Molly had dreamed of her wedding many times when she was younger. The details had changed over the years, the dress and the music, the food and the venue, though the groom had always remained vague—a practical necessity to be acquired in time, ranking somewhat after the cake.
But as she danced in the arms of her new husband, it didn't matter at all what they were wearing or that Mycroft's Holmes house boasted a ballroom that might as well have been in the Palace, or even that the cake was filled with chocolate ganache.
It only mattered that this man—this man—was the one smiling down at her.
The song ended and another began. Lestrade led her away from the orchestra to continue accepting well-wishes from their guests, the perfect excuse for checking cheekbones, as Greg called it. Near the bar, she could see Mycroft Holmes surveying the room over a glass that was never emptied, though she thought he was mostly looking at the table where Anthea was ignoring a plate of cake—and the queue of men trying to chat her up—while surreptitiously checking her Blackberry. Nearby, John trying to extricate himself from the determined clutches of Aunt Celeste, who was either objecting to or admiring his uniform at great length—possibly both.
"Have we looked over everyone?" she asked Greg, wiping the Commissioner's wife's lipstick from his cheek with a napkin.
"Most of the guests, I think. But there's still the—"
"Molly!" said a male voice in a low tenor that sounded almost familiar, though the accent didn't. She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with ginger-brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a well-cultivated beard that surrounded a rounded, beaming face. "It's so good to see you after all this time," he said, bending to kiss her cheek. "I never thanked you for the Christmas present," he murmured in her ear.
She blinked at him, and then it clicked. Oh!" She reached out and grabbed him, mindless of her dress, feeling his long arms come around her just as they had once before. "Oh, it's been far too long."
"I know—though I wasn't expecting to see you quite this soon, eh?" He stepped back and smiled, then extended a long-fingered hand. "And you're Greg, of course. Welcome to the clan."
Greg glanced at Molly and shook. "Ah, thank you," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't memorized Molly's family tree, yet." The lift of his eyebrow suggested that he wasn't certain this man had a place on it.
"Of course not, I'm sorry—Basil Sigerson, one of Molly's cousins. The distant sort—my branch went to Amsterdam a generation or two back. It's no wonder you didn't recognize me, Molly—I couldn't grow a beard when we last played together. Mother wanted to come, but she isn't well and sent me in her place. I hope you don't mind?"
"No," said Molly, struggling not to hug him again and cry and ask a million questions and hit him and ruin everything. "I don't mind at all. You've . . . you've changed quite a bit, Basil."
"Needs must," he said gently. "How have you been?"
"It . . . It's been a rough couple of months for everyone," she said. "But maybe that will change now." She couldn't help but make it a question.
His voice deepened a moment. "I certainly hope so."
"That woman." John appeared, looking frazzled. "I thought you were joking."
Molly seized his arm. "Have you met our best man? John Watson, my cousin, Basil Sigerson."
The two men shook. "Have we met?" asked John, pulling away slowly.
"I believe I would remember, Doctor Watson. Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John froze for a moment. "My tan faded a long time ago," he said, pleasantly, though his eyes had gone sharp.
"I said I believed I would remember," said the other man, with an intent look. "You aren't very observant for a soldier, are you?"
"So I've been told." John looked around. "Would anyone know where the lavatories are in this house?"
The brown eyes crinkled in the corners. "I found one earlier—here, I'll show you."
"Thanks." John turned and marched away, leaving his guide to catch up.
Molly took a step, but Greg held her back.
"Let them work it out," he said. "Though if they don't, I may handcuff them together again."
"I'll help," she said. "Should we tell Mycroft?"
"Your bridesmaid will see to it," he said, nodding towards Anthea, who nodded back. At the bar, Mycroft pulled out his phone, checked it, and exhaled visibly before tucking it away and returning to his drink.
"I don't know as I'd be that reserved," said Greg.
Molly watched Mycroft turn his glass in his hands, then take a small sip. "You don't have to be," she said.
Greg grinned. "And thank God for that," he said, raising her hand and twirling her around. "Would you care to dance?"
She would.
It was two dances, one Aunt Celeste emergency involving the vicar, and a small piece of cake, before the two men reappeared. Molly noticed that Basil/Sherlock's cheek was reddened over the beard and John had a handkerchief wrapped 'round his hand—but it seemed to be Sherlock's pocket square and they both looked at peace. She breathed a sigh of relief.
"All sorted?" asked Greg.
"Nearly," said John. "We'll thrash the rest out later."
"I do hope that's a metaphor, Doctor Watson," said Sherlock.
"Just be grateful for all that padding in your cheeks." John examined his hand. "I know I am."
"It's so nice you two have hit it off," said Greg with a straight face. "Isn't it love?"
Molly nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Lestrade," murmured Sherlock, accent firmly in place. "I have a favor to ask."
"As long as it's not postponing the honeymoon . . ."
Sherlock raised a ginger eyebrow.
"Damn it, who do you think you—"
Molly put a hand on his arm. "Tell us why and then we'll decide."
"Not here," said Sherlock.
"Not today," said Greg. "I'd like a little time alone with my wife, if you don't mind."
Sherlock snorted. "From the looks of things, you've been unofficially cohabitating for some time now and it's obvious that you've been intimate for at least that long. So I don't see why a small delay—"
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't," said Greg. "But I'm not prepared to argue about it."
"But surely you could put off the archaic ritual of consummation for a few—"
"No," said Greg.
"Molly—"
"No," she said, smiling up at Greg. "We really couldn't." She was rewarded with a sound kiss and a sound of impatience from Sherlock.
"Oh, fine. First thing—"
"After lunch," said Greg. "At the earliest."
"But time is of the essence. You can't expect me to sit in my hotel room twiddling my thumbs while you two—"
"Mr. Sigerson," said John. "I expect London has changed a bit since the last time you visited. I'd be glad to show you the sights tomorrow morning, if you're free?"
Sherlock blinked. "I . . . Thank you, Doctor Watson. I think I'd enjoy that."
"Call me John."
"Basil."
"Molly," said Greg. "Your Aunt Celeste has cornered Mycroft again and it's your turn."
Sherlock turned to look. "Don't bother," he drawled. "They make a lovely couple."
"Ask the musicians to play a waltz, please," she said. "That'll be excuse enough."
"You're going to ask Mycroft to dance?" asked Sherlock, his scorn shining through his accent.
"I promised myself I'd dance with a Holmes brother at my wedding," she said. "And since everyone knows the younger one wouldn't even if he was here, I'll be happy to ask the older." She smiled at him as she passed.
On the way, she spied one of the few people Anthea had pointed out, in case of an emergency. She stopped at his table. "Mr. Holmes needs you," she said, hoping that would be enough.
He put down his cake and followed.
"What's your name?" she asked, as they approached the bar.
"Smith, ma'am."
"Mr. Smith, I'm very sorry for what's about to happen."
Molly inserted herself physically between aunt and victim, took Mycroft Holmes' drink out of his hand, set it on the bar, and said in a loud, jolly voice, "Aunt Celeste, I'm afraid I have to steal Mr. Holmes away from you—but Mr. Smith here was just telling me how much he enjoys Downton Abbey, and I know he'd love to hear your opinions of Violet Crowley."
Aunt Celeste zeroed in on the agent with a militant gleam in her eye and Molly deftly tugged Mr. Holmes free.
"Thank you," he said as they made their escape. "That woman lost a great career opportunity when England outlawed torture."
"She was the sports mistress at a public girls' school for thirty years."
"I'm not at all surprised—I was considering calling for an air strike."
"Dance with me instead?" she asked, as the orchestra struck up the Danube.
"Wouldn't the groom be more appropriate?"
"Greg prefers modern. Please, Mr. Holmes?"
"How can I refuse?" he said, but not as if he really wanted to know.
By the time Mycroft had taken Molly on one circuit, they could stop concentrating on the steps and avoiding other dancers and talk as they moved.
"You waltz very well," he said.
"Thank you. My father taught me." She felt a pang, but smiled. "You do, too."
"Our mother insisted we take classes. I rather enjoyed them, until my brother was forced to join."
"Oh dear."
"Yes. He managed to alienate all the young ladies within a week and I was forced to partner with him. It was ghastly, as I'm sure you can imagine—aside from the lingering psychological trauma, my insteps have never been the same."
"He trod on your feet?" Sherlock always seemed so graceful.
"Only when it was my turn to lead. He's always been so competitive."
"I wouldn't expect anything less. From either of you."
He gave a genteel snort. "I suppose we both—"
"May I cut in?" said an accented voice.
"No," said Mycroft in a pleasant voice. "Wait for the next one. Lovely wedding," he said, whirling her away. "I'm having a wonderful time."
"So am I," she said. "Your assistant deserves a raise—or at least a turn around the dance floor."
His eyes twinkled. "Do you suppose I could persuade her to put down her electronic appendage long enough for the Minute Waltz?"
"Try it and see," she said.
"Hmmm."
Two circuits more and the music came to a close. Mycroft swung her to a stop and looked over her shoulder. "Ah, here he is again."
"Mycroft Holmes," said Molly, "This is my cousin, Basil Sigerson."
"Charmed," said Mycroft.
"There's cake left, Mr. Holmes," said Sherlock. "Don't let us keep you."
Mycroft gave a courtly bow to Molly. "I know a very good podiatrist, should you need one, Doctor Lestrade." He winked and, to her delight, headed in the direction of his assistant.
Molly held out her hands and grinned as another waltz began. As she'd expected, he led her so deftly and anticipated her steps so quickly that they could talk almost at once. "You aren't surprised," he said.
"Of course not. Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes won't dance, and you certainly aren't him. Plus, you couldn't possibly allow anyone to think your brother can do something you can't—even if they don't know it's you. Elementary."
He stared at her. "You've become an interesting person, Molly Hooper Lestrade."
"You've become more observant, Basil Sigerson," she said.
He blinked, then gave a great, un-Sherlock-like shout of laughter. "Touché, cousin," he said, in his Dutch accent. "Touché."
Well? How'd I do?