Sorry for the delay . . . A crucial chapter bit me and I needed to get it down before it ran off.

Molly looked at her reflection in the half-circle of mirrors and wished her mother was still alive, wished she had closer female friends, wished it wasn't bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding . . .

. . . And she wished that elegant woman sitting on the leather divan with her perfect legs perfectly crossed would look up from her . . . her blasted Blackberry and pay attention to the fact that Molly wasn't thrilled about the prospect of looking like a nitwit smothered in whipped cream on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life.

"I hate this dress," she said under her breath, glaring at it in the mirror. She raised her voice. "I hate this dress." She looked at the sales clerk, who was hovering around Mr. Holmes' assistant instead of paying attention to the actual bride.

No one was paying attention to her. And while Molly had spent most of her adult life being looked over and dismissed, she seemed to have lost her tolerance for it over the past few months.

She understood that this woman probably had more internationally important tasks to do than organize the wedding of a complete strange, but she might keep in mind that the wedding was quite important to that stranger.

Sherlock's dismissals were far easier to take. At least he'd always listened before he called Molly an idiot—at least he'd bothered to call her an idiot and to tell her why. He didn't just smile distantly and go back to thumbing a keypad without saying more than two syllables.

Molly had had enough.

Hauling up as much of the dress up as she could, she hopped off the small, round platform and dragged herself into the changing room, knowing that no one would bother noticing that she'd gone.

She locked the door behind her—not that anyone would bother looking for her—and went to her purse for her phone.

"Hello?"

"I can't do this."

"Molly? Molly, what is it? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" She held up her phone, took a photo, and hit send. "This is what's wrong!"

There was a choking noise and a clearing of a throat. "It—um—it is sort of wearing you instead of the other way 'round."

"This is the least fluffy of two racks of these things. They were waiting for me when we arrived—that . . . that frighteningly efficient and extremely rude woman out there thinks I'm twelve!"

"Ah. And have you told her you're not?"

"She won't listen and everyone else is listening to her. I can only imagine what she thinks I'll want at the reception!" Sausage rolls and fairy cakes . . .

"Molly, make them listen. You made the entire country listen to you not long ago—you made Mycroft Holmes listen to you, more than once. Decide what you want and tell them."

"I want to elope," she wailed. "But we can't miss the chance to see . . . family and friends. And I can't just reject Mr. Holmes' generosity—it would hurt his feelings."

There was another choking sound. "Hurt his . . .? Are you . . .? Okay, look. . . Weddings aren't my area at all, so don't ask me for my opinions—but if you need someone to back you up, I can stand to one side and glare in a menacing way."

"You would do that?"

"'Course I would. Where are you?"

She told him.

"Can you cope for the next . . . um . . . forty minutes?"

"I'll try. Thank you." She closed the phone and thought about what she wanted. Then she looked in the full-length mirror and thought about what she didn't want.

Then she wiggled out from under the dress—one of the advantages of its size—put on her own clothes, and left the dressing room.

The assistant—Molly had asked three times for a name and received three different answers, as if she wasn't worth a plausible lie—-was still on the divan with her Blackberry but the clerk was across the salon, fawning over a bride who had just arrived with a whole entourage of excited women.

For a moment, Molly almost walked back into the changing room to avoid those happy faces. But that wasn't who she was anymore. Was it?

She glanced at her watch. She had thirty minutes before reinforcements arrived and nothing to lose. "Excuse me," she said.

The beautiful eyes didn't move from the screen. "Finished?"

"Oh, yes. I'm finished." Molly put a pleasant smile on her face and tried to imagine that this woman was one of her interns at St. Bart's. "Tell me, would you choose a dress from these racks?"

"Hmmm?" The eyes flicked up and down again and that small smile appeared. "No."

Molly sighed, then remembered Greg saying that police interviewers asked questions that couldn't be answered by a simple yes or no. If nothing else, it gave the interviewer something to build upon.

She tried again. "Neither would I. So, what kind of dress would you wear if you were going to marry the love of your life?"

"I'm sorry? Is that relevant?"

Molly wondered if she could get the wretched device away without being shot and if she could shatter a mirror if she threw it hard enough. "Oh, I think it is. See, I have a feeling that any dress I'd wear is halfway between the one you would choose for yourself and these monstrosities. So I thought I'd better set a baseline."

There was a sigh. "Miss Hooper—"

"That's Doctor Hooper, Ms. Blackberry. Though I suppose it's partially my fault that people forget. See, when you cut up dead bodies in refrigerated rooms for a living, you tend to wear jumpers and odd-colored blouses and other things that aren't any great loss if they get stained. And when part of your job is to talk to the families and friends who loved the people those bodies used to be, your jumpers might have kittens on them, and the blouses might be frilly, and the rest of your everyday clothes might be as comforting, normal, and unintimidating as possible.

"But there are times that those qualities won't do. Did you see the press conference about Mr. Holmes' brother? That was my suit I was wearing—the one I use to testify in High Court. Because pink fluffy kittens aren't appropriate for either place.

"And I will be wearing this dress at my wedding. And while some brides might think that is the place for miles of pink fluff, I'm afraid I don't. And while other brides might have friends and family to shop with them and help them decide and . . .and share the day . . . all I have is you.

"So I'm asking you to give me some of your undivided attention this afternoon—just an hour or two of your precious time. Time that Mr. Holmes set aside for the sole purpose of making the wedding happen in four weeks for reasons that he might not have shared with you."

The thumbs had stopped moving over the touchscreen. Molly noted this, but kept talking.

"So even if you can't find it in the goodness of your heart to help me this afternoon, you might consider that Mycroft Holmes wants the wedding to happen. And I'd love for him to walk me down the aisle.

"But you know . . . Greg would marry me tomorrow in a register's office, even if I walk in all by myself wearing a lab coat and a pair of trainers. And I'm fully prepared to do that unless you and I can come to some kind of understanding."

Molly met the beautiful eyes, which seemed to be reassessing her. She bit back an automatic conciliatory response and held her ground. "Do we have an understanding?"

The Blackberry beeped twice. The assistant wavered for a moment, then sighed. "Yes, Doctor Hooper."

Molly smiled.

oooooOOOOOooooo

Molly looked at her reflection in the half-circle of mirrors and wished her mother was still alive.

"I love this dress," she whispered. Simple satin with an overlay of Irish lace and not too much train.

"Here's the veil that was made to go with it," said the clerk, a different one who had been more than helpful. "There are others if you'd like to try them, but this one won't drag you down or get in the way when you dance." She settled it on Molly's head and helped secure the combs before stepping away.

"Oh," said Molly. Is that me?"

A familiar face appeared in the mirror behind her. "Molly?" said John. "Is that you?"

"Yes," she said, beaming. "I think it is."

"Don't you look . . ." he said, a stunned look on his face. "You're . . ."

She turned to face him, enjoying the luxurious swirl of the skirts. "Do you think Greg will like it?"

He laughed. "Are you joking? I'll have to hold him back when he sees you. You're lovely Molly. Really, very lovely. "

"Thank you, John. And thanks for coming to my rescue."

"Any time. But it looks like you didn't need me after all. What did you do with—" His eyes widened as Mr. Holmes' assistant stepped out of the changing room wearing a sheath dress in a gorgeous shade of blue.

The woman looked at Molly and her eyes widened. "That's the one."

It hadn't been a question, but Molly didn't mind. "Yes, I think it is. What do you think of yours?" she asked . "Come stand next to me."

The assistant did so and half turned to see the back. "Better than the last one," she said, but her eyes were shining and she looked very pleased. "But I don't think it will work for your matron of honor."

"That's all right. She called me last night—she can't be in the wedding. She can't even be at the wedding." Molly was disappointed, but not horribly so. Helen and she had been long distance friends for longer than they'd been close. "I'll find someone else."

The assistant hesitated, then said, "Let me know. Doctor Hooper would like this dress and the veil," she told the clerk. "I'll schedule the fittings as soon as I change."

Once she'd gone, John said, "You're a miracle worker. I thought it would take radical surgery to get her to disconnect from her Blackberry."

"We had a nice talk," said Molly.

"Must have. Are you done for the day? I thought we could have tea—Greg, too, if he's free?"

Now that she didn't have to avoid John for fear of giving something away, Molly had started to see him as the brother she'd always wished she'd had. "I should be. I'll call Greg in the changing room. Do you like curry?"

"Love it."

"Then I know just the place. I'll be right back."

The clerk knocked on the door in warning and opened it for Molly. Mr. Holmes' assistant, fully dressed in her smart outfit, was just hanging up the sheath. "That's the dress sorted," she said, producing her Blackberry and turning it on with a discreet chime. "We'll have to take the floor model," she told the clerk. "There's no time to have it made. I'll arrange the fittings."

"Do you need my schedule?" asked Molly, carefully removing the veil.

"I have it." But the other woman smiled as she said it. "Cake tasting tomorrow."

"Can we move that if Greg can't come?"

"Hmmm. Could you take away samples of your favorites for him to try at home?"

Molly stepped out of her dress with the help of the clerk. "Good idea. He says he trusts me for the rest of the catering, though, so whenever I'm free."

"Good." The thumbs started moving again.

"Speaking of food, John and I are going to get something to eat. Would you like to come?"

The Blackberry beeped, and its owner sighed with what sounded like real regret. "Thank you, but I'd better run. Loads to do."

"Thank you," said Molly, pulling on her top. "For sharing this with me."

"I . . . it's been an . . . interesting experience, Doctor Hooper."

"Molly, please—Ms. Blackberry." Molly zipped up her skirt and grinned.

There was a look of astonishment and a sudden snort of laughter that was anything but elegant. "I'm not sure Mr. Holmes would approve of the familiarity."

"He's not here." She lowered her voice. "Is he?"

"Not in this room, no." The other woman paused, glanced at the clerk, who was busy zipping the wedding dress into its protective cover, and leaned close to whisper a name in Molly's ear. "But you can call me Anthea," she said. "I've always liked that name."

"All right, Anthea. See you tomorrow."

"Bye."

"Miss?" said Molly, obeying an impulse and hoping it wasn't a mistake. "Could I add something else to the order?"

"Of course, madam" said the clerk. "May I ask—is that John Watson out there? The John Watson? The one who worked for Sherlock Holmes?"

That wasn't quite true, but close enough. "He's a good friend of mine. And my fiancé."

"Does that mean that you're the Doctor Hooper—the one who told everyone Sherlock Holmes wasn't faking?"

"Yes," said Molly, picking up her purse. Not everyone had been happy about that—she'd had to change her phone number. But if this turned unpleasant, John was right outside.

The clerk stuck out her hand and Molly took it. "Thank you," she said. "A few years ago, Sherlock Holmes helped catch the man who killed my best friend and put my brother in a wheelchair. We knew he was the real thing, but we were afraid the courts wouldn't see it that way. Because of you, that rat bastard will stay in prison."

"You're very welcome," said Molly, squeezing the woman's hand before letting it go.

"I'm just sorry that he, Mr. Holmes, I mean . . . you know. That he was forced to . . . do what he did."

"So am I," said Molly, and left it at that. "Would you like to meet John?"

"Oh, I don't want to bother him. Or remind him of, you know."

"Don't worry about that," said Molly. "He loves to hear stories about Sherlock's brilliance—he collects them."

"Well . . . If you're sure he won't mind." The clerk opened the door and they left.

"John?" said Molly, stepping out of the room. "There's someone I'd like you to—"

There was a plink followed immediately by a puff of plaster inches from her face.

"Get down," hollered John, diving behind the divan. "Sniper!"

Anyone see that coming? Because I didn't. Seriously.

Please let me know what you think!