"Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind."

Xxx

Seven bottles of champagne?

Check.

Room for the egregious amount of desserts and cheap wine expected as gifts?

Check.

A darling dress that screamed class and dignity?

Check.

Three shots of vodka to even open the door to the first guest?

Check, check, check (and another check for good measure).

Molly dropped the shot glass in the sink and groaned. She looked around the unfamiliar kitchen, which had three caterers furiously prepping away endless hors d'oeuvres for her pending guests, and sighed. George was eager to show off his lovely new flat, which boasted 200sq meters of gorgeous open windows, a renovated kitchen, three bedrooms, and an American style walk-in closet.

She reached into the sink and grabbed the shot glass, filling it up once more. She downed it and shivered, wondering what in the actual fuck she had gotten herself into.

Throw a dinner party! Let's have our mates mingle! You're a bloody moron, Molly Hooper.

Molly groaned and wandered into the bathroom, glancing into the mirror to doublecheck her appearance. She had gone to the hairstylist earlier in the day, and was now sporting a freshly cut and highlighted do. She was quite made up too, finally wearing her favorite lipstick that she scarcely wore, and her ears were decorated with the lovely pair of earrings that George had gifted her with a week prior.

And the dress! She looked down at her body, once again questioning if she felt comfortable wearing it. It was elegant, stunning, and screamed refined beauty, all things Molly rarely felt. Yet, that black ensemble, hugging her curves like it was made for her, put a smile on her face.

With one final deep breath, she walked into the sitting room, where George was chatting with their first guest, a man called Oliver, who worked in finance at George's firm. George had told Molly that he was quite the arse kisser, so she wasn't surprised that he was the first to show up.

Deciding that the two men would be fine chatting about football, or work, or whatever men discussed, she ventured back into the kitchen, eager to help the staff in any way she could. But, at the sight of the food on the plates, she halted. How much money was her boyfriend spending on this dinner? She sighed and grabbed a lobster crostini off the tray, deciding that she absolutely, truly, one-hundred percent, did not want to know.

I still shop off the clearance rack at Primark.

Xxx

Sherlock sighed and trudged behind John, fiddling with the sleeves of his suit. He fussed with his curls before hurrying to stand beside his best mate, a clear look of distaste on his face. John noticed and rolled his eyes.

"So help me Sherlock, you better behave. You understand me? No rude remarks about his flat, or his food, or anything. And certainly no fighting or doing something else rash."

Sherlock scoffed. "When have I ever been rash?"

"Well, you did kiss her."

Sherlock scowled and kept walking, shoving his hands into his jacket, still irritated by the stiffness of his suit jacket. He glanced over at John, who was also dressed in his finest suit, sporting a smile that indicated he was happy to be spending the evening with only adults.

"I really would prefer that we didn't go to this."

John rolled his eyes again. "You told me that you were trying to salvage your friendship with Molly. In order to do that, you have to do things that friends would. Such as attend a dinner party."

"Yes but… His crowd will be there. You know, The City, Knickers-in-a-Twist type. Discussing investments and holidays in Bali."

John snorted. "I reckon I rather listen to that then you discuss the effects of alcohol on muscle dexterity in fingers or hear you recite the periodic table."

Sherlock began to walk faster, knowing that John's short limbs would force to man to jog to keep up. "At any rate, this will not be enjoyable. Molly's boyfriend overcompensates for his glaring lack of masculinity by spending exorbitant amounts of money. That will be abundantly clear this evening."

John glared at Sherlock, knowing his best mate was walking faster to force him to run. He jogged up to Sherlock and groaned. "Who cares? Our friends will be there. Aside from Molly, I know Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are attending. So, lighten up. Eat some shrimp cocktail and at least pretend to have a good time."

Sherlock began to walk faster. "Oh, John, you silly man. I always have a good time."

John stopped jogging and cursed, sensing that the evening was not to go well.

Lord help us now.

Xxx

Molly was in a tizzy. Every time she turned around, she was being introduced to one of George's co-workers, or running buddies, or sailing mates, or University friends. As she smiled and bid a temporary farewell to a bloke he ran the Manchester Marathon with, she grabbed a glass of champagne and downed as much as possible, not knowing the next time she'd have a chance to take a deep breath.

He's only been in London for a few months! How can he possibly have so many friends?

Molly groaned and looked around the room, mentally counting the guests that she had invited. There was Meena and her boyfriend, Mike Stamford and his wife, two of her University friends, another two doctors from the lab, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and his newest girlfriend, and… That was is.

She finished the glass, forcing herself not to obsess over the ridiculous ratio of his guest to hers. Or Sherlock's absence.

He said he'd come.

She sighed and moved into the kitchen, deciding she should check up on the catering, when Lestrade swooped in and smiled at his hostess.

"Well look at you! You look absolute lovely," he complimented, before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "This place is unbelievable! So, you two are living here now?"

Molly swallowed and quickly glanced over at George, who was enjoying a hearty laugh with a few co-workers. "No, actually, I'm still at my flat. We haven't… Decided what our living arrangements will be."

Lestrade nodded, seemingly in understanding. "Well, it's a nice place. In a nice area too."

Molly smiled softly and nodded. "I do like it but…"

"It's not home?" He asked, his eyes watching her curiously.

"No. I reckon it isn't."

Lestrade cleared his throat and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He took a sip, and looked at Molly, clearly wanting to ask something but having the good graces not to.

"How's your girlfriend?" Molly asked instead, motioning to the redhead who was chatting with one of her University friends, "Charlotte, was it?"

"Oh, she's great," Lestrade replied, also looking in Charlotte's direction, a grin plastered across his face. Molly almost whimpered at the sincerity.

"Do you… See marriage in the future?"

Lestrade laughed. "Well, maybe. After the last one failed… It's hard to think that far ahead. Especially over something that permanent."

Molly frowned and nodded, glancing back over at George, who now was chatting with her own boss, Mike. She looked back over at Lestrade and opened to mouth to ask a follow-up question, when the doors to the flat opened, and in strutted Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, all decked out in their finest wear.

At the sight of Sherlock in a deliciously sleek black tux and tousled curls, she practically moaned. Lestrade glanced over at his friend and couldn't help but smile.

When will these two morons wake up?

Lestrade nudged Molly and smiled. "I should get back to Charlotte. We'll chat later." With that, he disappeared across the room, leaving Molly to take another shuddering gulp of champagne and watch Sherlock and John whisper conspicuously in the corner of the flat.

John glared at Sherlock and held up the bottle of wine, nudging his friend in the direction of Molly. "Give this to her. Tell her the party is grand, and that she looks nice."

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "I rather not. Can't we have a shrimp cocktail and go? I'll even comprise and have a salmon cucumber cup as well."

John practically growled before shoving Sherlock forward, and rushing across the room, deciding now was a better time than ever to discuss the weather with Lestrade and his girlfriend.

Sherlock sighed and gripped the bottle, crossing the flat until he stood in front of Molly. His eyes met her own, before not so graciously traveling down her body.

Oh, for the love of God.

He swallowed, taking in her black dress, its materials hugging her curves, her shapely legs flowing into a pair of spikey black heels. And her hair just hugged her face, and made those gorgeous pink lips even more kissable than they normally were.

I need a drink.

Molly smiled softly and dropped her eyes to the bottle. She reached out for it. "I presume this is for us?" She asked, her eyes locked on Sherlock's blue orbs.

"Us?" was all he managed out.

Molly gnawed on her lip and glanced over at George, who like a common slag, was circling the room. Sherlock followed her gaze and swallowed.

"Right. Yes. This is for you and the accountant. From John."

"And not you?" Molly asked, taking the bottle from Sherlock.

"No. I would have gotten you something more useful. Like rat poison. This area is notorious for rodents."

Molly couldn't help but laugh as she put the bottle with the other alcohol. Sherlock watched, mesmerized.

"It appears that wine is the socially acceptable gift for this sort of function. But nobody wants to spend more than thirty quid on the gift. So, tell me, what does one do with that much cheap wine? Surely Georgie won't be serving that to one of his yachting mates?" Sherlock asked, his eyes boring into Molly's.

At the question, Molly couldn't help but look away, her cheeks turning red under his gaze. "No. He will not be. I can't speak for George but… When I'm presented with cheap wine, I drink it."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "I—"

His words drifted off as George and an unknown couple joined his conversation, all smiles and artificially brightened teeth. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes locked on Molly, who appeared uncomfortable by their presence. George smiled and placed his hand on the small of her back, moving towards his friends.

"Molly, you remember my boss, Patrick, and his wife, Eleanor?" George grinned and waved his hand towards the couple, both pumped full of anti-depressants and Botox.

Sherlock watched on, intrigued.

Six affairs within the past two years between the two of them. Impressive. Does she know he's laundering money from the company?

Molly nodded and smiled, graciously greeting the couple with hugs, kisses and handshakes. "It's a pleasure to see you two again. I hope you're having a great time. Dinner will be served soon! I would—"

As she babbled on, Sherlock slipped away, looking for a place to camouflage himself. John was stuffing his face with hors d'oeuvres, Mrs. Hudson was speaking to who appeared to be her sister, and Lestrade and his girlfriend were speaking so intently that Sherlock wondered if they'd start snogging in front of the entire bloody party.

Sherlock shook his head and moved away from the hordes of people, and down the hall into the rest of the flat. Along the walls were three doors, and Sherlock expertly opened the door to the master bedroom, stepping inside of George's most personal space.

Disregarding whatever Mind Palace John advised him of, Sherlock slipped into the room, looking around the very cold space, absent of really any true personal touches. It looked straight out of a catalogue, and exactly the type of sleeping quarters Sherlock would expect from a man like George.

He quickly shuffled through the room, occasionally peeking into a closet, or a set of drawers, or a brief case. Per usual, he found nothing incriminating on the man. It was beyond boring and verging on frustrating.

Growing tired of his snooping, Sherlock moved towards the door, until he noticed a lopsided portrait of the London Bridge on the wall. He hurried over and took it down, unsurprised to find a high-quality safe behind it. Sherlock grew giddy, like a child, wandering what type of weapons or drugs or incriminating notices he'd find within the safe.

Quickly plugging in the postal code (given the expensive area they were in and knowing it was one that a man like George would obsess over), he watched in glee as the safe popped open.

But, as his eyes met the inside of the metal box, his stomach plummeted.

Because inside was nothing terribly remarkable. A birth certificate. His passport. A real Rolex. A stack of approximately two-thousand pounds. And a tiny, black velvet box.

Sherlock reached in and wrapped his hands around the box, feeling his body begin to shake. With a shuddering breath, he opened it, his eyes meeting a small ring, with a six-carat diamond decorating the center.

He shut the box and returned it to the safe, quickly shutting the box and placing the photo back on the wall. He moved out of George's room and made his way back towards the party.

I need a drink.

Xxx

Dinner had been a lovely affair. The lamb was succulent, the potatoes were perfectly roasted, and the dessert was spectacular. Molly knew her guests were having a great time. Everyone had happily chatted and eaten away. Except for one person.

Molly wasn't particularly surprised that Sherlock looked miserable at the table. She had gone out of her way to seat him next to people he'd actually speak to, namely John and Greg, but even then, he looked put off. So, when the detective sulked off to the balcony, Molly followed.

John watched Molly follow Sherlock and inwardly cursed. He recognized how miserable his best mate was at the dinner table, but he was unsure if that unhappiness had to do with the amount of people around them, or being forced to watch Molly and George play host and hostess. At any rate, John moved towards the balcony, hoping he wouldn't have to begin damage control.

As he stepped forward, a polite tap stopped him. He turned, encountering a smiling George.

"Well, hello John! How have you been? I haven't seen you since our match!" George announced, per usual, smiling.

John nodded, his eyes glancing between the friendly host and the balcony doors. "Yeah, it has been awhile. I've been awfully busy with work and Rosie."

And Sherlock.

George nodded and smiled. "Oh, I get it! I'm knackered too. I just got another promotion, actually. This move to London has been the best decision of my life."

"Congrats, mate. That's wonderful. We're glad to have you here."

"I'm happy to be here! Between the work, and the city, and Molly, it's been a dream." George grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server and took a sip, smiling at John. "In fact, I've decided that I'm going to ask Molly to marry me."

John felt the color drain from his face, but immediately forced a grin at the sight of George's excited features. He coughed and patted his friend on the back, giving him the biggest grin he could muster at the surprising news. "Wow! That's… Wow! Are you sure?"

"Completely. I love her. She's… Perfect. Don't you agree?"

John nodded weakly, his eyes again drifting towards the balcony door. George sipped his drink and looked around, before settling back on John.

"Do you mind if I ask you something? You know, man to man?" George asked, his tone shifting ever so slightly.

John swallowed and nodded, grabbing a glass for himself when the waiter came back around. "Sure. What's up?"

"Well, it's your mate, Sherlock. I just want to make sure that he's not going to… Pose any issue. My Aunt keeps telling me that he's just an odd duck, but part of me thinks he has a thing for Molly."

John groaned and took a large gulp of champagne, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady on George. "Sherlock? Oh, no, don't worry about Sherlock! He's just Molly's good friend. Nothing more."

George laughed and nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "You're probably right. It was silly of me to think otherwise. I can't imagine that man romancing a woman."

John snorted and sipped his drink. "Right you are George, right you are."

George grinned and waved to another colleague. He looked back at John and gave him a smile. "Well, I need to make my rounds. Thanks for coming, yeah?"

John forced a grin. "Of course. Thanks for having me."

George hurried off, quickly enveloped in another group of wealthy men. John downed the rest of his glass and dropped to a chair, cursing as his arse met the leather.

This is bad.

Xxx

This is bad.

Sherlock shut his eyes, his arms propping himself up on the balcony encasement, his body enjoying the light chill of the London evening. He took another shuddering breath, trying to figure out what to do next. Was he playing his cards right? Should he be making romantic gestures for Molly? Seducing her? Making her see George's inadequacies?

He cursed and shook his head. No, he thought, she needs to decide that she doesn't love him on her own.

But what if she does?

Sherlock growled and stood back up, beginning to pace the perimeter of the balcony. He had no idea what to do. He didn't know if he was supposed to fight for Molly, or to be her friend and remind her that he was around. And by god, it was making him sick to watch her prance around with that possessive, materialistic, ladder-climbing oaf!

He pulled at his curls and froze as the doors opened. Most people had avoided walking onto the balcony, given the chilly city evening, but never Molly. She spent most of her life in a freezing cold morgue.

Sherlock turned to face her, his features softening at the sight of her beautiful, smiling face.

This is bad.

"Are you having fun?" She asked, before moving to stand by the balcony edge, propping her arms up the same way Sherlock had only a moment previously. She took in the view of the city, her cheeks turning a pleasant shade of red from the wind and the excitement of the evening.

Sherlock swallowed. "Not particularly."

Molly sighed and turned to face him. "I didn't think so. Why not? I know you like food. And alcohol. And you've been able to speak to John and Greg. Doesn't that make it at least slightly enjoyable?"

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. As much as I enjoy lamb and endless champagne, I did have to sit through Douglas Erickson discuss his home in Malaga, and Sofia Langston's son at Eton, and Wendall Wright's new vaguely royal wife. Not to mention, I had to endure what they didn't say. Like Patrick Lucas's affair with the lady from IT. And the fellow who boasted about the flat in Kensington? He was fired a week ago. Richard Burton? He knocked up his secretary."

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the balcony, shutting his eyes for only a moment. Molly watched him intently, frowning ever so slightly. She touched his arm.

"I know you don't like outings with other people but—"

Sherlock shook his head and looked at Molly. "That's simply not true. I rather enjoy having a slice of cake with you, and John, and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and hell, even Mycroft! But what I don't enjoy are the blood-sucking ladder-climbing prats that this party is filled with."

Molly frowned and dropped her hand from his arm, bringing them to wrap around her own body. She looked away. "They're not all like that. George has some really nice sailing mates. When we took his boat out—"

Sherlock snorted and looked at Molly. "Sailing? You get motion sickness in a car, let alone a boat. What's next? You're going on runs with him?"

Molly cleared her throat and turned away. Sherlock couldn't help but frown.

"I hope you realize what type of environment you're entering, Molly. These are the type of people that suck you in and spit you out. And while you're strong, I don't reckon you have the type of backbone for this sort of thing."

Molly frowned and looked at the London view, her stomach in knots. "George isn't like them. He's kind. Down to earth. I can't fault him for his friends or his co-workers."

"Maybe so," Sherlock whispered, "But you can fault him for expecting you to be like them. And as a result, like him."

Molly didn't say anything to that, and instead continued leaning against the balcony, looking at the city lights. Sherlock followed suit, allowing the couple to stand in silence, sans the sounds of the city and the party within.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath, but kept his eyes locked on the city below.

"Molly, I… I probably shouldn't share this but… He's going to propose to you. I… Deduced it."

Molly tensed, and looked over at Sherlock, who refused to meet her gaze. She swallowed and croaked out, "What?"

He took another breath. "You know, before I met you, along with John and the others, I cared about no one. At times, not even myself. That was evident by my rampant drug use. But in the years since then, so much has changed. I have friends, a job I love, and if I dare say so, a reason to wake up every morning."

He stepped away from the edge and looked at Molly, his eyes red with anger, and sadness, and desperation, and desire, and every emotion he could never communicate verbally.

"All I want in the world is for you to be happy, Molly Hooper. And if your happiness is marrying George, then… Please do it," he paused and glanced at the ground, before back into her chocolate eyes, "It would break my heart. It would devastate me. But it would perhaps hurt more to see you unhappy and not with the man that you love."

He ran a shaking hand through his curls and looked back at view of the city. "Mycroft used to tell me that sentiment was the chemical defect found in the losing side. I've already accepted defeat in that regard. Seeing you marry him would be another, devastating loss, but one that I could live with, should it be what makes you happy."

Sherlock took a step away and looked back at Molly. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, ignoring the burning in his eyes. He met hers and swallowed, surprised to see her own gaze glossy. Unable to help himself, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before disappearing back into the party.

Molly stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall of the building, unable to stop the tears that cascaded down her cheeks.

This is bad.

Xxx

John only had a moment to run after Sherlock after watching the detective's determined dash to leave the party. He ran after him, both of their coats in tow, already gasping for air. He wanted to blame the tight suit for his difficulties running, but he knew all the chips and strawberry ice cream was to blame.

He made it about a block following Sherlock, before stopping with a loud "SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock finally stopped and turned to look at John, his cheeks red from exertion. "He's going to propose to her."

"I know."

Sherlock shook his head and pulled at his curls, ignoring the wetness of his eyes. "How can I compete with that? How can I give her that sort of life? He'll come home every night at 7 sharp, cook her dinner, tell her he loves her. They'll spend the weekends on the water, taking the kids to seeing the bloody Channel in his yacht. They'll host dinner parties galore, climbing their way up the ladder until they're bloody rubbing shoulders with William and Kate. And me?"

He let out a desperate laugh. "I'll disappear frequently, unable to contact her while away on cases. My fridge will be filled with brains and fingers, not freshly prepared dinners. Our idea of a date night will be chips and a science journal. She'll grow to resent me. To hate me. And then she'll leave."

He let out an angry cry and ran his hands up and down his face, before finally glimpsing on John, who looked surprised by the outburst. "So, tell me John, how do I compete with him?"

"Stop it!" John finally yelled, tossing Sherlock his jacket in the process. "If you love Molly, and you know her, as you claim to, then you know damn well that she doesn't want any of that bollocks! She doesn't care if she's wearing designer clothes, or eating bloody steak tartare for dinner. She wears jumpers with cherries on them for Christ sakes!"

John cursed and put his hand on his friend's shoulder, meeting his blue gaze. "You compete with him just fine Sherlock. Just by being yourself. Because you're bloody weird, just like she is. Get your shit together and be her friend. Show her what she'd be missing by marrying a bloke like that."

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "You truly believe that?"

John shrugged. "Yes. I do. For someone who sure likes to deduce, you clearly weren't paying attention tonight."

Sherlock made a face. "Excuse me?"

"You see but you do not observe!" John mocked, in his best Sherlock voice.

His best mate growled.

John laughed but returned to his look of concern. "She looked miserable. You think she gave two fucks about meeting George's sailing mates, or who he's training to do an Iron Man with, or the fucking IT technician at his office? No. She looked like she was having as bad of a time as you were."

Sherlock frowned and began to walk again. "I told her that I would accept her marrying him. If it made her happy."

"That's all you can do, Sherlock. Because in the end, if you love her, and he makes her happy, you'll have to let her go."

"I know." Was all Sherlock replied with.

The two friends began their journey home, in a somber silence, only the noise of the city to drown out their thoughts.

This is bad.

Xxx

The warm sunlight funneled into the church, illuminating the grand hall with delightful rays of happiness and expectation for the day. The seats were filled with guests, positively beaming with excitement for the pending ceremonies. The pews had been adorned with daises and yellow ribbon, a hint to the sunniness of the beautiful bride, a woman who he cared for most deeply.

And Sherlock was excited, to say the least. He never expected to be so giddy about a wedding. John and Mary's had almost been the death of him, from having to prepare the Best Man's speech, to composing their Waltz, to solving a murder… It had been a long, tiresome affair.

But an experience he appreciated nonetheless.

Now, the big day had come, and John Watson looked delightful, standing to the side of the platform, grinning like any Best Man should, ready to guide his closest friend into Holy Matrimony. And within the seats, Sherlock could see his wonderful friends smiling back—Mrs. Hudson, in an extremely large hat, holding a giddy Rosie on her lap, Lestrade, attached to an unknown redhead, and even Mycroft and Anthea, who looked peaceful.

And as the music began, a gorgeous piece on violin, a song that Sherlock himself had composed for Molly, he knew that today would be a splendid day.

She appeared at the back of the church, holding her brother Thomas' arm, practically glowing in a gorgeous white gown that was positively made for her. The siblings made their descent along the aisle, Thomas holding back tears, and Molly just grinning, excited for what laid ahead.

Sherlock took a deep breath and adjusted his tie, preparing to gaze into Molly's gorgeous, chocolate eyes. The same gaze that had comforted him through so much. Through Moriarty, and his two-year absence, and Mary's death, and his relapse, and everything in between…

Oh, how he loved her.

But as she reached the smiling Priest, a thought occurred to Sherlock.

If I'm the one marrying her, he thought, then why am I standing outside, watching through the window?

His eyes drifted from Molly's smiling form to her left, where George stood, grinning like he was the happiest man in the world.

And he ought to be, considering he was standing in Sherlock's spot.

Sherlock watched in despair, from outside the church, as the nuptials began, and all the people that Sherlock cared about most deeply assisted the wedding. From Rosie being led down the aisle with the rings and flowers by Mrs. Hudson, to John's comforting grin to George in the middle of the vows, to Molly's bright, cheerful form, absolutely brimming with happiness on her wedding day.

As just as the ceremony began, Sherlock let out a howl of pain, as the two exchanged "I dos" and a passionate kiss.

He slammed his fists against the windows of the church, falling back as a force shook him to the ground. When he finally rose to his feet, he was no longer standing outside of a church in London, but instead inside an extraordinarily expensive flat, somewhere within the city.

Sherlock flattened himself against the wall, desperately trying to take a deep breath. He flinched as the front door opened, and John entered, holding the hand of a blonde woman holding a gift box, and who appeared to be a much older Rosie, perhaps four or so years old.

He swallowed and jumped from the wall, desperately waving at John. "Watson, what's going on? Where am I?"

To his dismay, the couple and the child continued into the flat, not hearing or seeing Sherlock. He followed them into the grand sitting room, suddenly recognizing the space, now without hordes of people, a small orchestra, and a buffet table.

He was standing in George's flat. Except now, pictures scattered the walls featuring George, Molly, and a small little girl with Molly's brown hair and George's green eyes. Sherlock swallowed and stared at the photos, feeling his stomach drop.

He turned around, his eyes landing on the happy couple, who sat huddled together on the sofa, the toddler perched on her father's lap, staring mesmerizingly at her mother's engorged belly.

"Congrats on the new baby, Molly!" John announced, setting the gift box down. He turned to face the woman he entered with, giving her a soft kiss, "Jane and I are trying to have a baby as well."

Sherlock again stood against the wall, his body shaking, trying to come to terms with the present situation. Where did he fit into any of this? And just as the thought crossed his head, he heard his name. He immediately perked up, thinking his presence had been noticed, when in fact, he was simply the topic of conversation.

"My poor aunt is still devastated about your old mate, Sherlock. Such a shame."

The room grew quiet, as Molly and John exchanged looks. John sighed.

"It hurts, George. But Sherlock had a drug problem for years. His usage predated our friendship. And when he started back up, about three years ago, there was just no stopping."

Sherlock paled.

My god, he thought, in this scenario, I'm dead?

He cursed and slammed his head against the wall, not a fan of his Dickens journey. Watching Molly and her perfect life with her perfect suitor was making him sick.

"This isn't how it's supposed to be!" He yelled to the audience, although no one noticed his presence, "We could have been perfect together! You're my soul mate! It's your fault I even believe in them!"

He reared forward and swung at George, but his hand went through the bloke's body. He cursed and slammed himself against the wall.

The little girl jumped off George's lap and approached Sherlock, apparently the only one able to see him. She pulled at his jacket, and gave him a rather taunting grin. He snarled at her.

"You could have been my daddy." Was all she said, before his world went black.

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, his body practically shaking, his sheets haphazardly knocked to the floor from his unsettling dream.

Nightmare is more like it.

John stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"I let you stay the night here. Could you not wake Rosie up with your screaming? What are you even doing in here?" He paused before adding, "If you're wanking, I'll gut you."

Sherlock threw a pillow at John and collapsed back onto the bed, pulling his curls in frustration. John yawned and leaned against the door frame, watching his friend.

"Bad dream, then?"

"You could say that."

"Care to divulge?"

"I watched Molly and George get married. Then, I entered a time warp to discover that they had a daughter, were expecting, and that I was fucking dead!"

"Hmm. Where was I in this?"

"Well, you were celebrating her pregnancy with your new wife, and planning on having another child."

John practically smirked. "So, I made out pretty well in your worst-case scenario, eh?"

Sherlock growled. "Fuck off. You were also the git's Best Man, you ignorant traitor."

That had John smiling. "Well, that's how you know it's fiction, Sherlock. Rest assured, I would never be anyone else's Best Man. Only yours."

Sherlock swallowed, actually touched by the comment. He just nodded.

"Of course, I never expected you to ever get married."

"And now?"

He smiled. "Well, now, it seems like you want to. But before you can do that, you need to get the girl. And that requires you winning her affections from another man."

The room grew quiet. Sherlock continued to stare at the white ceiling of John's guest bedroom, while John leaned against the door frame, watching his friend. Finally, Sherlock spoke up.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm scared."

"Are you?"

"Remember how I said that I was never concerned about Tom, because I knew she'd never marry him?"

"Yes. I do."

"Well, I'm scared of George. Because while Molly may not love him, she would marry him for the safety and security."

John sighed and crossed his arms, continuing to watch his friend. "Right. So, Sherlock, what will you do?"

"I hardly know."