A/N: "I will only post this if the internet returns," which it did. So I'm posting it, and it is probably riddled with flaws. I don't know, too tired to know right now, I just hope you enjoy, and perhaps review. I enjoy the reviews, the favourites and the follows. They are a joy, and also remember the SAMFAS! Very important! It isn't the 27th of May entirely yet, and look up www - sherlolly - com if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Her heels hit the pavement with determination, as she strode across the street, heading towards the sleek black car, easily opening the door without once looking up from her camera phone. Some government official in a well-cut suit sat in the car already peering at her expectantly, while she seated herself besides him without ceremony, "He's clean, sir," she said.

Mycroft Holmes pursed his lips, as the car started to drive away, "I had hoped that he'd be some diabolic mastermind in disguise. Such a pity - at least now it's established my little brother is not doing this due to some interesting case."

"No, he just works in IT, sir," said Anthea still without looking up.

"So did James Moriarty - however – have I gotten an invitation for tonight?"

"No, sir."

"Shame, I did wish to see my brother make a fool of himself. I will have to save that up until the wedding."

Anthea looked up surprised, "What wedding, sir?" she said, as her hands started loosening their grip on the camera phone.

Mycroft Holmes smirked at her, returning his gaze out of the car-window, "That remains to be seen."

She had always been under the impression that he didn't listen to her incessant chattering that went on during the wee hours, when they were working on a case, or he was at Bart's to occupy himself with something amusing. Molly was certainly under the belief that if he gave no comment, he obviously didn't heed a word, which in occasion was certainly true, but often it was because he wasn't entirely certain what she wanted him to say. What comment could he make regarding favourite flowers, exactly, which he at the time understood with her endless apologies, that she wasn't requesting any, but just saying it out of sheer monotony? She wasn't fond of silence, only when her mind was keenly delved into the work at hand, and then she required it, even on occasion losing patience with him if he were to speak, which he found certainly amusing.

It was such a sight to behold, Molly wasn't a fountain of patience, not always, and she was not always a cheery female. No, she was more than the few layers one could see in an afternoon. Compliments didn't always work, especially when rooted in complete untruths, and even she would deny him liberties. Their living together had certainly shown every aspect of her character in ways he'd never known possible, so was it so very unlikely that he had kept those various details about her stored? He didn't know if his knowing of her tastes and wants would benefit him in any way, but he didn't see the point of deleting the information either.

Sherlock never knew when an occasion would arise, and it had certainly arisen. No one had expected him to actually plan anything, which was certainly unsurprising. He wasn't exactly one that people could time, when it came to his comings and goings. His nature was very unpredictable, and it was not surprising that John half-expected him to be bored after the novelty wore off.

But, there was something so very pleasing with surprising them all, doing some actual leg-work, like he would a case, finding out every detail, and making him knowledgeable about things that made him feel inclined to fling his laptop out of the window. If he were to solve the problem at hand, his actions would have to be faultless; for pressuring Molly into the belief that Michael was unsuitable would send her running off in a white dress, and him annoyed that his point didn't come across. The more perfect something was, the more the flaws would come out of the already cracked surface, and the foundation on which the festivity itself stood upon was barely sustainable. Engaged within a year of being together, with a man who was certainly the very essence of predictable dullness who lacked insight to her very distress.

Michael the idiot seemed to be under the impression that everything was fine, while Molly was on the brink of drinking herself under the table during their dinner, barely showering the man with any untoward affection that he'd expect from her. If she was in fact happy, all of those feelings would be bubbling on the surface, and he would have signed the papers without a word, but she wasn't of that he was certain.

Planning a social occasion proved simpler than he had assumed, especially were he was considered, but he wasn't built for social occasions. He did not wish to small talk, and chat like common people, but he knew he would most likely have to. He had found the perfect escape, with keeping up with the small band he had hired, as he wouldn't in fact need to open his mouth if he was indeed playing most of the time. People didn't seem fairly tempted to address him either, which he found a blessing.

They seemed more interested in viewing his flat, trying to keep their voices subdued, but it was amusing to see John being questioned about every detail – even the smiley, which he'd gunned into the wall was being regarded as a piece of art by an obnoxious pair, which Sherlock understood quite readily were Michael's parents. It was with some satisfaction that John said "Actually, Sherlock was just bored and had a gun in his hand." He played a bit more vigorously, then, briefly pausing for applause, when Mary had suddenly approached him. She'd arrived earlier than the rest, eagerly announcing herself as a spy on Molly's behalf, and making him like her by not giving Molly any sustainable answers regarding the evening's festivities.

"Do you know anything by the Beatles?" she said looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, making him blink at her stupidly.

"Hardly," he said.

"You should play – Something," she said.

"Why?"

Instead of replying she directed her attention to the rest of the bad, inquiring them if they had it in their register at all, since most of what they'd been playing had been classical. Obviously Mary intended to change that to his annoyance, but she seemed to do it with such a purpose he wondered why. He was soon forced to learn a song he'd never played, or wasn't even certain he'd heard in his life.

It might be "A classic," in Mary's eyes, but it was certainly not to him. He had to admit however, that when he started to play it, there was something rather sensitive in its nature, for every single woman in the room had instantly become quiet. A soothing thing in itself, since most of the people had persisted in talking during the most intricate pieces in his own view, but it was an interesting phenomenon nonetheless.

He let himself drift off playing with his eyes shut, only to re-open them meeting a pair of familiar brown eyes across the room riddled with strangers.

There was a flush over her cheeks that he often observed throughout the years, that crawled its way to her neck, but she wasn't avoiding his gaze. She was just keeping eye contact, with the same barefaced stare he was used to, the one that prompted a long stretch of conversation between them, which he'd previously powered through, but now was almost uncommon.

Almost every discussion between them ever since his revival had become an argument in itself, and that Molly was buried deep in the past like a relic, but there she stood her hair loosely on her shoulders, in a dress that he recognised without fault – the one she bore to his funeral.

Why was she wearing that dress? There was no logical reason as to why she would be wearing that dress, especially to her own engagement party. Of course it suited her unlike the other oddities she'd wear to Bart's, as it was him who'd picked it out.

A dark blue dress, since she'd been hesitant for an all-black dress, when he'd suggested that, as he wasn't in fact dead at the time. Very few people could say that they'd attended their own funeral, but he was one of them.

Here she was surprising him, as he certainly was her.

He could not recollect the time were her eyes were on him in such a way, though they only enforced his strength in playing the piece without flaws, but her eyes were soon drawn away from him, when Michael showed up at her side.

The urge to drop his violin upon the floor with a clatter came upon him, he kept on playing, more furiously than intended, sighing with relief when the song was over, and making way to being social, though the permanent scowl that grazed his features was perhaps not welcoming.

"You're making that face," said John out of the corner of his mouth, when he appeared at his side.

Sherlock raised a brow, "What?" he half-barked.

John looked at him in such a way that he couldn't entirely decipher, it was half-amusement and surprise, "You're an idiot face – which you keep on doing every time Michael opens his mouth," said John in a low voice gesturing towards Michael who's arm was wrapped around Molly, while they were speaking to Michael's parents.

Sherlock sighed loudly, not deigning to reply his friend, when he was obviously insinuating things as usual.

"What's wrong with him, then? He seems nice, you know, proper nice," said John.

"Unlike what? There are many nice people out there, John. I hardly expect Molly to marry the next vagrant, because he helped an old lady cross a street exactly."

"You're in a right mood, tonight, then," said John with a grimace, "Aren't you supposed to be the host?"

"We are the hosts, John."

"You're the one who did all the work for once."

"I think the help would beg to differ," said Sherlock when one of the young men carrying a tray of champagne past him, and he hastily grabbed one glass, which he drank in one swift swallow.

John's eyes were trained on him in utter disbelief, and he only rolled his eyes at his friend, "I do drink, on occasion, and this is an occasion."

"I wouldn't exactly call that drinking, but you never touch the wine at Christmas."

"The two pound wine, yes. I am distrustful of everything under a certain expense," he said smirking.

John laughed.

"Right – I just hope that will cheer you up a little, since this is getting ridiculous. I got sent over here, since everyone just sees you scowling at them."

"I am not scowling," said Sherlock affronted.

"You are though, I suggest trying not to – for the sake of law and order -." said John mimicking him, smirking knowingly, "I've got to-,"

"Yes, Mary – how are you getting on?"

"You're asking then – you were half-yelling at us earlier for talking loudly," said John cautiously.

"That was earlier, John. If I gave the impression that I enjoyed her company, what might have come of it," he said with a smirk.

John grinned, "It's nice – really – she's-,"

"That man is talking to her - I suggest you head over there – he's not wearing any wedding band, and neither is she-,"

Mere seconds went and John soon walked off without hesitation, and Sherlock smiled over his friends usual antics regarding women. He was yet again left to his own devices grimacing at the people who were invading his space, all eagerly interested in the various knick-knacks that remained, however cleaned they'd been for the occasion. He hadn't let anyone touch the skull though, which had been carefully decorated encased with some orchids, like a centrepiece above the fireplace.

Nothing was sacred anymore.

He snorted to himself, only to find a man who was a head-shorter than him standing besides him, "Charlie Hooper," said the older man, giving him a brief nod.

Everything about Charlie Hooper spoke volumes about the man, from his well-worn dark suit, which did not suit him, as it was obviously given to him – to his untidy beard. He was obviously wearing the suit out of sheer decency, but he seemed more inclined to more ordinary clothes suiting his profession easily read in the rough hands of his. There was something pleasurable with a man who was inclined to more rough work, allowed his own daughter to work with something more scientific, as some might discourage that sort of affair. Mr Hooper didn't seem to be a man who'd discourage anyone from what they wanted.

"Sherlock-," he started with a smile, as the man took to shake his hand.

"Holmes, I know – you've orchestrated this whole thing, lovely bit of playing there, I've got to say. I think Molly loved that, I used to play that tune a bit too much when she was growing up."

"Oh," he said tilting his head in surprise, as his eyes briefly turned to Mary, who obviously was informed of that particular fact, and laughing at what John was saying with such enthusiasm that he was sure to hear more from her.

"Good thing you didn't play, In my life – she would have started crying, I'm certain," said Charlie with a laugh, until his expression turned very serious, "I know that I am not speaking with a fool, Mr Holmes – so I have come to warn you." Molly had told him, then.

"I have no intention of being badgered into signing the papers, Mr Hooper," he said keeping his voice low and serious.

Mr Hooper looked at him wide-eyed however, "I was actually talking about my ex-wife, to be honest, but funny you should mention it – it's a good thing you're keeping an eye out for her. She hoped I could try to be a bit intimidating, but I'm not keen on that myself. It's Muriel you should be worried about, though."

"Her mother?" said Sherlock curiously.

"Sherlock - her mum is a bit – well – a bit much at times, and when she finds out that you're my daughters – all hell will be loose."

"We intend to keep it a secret."

"I'm keen on telling her."

"You are?"

"That you are the maid of honour, lad - nothing else, are you mad? Muriel is the spitting image of her own mum, and I'm glad to say that Molly takes after me, or else I think we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with."

"Thank you for warning me, Charlie," he said finding himself taking to like the man without much effort.

"You seem a good man, really – still a bit of a git, but who isn't in this day of age, really? I think you'll do good to be honest," he said giving Sherlock a sincere clap on his arm, before wandering off.

He didn't entirely know what Mr Hooper meant, that he'd do good, supposing it to be because of his duties. The duties that had yet to be announced were his, which he assumed might be avoided entirely, until Michael had started pounding a spoon on his champagne glass. People quieted down immediately, and his eyes were rapt in catching Molly's uneasy response to this, as she clung to Michael's arm.

Michael cleared his throat, "You all know why we're here, everyone's spread about, but the word will get out I'm sure. The wedding will be in December, which isn't very long to," he said with a smile, turning round to Molly for a second, "After her wishes of course, which is probably unusual I know, but it is better to let the bride have her a way – after what my mates have told me." There was a round of laughter at that, "Also, none of this tonight could have been accomplished without Sherlock Holmes."

Several who'd been avoiding his eyes gawked openly now, all curious, as Michael continued, "He's Molly's man of honour, which is an unusual title, really, but – he's really the best man for the job, as tonight's proven. I hope you'll give him a round of applause," They did, and Sherlock gave a mock-serious bow, "Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. There's plenty of drink and food – though do drink less, and eat more. We don't want the landlady on our necks."

Mrs Hudson who was in the room, having drunk a glass to many, pleaded that she wouldn't be bothered, to another round of laughter. On that note, the prattling continued, and the music started yet again, playing "In my life". Amidst this she stood seeming out of breath, excusing herself for a second, until she disappeared passing some of the staff in the kitchen.

He didn't hesitate in following her.

She went to the only room off-limits to everyone else, as there was even a sign upon the door to make people aware that fact. If the thought even occurred to them, but it was perhaps why she'd chosen it - no one would be there. The minute he'd entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him, she said, "Sorry - I just needed some air."

He resisted the temptation of making a comment on the fact that there wasn't much fresh air to be had in a bedroom, especially his, but he relented to more pleasing tactics, "It's fine," he replied pressing his lips together thoughtfully, "Though John's room would have been less suspicious."

He couldn't be entirely suppressed.

She wasn't distressed at that idea obviously, for she only gave to laugh a little, as her head was turned to him slightly.

"What?" he said.

Her grin faced however, as she tried stringing some words together, "It's nothing - I just - thank you, really it's absolutely lovely. I might just let you plan the whole wedding at this rate."

"I thought that was the general idea?" he said.

She frowned, "We're going to plan it together, I suppose, with some help from Mary, and obviously from Michael, if he's not too busy. He seemed very pleased with what you've done tonight though, so I suppose whatever we end up doing he'll be fine with."

Silence roamed between them now, as he didn't know exactly what to say. She didn't seem to be in need of comfort of any kind, and he wasn't entirely sure if he would know what to do if she did need it. There was something rather odd with having her there, how fitting it was in fact with her sitting on his bed calmly, with her hands folded on her lap, as her eyes were directed at his face, "You're not going to sign the papers, today, then? Not that I've actually brought them, I'm just wondering."

He attempted to make it look like he was giving it some thought, and he gave a rather embellished lengthy pronouncement of his, "No," which in the end made her laugh.

She seemed much more relaxed in his presence, for once, which was something unusual to say the least, as it had certainly been the opposite of that for some days, "I didn't think so," she said with a sigh, "I suppose it would be too easy, as you obviously enjoy planning parties after all. Christmas always tends to be a nightmare with you."

"Planning is simple - having to be here is a different matter entirely," he confessed.

"It's been torture, then?" she said with a raised brow.

"Yes," he drawled.

Molly smiled, "Good," she said taking to stand up from the bed, as he tried to look insulted, "Sorry – well – actually not sorry, you've not been very easy on me, Sherlock."

"Marriage is all about compromise - so I'm told."

She frowned at him, "Right, I don't think husbands are this difficult really, or well - I hope not. Well, I've got to get out there, or Michael will get worried."

The sheer mention of the man's name sent unease to his stomach, though he ignored the feeling, as he tried to move out of her way, as she was obviously heading for the door. This only resulted in her colliding straight into him, as she tried to walk to the side too.

He gave a sigh out of impatience, taking hold of her elbows to direct her out, only to find that he instead marvelled over her soft pale skin, which in turn made him lift his blue eyes to her soft brown ones.

She stared up at him startled, her eyes shifting uneasily over his face, as she slowly wrenched herself out of his grip.

They stood in front of each other for a minute, equally looking confused, before she finally managed to step past him and get out – slamming the door in her wake.

Sherlock's hand lingered on the doorknob for a minute, until he released it, unblinkingly staring into his bedroom; he now knew fully well by the overwhelming sensation that coursed through his very body why she wore that particular dress; sentiment.