Oh dear, they were actually doing this. They were going to allow his parents to announce their engagement in a formal setting, with dozens and dozens of pairs of eyes upon them. Despite her earlier bravado, Molly found herself repressing a sudden urge to sprint for the door; not only would it cause a scandal, if she were to flee her own engagement party, but the malicious busybodys who thought she wasn't good enough to marry even a younger Holmes would be proven right.
She'd had the good fortune not to encounter very many of those. Most of the ones she had run afoul of were disgruntled debs and their equally disgruntled mothers who'd hoped to catch a Holmes for themselves or their daughters.
Molly certainly wasn't used to being the focus of anyone's jealousy, but she'd experienced enough well-bred jeering and 'oh ha-ha darling, it's only a joke' during her medical studies to ensure she'd grown a thick skin about such things. No, it wasn't the ill-wishers who had set her nerves to jangling tonight, it was those who sincerely wished nothing but the happiest of futures for her and her faux fiancé.
Not least of which was her own mother, and his parents - and his best friend John Watson, who was the first to spot them lurking in the back of the room, well before Mycroft who was, indeed, chatting amiably with Lady Anthea and The Right Honourable Charles Morley. John's wide grin and limping gait - the result of a wound received during the Great War - only made her feel more guilty.
"Ah, there they are, the happy couple!" John said jovially as he kissed her cheek and shook hands with Sherlock. "The mater and pater were just asking after you. Shall we join them for the formal announcement, eh?" He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and grinned at Molly, who grinned right back at him. "Never thought I'd see the day, old chap! But you've found yourself a wonderful woman. Just remember what I told you at the club, he?"
"Not to muck it up, was it?" Molly asked innocently, while John turned red and Sherlock let out a hearty chuckle.
"Mm, not quite the word he used, but close enough," Sherlock replied, still chortling.
"Uh, yes, didn't realize you'd heard that," John mumbled, then shook his head and offered her a rueful grin. "Should've known you weren't the type to be put off by the occasional, er, rough language. I'm sure you've heard worse in the dissection labs when you were at university!"
Molly's smile faded a bit, but she only nodded and followed with Sherlock as John threaded his way through the crowds toward the front of the enormous ballroom. It was a pity that Mary had been unable to attend the party, having already been scheduled to visit her aging Nana this week-end, and she said so to John as he came to a stop near Sherlock's parents.
She quite liked the former military man, and despite her initially fumbling the introductions and calling John 'James', that first meeting with one of Sherlock's extremely limited set had gone remarkably well. It certainly helped that they both kept as close to the truth as possible - a strategy, as Sherlock had rightly reminded her only a few minutes ago, that would be advisable to continue.
Yes, the visit had gone well. John, who was about five years or so older than Sherlock, had been friendly and charming, as were the other members of his military veteran's club, happy to answer her respectful questions and treating her rather like royalty.
Since that first visit she'd also been introduced to John's fiancée, Miss Mary Morstan, a bright, vivacious woman who John had hired as a nurse for his growing medical practice, and with whom Sherlock seemed quite taken, although he was doing his best not to show it. But Molly saw him, especially when he thought no one was looking, and she was secretly pleased that her faux-beau wasn't quite as alone in the world as he wanted others to believe.
Why that was, she still had no idea, unless it was in unconscious imitation of his emotionally closed-off elder brother. Not that she entirely believed in the unconscious - some of Mr. Freud's theories were a bit too out there for her, and his brethren in the young field of psychoanalysis weren't much better - but she did believe in having a desire to please those you looked up to.
And despite his scoffing attitude toward Mycroft, Sherlock definitely looked up to him. And Mycroft, she suspected, had a very soft spot for his younger brother, despite outer appearances to the contrary. What Sherlock dismissed as 'controlling', she thought was rather more like 'looking out for'.
Just as Sherlock was now looking out for her.
She smiled wistfully at the thought. He'd been quite gentlemanly with her, not only in public but in private - 'in order to keep up the facade, don't you know' - but Molly had her suspicions about that. Oh, not that Sherlock was developing tender feelings for her! No, she wasn't that soft-headed. But he was certainly doing his best to ensure that their deception caused her the least amount of discomfort possible.
For example, visiting John first had been Sherlock's idea. He'd insisted that she needed a 'soft' introduction before being thrust under his brother's -
"'Myc-roscope'" she'd jestingly suggested.
"No, under his unfortunately all-too-observant and extremely judgemental gaze," he'd corrected her with a frown, then added, "Don't make jokes, Molly, they're really not your area."
But she hadn't missed the slightest twitch of his lips when she'd made her silly little pun, and she'd wondered…
"Ah, there you are, Molly, Sherlock! We quite lost track of you for a bit," Sherlock's mother - Violet, she'd insisted that Molly call her Violet - said as she turned and saw them. She'd been chatting with her husband - 'and you must call me Siger, my dear girl' - and a few of the elderly Holmes' aunts Molly had met once.
("They're all frightfully boring, but you'll have to put up with them for tea now and again," Sherlock had announced before that first visit. Only they turned out to be just as delightful as his parents - and she'd had an epiphany that day as to Sherlock's definition of 'boring'. It simply meant - ordinary. Molly resolved then and there to be as not-ordinary as she could be whenever she was with him - but refused to think about why that was.)
"Sorry Mother, but you know how I am," Sherlock said easily, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
"And where's your mother, my dear?" Violet asked as she reached out and took Molly's hands in hers before kissing her cheek.
"She begs your pardon for not attending, but she's taken to bed with the migraine," Molly replied with an apologetic smile. "She looks forward to luncheon tomorrow, she's sure she'll be fully recovered by then."
Violet gave Molly's hands a comforting squeeze. "I'm so sorry, my dear. I quite look forward to meeting her tomorrow - when it will be just the immediate family, much quieter and more intimate." There was something in the way she spoke, a certain look in her eyes - something knowing and sympathetic - that made Molly suspect she knew exactly why Mrs. Hooper had chosen not to make an appearance.
Molly gave her a grateful smile, resolved to explain the truth the very first opportunity that presented itself, before being swept up with Sherlock in a wave of cheek-kisses from the aunts. As soon as the last elderly aunt - smelling softly of lavender - had released Molly, Violet ushered them to the middle of the doorway. It had been cleared of guests and placed in the middle of the large archway now stood a small table covered with white satin. Two elegant champagne flutes were set precisely in the center, engraved with her initials and Sherlock's, and she exclaimed at their beauty even as she quailed a bit inwardly at the expense they were costing Sherlock's unwitting parents.
Ah well, she'd pack them away as mementos of a wonderful time of her life if Sherlock insisted she keep them - which she suspected he would, being absolutely uninterested in such gew-gaws, as he'd no doubt disdainfully term them.
That thought brought her up a bit short. Goodness! When had she become so knowledgeable about what Sherlock Holmes would and wouldn't like?
It didn't matter. She moved behind the table obediently, standing next to Sherlock, and they took up their glasses while Violet clapped her hands and the room gradually fell silent. The crowds of guests formed a loose semi-circle, of which the four of them - herself, Sherlock, and his parents - were the singular focus.
It was quite disconcerting. Molly felt her face grow hot, but a reassuring squeeze of Sherlock's hand helped her remain outwardly calm.
"As you already know, this party is in celebration of the upcoming nuptials of our dear William and Miss Molly Hooper." She beamed at the two of them as the guests clapped. When it fell silent again, she went on, "As many of you also know, we were rather in despair of William finding the right woman and coming into his proper station in life. But that day has finally arrived, and Siger and I couldn't be happier." She raised her glass; everyone, including Molly and Sherlock, did the same. "To Molly and Sherlock! May they be as happy and blessed as my husband and I have been!"
"To Molly and Sherlock!" "To the bride and groom!" "To not mucking it up!"
That last voice was obviously John's; Molly saw Sherlock give his friend a frown before his lips twitched themselves into a smile, and he nodded in acknowledgement of John's teasing tone.
"To us," Sherlock said softly, turning toward Molly with a loving expression in his eyes.
"To us," she whispered, blushing again. They clinked their glasses together and sipped their champagne.
Molly's heart was beating a mile a minute. It was done, publicly. They were officially engaged. Sherlock slipped the ring he'd been carrying out of his pocket; just as they'd practiced, Molly pulled off her left glove and allowed him to slip it onto her third finger.
It was a beautiful dark blue sapphire set in white gold amongst delicate diamonds and smaller sapphires, a Vernet family heirloom. She would return it to him at the end of their false engagement, but not without regrets. It was the most beautiful ring Molly had ever seen, and it fit perfectly.
In honour of that ring she'd worn the Florrie Westwood designer frock Sherlock had purchased for her. She'd absolutely blanched at the price, but he'd insisted she needed to shine at her own engagement party, and she was very glad of the confidence she felt while wearing it. The striking contrast between the soft blues and bright yellows flattered her, or so Sherlock and her mother had separately assured her, and the seamstress who had made the minor alterations had exclaimed more than once that Molly's figure was absolutely made to show off the designer's work.
More applause broke out as Molly's thoughts wandered, causing her to start a bit. Sherlock gave her a questioning look; she shook her head and smiled brightly at him. They then turned to face the crowd as Molly braced herself for the round of congratulations and questions about the upcoming wedding and admiring (and envious) looks at the ring she must endure before she'd be allowed to escape to the powder room to catch her breath.
End Note: Thank you again for reading and reviewing! So glad you're all enjoying this fic.
