"You may now kiss the bride."

Molly felt like a deer in headlights. She'd been psyching herself up for this moment for sixteen days, but now it had arrived and she still wasn't ready. Remember, it's just an act. He doesn't love you, and you don't love him. This means nothing.

Sherlock was leaning towards her. He was so tall, and Molly was certain it was going to take ages for him to reach her. Well, might as well get it over with. She stood on her toes, and their lips met.

It was nothing like the times he had kissed her on the cheek as an apology or gesture of friendship. This was much nicer, and she wished it could last longer, but he was already pulling away. Molly put all her willpower into slowing her pulse, looking down so he couldn't detect how the kiss had affected her from the size of her pupils. She barely heard the registrar offer his congratulations, or paid much attention to Sherlock's homeless pals shaking her hand. Fuzzily she registered a wedding photographer coming up to them and offering to take pictures. Deep breaths. You don't need to pass out in front of these people.

"You can put that fancy camera away. This will do," Sherlock said, holding out his Blackberry. The man looked at him dubiously.

"You won't get quality photos with that, mate. This here is a brand-new Canon 5D Mk ll," he argued, tapping the huge lens.

"I wouldn't say brand-new. It's at least a year old and you bought it used from a pawn shop. The mobile, if you please."

The photographer looked surprised at first, but then he scowled. He was silent as he snapped the pictures. Ten minutes later, Sherlock thanked him and quickly ushered Molly out of the building.

It had been raining incessantly earlier that morning, but when they stepped out the front doors of Westminster City Hall, the sun decided to peak out shyly from the clouds as if wanting the first glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. It seemed to approve.

Oh what do you know, Molly thought as she squinted up at it. It's not real. Just a piece of paper, new jewelry, and a name change. Molly Holmes. Her heart skipped a beat at this. She'd once fantasized over owning that last name, but in her daydreams it had gone quite differently. Usually they involved Sherlock getting knocked unconscious and waking up with emotions. Like that would ever happen.

"I suppose the pictures aren't half bad, even if the photographer was a git," Sherlock said, studying his phone screen.

"He wasn't happy about you rejecting his professional work in favor of mobile phone pics," Molly pointed out.

"His 'professional work' was overpriced. Maybe if he didn't spend so much money on alcohol and gold-digging women, he wouldn't need to swindle from newly married couples. Besides, it would have taken weeks for him to mail the disk to us, and we need evidence of the wedding on our person." Sherlock hit the 'send all' button, and Molly's phone vibrated. She swiped through the pictures and was surprised to find that Sherlock was right. To the camera, they looked young and in love, if not a little nervous. It was the best acting job of Molly's life.

"John and Mary would kill us if they saw these," she said.

"Which is exactly why they aren't going to see them." Sherlock threaded his arm through Molly's and led her to a waiting taxi. "We need to get to the airport by 1:30pm to make our flight. Just a quick stop at 221b for the luggage and we'll be on our way."

By the time the taxi pulled into traffic, it had started raining again and there was no sign of the sun. Molly suspected she might have scared it off. She watched the raindrops hit the window and then spiral down, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. What would her parents think if they knew? She was their only child, and over the years they'd made it clear that they wished to see her married. Every boyfriend she'd briefly dated had disappointed them. She highly doubted that Sherlock fit their high expectations, at least not after he opened his mouth in their presence.

"You're worried."

Molly looked up with a start. Sherlock's eyes—blue at the moment—were focused on her. "Just a tiny case of nerves. I've never played the part of a wife before."

"You'll be fine. Remember the time you pretended to be a flight attendant so we could catch that hijacker?"

"It's not quite the same. There was a good deal more paperwork involved for this role. And the secrets I'm keeping also have to be hidden from the people I usually tell everything to."

"And you have to pretend to like me." Sherlock smiled wryly.

"That's the hardest bit." Not. "But I'll try my best."

"At least you won't have to put on a show very often. You'll need to stop by the office once and a while to see me so that your existence is well established, but the rest of the time you can gather outside information for me."

Molly was quiet for a moment. "What would your parents think if you were to actually get married?"

"They wouldn't believe me if I told them I was. They'd assume it was for a case, or some elaborate joke. My mother and father have accepted the fact that I'm far from the marrying type and will always be a bachelor. If they want grandchildren, I reckon they'll have to get them from Mycroft."

"That's not looking too promising either."

"Indeed it isn't."

They reached Baker Street more or less on schedule. The cabbie waited as they dashed inside to collect their things.

"Yoohoo!"

Sherlock and Molly stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other. They managed to get their rings off just in time before Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. She put her hands on her gingham-swathed hips and surveyed the messy flat.

"Leaving so soon, dears?" She asked.

"We have to make our flight," Sherlock said simply. He grabbed a duffel bag and tossed it down the stairs without paying much heed to where it landed. There was a crash as the umbrella stand in the foyer toppled over.

"Sherlock, be careful!"

"Sorry." Sherlock heaved his suitcase down next, perhaps a little more carefully since nothing else fell over.

"Oh Molly love, you're so beautiful," Mrs. Hudson said, clasping her hands together and beaming. "Doesn't she look beautiful, Sherlock? That dress is perfect for her figure."

"She looks adequate." Sherlock shrugged. He didn't even turn around.

"Don't listen to him, dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered, patting Molly's shoulder. "That's his way of saying he thinks you look lovely. I haven't heard him criticize you in ages."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Molly didn't exactly agree with her, but she appreciated the landlady's compliments all the same.

Between lugging the bags to the trunk of the taxi and Mrs. Hudson plying them with food—"Might as well take this sandwich, dear; better than the fare you'll get in America, that's for certain. Who knows what they serve in that country. Have a muffin too! They don't even have teatime, if you can imagine that. All rush rush and no proper time of the day to stop and smell the roses"—Sherlock and Molly were cutting it close. They quickly gave Mrs. Hudson parting hugs.

"We might be away for several months. Don't bother with worrying. Make sure you don't forget to check on Toby. If John comes round, tell him I have no idea why his chair is occupied by a cat-embroidered pillow. Give my regards to Mary. Don't confiscate my skull again," Sherlock said as fast as he could manage. Not waiting for a response, he practically threw Molly into the backseat and signaled the cabbie. The vehicle peeled off, disappearing around the corner with a squeal of tires on wet pavement.

Mrs. Hudson waved goodbye up until the point where she could no longer see them. "What a sweet couple they'd make," she said with a sigh before heading back inside.