Chapter 46

As an adolescent, Molly had occasionally pictured her wedding day. Not in a big way – not like many of the other girls at school, still starry-eyed over images of Princess Diana as a blushing bride in a frilly meringue. Molly's visions were far more modest.

In her imagination, the wedding would be an old-fashioned affair, with a demure (but not too frilly) white dress and a pretty bouquet, bridesmaids in light pink (or possibly yellow or soft blue), a chocolate-box image of a country church, and a vintage car – or perhaps a carriage pulled by white horses. And she, Molly Amelia Hooper, at the centre of attention – miraculously beautiful and elegant with perfect hair and unblemished skin. The groom's face was conveniently blurred since she hadn't had much opportunity thus far to form an opinion on male attractiveness. And, in any case, 'he' was not all that important in the scheme of things. Every girl knew that the wedding day was all about the bride.

Like many modern adolescents, she didn't linger on the wedding imagery all that long. Her single-gender secondary school didn't give her many options to develop romantic relationships, and she wasn't particularly 'into' boys anyway, being more interested in sports and art. It seemed to her that the few girls at school who could boast of a boyfriend were not having all that much fun anyway (at least not the kind of 'fun' that the relatively innocent Molly had in mind). Romance seemed to involve any amount of confusion, misery and tears, as far as she could see.

And then, she went off to university and finally had a chance to grow up and see adult relationships for what they really were – banal, messy, often inconvenient, occasionally painful and very rarely culminating in a romantic fairy-tale white wedding. In retrospect, she wasn't all that unhappy about it – after all, just look at how Prince Charles and Princess Diana had turned out in the end.

Those old girly dreams must have lingered in her subconscious, however, because she distinctly remembered getting starry-eyed over John and Mary's wedding. Ironically, if Sherlock had been planning Molly's own wedding, he couldn't have done any better, because the entire day was her dream exactly. If she hadn't been so inconveniently in love with him instead of Tom, she might have even hired him to organise it.

Of course, at the time, she hadn't really been thinking of that at all… She'd been too busy looking at Mary and realising, in a moment of anguish, that she would never be that perfect, white-clad, glowing bride…

And, of course, she was absolutely right.

It wasn't to be a white wedding. There would be no church, no pretty bridesmaids or men in morning suits, no corsages or a festooned vintage wedding car – none of it.

And yet, to her surprise, she found that she couldn't care less.

Even if she'd had a mind for a traditional white wedding, there was no time to organise one. They had gone to the Registry Office the day after Sherlock's sort-of proposal to register their intentions, and Sherlock had insisted on booking the wedding there and then, to take place following the minimum time period required by law. It was as if, having made his mind up to get married, he wanted to get the event over and done with as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. Molly was too busy quietly panicking and thinking of all that needed to be done to be bothered by the implications.

She hadassumed that once he'd booked the Registry Office, Sherlock would withdraw from the planning process altogether, essentially leaving her in the lurch. And, to some extent, that was true (but then he did have a couple of pressing private cases to solve). However, he proved himself to be quite practical when needed – swiftly compiling a list of the few guests to be invited and organising the printing and distribution of invitations while Molly was still dithering over colour schemes. She suspected that he'd make a far better wedding planner than she ever would.

John and Mary were also very helpful with the planning, once they'd got over their obvious shock. Molly could sense John giving her some speculative looks. She could think of no way to explain to him the conversation she had had with Sherlock, so she didn't even try.

In fact, there was surprise all around at the news. Molly's mother and aunt replied to their invitations in guarded tones, signalling their doubt that the wedding would actually happen. Meanwhile, Mrs. Holmes phoned Mycroft, indignantly demanding to know whether it was his brother's idea of a cruel joke. Molly could only speculate about her response when assured by Mycroft that Sherlock really was about to get married. Mrs. Hudson was the only person who didn't seem entirely shocked – Molly had long suspected that the chatty old landlady was far sharper than she often appeared.

The wedding took place at the local Registry Office on a warm Thursday afternoon in early September. John and Mary were their formal witnesses, with Ellie dressed up as an informal flower girl. Molly chose to believe that the blue sky and bright sunshine following a week of rain was a good omen.

Sherlock and John were both dressed in casual daytime suits – although, in Sherlock's case at least, the suit was still notably formal.

And Molly? No traditional bridal gown, but a vintage sleeveless floaty dress, cream chiffon with large grey-blue flowers and orange tints, fitted to just above the knee and then flaring out around her shins. It was the kind of dress that she would never have dreamed of picking out if it hadn't been for Mary Watson. With the same instinctive sense of style, the practical woman had also steered Molly away from the silly hair pieces that she might have paired with her dress, instead arranging the bride's hair in a high chignon, entirely unadorned. It gave her some much-needed inches to stand next to Sherlock, and her quiet, understated style ironically had the effect of drawing attention from the groom, striking though he might be in his dark suit and grey-blue tie.

Was she 'glowing'? 'Incandescently happy', like a bride was supposed to be? It might not have been all that obvious to the passing crowds as she walked up the Registry Office steps at Sherlock's side. She certainly wasn't the white-clad bride of her adolescent imaginings…but she felt calmly happy all the same. Happier than she could ever have imagined.

Mrs. Hudson cried, of course – that was a given. And Mrs. Holmes may have shed a tear or two when her sons weren't looking. Mycroft stood silently in the background as if trying to blend into it, his face almost neutral, although Molly sensed just a touch of complacency in his expression. Sherrinford did not appear – in fact, she had no idea whether he had received his invitation, wherever it had been sent.

Sherlock stood solidly to attention in front of the Registrar, his responses to the familiar statutory questions firm and unhesitating. To the external eye, he seemed to be going through the necessities with almost robotic obedience - much as he had at John's wedding, come to that. And yet, there was a single moment… Molly had paused before one of her responses, trying to clear a throat made dry by nerves. And his hand had crept into hers and squeezed tightly. He was as much seeking reassurance as providing it, but the warm contact had given her the courage she needed to continue…

The Registrar smiled at them and pronounced the traditional words… And it was done.


There was a reception – albeit a fairly casual evening party. Molly had had the impression that Sherlock would have preferred to simply return to Baker Street and get on with his latest experiment. However, she had insisted that there needed to be something, since her mother and aunt as well as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would be travelling to London for the wedding. It would also be a chance for her mother to meet his parents; until now, there had been no opportunity. She hadn't fancied having to lay on food at Baker Street, but had found it difficult to book anything at a central London hotel with so little notice. In the end, it was John who had suggested Angelo's.

Angelo had been delighted to help out, closing his restaurant to the public for the occasion and refusing to take any money from them. Molly had suggested something fairly simple and not too expensive, possibly a finger buffet, but she had underestimated the depth of the Italian's unending gratitude to Sherlock. Angelo went all out, serving expensive champagne and an elaborate Italian wedding banquet – hopelessly over-catering for the small group of guests that gathered there, though he didn't seem too put out about it.

Apart from Molly's mother and her aunt, down from Scotland, she had Mike Stamford, his wife, and a few other colleagues from Bart's as her only guests. She had some cousins scattered about the country but wasn't particularly close to them, and she was no longer in touch with any of her school or university friends. There were a few officers from the Met present, including Sally Donovan and Ian Dimmock. Molly assumed that they were there at John's behest rather than Sherlock's, but it was still nice that they had made the effort.

Sherlock's only guests were his parents and oldest brother. Molly was somewhat surprised that Mycroft was there…though it was equally possible that he had simply turned up uninvited. The brothers managed to avoid each other as the evening progressed, with Sherlock spending most of his time chatting in a reasonably amiable manner to Mike Stamford - and, to her amazement, Sally Donovan.

John seemed to be doing his best to make the occasion merry. There were no formal speeches, but he made one anyway, a rambling, emotional, rather drunken oration on the theme of his friendship with Sherlock and Molly. When things threatened to get really embarrassing, Mary saved the day by shoving a spoonful of Tiramisu into her husband's mouth. Their placid daughter slept peacefully in the corner, quite used to taking her naps in unusual places.

The champagne was flowing freely and the initially stilted conversations became peppered with laughter and animated voices. Molly was relieved to see her mother and aunt, who had been standing at a distance, being drawn into a friendly conversation with Mrs. Hudson and the kind and genial Mr. Holmes.

It was a strange fact that a bride and groom got to spend very little time together on the wedding day. In fact, the whole time seemed to be taken up with talking to one person after another or posing for pictures – her face began to ache from smiling so much. She occasionally exchanged a glance with Sherlock as she circulated the room, making sure that everyone had had enough to eat and drink. Considering there were relatively few people present, it was surprising how much in demand she was. Admittedly, she was drawn into a long conversation with her fellow pathologists on an absorbing research topic. As they began to drift away from the party and Mike's wife grabbed his arm and reminded him that the babysitter couldn't stay too late, she suddenly found herself alone for what felt like the first time in hours.

It was a warm evening and the heat and noise had grown oppressive in the crowded restaurant. Muzzy-headed from too much champagne and desperately needing fresh air, Molly manoeuvred her way over to the front door and went out, closing it gently behind her. No one seemed to notice or mind that the bride had left the party. The mild outside air cooled her flushed cheeks and gently ruffled her hair. She gave a sigh of relief before gazing at the plain white-gold band on her finger with a feeling of disbelief.

So that was it. She was finally Mrs. Molly Holmes. The unfamiliar name made her shiver. It was something that she had dreamed about for years, although mainly in the context of being Sherlock's wife. She hadn't really considered the implications of changing her name officially – and in fact, many professional women didn't these days. Dr. Hooper… or Dr. Holmes…?

Molly Holmes. The name sounded odd – 'Molly' sounded too informal when paired with 'Holmes'. It should be Mary Holmes really – wasn't 'Molly' just a pet form of 'Mary'? She hadn't really thought about it before, but in any case, Molly was the given name on her birth certificate. Even her middle name, Amelia, might sound more appropriate…

Behind her, the door opened and closed again. Expecting Sherlock, she turned, smiling… only to find herself face to face with his older brother.

"Oh! I thought – well, never mind." She tried to hide her disappointment behind a wide smile. "I'm so glad you were able to come."

She was surprised to realise that she meant it too. Somehow, the wedding would have felt incomplete without Mycroft there. She remembered once again that restaurant meal, five years ago now, when he had confessed to a desire to meet the individual that would, in his words, "become extremely important" to his brother. Even then, he'd known – had probably foreseen this day. Since their first meeting, they'd argued more than she cared to remember, and Mycroft's attitude to her had blown hot and cold over the years. She'd felt angry and bitter towards him over his recent deception, but now… Perhaps it was simply a little too much of that lovely champagne, but she found herself smiling up at him with genuine affection.

He didn't return the smile, his face remaining solemn as he returned her gaze. She blushed, her hands going to her stomach automatically. "This isn't – I mean, we didn't get married because… Well, I'm not pregnant, anyway. So you got that wrong – assuming that was what you were implying."

He ignored her stuttered explanation. "I wanted to congratulate you. And to speak to you alone."

She sighed, the warm and mildly alcoholic glow beginning to fade. "It's something serious, isn't it? Do you have to - really? Today of all days, I just want to be happy. It's been such a lovely day – probably against all the odds…"

He paused, his expression softening slightly. "I'm sorry, Molly. The timing is bad. But you should remember that Janine is still at large in this country, and we now have reason to believe that she may be targeting you once more. There are certain indications…"

She laughed, disbelievingly. "Why? What's the matter with her? She must know it won't end well. Doesn't she – doesn't she understand that she'll never defeat Sherlock? I don't get why she doesn't just try to escape – leave the country and never come back. I wouldn't even care – just as long as she left us alone from now on."

He looked a little pained, as if she was being more than usually naïve. "Her anger hasn't gone away. Remember, she has never expressed the remotest remorse for killing a large number of people just to 'get back' at Sherlock. Hardly the behaviour of a rational woman."

"But you said she wasn't interested in us -."

He interrupted her, looking even more pained, and she realised that he was probably angrier with himself. "I may have been over-optimistic. I believed that she was very much afraid of disappearing into the labyrinthine US Justice System. That led me to assume that she would be seeking a way out of the UK at the earliest opportunity in an attempt to evade us. But I have received some intelligence…"

He paused, as if unsure how much to tell her.

She gave him a hard look. "Tell me."

He inclined his head slightly. "We know she has been putting pressure on at least one known assassin. She's looking for a professional job. She wouldn't tell him the target, but it's not hard to guess."

"How do you know?"

His slight smile was entirely mirthless. "He's one of ours now...for reasons that I won't go into. He was really quite keen to tell us everything he knew."

She felt a cold tremor go down her spine, and not just at the icy-cold tone in his voice. There were certain aspects of Mycroft's work that she really didn't want to know about. But the knowledge that Janine was definitely trying to kill her, or Sherlock, or both of them, was deeply unsettling. "How do I know she's not targeting me right at this moment? Should I even be standing out here?"

"She is nowhere near you at present. Believe me, I would know. Don't forget, our intelligence is much better this time around. For a start, we know who she is really targeting, and you will have noticed that I have been increasing your security for some time. I promise you, Molly, no one will be allowed to get near enough to harm you."

His firm answer was only mildly reassuring. "But what about Sherlock? And what should we do now? Do we need to go into hiding?" She felt weary even saying it – aware that they had been here before, too many times. But the presumed security of one of Mycroft's safe houses had never seemed so attractive before.

His face betrayed his surprise. "Would you?"

"Go into hiding? Not without Sherlock."

He sighed. "I thought not. And Sherlock wouldn't trust me now, anyway."

His voice sounded plaintive. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him who he thought was responsible for that lack of trust, when the door opened once more.

"Mycroft! Here you are. We've been looking for you everywhere."

Mycroft rolled his eyes briefly before turning towards his mother. "Hardly a large area to search, I would have thought."

She gave him a wry look. "For all we knew, you could have departed suddenly on one of your 'diplomatic trips' without telling anyone first. It wouldn't be the first time. Anyway…" She turned her attention to Molly with a sudden dazzling smile, "…I'm afraid we must go, Molly. It's getting rather late for me these days. Mycroft has organised a car to collect us - but what about your mother and aunt? Can we drop them somewhere?"

"Oh, please don't worry, they'll be fine. John and Mary will be driving them to their hotel." Molly noticed Mr. Holmes standing in the background, smiling shyly at her, and felt a sudden rush of affection for this unconventional, eccentric couple.

Mrs. Holmes must have seen something in her face, because the smile was replaced by a serious look as she stepped past her oldest son and took Molly's hands in hers.

"I am so glad that you've joined our family, Molly." Her voice was unusually quiet, but her expression warm and kind. "I may not get many opportunities to say it, Sherlock being the maverick he is, but I do think you are very good for him. And I'm terribly proud of you both. Not that he'll be interested to hear it, but I am."

Molly felt her eyes prickling with unshed tears. "Thank you," was all she felt able to say, but it seemed to be enough, as Mrs. Holmes pulled her into a brief but affectionate embrace before stepping back. Mr. Holmes patted her shoulder and gave her a brief peck on the cheek in a rather restrained English manner, and then, before she could say any more, the two of them were getting in the car that had pulled up quietly alongside.

Mycroft nodded at her briefly. "I must go too, but I'll be in touch."

At his sober face, the fear returned. "But what should we do immediately?"

He jerked his head briefly towards the door. "There's no immediate threat, but Sherlock knows the situation. You will need to make a decision."

She nodded, understanding immediately. Mycroft was giving her a choice. She – or rather they – could retreat, go into hiding, and leave his people to track Janine down, which would take longer. Alternatively, they could set themselves up as bait. Draw her out. More risky, but probably quicker. And…in some ways, perhaps more satisfying. She thought of Greg, and the momentary fear was replaced by anger.

Seeing that she understood, he nodded. "And congratulations, Molly."

To her surprise, he leaned in and kissed her cheek once, very formally, before turning away and joining his parents in the dark car. His lips felt icy cold on her hot cheek.

As it moved away, she became aware of John standing in the open doorway, his face curious. "Um, Molly? I think your mum's ready to go in a minute."

She forced a smile back onto her face to go back into the party. There was a general bustle of farewells and final congratulations as the remaining guests began to leave – a few of the Bart's and Scotland Yard people had had plenty to drink, so the atmosphere was boisterous. Sherlock, she noticed, was taking it in good part, even offering a tight grimace in response to one of Ian Dimmock's cruder jokes. Sally Donovan rolled her eyes at him in fellow feeling and tugged her inebriated colleague off into the night.

As Molly hugged her mother and aunt, she became aware that they wanted to speak to her privately. She led them into a dark corner of Angelo's restaurant.

"What is it, Mum? Is everything alright?"

"Yes. Well, no. That is, I'm not sure." Her mother's sharp eyes regarded her. "Molly, is everything alright with you? There was that time, a couple of years' ago, when I had that police officer staying with me for a few days. I understood that it was to do with some kind of risk to you."

Molly felt instantly guilty. She'd told her mother something of Moriarty and Janine, but it had been a sanitised version, which no mention made at all of falling off roofs or assassinations in the street. "Yes, I remember. Why? Have – have you had another police officer around?"

"No, but…" Her mother sighed. "I feel…watched. I can't explain it, but there have been strangers around the village recently. And, that brother of Sherlock's – Mycroft, isn't it? Strange name. Strange family, though, so I shouldn't be surprised."

"What about him?"

Her mother hesitated, glancing at her sister. Molly's Aunt Helen, a practical, plain-spoken Scottish woman replied. "It was more what he didn't say, in a way. He was asking if we would like to stay in some cottage that he has in the Cotswolds. Just Maureen and I, some place in the middle of nowhere, for as long as we liked, almost as if we didn't have anything else to do with our time! I – we – got the impression that it wasn't just a polite invitation."

Molly hesitated, unsure how much to tell them. "There… there might be a risk… I can't really explain, Mum, but… there's someone who is angry with Sherlock about, um, something and –."

Her mother interrupted her. "Same situation as before?"

She nodded, watching as her mother and aunt exchanged meaningful glances. "It's… it's not Sherlock's fault…"

"Molly," her mother broke in again, grabbing her daughter's hand and looking at her seriously. "You will take care, won't you? I've accepted the fact that you've chosen Sherlock, and I won't interfere with your choices, but I'd be blind not to notice that he leads a dangerous life. Please, please don't let him drag you into danger. That's all I ask."

Molly nodded, clutching her mother's hand tightly. "I can't promise, Mum, but I will tryreally I will."

Her mother observed her keenly for a moment before sighing. "I suppose that's all I can ask. I do wish you'd move out of London to that lovely house of yours. It's in such a peaceful, safe location and I imagine you could transfer quite easily to a hospital down there. Your father and I never had any trouble finding work. Sherlock needs to think about slowing down a little for his own safety."

"I know, but…" Molly shook her head, feeling unable to explain why that was impossible.

Her mother shrugged. "Well, I've said my piece. I wish you every happiness, Molly. He's a good man and I can see how much he loves you, though he may not show it openly."

"You can see that too?" She felt a rush of affection for her reserved mother – trust her to see what many others couldn't. She was aware that at least some of her colleagues actually pitied her, assuming that the emotion was very much one-way and that Sherlock merely tolerated her presence to make his life more stable.

Aunt Helen looked over Molly's shoulder. "Maureen, I think the Watsons are ready to leave."

Molly's mother squeezed her hand one more time before dropping it and kissing her daughter's cheek. "Will we see you tomorrow? We'll want a quiet morning."

"I'll pick you up from the hotel for lunch." Her mother and aunt were staying in London for a couple more nights.

She followed them outside. Mary had retrieved the Watson's battered car from a nearby carpark and John was carefully placing a drowsy Ellie in her car seat. Sherlock appeared suddenly at her shoulder as she stepped through the doorway; behind them, Angelo and his assistants were clearing away the remains of the wedding feast.

After a flurry of final goodnights and as the car moved away, John stuck his head out of the passenger window and grinned at them, his face creasing into familiar lines. Something about his expression grounded Molly after this most unusual of days; she felt real life beginning to intrude and was oddly comforted by it.

"Here. You may need this." Sherlock placed a grey-blue pashmina around her shoulders.

"Thanks." She hadn't needed to wear it, the day having been unusually warm for September, but Mary had insisted on bringing it just in case. The evening was growing cooler, and she was glad to wrap it around the flimsy dress. "So… shall we call a taxi?"

"Well, we could…" He looked up the street and she could sense the restlessness in him. "Or…" He glanced down at her. "Are you up for a little walk first?"

"In these shoes?" Clutching his arm for balance, she lifted one foot to show off the high-heeled strappy sandals that had become a torture during the last hour or so.

Without missing a beat, he brought his other hand into view and presented her shabby old canvas shoes with a manic grin.

She stared at them…and then snorted with laughter. "Only you could think of doing that!"

Still holding onto his arm, she slipped off the uncomfortable sandals and put on the flat shoes, sighing with relief. "Well, I probably look like hell now, but this is so much more comfortable. I wasn't designed to be elegant. But what am I going to do with these?"

Sherlock took the sandals off her. "We'll leave them with Angelo. Pick them up some time… I want to show you my London," he added as he came back.

She gave a mock-nervous look at the rooftops. "And will I need climbing equipment?"

"Hardly," he snorted, but offered her his arm in an old-fashioned manner.

She smiled and linked her arm with his. "OK. Lead on, Macduff."

"I assume you know that's a common misquote," he sighed, as they walked down the road.

She paused, remembering her conversation with Mycroft. "You do realise that there's probably about six Secret Service agents following our every move? Is it wise to drag them around London?"

He shrugged. "Nine actually. Or – no," his sharp eyes fixed on an innocuous-looking middle-aged woman across the street. "Make that ten."

"How can he afford to spare that many people just to watch us?" And for how much longer?, she wondered, silently. How can it take so long to apprehend one woman?

His arm tightened on hers. "Perhaps we should give them a little exercise." His voice was solemn but with a touch of humour.

She laughed again. "OK, why not?"

They passed silently into unknown London streets, deserted and dim in the warm, sleepy night air. Gentle breezes tugged at her hair, loosening her hairdo and ruffling her dress. She kept her arm in his and matched his pace as he led her, for hours and hours, through this city that he loved so much. At peace and utterly content.


BTW, I took my inspiration for Molly's dress from the lovely one worn by Louise Brealey at the GQ Awards - try Googling Louise Brealey GQ Awards to find it.