She was almost threading a hole in the carpet with all the pacing she was doing in her pyjamas; with her cat Toby springing behind her pink socks nipping at them occasionally. Everything around her was a bit of a blur, which was obvious as her hair was tangled up, there was even a spot of forgotten toothpaste on her chin, and she was holding onto a cup of cold tea rather tightly, not taking a single sip of the cuppa. To say that Molly was nervous was an understatement, and it was still hours before the actual party – hours before it was normal to be ready – and also hours before wine was an option to be considered sane.

Her eyes sprang to the silly cat-shaped clock that mewed, as it hit 9 o'clock obviously taunting her. She knew she didn't have to prepare herself. No, she could spend hours in her pyjamas, while calmly visualising how things would turn out. That was in fact the problem, since her mind certainly managed to flesh out the details in how badly it would all end.

First of all Michael was going to be running a bit late, having been occupied for the duration of the week by some high-to-do-fancy new client he'd gotten, (some government official of some kind occupying his time) which meant that she'd have to go there alone.

Secondly she'd have to announce to what was beginning to look less like a small intimate gathering, but an actual wedding-party; that Sherlock was her man of honour. If he didn't suddenly feel compelled to sign on the paper that was. Not that she'd actually be mad enough to bring them to the actual party, as that would certainly lead to a catastrophic moment she kept replaying in her mind in glorious slow-motion, where everyone found out about their marriage silently judging her.

Thirdly, what if it was just the worst experience in her life? Since that outcome seemed more likely considering the history she'd had with parties that she'd attended in the Baker Street residence, or parties that in general involved Sherlock to begin with.

Every single time she'd find herself in a compromising position, which would render her speechless and teary-eyed. Of course if the invitation was a hint, it might actually be a good evening, since if she were in a fitter state she'd frame the blasted thing, but she wasn't – instead she focused on the fact that Sherlock was most likely trying to edge her into a false sense of security.

Then a small beacon of hope lit on the idea that considering the guest-list, which would certainly make 221B crammed to the brim – that Sherlock would absolutely loathe every second of trying to actually have to socialise with everyone.

Being a charming personality in front of Michael was one thing, but in front of so many? There had to be a limit to his patience, as the man was famous for having none. He'd have to certainly get bored at some point, forcing him to scribble on the piece of paper out of sheer relief, or so she hoped. Especially since having to hear, "You're finally getting engaged at your age," from several of the people invited, some of which she didn't properly like (family, that was), made her feel tempted to snap, "I have been actually – for six years," out of sheer annoyance, as that seemed easier than saying who her maid of honour was.

The whole idea of an engagement party was also ridiculous, she didn't need massive parties to announce her union, since she had a fondness for small occasions really, and there was nothing wrong with those. She wasn't posh, as Michael was. He'd barely blinked when she complained of the number of people invited, and considering that it was only her side – she dreaded to think how many they'd have all together. Luckily despite Michael being posh, his parents were rather down-to-earth, which was good, as she couldn't stand the idea of them getting on the wrong foot with her own. Even if they were rich it didn't mean that they were pompous, and his mother seemed after all rather eccentric collecting owl-figurines of all kinds.

It was enough having to think about Sherlock arranging the whole thing, without having to work hard at the other details, and she could only imagine how it would turn out. She was glad that Mary stepped up on the thought of going to Baker Street earlier than her, to have an insight to the actual preparations being done (or not), and also with a plan-B if things were a proper disaster.

The latter seemed more and more likely by every second that ticked away. Molly groaned soundly, quickly setting down the cup of tea, before she stormed off to the bath intending to have a long soak.

If she were lucky she'd drown.

The idea that Sherlock would actually plan anyone's wedding was pure fantasy.

Of course he wouldn't.

Yes, he said they'd be having a party that Friday, but

John would probably be left to do all the shopping.

Of course Sherlock would be more inclined to do his tiny little projects, or be occupied with a minor case, really, than ever letting his mind drift into flower-arrangements.

It seemed bloody unlikely.

Lestrade drew them out at some point, at which John muttered, "You have a wedding to plan." Only to receive a glare and silence, before he focused on the case at hand.

John didn't want Molly to be unhappy, but by the looks of things it wasn't going in the direction any woman would like. There was absolutely nothing that Sherlock did or said that signified that anything was going to take place, except the brief first mention. Obviously it was going to be like any other Christmas, but it was when Lestrade suddenly spoke up about the invitations that he had done a double take. For a minute he assumed it was Molly's doing really, but he didn't exactly think she'd be keen to put it in the same roof as that man at the moment. The man who was obviously trying to woo her in one of the strangest methods John had ever seen in his life, or at least he liked to believe.

"Your flats filled up with experiments and body-parts. It's not exactly frills-friendly," said Lestrade with a chortle.

John couldn't disagree with him exactly, since Sherlock was infamous for having qualms when Mrs Hudson tidied up in their flat. His expectations were set to the following – that Sherlock would be sulking obstinately - they'd have cheap store-both wine for one pound each, some cheese and crackers thrown on a plate – all bought in the nearby shop by John. However when he wandered down the steps that Friday morning, planning to clear things off and do some shopping – he found himself surprised by what he found – and in all seriousness suggested his friend make a career-change.

"Don't answer that!" a voice cried out in the background, at which Mary raised a brow, while she stood out on the threshold of 221B having just rung the doorbell. This was obviously going to be an eventful evening - she was sure, and it couldn't even be called evening yet. She was there three hours earlier, than the invitation said, but if she had to do damage control – she certainly would. Usually she was always the last to arrive with a bottle of wine in her hand, but she decided that it was top-priority.

The fact that Molly was half-crying into the phone was an incentive, but the fact that she was curious spurred her on. Even if his invitations were impressive, it didn't mean that the party itself would resemble that in what shape or form whatsoever.

The door burst open, John Watson stood before her looking a bit harried the minute he'd opened, but bore a grin on his face at the sight of her.

She smiled in return, "Mary Morstan," she said holding out her hand, as he gave his to her, "Yes, we've met, John Watson."

"Last Christmas, I know - a bit difficult to forget really."

"I promise we don't have any dead bodies in the kitchen this year," he said stepping aside, letting her in, as he tried to sort out his tie, which hung loosely around his neck.

"That's a pity," she said grinning, though secretly relieved, since that was certainly nothing she'd expected when she'd gotten there. Luckily neither of them had either, as their whole flat became a crime-scene.

"No toes in the fridge?" she said.

"No," said John who'd managed to finish his tie.

"No experiments on the kitchen table?" she asked narrowing her eyes in amusement.

"Cleared off," he said laughing.

"Well, that's a good-," she begun, but her eyes had started to wander, "Oh – that's – it seems different."

Lovely was in fact the word she'd been looking for, but she found herself unable to utter it. He had done a better job than she would have, which almost annoyed her, except she felt excessively pleased that Molly had nothing to worry about, but she was sure her friend would never find any of her texts reassuring.

With a relieved sigh she turned to John smirking, "You wouldn't be against a wager, would you?"

It's fine – M

Of all the texts Mary could have sent her she'd sent her the absolute worst description ever, it's fine could mean anything of course, which she dare say it did. She almost felt resolved not to go, only realising how silly she was acting, and she forced herself out after giving Toby an excessive amount of food out of sheer pity for the creature.

It also postponed actually going there, but she seemed to find odd reasons to return to her flat – I might need an umbrella, she thought, even if it was a cloud-free evening, and she was going to take a taxi. She ran back about three times, before she finally took heart, and found herself on the threshold of Baker Street, which windows were open – sound of music and chattering. It didn't sound like a ghastly CD brimming with old romantic songs.

No, it couldn't be?

She looked up gaping, soon taking to ringing the doorbell, and found the door swiftly opened up by an unfamiliar man sporting a simple black shirt, "Hello – you must be Miss Hooper." She almost expected him to call her Mrs Holmes by the way he was smirking at her.

"Hi," she said rather faintly, as he allowed her inside, before he relinquished her of her coat. Promptly taking it away, causing her to look after him baffled, as he wandered off.

Sherlock had – help?

There were loads of people, some brought up their fine crystal wine-glasses up at the sight of her, others waved and others gave her a thumbs up. Apparently Mrs Hudson's flat was in use, so was the basement, as it was certainly crowded, but easier than it would be if they were all in the upstairs flat.

She was soon handed a champagne glass, which she quickly took a large gulp of, as she observed – there were white orchids everywhere really, intertwined with purple garlands above the doorframes, hung around the steps, placed in the bare places and a smell of lavender hung in the air. Molly could barely recognise the place, as it seemed ever so different.

The help, which she at first assumed was possibly one man – turned out to be several – an entire staff going about giving entrees to the guests, or handing them glasses of champagne, "Molly!" said a voice, and it was luckily Mary who was slowly walking down the steps carrying a piece of purple cake on a white napkin, "They told me you were here – so – what do you think?"

This was absolutely by no means close to fine, this was beyond fine, and she almost scolded her friend for even using the word fine to describe it, "What I – what I think?" she said realizing that she was just gaping at her surroundings.

"I think I hate him a bit," said Mary with a frown, "But it's a terribly good cake," she said handing her the piece, which Molly took in her one free hand.

Instead of taking a bite she drank the rest of her champagne staring around in silent amazement, "Are you okay?" asked Mary, while she remained tongue-tied.

"Can we go upstairs?" she asked with her brows furrowed.

Mary gave a brief nod, as they both ventured up the steps, finding themselves in an even more crowded room – where the regular furniture used to stay – a table decked out with all assortments of delights existed instead – including the delightful massive tower of a purple cake decorated with white orchids. At the end, by the fireplace was a little band, all carrying classical instruments, with them stood Sherlock - his eyes shut. They were playing a song she'd never even think he'd ever know – Something, by the Beatles. It was her absolute favourite song, which was even lovelier instrumental.

For once, as she stared at him in disbelief, not over something he'd said, or done, but by the fact that he'd manage to orchestrate an evening she could only assume would be memorable; she managed for once to forget all about him having to sign her papers.

Instead her cheeks coloured, her brown eyes widened at him and she found herself absolutely unable to say a word. While others congratulated her, she found herself unable to look away from him, and it was amongst a hug with her dad that his blue eyes finally opened meeting hers.

For a second she swore he looked surprised.

All that was forgotten the second Michael appeared at her side, kissing her neck happily, telling her that he'd gotten off early from work after all. She didn't see from the distance that Sherlock's gaze was still on her.

A/N: WOW, an update and it didn't take months to happen.

I hope you're not displeased.

Love the reviews from you all, which I do try to reply - most of them at least, but I do read every single one. It's always encouraging to see really.

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