her eyes in time to see Sherlock lift her feet just high enough for him to sit down and put them in his lap.

"Mr. Holmes, exactly what do you think you're doing?" she demanded in as loud of a voice as she dared.

Sherlock smirked. "Seeing to my fiancée's comfort, naturally. I noticed you have a headache." He started to untie the laces of her boots.

Molly tried to remove her feet from his hands but his grasp, though gentle, was too strong. "The pain is in my head, not my feet."

Sherlock ignored her protestations as he removed one boot then the other.

"Mr. Holmes, this is highly-" She interrupted herself by moaning quietly as he started to massage her feet. "Oh God…"

"Call me Sherlock," he replied, smirking.

It was only his hands holding her feet in place that kept her from kicking him. She was about to call him on his arrogance when there was a knock on the door. Both of them froze.