You guys are all gorgeous. You know that, right? I apologize for the delay in Chapter 20, except... Well, it wasn't so much my fault as it was FF . Net having one of it's fun little moments. But it WAS a real tease to have you guys end up with notifications and then not be able to read it for like a day.

Anyway, I am just getting so many wonderful replies for people. It's amazing to see how much this story has taken off in just the month it's been posting! Thanks to Mlluhg86, aqkea2noh, celeryy, Vitawash, starshortcake, eccentricpetal, Murmeltierchen, Hpluver, ktmt1120, Someonerandome, coloradoandcolorado1, Nocturnias, beautyqueen24, Growl Snarl, darrah and rory'sfan04. You guys are such a good/bad influence! It means I end up posting a lot quicker than I think I would!

And of course thanks to Lex and Pablo *big hugs to both*

I would be remiss if I didn't mention I do have a new Sherlolly story up, called "How to Wear Sherlock's Shirt". It could be considered semi-connected to TFH and rather ironic, considering the clothing discussion here.

PART TWENTY-ONE

Sherlock had spent the afternoon working on notes for an experiment he wished to conduct measuring the decomposition of charred human flesh. He could not move past his theory. He was still lacking in samples. Once Molly began work again, he would be able to get something to bring home. He wondered if their relationship would help or hinder. Obviously, she was eager to please him. However, she was now in the flat and would be as squeamish as John was.

While he had abstained from keeping samples at Molly's flat, they were now at 221B. That was Sherlock's domain.

Sherlock was starting to see a disadvantage in being outnumbered by his flatmates.

Eventually, he put aside his notes to get ready for dinner at his mother's. She would no doubt be very critical of his attire. She would be critical of absolutely everything, given that he had faked his death. He would not provide his mother with any more ammunition than he absolutely had to.

Then, he was bringing Molly with him. He had thought that was a criticism he would be able to avoid for slightly longer. Of course, he knew eventually his mother would be forced to meet Molly. He had hoped he could at least delay it until his mother was in a better mood.

Molly had told him that a part of attachment was trying to avoid hurt for your significant other. Meeting his mother would no doubt bring her pain. Yet Molly seemed just as hurt by the prospect of not meeting her.

There was absolutely no right answer. It was perplexing. It was a paradox. It was one of the things Sherlock thoroughly disliked about being in a relationship.

As the time for the dinner approached, Sherlock began to pace the flat, wondering where Molly was. She had left to 'take care of something'. What did she need to take care of? She had no friends. Her brothers were nowhere near London. She had not renewed her employment as of yet. Her entire life revolved around Sherlock. So where had she gone?

Just as Sherlock had pulled out his mobile to text her and ask exactly where she was, the door opened and Molly entered.

At least, he thought Molly was somewhere in there. There was very little trace of his mousy little pathologist. Her light brown hair was gleaming, pinned up neatly. Her makeup was done artfully, definitely not done by Molly herself. There were always slight mistakes in Molly's makeup, her hand shaking as she constantly second-guessed what made her look good. This was flawless.

The suit she was wearing- a light blue- fit her well enough, however was slightly too big for her, particularly in the bust. She also seemed uncomfortable wearing it, as if she were a little girl playing in her mother's clothing.

The Woman.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Sherlock asked, not able to keep the irritation out of his voice. He could not deny it: this would be more acceptable to his mother. Something more polished than the rumpled girl who tended to dead bodies all day long.

But she wasn't Molly. Sherlock didn't like that.

"I just thought..." Molly looked away, biting her lower lip. She would ruin the light pink lipstick Irene had applied. "Your mother... Maybe she would... Like this better."

"She will," Sherlock replied. His brow furrowed slightly as he took a step towards Molly.

"Do you..." He could hear the hitch in Molly's voice. The uncertainty. "Do you like it better?"

Sherlock shook his head. He tilted her head up. "You were correct in your assumption regarding my mother. However, I would like to make it very clear as atrocious as your own dress sense is, it is yours. I am in a relationship with Molly Hooper and not a facsimile of that woman. My mother will be able to see through this forgery. Hurry up and get changed into your own clothes."

Molly stood her ground. "I went through a lot of trouble to dress nicely to meet your mother."

Sherlock sighed. "I highly doubt it will work. I also do not believe you will be able to continue such a masquerade every time we meet with my mother, despite that being very infrequent. Would you rather not just... Get it over with?"

Molly scowled at him.

Sherlock sighed. His mother would perhaps be in a better mood the next time she met Molly. Maybe then would be a better time for her to see Molly for what she really was. "If you insist. It's your body. Clothe it how you wish."

Molly smiled. "But you like me how I really dress better."

Sherlock gave Molly a withering look. "I told you. I am with Molly Hooper. That includes appalling clothes."

Molly wrinkled her nose in a way Sherlock had grown to find endearing. "I think there was a compliment in there somewhere."

"Again, a reasonable deduction." Sherlock leaned down and kissed Molly gently. While he knew he would further ruin Molly's lip makeup, he would ruin it less with the act of reassurance than Molly continuing to worry her lower lip.

Sherlock glanced out the window and Mycroft's limousine pull up outside of 221. "You can still remain here," Sherlock said to Molly. He cupped her face. "I will think no less of you."

Molly smiled up at him, in a way that made her look so much more like herself and less like the woman's clone. "This can't be any worse than being shot at by a madman, can it?"

Sherlock did not reply, simply taking hold of Molly's wrist and pulling her out the door. He heard a small voice in his head- one that sounded very much like John- telling him that dragging Molly by the wrist was not the way one walked with one's girlfriend. He wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with the alternative. Despite his intimate familiarity with Molly Hooper, hand-holding was not something Sherlock Holmes did.

Mycroft's hatchetwoman stepped out of the limousine and briefly looked up from her mobile to give Sherlock and Molly an appraising look. "I will be working with Irene tonight." She took a step in towards Molly. "She enjoyed your time together. But I have been told to tell you she would like to buy you undergarments."

Sherlock frowned slightly as he got into the limousine along with Molly. "Undergarments?"

Molly's cheeks turned pink. "Don't ask."

The drive to the Holmes estate was spent in almost complete silence. Sherlock had been tempted to talk the entire time, sniping at Mycroft, but he could feel the waves of tension coming off of Molly. When Mycroft had opened his mouth to make a comment about Molly's choice of dress, Sherlock had been forced to give his brother a swift kick to the shins and an absolutely venomous look. Mycroft actually took the hint and restrained himself, leading Sherlock to believe Mycroft might actually be fond of Molly or at least thought she was a good influence on Sherlock.

Without his banter with Mycroft and Molly quietly stewing with her nerves, Sherlock was left to analyse the current situation in his head.

Mycroft is texting. Unusual. No doubt, something important is happening, but he does not want Molly or me privy to the details. Coup d'état. Definitely. When away from Molly, make sure to prod Mycroft with fact I am fully aware of his current activities.

Molly is fidgeting. She is uncomfortable in the clothing the Woman chose for her. She does not feel like herself. She is not herself in them. She is still frightened that Mummy's opinion bears more weight on me than I said. She also wonders still if I prefer her dressed like this. Why does she think I would lie to appease her? Is that common in relationships? Relationships are rubbish if so. I will not acquiesce to such a ridiculous notion.

Sherlock began to come up with ideas for after dinner, to strip Molly of the ridiculous costume Irene had put her in, but he quickly realized he was straying out of the area of deduction and into that of fantasy.

He felt slight irritation at Molly for unlocking that part of himself. Taking his mind off cool deduction and bringing in base desire. He quashed that, reminding himself fantasies- if actually executed- were just plans.

Plans were fine. He liked plans. Especially if it ended with hands buried in his hair and soft moans in his ear.

Perhaps that would be a good time to ask Molly to procure an arm for his experiment. Yes. She was always quite agreeable during their intimate moments. He liked hearing the moaned Yes come from her mouth. The God part he wasn't too fond of.

When the car stopped, Sherlock waited for the door to be opened and slid out. He then held a hand out to Molly, helping her out. Her brown eyes went very wide at the sight of the Holmes Estate.

Was she impressed? No, she was overwhelmed. He could almost hear the thoughts in her head as if she were speaking them aloud.

Sherlock's mother is going to tear me apart.

Why would Sherlock want me?

I'm not good enough for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled Molly to him. He looked deeply into her eyes. "Do you think I wouldn't want a woman who would give me a severed head to experiment on?"

Molly opened her mouth to say something, but Sherlock just continued to look into her eyes.

"If you two are done with your..." Mycroft sneered. "Touching moment. Mummy is waiting."

Sherlock led Molly into the house. The shoes the Woman had put her in clicked against the marble floor.

Sherlock immediately released Molly's wrist and folded his hand behind his back when he saw his mother approaching.

Dame Violet Holmes was a formidable woman. She was nearly as tall as her sons. She had the same piercing blue eyes as Sherlock and curly white hair set rigidly. She was dressed in a prim suit of dark indigo. She held out her arms to Sherlock. "Sherlock. You're alive."

"Mummy." Sherlock strode quickly to her.

The slap across his cheek echoed through the large foyer. The sting went straight through Sherlock. He brought a hand to his face.

"I suppose I deserved that," Sherlock muttered.

"Do you know what you did to me, Sherlock?" His mother said sharply, her gaze fixed on him. "I thought my son was dead. The entire world thought he was a fraud. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. He swallowed hard. This was going to be a harder night than he originally thought. His mother was always his blind spot when it came to deduction. "I am aware. I deeply apologize mother. It was necessary."

"Necessary, yes." His mother smiled tightly. Her gaze slipped over to Molly. "It certainly gave you time to do new things. Don't be rude and introduce us, Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped back from his mother and took Molly's wrist, leading her up. "Mother, this is Doctor Molly Hooper. Molly, this is my mother, Dame Violet Holmes."

Molly fidgeted. Sherlock could feel her pulse racing. She was also breathing quickly. He was slightly worried she might have a panic attack.

He was saved the trouble of catching a fainting Molly by his mother turning on her heels and striding towards the dining room. "Mycroft, Sherlock... Your phones better be off."

Sherlock shared a rare look of commiseration with his brother. It was only when in the presence of their mother that he felt any real camaraderie with Mycroft. Both took out their phones and turned them off as requested.

They sat down to their dinner. Molly looked overwhelmed by the food, by the place settings. Sherlock muttered to her just to start from the outside and go in.

Dinner was spent in stony silence. Normally, a dinner with the Holmes family meant the two brothers sniping at each other and their mother criticizing both for decisions they had made. But neither Mycroft nor Sherlock were going to speak before their mother did. She did not speak, her expression ice cold.

Anyone else would want a detailed explanation of Sherlock's whereabouts and goings on while he was dead. Not his mother.

When dinner was finished, Sherlock's mother rose to her feet. "Sherlock, join me on the veranda."

Sherlock looked briefly to Molly. With a cold smile, Sherlock's mother gestured for him to follow her. "Mycroft will be more than happy to keep Doctor Hooper company. Come now."

Sherlock followed after his mother onto the veranda. She took an elegant gold cigarette case from her pocket and drew a long cigarette out. She held out the case to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "Molly doesn't like it when I smoke."

His mother gave him a cold smile. "Then I insist."

Sherlock took the cigarette and took out his lighter. He lit his mother's first, then his own. He closed his eyes tightly, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling it into the night air.

He had missed it.

"I suppose you will go back to your little detective game." Sherlock's mother's ice blue eyes were trained on him.

Sherlock nodded. "As soon as I get a case. People seem reticent to enlist me due to my shoulder. Funny, considering it is my brain that is of most use to them."

Sherlock's mother was quiet as she smoked her cigarette and shifted her gaze towards the sky.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mother, I deeply apologize for-"

"You will marry that girl over my dead body," Sherlock's mother said darkly, not even turning her gaze to look at him.

This had not been what Sherlock was expecting. Then, his family was always what he had the most difficult time analysing. "You have not spoken a single word to Molly."

Sherlock's mother continued to look into the distance. "And do you believe my opinion would change were I to speak with her? The mousy butcher's daughter who spends her days elbow-deep in corpses? I have seen Mycroft's reports on her. She is utterly unworthy of your attentions."

Sherlock let out a sigh. "I have absolutely no intentions of marrying Molly, Mother." He took another drag on his cigarette. "In fact, I have no intentions of ever engaging in that outdated financial agreement which is denied to one-tenth of the population based on nothing but silly religious doctrine. However, I will remain emotionally and physical faithful to Molly. I will share with her everything I have to offer: my bed, my life, my money." He sighed. "I fail to see why I am required to place a ring on her finger to do things that are perfectly within my grasp as is."

"Why do you insist on being so difficult?" Sherlock's mother asked coolly.

"It is never my objective," Sherlock replied. "I would like you to be content with my decisions. However, if you are not, we are at an impasse and I was raised to believe one did not compromise."

Sherlock's mother put her cigarette out in the ashtray. "Well then. I suppose we are the same as ever, Sherlock." She finally looked to her son. "I am pleased you are not dead."

With that, she swept out.

Molly let out a sigh as she stumbled into 221B. "That was the most uncomfortable evening of my entire life."

Sherlock followed in after her, guiding her along. To ease the tension in her, Molly had a bit more to drink than she normally would have. Sherlock couldn't say he blamed her. She had comported herself admirably during the dinner itself. But now that she had been walking, the alcohol had begun to affect her system.

"She didn't say anything mean to me," Molly said quietly, turning to face Sherlock. She looped an arm around his neck. "In fact, she didn't say anything to me at all. So does that mean she didn't mind me?"

"It means she hated you even more than I thought," Sherlock replied bluntly.

Molly tried to pull herself away from Sherlock, her brow furrowing. "What? But-"

Sherlock kept a firm hand on Molly's back, pulling her back in close. He leaned in and gave that lip a light nibble. "I would think you should be more concerned with what I think of you. And I like you quite a bit."

"You do." Molly kissed Sherlock. "You smoked."

"Mother insisted," Sherlock sighed. He nuzzled his nose against Molly's hair. "I hope you will not hold it against me."

Molly pressed herself up against Sherlock and he remembered his plans from earlier. Was Molly so drunk that executing those plans were a mistake? No, she was just slightly tipsy. Perfectly able to consent. It would actually be an interesting experiment to see how intercourse was different when Molly's inhibitions were lowered slightly.

"I do not like this suit on you," Sherlock intoned darkly, running his hand down the buttons of Molly's jacket. "It is not you."

Sherlock grasped the fabric and tore it open as best he could with only arm with full range of use. Buttons flew off and hit the floor. Sherlock was not overly concerned with ruining the Woman's wardrobe.

"Do you like me wearing anything?" Molly asked, slightly exasperated.

Sherlock knew she was commenting on his continued slights at her dress sense. He ignored the true meaning of the question and smiled wolfishly, running his fingers over the soft skin of her belly. "No, I do not like you wearing anything. I like you wearing nothing."

Molly's fingers slipped into his hair. Sherlock sighed and trailed kisses over Molly's jaw. "No... I like to see you in my shirt. It is strange. You wearing my soiled clothes should be disgusting. However, you are at such ease in them. With your hair down." He reached up and took her hair down, letting the light locks cascade over her shoulders.

Sherlock continued to pull Molly's borrowed clothing from her, leaving her in just her undergarments.

He remembered Anthea's comment about the Woman not liking Molly's underthings. He took a moment to examine them. Cotton, white, clean, without any tears. Why would she require anything else... Besides perhaps a brassiere that did not have the infernal clasps on it?

Molly smiled up at him. "You are wearing too many clothes now, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock took off his sling to allow Molly to remove his jacket. His shoulder still hurt, however it was cumbersome to what Molly was doing. Besides, it would be interesting to see what range of motion he could manage with a dislocated shoulder.

Molly was in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt when Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He let out a hiss as pain shot through him. That was an interesting sensation while he was experiencing pleasure.

"Don't use your arm," Molly admonished. "You're healing."

Sherlock ignored Molly and kissed her insistently. Molly's protests were quickly forgotten and Sherlock began to stroke up and down her back, fiddling with her bottom.

"Sherlock, is that you?" John said from his room. He came down. "I haven't been able to- Oh dear Lord."

Sherlock did not pull far away from Molly's mouth. "I know your abilities of observation are limited compared to my own, but certainly you can see I am occupied."

"In our sitting room," John replied, covering his face with his hand. "How many times today do I have to see you in your knickers, Molly?"

Sherlock pulled back and frowned. "When did you see Molly in her knickers today?"

John kept his hand over his eyes, shaking his head. "Just forget it. I was going to tell you Lestrade has a case for us..."

"Really?" Sherlock grinned and immediately began to rebutton his shirt. "Wonderful! Why didn't he text me?"

"Your phone is off," John replied. "I thought you'd died... Again."

Sherlock righted his clothing. "Well, get your things. We have to go." He glanced to Molly, who was still standing in the middle of the room, looking a bit dazed.

"I would invite you to come with, Molly, but you are slightly inebriated and probably will be of little use on the case." Sherlock waited for Molly to give him a kiss, as she always did when he left somewhere. When she did not, he frowned. "What is it?"

She let out a small squeak.

Sherlock finally took the initiative, swooping in to kiss Molly soundly. He had grown so used to the press of their lips when one of them parted, he didn't want to leave without it. "You should get some rest, Molly. Tomorrow's your first day back at Barts, isn't it?"

John was keeping his gaze averted as he walked past Molly. He stopped by her side for a moment. "I would say I'm sorry... But you're the one who thought he would make a good boyfriend."

Molly buried her red face in her hands. "Honestly, I kind of saw this coming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What are you two on about? Come on, John! We have work to do."

Sherlock was knelt down beside the dead body. It was an open and shut case. Lestrade was clearly calling on him just because he'd felt sorry Sherlock lacked cases. While he had been desperate for work, he had been quite happy with Molly. He would have to amend his rating system.

Woman. Late fifties. Well-off. Apparent robbery. Yet clearly, this was not the case. There were no defensive wounds. She had been stabbed quickly, but it had not been a blitz attack. She had been talking to the person who had robbed her. A ruse to get her to let her guard down? No. She had pepper spray. Obviously, she was very mindful of her safety, even disregarding the law to do so. She would not have stopped for a stranger. She was missing all of her valuables. The ring that should have been on her left ring finger had been removed long before this robbery. She had a tan line, but the indentation was not very clear. She had just separated from her husband.

Sherlock spoke his observations out loud, but realized there was no one listening to him. He turned around to look at John and Lestrade. "I am being brilliant. Would you kindly pay attention?"

Lestrade burst out into laughter, while John tried to get him to quiet down.

Sherlock scowled. "There is a dead body. I thought laughter was inappropriate at such a time?"

Lestrade knelt down beside Sherlock. "Did you really leave Molly Hooper in her knickers to come here and look at a dead body?"

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. "I would have brought her with, but she was fairly drunk."

Lestrade shook his head. "How a man like you got a sweet girl like Molly Hooper..."

Sherlock scowled deeper still. "It was her husband. She left him several weeks ago. However, she is the one with the money. Find out who she is and you'll know who the killer is."

"Marilyn Russell," Sgt Donovan said, striding towards Sherlock. "Her name is Marilyn Russell."

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet. "Then, Marilyn Russell's husband is your killer. How did you find out her identity? Did your junior detective kit finally arrive?"

Sgt Donovan smirked. "Because her husband Prescott Russell has just been found shot in their home. Nice work, Freak."