Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Chapter Fifty Two

At four o'clock, the family assembled, once more, in the kitchen, for Afternoon Tea and the sole topic of conversation was the forthcoming wedding. Nothing was said about who would play what role. Molly had insisted that Sherlock speak to John first and then she would ask Mycroft, in private, if he would give her away, so he could be free to refuse if he chose, though Sherlock was certain he would not.

After Tea, it was time for the Hooper-Holmes branch of the family to leave for home. As they were transported down the driveway, in Mycroft's car, Molly was already making a mental list of things that needed to be done. She could hardly wait to get home and commit it all to paper, in her note book. She always thought best with a pen and notebook in her hand.

Once the boys were in bed, she sat at the kitchen table and began to plan. Organisation was the key and she was nothing if not practical.

'You will ask John as soon as possible, won't you?' she reminded Sherlock. 'I can't speak to Mary until you've told him. It wouldn't be right.'

Sherlock could not think why it wouldn't be right, himself, but if Molly said it wouldn't then he assumed that must be the case.

'I'll ask him tomorrow,' he assured her.

'Good.' She put a large asterisk next to 'Ask John' at the top of her list.

One thing that had been discussed at the Tea table had been the venue for the Wedding Breakfast. Mycroft had insisted it should be the house and had asked Mrs Orgreave, there and then, whether she thought they could handle it.

'Of course, sir,' she replied. 'We will need to hire in some staff but I'm sure the usual people in the village would be more than happy to oblige,'

By 'the usual people', she meant the people who were taken on as extra staff for the shooting weekends, which occurred about four times a year, during the season.

Mrs O had also taken Molly to one side, as the tea party broke up, and offered her a business card.

'I hope you don't think me presumptuous, Miss Hooper, but my daughter has her own baking business. She runs it from home but she has a website. She makes all kinds of celebratory cakes – right here, in the village – and she would be delighted, I'm sure, to make your wedding cake,' she had explained, a little embarrassed to be so forward. 'Please, have a look on her website. She has made some lovely things. But don't feel obliged to choose her, of course.'

Molly had thanked the cook and pocketed the card. Now, sitting at the kitchen table, she opened her laptop and found the cake maker's web site. She was pleasantly surprised. It seemed that Mrs Orgreave's daughter had a real flair for cake design, from cupcakes, through character birthday and christening cakes, to anniversary and wedding cakes.

Her original ideas were not limited to the cake decorations, either. She seemed to have some very intriguing notions when it came to actual cake flavours. Molly considered the convenience of having the cake made so close to the reception venue. It was an added incentive. She thought she should research the market before making a final decision but it would have to be something exceptional, she thought, to beat this option.

The thought foremost in her head, however, concerned her wedding dress. By Christmas Eve, she would be just over five months pregnant. She would not be enormous but she would be showing, so a fitted dress was out of the question. She wondered what style she should choose. She really wished she had Rachelle here to take just one look and know exactly what she needed to wear. But the dress designer was eight thousand miles away so that was not an option.

She would have to visit some bridal shops, try on some styles and see what looked best – then add on a few inches round the middle. Not for the first time that day, she wondered whether they had been a little ambitious. Should they defer the wedding until after the baby was born? She gave a mental shake of her head. She was panicking again. It would be fine. Mary would be full of good advice. John would steer Sherlock in the right direction. It would all be fine.

ooOoo

Next morning, Sherlock kissed Molly and Freddie and waved them off to St Bart's before getting William ready for school and taking him there. Returning home to shower, shave and dress, he left the flat at around nine thirty, to take a cab to Baker Street. He had a priority list in his head, number one being to speak to John Watson. Once in the cab, he sent a text.

'Assistance urgently required. Come to 221B asap.'

As he opened the main front door to the house, he wondered when he should tell Mrs Hudson about the weekend development but decided he would wait for John. He would know the right protocol. When had he become so concerned with doing things the right way, he wondered? When had life become this complicated?

Once safely ensconced in the sitting room of 221B – his haven and sanctuary from the rigors of the outside world – he put on the kettle and opened up his laptop on the kitchen counter, so he could check his emails whilst waiting for the water to boil. There were seven enquiries after his services, from private individuals, who had found him via his website. Three he dismissed, immediately, as they were people wanting him to find out whether their partners were having illicit affairs.

'Why don't you just ask them?' he muttered to himself, as he deleted those requests.

One was from a company director who suspected his partner was embezzling money from the business. That was a possibility. He starred the email. Two more were requests to investigate cases already being looked into by the police. That did not necessarily preclude him. If anything, it made them more attractive. There was nothing quite so much fun as solving a crime before the police did – especially if he were engaged by the one of the protagonists. In these two cases, one was the victim and the other was the prime suspect. He starred both of those, too. The final case was a missing person.

Having made a cup of instant coffee, black with two sugars, he carried both the cup and the laptop to his favourite chair and sat down, the laptop on his knee, to read the details whilst sipping his drink.

A fifteen year old boy had withdrawn £300 from his savings account and caught a train from Leeds to London, three months ago. The last known sighting was on the CCTV at King's Cross Station and a grainy copy of the security camera image was attached to the email. Sherlock downloaded the image and studied it. He was big for is age, this boy, a prop forward if ever there was one. He certainly looked older than fifteen, having quite a stubbly chin and long sideburns. He easily would have passed for early twenties, Sherlock surmised.

He was dressed in jeans, a plain t-shirt and a pair of dark coloured trainers, and carried a rucksack over one shoulder. His hair was short but not clippered and was a medium colour. Sherlock checked the written description - mid-brown, wavy hair. There had been some kind of family argument, the night before the boy disappeared. This was a case for the Homeless Network. If the young man was still in London, the Homeless Network would find him.

He sent off a reply email, provisionally accepting the case, and attaching a copy of his terms and conditions. This was, essentially, a contract, which John had drawn up for him, to ensure that he charged realistically for his services. It stipulated an advance and a daily fee plus reasonable expenses. If the client returned this signed and transferred the advance into his account, then he would work on the case.

He returned to the first of the three starred emails and was just reading the details when he heard the front door open and close and the sound of John Watson's footsteps running up the stairs. The doctor burst in, through the sitting room door, and skidded to a halt on the big rug, panting for breath.

Sherlock looked up at him, the hand holding his coffee cup paused mid-way to his mouth and a questioning expression in his eye.

'You said it was urgent,' John gasped, reaching for the arm of the sofa and lowering himself onto the seat.

'Oh, well, thank you for your prompt response,' Sherlock replied, closing his laptop and placing it on the side table, beside his chair.

'Was just going to bed. Night shift. So. What's the emergency?' the other man panted, still getting his breath back.

'It's not really an emergency,' the detective replied.

'You said 'urgent',' John countered, beginning to look annoyed.

'Urgent isn't the same as emergency,' Sherlock stated.

John closed his eyes and clenched his fists, counting to ten, slowly, in his head, then looked back at his pedantic friend and said,

'What is so urgent?'

'Ah,' the younger man replied. 'Molly and I are getting married. I wondered if you would be my Best Man.'

The doctor's face froze. In fact, his whole body froze. He even stopped breathing and then broke out in a fit of coughing, as his lungs demanded air. Sherlock hesitated for a moment then put down his mug, stood and crossed to the sofa, sitting next to his friend, reaching out to pat him on the back.

'Are you alright?' he asked, a little taken aback by the other man's reaction to his statement.

John waved his hand in the direction of the kitchen and gasped, 'Water!'

The tall detective disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water in his hand, which he gave to the doctor, who had stopped coughing and was now just wheezing, a little.

'Of all the things that I might have imagined you would say, that was the least likely', John explained, as he sipped the water and was able to speak more normally. 'But congratulations! And, thank you, I would be delighted – honoured, in fact – to be your Best Man. Good God! That's amazing!' He seemed stunned by the news.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to take that. Was it really that unlikely? But he dismissed that line of thought and returned to the matter in hand.

'Good, because the wedding is in seven weeks and we need all the help we can get,' he announced.

John's jaw dropped again.

ooOoo