The Holmes Estate - Haywards Heath, Sussex County

Sherlock gazed complacently around the ballroom. Everything was going exactly to plan; Molly was now his pretend fiancée (after two not-entirely-tedious months of 'courtship' had passed); he'd begun scouting out potential partners for her to actually marry once their 'engagement' ended; Lady Smallwood had smoothed over any ruffled feathers from the old biddies who had squawked at the reveal that he was a Holmes and not actually a gigolo (nor 'light in the loafers' as Molly had so delightfully phrased it); she'd even passed Mycroft's inspection with flying colours, and his parents had been utterly besotted with her from their first meeting…

"Oh Sherlock, she's darling! Wherever did you find her?" Marion Violet Vernet-Holmes asked, still holding both of Molly's hands in hers as she finished her head-to-toe survey of her supposed daughter-in-law to be.

Molly blushed rather becomingly at his mother's gushing praise, and Sherlock rested his hand against the small of her back, pressing just enough with the tips of his fingers to encourage her to rest her head against his shoulder. "Oh you know, Mother, the usual places," he drawled, then winked at her, and felt her brace herself as his mother finally let go of her hands and allowed her to tuck one arm through his. He'd warned Molly that there would be a great deal of teasing involved would likely be viewed as socially unacceptable, but that his parents would expect nothing less of him and his vulgar sense of humour. "The brothels, the opium dens, John Watson's Club for invalided soldiers."

The last, at least, had been entirely true. He grinned at the memory of his mother's frown and father's disapproving 'tut'. Molly, however, had been game, as he'd known she would be, and just gave him a knowing smile - and another one of those pretty blushes she seemed to be able to summon on demand. Or was it simply that she blushed easily? No matter, it had done the trick.

"Oh Sherlock, honestly! How you do go on!" she'd exclaimed, swatting his arm coquettishly with her clutch. "What your parents will think of me now, I have no idea, and after paying me such lovely compliments!"

"We think just as highly of you as we did before our dear son opened his mouth and decided to grace us with what he condescends to call his 'sense of humour'," had been his mother's prompt reply. She'd graced him with a disapproving frown before turning her smile back on Molly - and his father, Sherlock had noted, had never stopped smiling at the girl who had apparently won his wayward son's heart. "Come, my dear, tea will be served soon, if I know our Mrs. Stapleton; she runs a tight ship,and aren't we glad of it!"

"Yes, how is dear old Jacqui doing, Mother?" Sherlock had asked as they began the stroll to the front parlour. "Now that that hound of a husband has been put behind bars where he belongs?"

His mother, who had drawn Molly's arm through hers, looked back over her shoulder. "Sherlock, it's not our opinion of Miss Hooper that anyone should be concerned about, it's her opinion of you! If you're not careful she'll run off and find herself a new beau!"

Molly had made a choked sound at that comment - holding back laughter or dismay? He never had found out which it was. Thankfully all his mother had done was cluck over her and speed her pace a bit so that she might have her first cuppa that much sooner.

It was obvious she'd felt a bit guilty at lying to them (but not to Mycroft, he'd gleefully noted) but he'd assured her that they would not only forgive her for not marrying their son, but they'd likely take her side when the time came. Especially since he planned to ensure that everyone knew it was his own fault. He might not be much of a gentleman but he was certainly enough of one to take the blame on himself and spare her reputation from any potential negative repercussions.

Molly had had a thing or two to say to him about that, he recalled with a fond chuckle; but then, he'd seen the fire under her demure mask and immediately realized she was the perfect woman for…

The perfect woman for this romantic charade, he reminded himself hastily. The perfect woman to pretend to be in love with him, just as he was pretending - pretending! - to be in love with her.

Because Sherlock Holmes was incapable of falling in love with anyone. No matter how well he'd fooled their friends and families, that's all it was: a game, a pretence. Sentiment, he'd always maintained, was a chemical reaction found on the losing side - and if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes never did, it was lose.

Luckily for him he'd found the perfect (that word again!) partner in deceit, now matter how reluctant a participant she might have been at first. Look how well things had gone with his parents. Not that he'd ever been concerned about them; no, it was Mycroft he'd been…less than certain about. Yes, he'd managed to keep him from sniffing out his little gigolo scheme, but this was different.

As with his parents, Molly had come through like a trouper. It certainly helped that Mycroft had apparently been too pleased at Sherlock's perceived capitulation to 'common sense' to look very far into this particular gift horse's mouth.

"Ah, Miss Hooper, delighted to meet you," he'd said, bowing just the precise amount over her hand. Not as much as a diplomat or foreign dignitary would have received, but far more than he'd have offered, say, the daughter of a family friend. Unless, of course, said daughter was a potential Holmes' bride for his baby brother. "My brother mentioned once or twice that he'd found someone 'not boring', if you'll excuse the direct quote, to escort to various social engagements." He'd offered Molly one of his thin smiles. "I'm pleased he found a woman of brains as well as of beauty. I presume you intend to resume your interrupted medical studies after the wedding?"

Molly had glanced at Sherlock in surprise. "No, Miss Hooper, my brother said nothing of your aspirations - which I applaud, by-the-by. I deduced them. Did he tell you our mother was a professor of mathematics before she and our father were wed?"

Oozing charm from every reptilian pore, Mycroft had drawn more of Molly's family history from her. Since she was nothing but honest about everything - including how she and Sherlock had first met, only omitting their unorthodox bargain. Mycroft had complimented her, and she had produced another one of those charming blushes, and -

Sherlock frowned, taking a drag off the cigarette he'd lighted while waiting for his faux-fiancée to make her grand entrance with her mother.

When had he started thinking of Molly's blushes as 'becoming' and 'charming'?

You're getting too caught up in your role, Holmes old chap, he counseled himself. Eye on the prize and all that tommyrot.

Besides, what did it matter if Molly's blushes were charming and becoming? Soon enough she'd be blushing and occasionally stuttering and fluttering her lashes at some other man. Some other man who would actually meet her at the altar, whose opinion would matter most to her.

Sherlock scowled as his insides clenched at the thought of her laughing and blushing with some inferior idiot. It's just that you wish to ensure that you select the right man for her, per your bargain, he told himself. And that's all it is.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the arrival of his brother. "Ah, Mycroft, prompt as always," he drawled in his most offensive manner. "Here to ensure that I haven't yet driven Miss Hooper away?"

"If she's been able to put up with you for this long, then I'd say your marriage is a foregone conclusion," Mycroft replied, accepting the cigarette Sherlock offered from his monogrammed silver case - one of the few mementos of any value he'd kept during the lean times, as it was a gift from his London landlady. Mrs. Hudson had had it engraved specially for him, and he'd be damned if he'd allow Mycroft's control over his finances to cause him to give it up.

Mycroft peered at him over his unlit cigarette, and Sherlock automatically lit it with the matching lighter, also a gift from Mrs. Hudson. His brother took a deep drag before speaking again. "A little bird tells me you've been on your best behaviour with Miss Hooper's family since she introduced you to them after you asked her to marry you. On her behalf, or have you simply turned over a new leaf?"

"Since I skipped the formality of asking Mrs. Hooper for her daughter's hand in marriage, I thought it best to endear myself to her after the fact," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "I'm not a complete idiot, Mycroft; I do know how to behave myself in polite society when I want to."

"Yes, you do, don't you," Mycroft agreed with a sniff. "A pity it's taken you this long to want to, brother mine. I suppose meeting the right woman made all the difference."

"I suppose it did," Sherlock agreed.

The brothers smoked in semi-companionable silence, watching the guests as they arrived and were greeted by their parents at the entrance on the opposite side of the ballroom. "What about you, Mikey?" some devil prompted Sherlock to ask as he spied Lady Anthea Morley and her brother being hugged and cheek-kissed by Mummy and Papa. "Found yourself a goldfish yet?"

Mycroft gave him a pitying look. "Do work on your deductive skills, Sherlock," he drawled. "Miss Morley is quite attractive, but she's hardly my type."

"I meant her brother," Sherlock said with a quirk of the lips. Mycroft gave him a hard look, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. "None of my business either way, of course," he said smoothly. "Do give Charles my regards."

With another hard look, followed immediately by a disdainful sniff, Mycroft did what Sherlock wanted him to do: left him alone with his thoughts.

He was mentally reviewing tonight's agenda when the sound of a delicate cough from roughly the height of his left shoulder caught his attention. "Molly!" he exclaimed, chagrined that she'd come so close without him noticing her. "When did you arrive?" And how had he missed it? Even lost in thought he should have heard her name being announced. He frowned as he scanned the room. "Where's your mother?"

They were all the family she'd planned to bring - indeed, all the family she had left to her. After her father's death his side of the family had made it clear they wished to have nothing to do with the widow and her children, and Molly's mother had been an orphan.

"She's at home," Molly said quietly.

Sherlock's frown deepened. Glancing around to make sure no one had noted her presence - they hadn't, still too engrossed in the champagne and mindless chatter at the opposite end of the ballroom - then drew her toward the baize door through which he deduced she'd slipped into the room. "Why is she at home?" he demanded as soon as it was safe to do so. None of the servants were in sight or earshot, and he judged they had a few minutes before they would be interrupted. "I thought we agreed -"

"No, you dictated, and I capitulated," Molly said, cutting him off. Her voice was firm, but she was nervously twisting her gloved fingers together, setting the seams askew. "I told you my mother was uncomfortable in society, Sherlock, and as we were dressing I could tell she'd worked herself into a state of nerves. So I told her to stay home, that I would tell your parents she'd developed a migraine, but should be recovered enough to join us for luncheon tomorrow, as scheduled."

She gave him a defiant look, and he re-thought his initial impulse to take her to task for altering their carefully laid-out plans on a whim. Only it wasn't a whim; he could see the genuine distress on her face, in the way she continued to pluck at her gloves and twist her hands, in the rigid way she held herself.

"Right," he said, his mind rapidly going over the change in plans this called for. "That's why you slipped in the back way, to avoid anyone's attention until you'd spoken to me. Excellent decision, Molly. We'll give my parents that exact story, at least until we can get them alone and tell them the truth."

Molly lifted startled eyes to meet his. "The truth?" she echoed. "Whyever for?"

"Because the fewer lies we tell, the fewer we'll have to remember," he reminded her. "Mycroft will certainly see right through that excuse, and so will my mother. So the public explanation will be that she took ill, but when we can have a private moment with them, we'll explain the truth. Trust me," he added at Molly's doubtful look, "my father will certainly sympathize. He's still not very comfortable in large social gatherings, but has long since reconciled himself to attending them for my mother's sake." He grinned. "She does love a good party, and this promises to be one of the best, if I do say so myself."

She nodded, then straightened her much-abused gloves and gave him a bright smile. "All right then. Should I go back outside and make my grand entrance?"

He shook his head, knowing it was the last thing she wanted to do. "No, we'll just go back into the ballroom and wait for Mycroft to pounce." He grinned. "Care to make a wager as to how long that might take?"

Molly grinned right back at him, her own nerves seeming more settled. "It depends," she said saucily. "Are Lady Anthea and her dashing brother Charlie here yet?"

Sherlock laughed in delight, offering the crook of his arm. "Shall we?"

"Let's shall," Molly agreed, hooking her arm through his.

End note: Thank you everyone for your enthusiastic response to this fic! I hope you're still enjoying it!