A/N: As promised here's chapter 2, In Which Molly and Sherlock get their story straight before The Big Event - Christmas dinner with his parents, brother and sister.

"Okay, let's go over the details one more time, shall we?"

They were on the motorway, in a car Sherlock had rented or borrowed or (quite possibly) stolen for the day trip they were taking for Molly to meet his parents. For Christmas dinner. Because she was, according to the convoluted story his brother and sister had concocted over the past year (a story he'd eventually chosen to go along with) his wife.

According to Sherlock, the looks on their faces when he showed up with an actual wife who fit most of their various specifications (forensic [Eurus], petite [Eurus again], intelligent [Mycroft], very forgiving [Mycroft again and lord wasn't he right about that!] paragon of virtue [Mycroft, whom Molly was rather begrudgingly starting to appreciate] and sex addicted [Eurus again; really, what was up with his sister?]) would be well worth the trip. And, of course, she'd be allowed to keep the rings, even the matching one he'd, rather surprisingly, bought for himself.

("Won't your parents wonder about the ring? I mean, you haven't worn one for the past six months, are you sure they won't be suspicious that you're wearing one now?" "Christmas present, obviously, do keep up, Molly!" That gem of a response had nearly ended with her slapping him again and telling him what he could do with his rings and his fake marriage scam but luckily for him he'd managed to talk himself back into her good graces before she could follow through with her threat.)

The things she did for this man! She really ought to have her head examined.

Still, the rings were absolutely gorgeous, and she continued to admire them as she nodded an absent response to his statement. The band was a simple gold inset with dark pink sapphires, but the engagement ring was set with a rare orangey-pink, oval-cut Padparadscha sapphire that she still gloated over, two weeks after Sherlock had purchased it for her at - as he'd predicted or quite possibly planned, she still wasn't sure - Alex Monroe Jewellery in Bermondsey rather than Tiffany's.

She'd been dead certain she'd find something she liked at Tiffany's but Sherlock had insisted she find something she loved instead because, after all, she should get something out of this bogus relationship - and it had been hard to disagree even after an exhausting evening spent ring-shopping.

She'd had to hold back a chortle when the Tiffany's saleswoman had cooed, "When's the lucky day?" only to have Sherlock blandly correct her with, "The day we met and we're already married so just trot out the wares, there's a good girl," in his poshest, snootiest, most condescending tone of voice.

The one that normally made her want to hit him, but since the saleswoman had given Molly, with her bargain-basement blouse and khakis a calculating look, then focused her attention entirely on Sherlock, as if Molly was there as his assistant instead of his pretend-wife, she'd managed to curb the urge.

Leaving without actually buying anything had been the proverbial icing on the cake. Especially when Sherlock wrapped his arm around Molly's shoulder and assured her that he was taking her to a 'real' jewellry store - and made sure to smile dotingly at her until the doors were shut behind them.

"Molly?"

She looked up at his irritated tone. "Hmm? Oh, right. Go over the details." Giving her rings one last, fond look, she offered Sherlock her full attention. "We met at Bart's, which is actually true, fell madly in love at first sight, which isn't actually true -"

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "That's what you think," but when Molly gave him an inquisitive look he just shook his head and said, "Yes, that's what we want them to think. Go on, then; first date?"

"Body Worlds exhibition," Molly replied promptly. This one was actually a half-truth since she'd gone there by herself but had run into Sherlock and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade as the latter was arresting a man who was trying to steal back his ex-wife's liver and lungs from the display, loudly proclaiming to all and sundry that "That bitch died owin' me money and I told her I'd get it out of her one way or another!"

"Parents' names?"

"Siger and Violet, married 45 years."

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Siblings?"

"Mycroft, older brother by seven years. Eurus, younger sister by one year. He works for the British government - sorry, he IS the British government," she corrected herself at his stern look, "she's a private consultant of some kind, very hush-hush, but also runs an online dating site, very successful." Successful enough that Molly had actually heard of and even considered using it at one point before Hurricane Sherlock had blown into her life. What was it called again? Oh yes - Amo. She'd thought her friend Meena was recommending she join some kind of gun club before her secondary school Latin kicked in. Amo, not Ammo.

Love, not bullets.

Love. That word kind of reverberated through her skull a bit. Love. Was that why she was doing this?

Was she actually in love with the infuriating, remarkable git who had talked her into this madcap adventure?

"Your mother lives in Australia with her second husband," said git was reciting. Confirming that yes, he did remember everything she'd told him about herself - and thankfully completely oblivious to her sudden, worrisome epiphany. "No siblings, father died when you were in medical school, where you graduated with honor - from Imperial College London."

Molly nodded, forcing herself to concentrate on the here and now. Epiphanies would have to wait.

"Wedding date?"

"August 2nd, on my birthday." That had been his idea; the fact that he actually knew her birth date had come as a complete surprise to Molly. She still didn't know if he'd hacked into her personnel files at Bart's or just snooped through her desk, and had made the conscious decision not to ask. Mostly because she didn't really want or need another excuse to smack him.

"Honeymoon?"

"South of France." This, on the other hand, had been entirely her own idea. She'd wanted to honeymoon in the South of France ever since she was a girl; it had been the destination of a pair of runaway lovers in a romance novel she'd read at the tender age of thirteen. "We stayed at the Grand-Hotel du Cap-Ferrat, hit a few nude beaches, danced and dined and spent a lot of time in our very expensive hotel room." She'd looked up the hotel when he'd suggested it, eyebrows raised at the price, but hey, if he could afford it, why not? Apparently consulting detecting did more than simply cover the bills.

"And how many children are we planning to have?"

Molly choked a bit at that question; it wasn't one they'd covered. "What? No! Children? We've only been fake-married for six months, that's way too soon, we're not, that is, I'm not - Sherlock! What the fuck?!"

The git had the temerity to snicker at her floundering, panicky response. "It'll be one of the first questions out of my mother's mouth, she's hardly the model of subtlety."

"So why wait till now, when we're on our way to spend Christmas Day with your family, before mentioning it to me?" Molly demanded angrily.

"Because," Sherlock said, with a quick, guilty look at her, "I thought you might back out of the whole thing if I mentioned children."

"Lovely," Molly grumped, folding her arms across her seat-belted chest and glaring out the side window. "Holding back important info? Wonderful way to start a marriage."

"Fake marriage," he reminded her, but quickly shut up as she snapped a glare in his direction before returning her attention to the passing scenery. Which she barely noticed as she chewed over the question he claimed his mother was most likely to ask.

"I'll have an answer," she said after about ten kilometers passed in silence. Before he could ask the obvious, she added firmly, "I said, I'll have an answer, Sherlock. Leave it at that or I swear I'll tell the truth the second we roll up to your parents' house, got it?"

"Got it," he replied, then flipped on the radio to a 80s rock station she never would have pegged him as being the type to enjoy, even if it had been her music of choice in her teen years. When he actually began singing along under his breath to "This Charming Man", though, she was forced to revise her opinion on the matter.

Soon enough they were both belting out "William It Was Really Nothing" which segued into "The Boy With the Thorn in His Side" - they'd lucked into a bit of a Smiths marathon - and before she knew it, they were pulling off the motorway and down a series of back roads and there it was.

His parents' quaint little red-brick cottage.

He parked the car on the verge and stared at the house along with her for a long moment before pasting a ghastly smile on his face and saying, far too brightly, "Right then, here we are! Let's meet the family shall we?"

And all Molly could do was grit her teeth and nod.