A/N: Thank you AussieMaelstrom you're a star for being my beta! You are all stars for reviewing, following and just paying attention to this fic at all.
OK.
Sherlock wasn't sitting down.
He still wasn't looking at her and he was certainly sounding a bit too serious for her own liking. The fact that he then proceeded to stop talking didn't make her at all feel better, especially since Mary wasn't showing up as a buffer between the pair of them, at least she would have filled the silence, and Molly could certainly pin-point the silence now. Sherlock was just standing before her seeming uneasy, which did not make her look forward to whatever he was going to say. It was most likely not going to be pleasant, but it would be best if he got it over and done with. The silence was unnerving at best, and this was perhaps the point she should defuse the tension by throwing a witty remark his way, or say anything at all, but the only thing she did manage to say with him standing so stoically before her was, "Why?"
Well…it was a completely reasonable question, especially since he was going on about something to begin with.
"Molly-," he started, and she almost assumed he'd be backing away from helping her, leaving her to think on her own, and that was rather nerve-racking – though if he kept on being mute they wouldn't get much done either. He was probably too busy, too important, too wrapped into his own little projects that…
"I have found someone willing to help us."
Oh.
"To help us?" she said startled out of her reverie, since him admitting he needed help was rather foreign, except in extreme circumstances. She rather hoped this wasn't an extreme situation, but the tally of two hundred people did loom over her head rather ominously.
"Yes," he said, but he didn't seem happy about it, "She has an office fifteen minutes away, so I suggest we take a taxi." He met her eye now, ever so briefly it was, a blur of green and blue into her direction.
"Is she good?" she said barely enthusiastic enough to stand up and hurriedly follow to wherever he would lead them.
It didn't feel right letting someone else worry over her wedding, though technically she was already allowing that to happen, and had been rather relieved when Mary and Sherlock weren't unwilling to help. The fact that Sherlock didn't look entirely confident about the matter himself didn't exactly make her want to bounce out of her seat that very instant. He looked rather – what was the word she was looking for? Mollified. Yes.
His eyes were yet again focused above her head, gazing at what she supposed was thin air, as his lips were pressed together forming a thin line, "I would say she has some experience in the matter," he said with a sigh.
That didn't exactly give her much to go on, or the incentive to make a mad dash to whoever this woman was, "OK, but – I thought-,"
"Considering the amount of guests that will be in attendance – approximately two hundred-,"
She groaned loudly at that, "Don't remind me – I blame Michael's parents, and the fact that mum says the people she wants invited are all important. I don't even know half of them, and haven't seen some since I was three-,"
"Then it is perhaps for the best if you let someone who is used to these high numbers – help you - so you don't succumb to the pressure. That is what she's conveyed to me, as it was – important for the bride not to look harried on her wedding day," said Sherlock with such distaste that she almost laughed.
"Who told you that number, though?" she asked a bit surprised, feeling even worse when he quickly said, "Michael," in reply. He wasn't supposed to know that bit, not at all.
"Have – have - you spoken with Michael?" she said tilting her head ever so slightly, as she tried to seem casual.
"Yes," he said with a raised brow meeting her eye with a much steadier gaze, "Of course, that was when I officially was your maid of honour."
She knew he saw her anxiety written clear in her face.
"You gave yourself that job," she said, hoping he'd not point out the obvious fact she was trying to steer away from him – the tiny insignificant detail of her not having told Michael, that was.
"I did – didn't I?" he said with a small smile.
"To everyone's surprise," she said with a laugh that she didn't know whether was nervous or not. Whatever it was she was just glad they were having a conversation at all, which somehow seemed easier. She supposed everything seemed easier now with the actual wedding approaching - even talking to Sherlock.
"Yes, they all seemed rather horrified. Shall we go, then?"
"But I've got-,"
"Mary and me – who have never-," he hesitated before continuing, "We aren't exactly prepared for it." He was going to say married, obviously, and somehow that made her shift awkwardly in her seat. Their marriage hadn't exactly brought a packed church.
"Who is this person?" she said wondering if it was a complete stranger or not.
Sherlock frowned into the air above her head again, "She considers herself rather over-qualified for the job, and her name isn't of any importance." Which obviously meant it was important.
"How well do you know her?" she said, taking to stare at him sceptically.
He blinked rather furiously at that, "Rather – well - I'd say."
"Is she-," an ex.
"No," he said so quickly; that she barely managed to finish the thought.
"Is she good?" she said trying to make it seem like she wanted to ask that, not that she didn't want to of course, but with the way he was being she didn't know entirely if she could trust this friend of his.
"She certainly believes so," he said drily.
She stared at his stony expression for a minute or so, keeping her hands busy with the cold cuppa in her hands, until she finally stood up, "I'll give it a try."
"Good – she's expecting us," he said turning around, before heading towards the door with Molly hastily keeping up with him as she drew on her coat. He kept the door open for her, his eyes on his phone, as he was obviously texting about their arrival to whoever they were meeting, and she could only hope the woman was in any way helpful.
It was the fact that John was in his life that made him aware of the certain things one was supposed to pay attention to, when it came to feelings. He had certainly confirmed that he had them by now, but he didn't often take heed to others when he was faced with them. A part of him didn't find the detail of Molly not telling Michael particularly significant, while the other part– fully converted by John's insipid constant commentaries - was fully intrigued as to why, but he was trying to keep himself at bay.
He was even trying his best to avoid looking at her in general, which would be easier with Mary present, but at least staring out of the car window catching her reflection was completely coincidental. She looked calm, but her hands kept fidgeting with her bag, often taking up her phone pushing at the buttons to give the impression that she didn't mind the silence. He kept reminding himself that he had been bullied into this, by his older sibling and by his mother, though of course he had done his best to steer it into the appropriate sector (since he could not have his mother go on a wild rampage, for she would certainly do many a silly thing if allowed).
He found his mouth opening at some point, "Why exactly haven't you told Michael?"
Molly had started to cough, quite severely, evidently choking down her surprise, for after a round of clearing her throat, she said with a croaky voice, "No time really – he's been too busy."
"It has been three weeks. I would say that was adequate," he said smirking at her.
She didn't share his amusement though. "You haven't been here for two of them. I thought maybe you didn't want to help anymore, so I might not have – needed to tell him anything."
"Except when I inconveniently show up at the wedding."
"If you aren't still too busy looking for that cat," she said with an innocent expression, her eyes bright, and he suspected rather playful.
She still read John's blog obviously; he found that the corners of his mouth turned upwards, as he tried to stifle his laughter. John had been rather angry that they took such a case, but Sherlock had found it imperative that they find the creature ("Can I just say? That this is the most difficult case we've had all week, and – also – most importantly – the bloody cat looks like Molly's.")
"He is a rather enigmatic creature like Toby," he said less than serious, feeling the tightening in his chest ease at the fact that there was no suppressed anger in her statement, or the fact that it seemed easier to be breathe. He found the reason however - there were no hidden agendas, in his or her mind, and it comforted him in a way to know this was it. This was what they would have, or so he hoped.
"Not if you give him tuna," she said almost in a whisper, and by the look on her face he saw that she was not at ease anymore, most likely wrapped up in the thoughts that had haunted his mind most of the week.
He could only hope that they would manage in some way to salvage what little friendship they had left between themselves, but the silence that once more gripped him fiercely did not help to soothe him into this belief. It didn't exactly help that they were in fact going to meet his mother.
A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUN. Sorry, I had to. It is a weakness of mine really.