The copy lay dusted where his brother Mycroft had put it, idly covered with the various papers, or documents throughout six years; clearly forgotten, but Sherlock would peer at it, knowing fully-well it was there – a single signature could be done with no aggravation. Yet his pen had not itched towards filling the blanks, a one-sided annulment, was fine, and could have been done without any protest, but oddly enough he never felt compelled to do it.

Every time he considered it, his mind would wander, suddenly remembering the fidgety creature in white before him, her soft hands particularly warm that one afternoon six years ago. It was never his intention, but it played out differently than he had expected. At first he was determined to etch his name upon the document, until he realised he was a married man – marriage had not altered him, it had not made him lessen his false compliments, or any of the sort. He was still himself, and of course he would sign, but he forgot.

He forgot so easily, such a simple process of elimination, but did not forget how she looked that day. Sherlock knew not why he hadn't overlooked that moment; of course the dress didn't suit, it was too big on the front, off on the waist, and wasn't what he would imagine she would choose. Molly, despite her somewhat occasionally disastrous taste, had some occasions where she would indeed surprise him, and she had. Being her lodger, had certainly made him look upon her taste differently, but not upon her differently – that he was sure of.

She did fidget less, getting more pronounced in her vexation over his changeable nature when occupying her space, and now she was just "Fine." That was a word she had been spewing out, for months, it was "Fine," or "Alright," but he saw her. He would see, from the corner of his eyes; her somewhat disheartened expression. She did not walk the halls with a bounce, did not laugh as much, and seemed less Molly. At first he assumed it was something emotional, for she had always been one with her heart on her sleeve, but he couldn't figure it out – even how hard he looked. She had read him, so many times, but he couldn't point out the fault in her now.

He just knew, that the spark was not in her eyes, and not even when she mentioned her betrothal. Her smile had never reached her eyes, so he felt it was his place to, at least show her, if she was unaware – that this man certainly was not the right man. Of course he had yet to meet him, but he was assured by just a mere glance that he wasn't.

He knew she had certain expectations of his future-evaluation of Michael, some which he was delighted to entertain, especially in his mind, for he could easily see her bemused face in his head. He could do it in the ordinary fashion; his shoulders pulled back, ominously hovering over her fiancé, with his eyes narrowed, taking in every inch of the man, from the shoes to his eyebrows, before easily dismissing him with some well-calculated statement. However, considering the fact that Molly was so obstinately persevering through with the debauchery, despite his clearly spelt out negatives, there were several delicious options presented before him. He found one in particular would satisfy him at the present time, and would follow his well-thought plan without a hitch.

There was the aspect of John, who he at first had considered involving, until he realised that he would be faced with a lengthy-enough commentary from the man, without needing to inform him. Help, was not needed in this case, and he was surely doing it for the benefit of Mrs Holmes.

Michael. Michael. Michael.

She'd properly neglected him, rather avoiding him was the word; not really avoiding him. She did answer his texts, or calls, of course, but she said she was cowering under general pressures from the above. The above being her boss Mike Stamford, who barely pressured anyone really, and didn't know what pressure was. It was a lie, stringing along with the rest of them, which she tried to pretend were just stretching the truth – a bit.

Like she had once, not long ago, when she'd finally gotten the dreaded question about the actual burden in her life, who Michael had actually met, "There was this man in the lab, I thought you were there. He was quite rude, really – you don't know who he was? He got these massive curls and wore a purple shirt, if that tells you anything?" he'd said, when he'd picked her up once, and she'd just shrugged at him in wonder, "No, no idea."

Molly knew that if she told any of her friends (Mary especially), it would end up on a specific topic, the one that it had ended up when she first told them of the engagement. Everyone had made the face, the face she never knew of – a slight grimace, before a smile fixed on his or her lips, "Congratulations!" they'd say, until they added in a slight whisper, "But aren't you sort of rushing into it, don't you think?" She was thirty-four years old; clearly of sound mind enough to make her own decisions, without anyone doubting her. It was one of the few times she had been glad that her mother had shrieked, dropping her phone on the ground, breaking the screen, but caring not one shred, "Because my little Molly is getting married!" the woman practically bellowed on the other end, causing her to distance herself from her camera phone.

But she did need someone to talk to, someone who'd understand, since she couldn't exactly ring up her solicitor for a chat, or John for that matter. There was one person, who she knew would be disappointed, but she had to have some relief. She'd sat herself in her dad Charlie's little tidy kitchen, clutching her cup of tea, with a drawing of a dog on it, as he had quietly absorbed every word.

He'd not given his quick comments, as he usually would, but his grey brows had knitted themselves rather severely together.

She waited for the moment of judgement, guiltily eyeing him, as she rounded up her story – making every single detail available to her dad (avoiding the three year flat-mate, story, as that would probably not be entirely welcomed into the otherwise well-stocked tale). Instead her dad had rubbed his beard, the only audible sound in the kitchen, besides the dripping tap, as he put his chin on his hand, "Well, that's a lot to take in," he said, releasing a low whistle, waggling his brows.

"You're not – you're not mad?" she said relieved, though a bit disturbed. She had hoped for some kind of reaction over Sherlock's completely unnecessary behaviour, but her dad seemed to be mulling it over in his own strange way.

"He's going into all this trouble – to – what was that word again?" he said gesturing with his thick fingers.

"Evaluate-," she said with a grim expression, her eyes fixed on the kitchen table.

Her dad chuckled, she looked up in surprise, "Michael – yes – he's going to evaluate him, probably going to do a better job than I've done, I suppose," said her dad sipping his coffee, "I should obviously take some notes."

"Dad," she moaned, "You can't be siding with him on this?"

"I'm not, Molly – but I am a wee bit happy he's in fact dealing with it, since you've not always been very lucky in love, have you now?" said her dad, now a bit more seriously, a rather stern expression on his face.

She shook her head, "Michael is not Moriarty, dad. Definitively not Moriarty, and he wouldn't hurt anyone – he's a vegetarian even."

"Oh – really?" said her father with a grin, "Hitler was a vegetarian."

"Yes, and he also had a girlfriend. Does that mean that everyone with a girlfriend will commit genocide?"

"I was only joking," said her dad settling his cup down on the table, "I suppose Sherlock's already checked up on him, if his brother is as high and mighty, as you say," he said pursing his lips, until he caught her stare, "What?"

She gave to sigh, head soon on the table, her hair all over the place, "What do you expect me to do Molly? Put my foot down? I don't think, that would actually make the great Sherlock Holmes listen, especially."

"You are my dad – you're quite good at being scary," she said dejected into the table.

Her dad gave a barking laugh, "If you needed help with that, you should ask your mum, she's an expert in scaring people, then you'd get a proper interrogation done. I think she'd end wars, if she could - just to get you married," said her dad, putting his hand on hers, giving her a significant look.

"What?" she said looking up from the table.

"No, I just, it's odd – you're actually married, already."

"Not really, dad."

"I am bit cross for not being invited."

"Dad - I'm married to Sherlock, it's not a proper marriage," she said pouting.

"Well, then, right – you'll sort it out, and convince him Michael is worthy," he said.

"He is worthy - right, dad?" she asked him.

He gave an unusual look at that, before he said, "Of course he is Molly, he loves you, so of course he's worthy."

"Right," she said with a smile, before groaning, "But I've still got to have him meet Sherlock."

"You haven't told Michael, about him, then?"

She shook her head, "I didn't really know when I should."

"Why not?" he asked curiously.

"Because, it's just – you know," she said fidgeting with her cup.

"I understand, the man's a bit difficult, and from what you've told me through the years about him, I'm not really surprised – he sounds a bit like a git, really."

"People usually say worse," she said with a smile.

"I can imagine," said her dad chortling.

Michael had entered the room; all air had been punched out of her, while Sherlock glared at him, "No," he promptly said, before he vanished.

She groaned audibly.

That was one scenario in her head.

The other was, more ridiculous, and more likely to happen, "Dull – IT – Molly, again? An obvious addict to computers, by the look of his pale skin, dark around his eyes, suggest him staying up too late, working. Could you have possibly chosen someone less easy to deduce? The man is a living specimen of dull, thinks excitement lays in staying up late on a Saturday night, and his receding hair line, certainly tells more than enough of his physical movement – which will be less – by the time he's in his mid-forties – possessing a gym membership card, does not equal exercise, even how much one pays the monthly fees," he'd berate, towering over them, until he left them scowling in his wake. Michael would tear up, probably, but that was just a scenario.

She could imagine Sherlock giving him one look, and saying, "Gay, not quite sure of it yet," Before he looked to her, "Obviously," wandering off, without any delay.

These scenes played fully out in her head, leaving her head aching, and her nerves bent.

What was in fact going on? She was in the lab, spending most of her time nibbling on the end of her pen, pretending to do her paperwork, while her eyes constantly flickered to where Sherlock sat, with the microscope. When she'd just started at Bart's, she'd lurk quite a deal around him, but now she was just waiting patiently, though longer than she'd expected.

Sherlock was twiddling with the microscope, eyes having been fixed at his studies of various samples for the last hour or so (samples she'd given to him, so he could stay longer), "He's late," he said, finally speaking, the silence had been taxing to say the last, especially, as the only sound available in the room was the clock – it certainly made her feel worse.

She blanched, realizing the pen was in her mouth, and that she was openly staring at him. Molly hurriedly looked away, vaguely interested in the structure of the ceiling, before she met his eyes again, "Who?" she said, knowing fully well she was fooling no one.

Sherlock turned his head towards her, eyes narrowed, "You texted him."

She faltered, was there a way to be married to two men at the same time, maybe, "He might be heading into the general direction of Bart's, yes," she said with a brief nod.

"And he's late," said Sherlock who seemed to be taking it as a personal insult, "You haven't mentioned it to him, then."

"No, not exactly," she said. Yes, there wasn't a great deal one could decipher from pick me up at Bart's, "Is that OK, then?"

Sherlock gave to smile, her heart dropped, as he returned to his studying, "I suppose, but he's still late."

"You're never on time," she pointed out.

"I am not supposed to be on time, Molly," he said, not looking up.

"Right – right - ," she said with a frown, hands on her hips, as she started to pace.

"Why are you nervous?" he said.

"I'm not nervous," she said stopping up.

"You've been nibbling your pen for the last hour, you only do that when you have a great deal to think of."

She grimaced, "Yes, well, I am allowed to be nervous."

"I would suspect that Michael would be, if he knew."

"He doesn't though," she quipped.

"I am well aware, Molly, or else we wouldn't be having this discussion," he said, at which she stared at him confused, about to ask what he meant, "He's late," he punctuated, "It must be difficult for him to be on time, I suggest trying to state the occasion the next time."

The next time?

She glared, "He usually is – on time – probably doing something important."

"I suspect flowers," said Sherlock.

"Flowers?" she said perplexed, turning her head around the room, for there were no flowers there.

"You haven't had appropriate contact with him lately. He's probably worried, and assumes that buying you flowers will salvage the problem."

"How do you-?"

"He answered your text too quickly, so he's been waiting by his phone."

"There's still no problem."

Sherlock gave her a look of sheer doubt, "He's not just going to buy me flowers, because he thinks I'm cross," she said confidently, and with that the doors to the lab burst open. She shut her mouth, as Michael appeared with a bunch of pink roses in his hand – she felt compelled to chuck them at Sherlock, but knew that Michael would probably not take that as a good sign.

"Hello," she said with a wide grin, trying to give the air of happy, since it took her all the effort, due to Sherlock's obvious smugness.

She'd suspected the man would brush them aside, but he was unusually attentive, righting himself up from his studies, and moving to their general direction.

Molly stared, while Michael said cheerily, "Hiya – I saw these - and thought of you," he said handing her the pink roses, which she took, giving him a peck, and a hug, while she looked at Sherlock warningly over Michael's shoulder.

"At nine o'clock in the evening," said Sherlock, "Not many flower shops, open nearby, that was very," his brows were connected, until he said, "– nice of you," he finished, her jaw dropped, "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he added with a smile on his face, his hand stretched out towards Michael now.

What?

Michael whose brown eyes had been fixated on Molly, turned round in surprise, quickly frowning, "We've met," he said, "Actually - but I didn't – wait – the – Sherlock Holmes – the one who gets blogged about?"

"By John Watson, yes, people do tend to ignore him – the writer's unfortunate lot in life, I suppose," said Sherlock, whose hand was still outstretched.

Michael caught it, shaking it enthusiastically in wonder, "Must have been an off day for you then?" he said pleasantly.

"Yes, a difficult case. I have a tendency to be a bit challenging at times," said Sherlock jauntily in return, putting on his most charming smile.

Molly snorted, stopping herself from out-right laughing. A bit challenging? she thought, wondering why on earth he was playing nice. He wasn't supposed to be nice, he was supposed to be imposing, neglecting Michael, and causing her aggravation. Sherlock was of course infuriating her with his niceties.

"Are you friends?" asked Michael releasing Sherlock's hand, as he took to look at Molly.

She gave a strained smile, "Yes - we are, actually – been – friends - for years."

"You never said," said Michael, clearly baffled, "This was the man, remember, who was rude to me – thought I was delivering him-,"

"Oh, yes – a hand," said Sherlock with a nod.

"You've got quite the memory, Mr Holmes," said Michael.

"Call me Sherlock, Michael," said Sherlock with a laugh, his eyes looking the image of delighted, while Molly stood there trying to cope, "Molly's told me all about you."

"She has?" said Michael.

"Yes, you work in IT at a firm, quite handy with computers, I'd think."

"I suppose, so – but – you're not on a case, right now, are you?" said Michael wide-eyed, "I wouldn't want us to be bothering you."

"No, Molly was just keeping me company while I worked on some samples she'd given me for my own amusement."

Amusement, a word she never thought Sherlock had in his vocabulary, especially when it came to her, or the lab, "She's rather nice, isn't she?" said Michael giving her a fond look, his arm soon on her shoulders.

Sherlock gave a brief smile, "Yes, I am very grateful for her assistance."

Grateful; another word.

This was how to get Sherlock to play nice, apparently – divorcing him was the answer. She felt relieved, he didn't seem at all irritated, from what she could understand, except she had the fleeting impression that was wishful thinking on her part, "Quite the couple – Molly told me all about the engagement. Congratulations," said Sherlock.

"Oh, yes, I am so happy she said yes, I was a bit afraid there for a moment, nerves nearly took me, really, but she was patient – with me fumbling about," said Michael with a laugh.

Sherlock joined in, while she stood there blinking stupidly. This was certainly an act he was pulling, "Where are you two heading off to, then?" he said slipping on his coat, popping up the collar, like he was always did.

"We're actually heading out for dinner," said Michael.

Molly thanked the saints that they were leaving, that the first ordeal, she supposed was over, for now – at least, "You can join us, if you want?" said Michael, and she gaped at him.

She felt her heart hammer distinctively in her chest – dinner with Sherlock? She was not prepared, barely equipped at all, for whatever disaster that would create.

"I'd be delighted to," was Sherlock's reply, however much she with wide-eyes stared at him.

"But you never eat when you're on a case," said Molly rather hurriedly.

Michael was surprised, "Really?"

"Oh, well, I am not on a case, now, am I Molly?"

She grinded her teeth, her arms crossed, trying to give him the most intimidating look she could muster.

"Yes, well – you've probably got to tidy up, a bit, I'll wait by the reception – got to make some phone calls to work -," said Michael giving her a kiss on the cheek, before dashing off.

Molly felt rooted to the spot, waiting for Sherlock's judgement, but he looked at her in amusement, "He's an idiot," he said with a sigh, before adding, "Come along Molly," as he wrapped his scarf around his throat.

The journey started out interestingly enough, with Sherlock's helpful suggestion of where they should eat, some of his usual speech blurting out, causing Michael to look at Molly in amazement, "He's really good, isn't he?" he'd whispered to her, as the three of them were sat in the cab, Michael squashed between them, and Molly tempted to jump out of the cab.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, affably, with his impossibly good hearing – it was all a complete act, of course.

Michael, with his ginger hair and cheery disposition, did not please Sherlock whatsoever, despite giving the illusion of so. Who actually pleases Sherlock? I might have to rephrase, that, she thought.

"He's an idiot," was a sentence, which unfortunately repeated itself, with a condescending tone in her head. She kept her gaze out of the window, trying to focus on that, instead of Michael who was playing with her hand, and Sherlock seated besides him.

"How long have you known each other?" asked Michael, who wasn't a fan of silence.

"About seven years," said Sherlock.

Her youth, and working days spent fawning over the man, more or less, of course now she'd been married to him six of those years, so it wasn't a complete loss, she thought grimly.

"Weren't you dead – a while back – do you mind if I ask how you did it?" said Michael.

Molly said, "I don't think Sherlock wants to tell that story."

"I do have to agree, Michael, but that's only because a magician never reveals his secrets," Sherlock said with a smug smile – or his assistants, she thought.

They'd finally ended up at a Thai restaurant, Michael wasn't very keen on hot foods, but Sherlock convinced him that he'd be fine, as they did have some meals that were made for the English tongue. Michael had gone off to the loo, at some point, and she was left with Sherlock.

At first she was committed to ignoring the man, until she leaned over the table, whispering rather furiously, "What the hell are you doing?"

She wasn't going to play nice - signature or no signature. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, "This is an evaluation, Molly. I thought I'd made myself clear," he said.

"Yes, well – I'd like you to drop the act-,"

"And inform Michael of the whole situation?" he looked at her questioningly.

Molly opened and shut her mouth, "No – I just – can't you try to be yourself, except nice?"

"I would say, this is what I am doing."

She bit her lip, "I don't see it, as that, you know Michael doesn't like hot food – yet you persuaded him here-,"

"You didn't give much loud protests at that, to be entirely fair, you've barely spoken a word, since this started. I would suppose you'd be a bit more fond of your future husband."

She fumed, about to give an angry retort, but Michael settled down by the table, "What are you two talking about, then?" he said.

Molly leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, "Oh, just – the wedding, you know," said Molly slowly, thinking through her words.

"Yes, about that – when do you think we should have it – I'm keen on spring-," said Michael with a grin, touching Molly's hand and squeezing it.

Molly smiled, "I'd like to do it in December, really," she said with a small smile, her eyes soon going to Sherlock who was staring at her intently.

"A winter wedding would certainly be more interesting," said Sherlock, looking at her, "I know of several places that could happened."

"You do?" said Michael with a grin, as Sherlock soon took out his camera phone, before showing them a photo of a beautiful old building, "This would probably be the best."

"It looks – lovely," said Molly, surprised over his choice, and how it suited her ideal, really, despite the large price-tag connected to it, "That's beautiful, Sherlock."

"There's a mausoleum there, a perfect place for the first dance, at least that's what they told me – but I do have to be knowledgeable about these things," said Sherlock who's mouth was quirking upwards, but not in the false mannerism he'd adapted most of the evening.

They?

"Oh, how come?" asked Michael, and she also wondered why he was so familiar with the subject, excepting their own obscure version of a wedding.

When she looked back at that moment, in the future, absolutely nothing could have prepared her for that sudden outburst; Sherlock took an intake of breath, before he said, "Well – I am the maid of honour, aren't I?"

A/N: THANK YOU for the wonderful reviews and the general want for this to continue. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, as much as I did writing it. I am very grateful for all the follows, and the genuine interest it has gotten.