Several hours had passed and John still wasn't home. The laughter upstairs, along with the smell of spice cookies, had faded. Sherlock had solved the case without the gravel samples – the long hours of thinking made it clear to him. He sent a text to John to tell him Mary Russell was no longer a suspect, if she ever had been.

He looked at the box on the table. He could take it down to Rebekah.

He picked up his violin instead. He had a half-written composition, and as he lay his bow to the string, he closed his eyes. He didn't need to read it – he knew it. It was a vague memory of the Moriarty incident. The triumphant march of the Reichenbach case, the slow uncertainty of the court trial, the rush in minor of the end game. And then the jump…

His eyes opened when he heard her swallow the lump in her throat. She was watching him play, and when his eyes met hers, she looked away, brushing tears from her eyes. He didn't understand why she was upset. She hadn't been there. She couldn't understand how personal that piece was.

She cleared her throat. "What's the fifth movement?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The fifth movement. The next part of the story. Does it end happily?"

He noted the blotching around her nose and eyes and the almost imperceptible trembling of her lip. "I'm not yet sure." He put the violin on its stand and walked slowly around the couch. "I had a moment while John was dallying, so I managed to pick up your package. The shopkeeper was jealous you bought it."

"Was she?" She looked at the white box tied with silk ribbon. "She should be."

"Is it really something to be that admired?"

"I'll let you judge. Can I use your bathroom to try it on?" She went in without a response from him, and his eyes followed her to the door. She certainly felt free to come and go in their flat. He had left the door open, but still. Wasn't it common courtesy to knock?

It was likely also common courtesy not to look into other people's packages, even if he had picked it up. Social decorum was not high on either his or Rebekah's priority lists. He closed his eyes to listen. She was pulling off her jeans, then opening the box. His mind's eye could picture it. Her clothes were folded on the edge of the sink, and she was looking excitedly at her purchase, looking over each seam before she unzipped it.

The door opened. "Sherlock, can you give me a hand? I can't get the zipper up any higher." Her elbows were stuck out at odd angles while she demonstrated her inability to budge the fastener.

He walked over and batted her hands away. He held the fabric above the problem point steady, then pulled the zipper up her side. "There, all done. I don't understand why designers would make clothes that take more than one person to put on. Seems impractical."

"This dress isn't exactly made to be practical. Although…" she broke off in laughter.

"What is it?"

"I was going to the shooting range this week. Can you imagine it in this?"

Sherlock let his eyes roam over Rebekah in this new dress – pale blue and hugging her form from several inches above her knee, an asymmetrical shoulder line – long sleeve lace on one side – at the top. He thought of her holding a pistol, the men at the range would line up to stare at her. He had the urge to hide her from their lechery.

"I can't say that it would be an advisable action."

Her laugh calmed into a smile. "I would never do it, of course. Just a funny thought." She spun slowly, her bare feet on tip toes and one arm out while the bare arm gathered her hair so he could see the back. "What do you think?"

He should have said, "You look better than anything I've ever seen," but The Woman had been very attractive too. He should have put his hand back on the zipper and pulled it down, but that would have been too forward. Instead, he said, "Where on earth are you going to wear it to?"

She gave him a Cheshire cat grin, and he found himself in a rare uncomfortable moment. "I have a lead on Moriarty's last hideout."

"What is it?" He followed with a silent, And why on earth does it require you to wear that nearly sinful dress in order to talk about it?

"I'll tell you on the way there this weekend."

"This weekend? Why don't we go now?"

"Patience, Sherlock," she laid her hand on his arm. It was as if something about that dress was making every ounce of mischief she possessed come out of her. He couldn't say he disliked it. "You can't rush a wedding." She picked up her pile of clothes and put them in the box. She tossed an envelope at him. "Here's the invitation. Pick me up at 8pm sharp. Look debonair. We'll be going high class."

She paused at the door and gave him an indecipherable smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

She knew that Sherlock was standing on the other side of the door, processing. She knew that he wouldn't open the envelope for at least another 10 seconds. She knew that for all the times he was inhuman, mechanical, and impervious, he was not oblivious.

He was not oblivious when he had stopped to pick up her dress, or when he'd taken the peek he thought he had concealed. He was not oblivious when his hand met skin while he was fastening her dress. And he was not oblivious to the idea that he would have to pretend to be her date to this wedding, with her dressed to kill.

It was important that he noticed these things. It was important because noticing them could keep him oblivious to the rest.