Sherlock ran into Mycroft's sitting room, where his brother was relaxing quite contentedly in an overstuffed armchair, sipping a glass of brandy. "Black or navy blue?" asked the detective breathlessly. The elder Holmes simply raised an eyebrow in reply, examining the general disheveled state of his younger brother. Clad in a half-buttoned shirt, a tie carelessly thrown around his neck, and one dress shoe, Sherlock looked almost comically out of sorts.

"Mycroft, damn it, answer me!" He ran a hand through his already hopelessly tangled curls, beginning to pace furiously.

"I am certain she will appreciate either," was the calm response.

"Not. Helpful." The growl was accompanied by a steady death glare.

Mycroft sighed, ever the diplomat. "Don't panic, brother mine, it's rather counterproductive. As for my personal opinion, I prefer black, but I'd venture to guess that should you choose to arrive in an alarming shade of orange, Miss Hooper would be equally as delighted to see you."

Sherlock nodded distractedly. "And my-"

"As much as I would love to see you with product in your hair again, I believe it's best if you leave it alone," Mycroft interrupted.

"Pompous arse," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he flew down the hallway.

Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a classic black tuxedo, his curls unruly as ever. Crossing the spacious sitting room to gaze out of the window, he fidgeted with his cuff links, snapping and unsnapping them repeatedly.

"You're nervous," Mycroft observed with a small sip of his liquor.

"Brilliant as always, dear brother," Sherlock's tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"I fail to see why," came the matter-of-fact response. "She will undoubtedly have said yes, but if it really consoles you, you might contact John and see how things are progressing over at Baker Street."

Sherlock scoffed. "How very sentimental of you, Mycroft, to think that I might worry about whether or not she has actually accepted my invitation." This with a small smile as he watched Mycroft bristle at the term in the reflection of the windowpane. "No, I believe I have much larger problems to deal with at this very moment, and I would appreciate it if you would shove off before I have to treat you like Anderson. So very much alike - and so blatantly not worth my time," he added, stomping off in a huff to try and at least comb his ebony mop.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before calling after him, "If it isn't that, then what is it?"

Sherlock stopped short, already halfway down the hallway. He composed himself, taking a minute to gather his thoughts on the subject and how best to put them so as to end his brother's dreadful meddling.

"Mycroft, you know my social tendencies and you know my history with Molly, so use that damn brain or whatever the hell you've got up there in that thing you call a head and figure it out."

The detective made sure to slam the door loudly, but it wasn't until he was sitting on the guest bed and staring at the wall that he realized he had his mobile out and was tossing it around. Though the thought of Mycroft providing him with advice for his nerves made him want to replace one of the bodies in Molly's morgue with himself, Sherlock realized he really did want to know what was going on at 221B. Slowly, he typed out a text to send to John, who he knew would tell him everything he needed to know, no questions asked.

How is she? SH

A response came almost immediately.

Leave your hair alone, and she just might faint. JW

Sherlock smiled, despite himself.

Remind Mary she has only half an hour. SH

You know, all she's been doing the entire time she's been here is asking about you. When she'll get to see you, where you're going, everything you told us not to tell her. JW

Before he even knew what he was doing, Sherlock's fingers were flying over the tiny screen.

What if I ruin it, John? What will I do then? SH

Easy. You won't. JW

ooooo

Molly coughed as another cloud of foul-smelling hairspray assaulted her brunette locks. "Oh, sorry, Molls," mumbled Mary, pulling at the tresses with determination. "Just have to get this piece in place and..." She gave one strand a particularly violent tug. "There!" She stepped back to admire her work, smiling at her friend's look of exasperation and confusion.

At the sound of footsteps, both women looked up to see John standing in the doorway, grinning.

"You look fantastic, Molls! Just wanted to remind you of the time - only half an hour left!"

"Yes, yes, she knows, John," Mary rolled her eyes as her husband retreated hastily back to the sitting room. "Men," she said in disgust. "They have absolutely no patience whatsoever!" She smiled at Molly, whose typical rosy flush had since faded into an anxious pallor. "Okay, so we have exactly one half-hour to finish before he comes to pick you up, which should be just the right amount of time to get you some jewelry. Come along, then!" She pulled the pathologist up out of her chair and led her into the kitchen, where the acid-weathered table was covered in an assortment of extravagant accessories.

"Mary," Molly began quietly as her friend fussed with a particularly lavish necklace. "Is all of this really necessary? It's just dinner."

Mary tossed the chain back onto the table, selecting a pair of earrings to try as she replied, "I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't hear any of it. Insisted on all of this fuss, just for an hour or two sitting at a restaurant. Then again, it's Sherlock - who knows why he does anything, really?"

"Mary?" John yelled from his chair. "You might want to come look at this!"

Mary flung the earrings down, hastily apologizing to Molly as she rushed into the sitting room.

"What's the matter? Is it him again?" She asked, sounding slightly nervous.

John slid a hand over his face, offering the mobile to her. "Just read the damn texts, and give me one good reason not to kill him."

Frowning, she glanced down at the small screen, and quickly turned an alarming shade of grey. "He... He can't be serious," she said in disbelief.

"Oh, he's bloody serious, all right. Seriously insane!" John huffed.

"No, John. Someone's got to stop him - for Molly's sake, if nothing else. I don't even know if she can handle that, and if anything happened to her, I'd never forgive myself," Mary began, panicking.

"Don't you think I already tried that? There's no talking him off this ledge."

Mary thought for a minute before answering, "Can you delay him?"

John stared at her incredulously.

"Even if it's only for a day," Mary added. "Just long enough so I can see how she feels about him."

"You're not going to tell her." John's tone was firm.

"Don't be ridiculous John, of course I won't tell her! I just... Look, you spend the day with him, I'll spend the day with her, and we'll keep each other posted. Worst case scenario, we'll make Mycroft or Greg handle it. Easy." She crossed her arms, looking at her husband expectantly.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll see what I can do. But no promises, you know how he gets," John called over his shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen.

"I know," she called back with a smile. She turned to Molly, who was watching her curiously. "It's better if you don't ask," she explained. "Now, let's see... Ah!" She held up yet another necklace and a pair of matching earrings. Moving them in front of Molly, she paused. "Wait... No," she muttered to herself, rummaging through the jewels once again.

Molly hid her face in her hands, muffling a groan. It was going to be a long half-hour.

ooooo

Oh, suspense, suspense...

Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, my dear readers!

~London Belle