Tedious, boring, the whole thing was ridiculous - parading Molly and her ring before a crowd of relatives and acquaintances just to please a woman who was dead and presumably no longer in a position to care about such things, what had he been thinking?
Then Sherlock looked at Molly's smiling face as she listened politely to something Great-Aunt Agatha was saying, saw the genuine interest and respect in her expression and body language, and remembered. It wasn't just about pleasing his dead grandmother, it was also about showing Molly off to his family. Letting them get to know her, at least superficially, so that when it came time for him to jilt her, she'd have their entire sympathy - and he would become persona non grata and finally be left to live his life the way he wanted to.
He would be free. Free to perform experiments - perhaps when Molly returned to her medical studies she might be persuaded to nick a few body parts for him from her anatomy studies? - free to pursue his interest in showing up the bobbies….er, in assisting in police investigations when they got in too far over their collective heads, free to run around London as he liked with no obligations and no strings…
It was exactly what he'd always wanted. The perfect life.
So why did it suddenly feel so hollow? Empty?
Ridiculous, he scoffed silently as he rejoined Molly, who was now chatting with John and Anthea's brother Charlie. Mycroft, he noted with a smirk, was hovering nearby, ostensibly discussing something boring with one of his government cronies, but it was obvious to Sherlock where his brother's real interest lay.
His smirk faded a bit as he thought about the conversation he and Molly had had after their visit with Mycroft at his Belgravia mansion.
"So what do you think of the Iceman?" Sherlock asked with a grin as he handed Molly into the waiting cab.
"I think," Molly said, slowly and thoughtfully, after he'd instructed the driver as to their destination, "that he's very…lonely."
Sherlock barked out a laugh, stopping abruptly as he realized Molly was being completely serious. "Lonely?" he scoffed. "Mycroft? He doesn't know the meaning of the word. He isolates himself deliberately, pushes everyone away, calls them 'goldfish'."
"Well," Molly said, rather crossly, "you asked me what I thought. And that's what I think. That he's a very lonely man. I wonder if it's because he's…" she hesitated, then finished delicately, "...if it's because he's…different. The way you pretended to be," she added, as if he hadn't been able to deduce her exact meaning.
No joking about being 'light in the loafers' - and no judgement or criticism in her voice. It was another point in her favour, had he been looking for any, that she was calmly accepting of, even sympathetic to, Mycroft's predilections - or would she call it a predicament?
"So yes," Molly said firmly, "I think he's lonely. You've chosen not to love anyone - until me, of course!" she added with a quick glance at the cabbie, who showed no signs of being interested in their conversation. "But he must feel as if he can't allow himself to fall in love. And that's very sad."
She'd meant it, every word. In today's society it was a crime to be the sort of 'different' his brother was, and in light of both his social and government positions, it was extremely unlikely that Mycroft would ever be able to enter into a romantic relationship. Not without risking scandal.
"Well," he said slowly, as he processed the novel idea of having a new insight into his interfering elder brother's psyche, "at least Mummy and Father love and accept him for who he is, even if they don't quite understand him. But then," he added lightly, "I suppose they don't quite understand me, either."
The look Molly had given him at that comment had been half-exasperated and half-amused, and she'd allowed him to change the subject to something a little less uncomfortable. Uncomfortable for him, that is, and not because he cared one way or the other how anyone conducted their love lives - or failed to do so. No, it was uncomfortable because it was Mycroft, and it had always been so much easier just to resent his elder brother than to try and understand him.
As if sensing his brother's attention, Mycroft turned his head and caught Sherlock's eye, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged and looked away. He really wasn't in the mood for one of their usual verbal fencing matches; in fact, what he was really in the mood for was a good smoke, but he'd catch hell from Mummy if he snuck outside even for a few minutes.
He scanned the room, somewhat desperately, needing a distraction from his own thoughts. He spotted John, but before he could catch his attention he'd vanished through one of the side doors - nipping to the loo after downing a bit too much champagne, Sherlock deduced.
His lip curled in a small smile as he thought about how well John and Molly were getting along. She'd been very respectful of him and his former army mates when Sherlock had brought her to meet him, asking sensible questions and listening with obvious interest to their answers. For someone who claimed to be socially awkward, his Molly was actually quite good at -
Hang on, when the hell had he started thinking of her as 'his' Molly?
She wasn't 'his' anything, except, possibly, his co-conspirator. Friend? Yes, he supposed she was 'his' Molly as in his friend, not as in his…his what? Beloved? He scoffed at the way his unconscious mind was attempting to betray him. Sentiment, he recited mentally, was nothing but a chemical defect, found on the losing…
The sound of Molly's laughter caught his attention, and he scowled as he realized that she was no longer surrounded by the aunts and other old biddies - er, old friends of his mother - but instead was chatting with several members of the younger set.
Several male members of the younger set.
His scowl deepened as he honed in on the fact that one in particular seemed to be paying closer attention to her than was necessary or polite. He'd have to drive the young buck off; a few well-chosen deductions should do the trick…
No, wrong, wait. That wasn't the plan! If he should be deducing anything about the tall, curly-haired figure with the fatuous smile, it should be regarding his suitability as a potential future husband for Molly. Dash it all, he should be deducing all the unattached men here for just such a purpose, instead of mooning over her like some lovesick fool. Yes, he was playing the part of a lovesick fool, but that didn't mean he actually felt that way about her!
Did he?
No, he told himself firmly. He most emphatically did not. Just because she was pleasant to look at, a lively and enthusiastic (if not particularly elegant) dancer, intelligent, tolerant of his often unsociable nature, an interesting conversationalist (except when it came to the social niceties, she still needed to work on that a bit, but it was coming more naturally to her now)...hm, what had been his point, again?
That everything's going perfectly to plan, he reminded himself. And it was. He felt a bit like the professor from that play his parents had dragged him to a few months ago - the one with the Cockney girl learning to act like a lady. It had a classical name, he vaguely recalled, then dismissed the thought from his mind as Molly approached him; he hadn't even noticed her leaving Potential Suitor Curly-Hair.
Sherlock clenched his teeth as he saw the other man staring somewhat wistfully after Molly. Their eyes met; the stranger (one of Lady Smallwood's innumerable nephews?) flinched back, then hurriedly rejoined whatever inane conversation the cluster of young men were apparently enjoying.
He took Molly's hands in his and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. "Darling!" he exclaimed with false heartiness, to cover his irrational burst of possessiveness and resentment. "There you are. I thought maybe you'd wandered off and found someone else to marry!"
Molly gave him a puzzled stare, then smiled and gamely responded to what he hoped she took for some light teasing. "Don't be silly, Lockie!" she giggled. "This is our engagement ball, I'd never be so gauche!"
Relieved that he hadn't totally given his inner turmoil away, he drew her arm through his and led her toward the drinks table. He didn't know about her, but he could use a stiff one right about now, something to help him screw his head on straight.
It wasn't Molly's fault if she was the belle of the ball; the ball was literally being held in her honour, after all! He'd just have to learn to control this sudden, inexplicable urge to carry her off so no one else could look at her except him.
He squeezed her hand, and in response she offered him a sweet smile. He felt his heart give a little flutter at the honest emotion in that small curve of the lips. No, wrong, it was simply an effect of the champagne! That's all it could be. Sherlock Holmes didn't do emotions; he'd simply been making an observation, that was all.
Molly's smile faded as if she sensed his sudden tension. Well, of course she did; it would have been hard to miss, as close as they currently were. He willed himself to relax and forced a smile to his lips. "Sorry, saw an old school-mate I'd rather avoid," he lied in answer to her unasked question.
She relaxed as well, and accepted a gin and tonic when they reached the drinks table. It wasn't entirely a lie; he had seen Sebastian bloody Wilkes chatting up some debutante or other near the crystal punch-bowl, and avoiding him was always a pleasure.
"So, not someone you'll be introducing me to, then?" she asked in oblique reference to their arrangement. The thought of Sebastian Wilkes holding Molly in his arms brought a scowl to Sherlock's lips, and he shook his head in an emphatic 'no'.
"Your parents are watching us," Molly murmured in a tacit change of subject - albeit not one he was any more comfortable with. Not if she was about to say what he suspected she was about to say… "I still feel rather bad about lying to them. They're so sweet and, well, ordinary! Not at all what I'd expected."
"Sweet," he scoffed, but with a smile on his own lips as well. For the watchers, of course, and not because he enjoyed smiling at Molly. Or because he enjoyed seeing her smile back at him. Or how she felt in his arms… "You didn't have to grow up with them. Trust me, 'sweet' is not how I recall them. As for ordinary -" Inexplicably he felt the need to disabuse her of that fantasy as well. "Father did something very hush-hush for the Intelligence ministry during the war and Mummy was a mathematician before she married and began a family."
"Oh, my! How thrilling!" No need for superior deductive skills to recognize the sincerity in her voice and aspect...but it certainly didn't hurt. "Still," she added thoughtfully as she sipped her drink, "it doesn't sit well with me, to lie to them as we are." She'd lowered her voice to a whisper even though no-one could possibly hear them over the chatter and background music that had started up. "Are you sure we shouldn't…"
"Shouldn't what, admit the truth?" Sherlock responded, also keeping his voice low. "Taint both families with the scandal of it all? Expose ourselves as liars and cheats, and for what? To ease your conscience?" He frowned, glanced around the room, and pulled Molly through the nearest door. This conversation was growing far too heated to continue in so public a space.
The little alcove at the end of the hall was the perfect spot for a private conversation - or argument, as this looked to be turning into.
"Surely your parents would understand," Molly began.
"That's actually beside the point," he interrupted. "The simple truth of the matter is that you have far more to lose by coming clean than I do. My family will simply chalk it up to another Sherlock shenanigan, while your reputation will be absolutely ruined - not to mention your mother would be tainted by association and very likely lose her position. Is that what you want?"
He waited for her to shake her head 'no' before continuing on. "Right. The best thing is still for you to find some wealthy idiot to marry, one who won't sneer at your middle class origins the way someone like Wilkes, that pompous fat-head, would!" he added with a glower. "Trust me, Molly, in this case our actions are more of - well. Matchmaker and client," he said as inspiration struck. "There's nothing wrong or dishonourable about that, is there?"
Molly gave him a doubtful look. "Well, no, I suppose not -"
"Excellent! Then we're in agreement. My parents, as you have already noted, will be disappointed, but trust me, they're used to that when it comes to me. Eventually they'll forgive me for driving you away - need I remind you that I will make it clear that the break-up will be entirely my fault? No? Good! - and we'll all be able to live our lives the way we want to."
The sound of laughing voices coming closer alerted them that they'd best alter their conversation. Molly pasted a smile on her lips and started to say, "Sherlock" but some devil prompted him to silence her with a kiss. After all, they'd obviously sought out a private spot and if it wasn't for a little romancing then the next obvious conclusion was that they'd been engaged in a little domestic, which was not what he wanted anyone to think.
Not yet. Not until the requisite six months had passed.
So he kissed her. Yes, they'd shared brief kisses before, just as they'd practiced holding hands and dancing and other socially acceptable means of expressing affection, but this kiss was...different. And as much as he tried to tell himself it was because they were both acting for an audience, he knew he was lying.
He was kissing Molly because he wanted to kiss her, had wanted to kiss her like this for quite some time. Wanted to feel her little hands on his shoulders, her petite form pressed to his, her delicate lips opening beneath his, hear the breathless moans issuing from her throat…
"I say, old chap, save it for the honeymoon, wot?"
Sherlock pulled away from Molly, clenching his teeth in irritation. Sebastian Wilkes. Of course.
While Molly flushed and ducked her head, Sherlock fought the urge to punch Wilkes squarely in his obnoxiously leering face. "Sorry, but I couldn't resist." He gazed dotingly at Molly. "I never can resist when it comes to my little…Mollywobbles."
Ignoring her outraged gasp - that'd teach her to call him 'Lockie'! - he tucked her under his arm and pulled her away from Wilkes and the other gawkers without another word.
He only hoped that Molly wouldn't berate him for his precipitate actions - and found himself also hoping that she'd enjoyed the kiss as much as he so unexpectedly had.
End note: As always, thank you for reading, and I hope the little foray into Mycroft's psyche wasn't too much of a distraction from the main story. Next up: Mutual Pining! (Yes they're already doing that but this time it's Serious!)
