A/N: Thank you for reading.

The trail of her dress went for what seemed to be miles, the slow walk lengthening it, he thought, as he with a blank expression looked on. He looked at her wrapped in a white dress with a hint of soft pink; long-sleeved and magnificent with a flush in her cheeks, as the smile she bore bested all he'd ever seen her have. It could not compare to those he'd ever managed to form in her features.

She was happy; happier than he could ever make her.

There was a laugh in her eyes that shone in such a way, that he could not look away. He drew his breath, willing himself away, but she weeded him out of the crowd.

She would always find him in the end.

Her brown eyes were scrutinizing his face, as he only could think of what a fool he had been. Her she was on her wedding day, but those eyes of hers twisted into beseeching ones. He needed the strength, he felt compelled to stand up, but he was rooted to his seat. His muscles would not move, would not twist him out of his position, as he could only observe.

The minute they finally yielded, blood rushing to his head, as he rose to find the room barren. There was only traces of rice on the floor to every suggest a wedding had been had, covering him, and he felt like he was drowning in every piece of it.

Sherlock woke up grimacing, feeling warm, as he wrenched off his covers. There was no relief in his dreams, no solace to be found there, as it was infiltrated to the very core. He was frustrated to say the least, for he needed release, in what form he couldn't say – a walk – some cigarettes, perhaps several, or maybe a five per cent solution? It was a thing he'd been avoiding, a temptation he'd tried to strike away from his mind, but it kept crawling back. If only there were ways of deleting feelings, but the emotions lived underneath his very skin. The tiny prickles he'd felt at touching her still not releasing him, as he hoped it would with no contact.

He tore on his clothes without thought, without consideration at their state, or smell, as his mind raced. For he had not left the flat for two weeks, two weeks with John being ever so careful around him, anxiously keeping an eye with him, while Mrs Hudson tried to chat about every little thing – tidying away the scraps of food that he left untouched.

He needed – he needed – no – he wouldn't say, or even dare think it, and he sprang out with brisk steps grabbing his coat striding out of 221B with his hands curled into fists in his pockets.

He could barely stand, as he almost stumbled on the pavement wandering in the dark. It was still night apparently, the best time to keep his mind distracted, and he almost wished someone's hand would connect to his face – make him feel something else. It didn't take long, during his long strides, that he caught sight of the black sleek care, one of the few besides the taxis keeping up with him.

He turned his head briefly, trying to ignore it, as he kept walking. His brother knew it was danger night, as he so nicely put it; it irritated him how he kept watch, how he'd know when he was out, but he knew that his absence wasn't overlooked by anyone. Lestrade had even badgered him to take a case, while he just kept a newspaper in front of him muttering about the concept being dull. Only one person seemed to ignore his absence, most likely wishing it, and he couldn't even utter her name.

His quick pace turned into running.

How long he ran he didn't know, how fast he didn't consider, but it was only when he stopped – feeling the taste of blood in his mouth, that he considered idly that it was enough. At least there was some other emotion left in him, he thought, as he stopped taking to stand closely by the road.

The car halted right besides him, having managed to have kept up with him, despite his attempts of shaking him off. He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him, as he caught sight of his brother who looked less than well, rather tired, but by a small glance he saw that it was around three in the morning. He considered this fact, wondering how his brother had been so quick, but he could see by the dishevelled look that he'd stayed there waiting. It was almost as if he knew his limitations – two weeks – and he would break.

Mycroft raised a brow at him, "Out on a little stroll, then?"

The car drove off, buildings flashing pass, they were heading back to Baker Street by the look of it, and Sherlock was caught by surprise, as he found his brother handing him a glass of brandy, before occupying himself with one too.

"Drink it - it might help," said Mycroft drily, though his expression spoke otherwise.

"No," he said his gaze fixed to the window.

"You were out of for a reason, Sherlock. We both know I'm not stupid, neither should you pretend I am, even if you do wish I were," said Mycroft still edging the glass towards him.

"Fine," he spat with a ragged breath swallowing a generous amount, handing the glass back, as he felt the burn in the back of his throat.

Neither said anything, marvelling in the silence that cradled above them, but his brother finally spoke, "What have you planned to do?"

Sherlock turned pointedly to his brother in surprise, "Is this an intervention? You've come to advice me, then?" Mycroft glared in return to which he replied tersely, "I haven't planned to do anything."

"I have a hard time believing that you don't intend to surprise us all, as one could suspect that these two weeks have been a remarkable vanishing act in itself, rivalling only your death. It is good to know that they were both at the hands of Doctor Hooper, herself."

He almost physically flinched at the mention of her, "I don't intend to, and frankly I am surprised you care at all."

Mycroft emptied his only glass, filling it liberally up, as he then proceeded to say, "I do worry, and I am not the only one - but there is a woman who wants to speak with you."

"Not mother?" said Sherlock disgruntled, which made Mycroft snort with derision.

"No, she doesn't know anything. She is under the tender impression that you are still a bachelor. If she knew – imagine – however - secreting yourself away in your flat for weeks will certainly not help you, or anyone for that matter. I suggest you try another tactic for all our sakes."

Sherlock pursed his lips, as he recounted another situation where he was handed a cigarette, "I thought you meant sentiment was a defect."

Mycroft gave to smile, "If you deny yourself anything firmly enough, it will be an ever large one, don't you agree? You have never managed to pretend you didn't care - your friends are a living proof of that, and after all – Bart's has always been your home from home. You've just been rather spectacularly ignorant." One day he'd delete John's blog out of sheer annoyance.

The car finally stopped, Sherlock's hand was on the handle, and without looking he said, "Who is it you want me to see? A case, is it?"

He was too tired to argue, too worn for any childish battle to even consider a refusal, which he knew his brother saw as a destructive sign, "A friend - I will call you tomorrow and give you the address – try to get some rest, I don't want to drive after you on another jog." With that he withdrew, and watched as his brother drove off.

Sherlock finally exhaled properly, watching the air from his lungs turn into smoke in the air, before he walked away to 221b, hoping for the slightest chance that in his next dream he would have the strength to stand up.

The restaurant was distinguished, and apparently chosen by the woman who Mycroft didn't wish to disclosure. Neither would he explain if it was at all relevant, as he could be swindled into a trivial case his brother wanted to rope him into - to distract him from hiding. John had been particularly baffled to see him up and about, but he'd just left without another word.

There was no point in explaining, though he found himself particularly foolish for listening to his brother for once. It felt rather odd to do so, without arguing his point, or pretending he was too busy, but he had very little to lose at this point. If it was a case he'd take it, since the emails that dropped in were beyond droll; all of the words slipping from his mind in mere disinterest.

A part of him even found himself foolishly inclined to believe for a single second that his brother had managed to force Molly into meeting him, when he was quite certain by the mere fact that Mary still hadn't met John since the engagement-party, that the idea was preposterous to say the least.

Though, when the idea of her showing up had slipped his mind, he found himself not entirely wrong in that assumption, when a woman who looked like an older version of her appeared, though with a less welcoming face.

Her mother tutted at the sight of him, "You're Sherlock Holmes then, I can see why she likes you," she said taking to shake her head, as she settled in the chair opposite to him laying her handbag on the floor.

The waiter soon appeared by her side, and she ordered a salad and wine, while Sherlock remained pensive, albeit perplexed as to why his brother had set this meeting.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, then?" she said.

"I'm not hungry."

"No wonder you're skinny."

There was a vast difference between her and Charlie Hooper; her hands were well-kept and smooth, the nails dyed red, and her hair kept short and dark-blonde, a colour he staked wasn't her natural hair colour. Even her clothes were freshly pressed and by the look of them recently purchased. Unlike Charlie who looked homemade, she gave the impression of self-made.

"You're not wondering then, why I'm here talking to you?"

"I suppose my brother-,"

"He didn't tell me, no," she interrupted, before saying in a rather softer tone, "Charlie did, though your brother did ring me up explaining it all, which I'd rather prefer that you did, but you were busy in your room – so - you've been married to my daughter for six years, Mr Holmes?"

He didn't know what he could say, except, "Yes." Charlie was right in warning him, though he felt less prepared in this setting than he had been at the party, as he was facing her in a more intimate location. From the look of her, he knew she would not take it well if he walked out, so he kept himself put, even if his escape was not far from his reach.

"Why her?"

"Sorry?"

"You must know other women who could have helped you with that case of yours, from what I've heard you didn't entirely need to get married to begin with."

"The man never stayed at the same location, and we needed to catch him in the act, as it wouldn't be prudent to catch him after he had finished his job," said Sherlock more scathingly than intended.

Muriel furrowed her brows, "Did you catch him?"

"Obviously."

"Well, then what are you going to do then?"

"About what?"

"You can't take this sitting down, I've read the blog to that friend of yours, from my understanding you're stubborn to the point of difficult, and exactly the sort of person who doesn't deserve her."

"I am aware of the fact, Mrs Hooper."

She just looked at him; her blue eyes staring at him in such a way that he almost assumed she was deducing him, and his every move.

"Good - if you didn't know I wouldn't like you," she said with a slight grin that caught him off guard, "I love my daughter, every bit of her, and yes she's not exactly done things like I would have in her position, but I want the best for her. The fact is, to be very honest, Michael's a bit of an idiot."

Sherlock laughed, only to receive a glare.

"It's not funny, Mr Holmes. She's marrying the idiot, after all, and of course I'll accept him – but you may be wondering how I know he's an idiot? His family. Molly's much more apt to please, than I've ever been, and she doesn't see how much they judge her. One can tell a lot about a man's family – and I'd rather not celebrate Christmas with a bunch of middle-class idiots who thought the skull of yours was a piece of art. It was a skull," she said deadpan, taking a small sip of her wine that had just arrived.

"She has made her choice," he said quietly, averting her eyes.

"Yes, she has, she has made a choice, but you've still got time to change it – I'd rather not have a divorce and a marriage at the same day, thank you very much, but if you're going to do anything – you've got to do something different, really. A thing I suppose you should have done from the start – being her friend. It might seem hard, but that's all she's ever wanted from you, and that's what she's always referred to you as."

He stared, doubting her every word, but the woman proceeded to wave him off with her hand, "Now go, I don't like eating with people watching."

He stood up in surprise, smirking a little, "You're meeting my brother?"

"Charlie," she said without ceremony, "Actually."

He wrapped himself in his coat, slipping on his scarf, when he curiously said, "Why aren't you-,"

She cut him off, "Because he didn't go after me. Because a woman can only do so much waiting for a man who spends his time thinking about it."

"Thank – you," he said with a confused expression.

"Shut up, I'm doing this for my daughter, I'll be happy with whatever she chooses in the end, but I want her to know there's a choice – and I don't want anyone to ever believe she's less worth than she is, she's had enough of that in her life, and you seem to me – a man who knows that she is worth ten of you."

Mary had been busy, too busy to meet, as it was apparently a riot at work with "Christmas" soon coming round, "Loads of revising, and tests, and the whole lot of it – it's a bore reading another line about Charles Dickinson and his use of symbolism. He was just trying to tell a story," but John knew that she had to be on some way actively avoiding him. It was obviously due to Sherlock, not that he felt at all keen to leave his friend, when he was so absolutely – gone, but he had definitively needed a break. He was glad that she accepted having coffee with him, though, and so he sat at the coffee shop waiting patiently, for Mary who waved at him getting herself a cuppa.

She settled down in front of him, dropping loads of bags onto the floor, "Doing your shopping, early, then?" he said.

"Yes," she moaned, "You'd think it would be easy, but it's not even close to it. It's the end of October, and some of the shops have already got Santa Claus."

John grinned, "I always leave that sort of thing last minute, really."

"I'm not surprised, but I've gotten you a present, you know."

"You have?" he said startled.

She grinned evilly, "No – I haven't – I might give you a jumper though, if that makes you feel better prepared."

John snorted, "Thanks."

"Don't thank me quite yet," she said taking a sip from her coffee, as she settled herself better in her seat, "How's things?"

"It's been – well – fine, I suppose."

"Is that another word for not good?"

"Yeah," said John.

"Then I've been very fine, myself," she said laughing, "Now - I hate myself for even asking, but how's he been, then?"

John licked his lips, taking a long sip from his coffee, before he said, "A nightmare."

"Molly's been the opposite of that, though her nerves have been shot of course, because of all the planning – I almost wish he was still doing it. There's so many details we keep overlooking, and I've still got my job to consider."

"He does have a lot of time on his hands – well – at least he gives that impression. He's not mentioned doing a case, these last weeks at all."

"That's not you suggesting he help, right?"

"No – I just – I'd like him to actually do something, more than sulking, since trying to make him eat, is like a job in itself."

"I don't think Molly would love that idea – you know – I just wish he'd signed the papers instead of being such a git."

"What?" said John looking properly bewildered.

Molly held the phone pressed to her ear; a look of disbelief etched in her face, as she took in every word her friend was saying in a rather annoyed voice, "Why – why would he do that?" Molly said confused.

The answer to that question didn't come from her friend, but rather another voice that spoke in the lab besides her, "He was afraid of losing you, I suppose."