A/N: Thank you to AussieMaelstrom for beta! Especially since I'm in the middle of leaving the flat, like seriously - right now - leaving, and she made it just in time. I won't be returning before the 15th of July - be aware of that, so you'll have to wait a while. Sorry about that! Have a good holiday if you're having one! Thank you for reviewing and favouriting and following.
The snow had ceased to turn the grounds into the unrecognisable, which finally allowed the workers to their job on the outside - hastily decorating the mausoleum in the freezing cold, as they'd been delaying until the blizzard waned off. It had been snowing most of the morning. She'd wanted snow, she'd gotten buckets of it, but she never expected this much. At least, since it was calming down – most of the guests would actually make it in time, as several had rung them up distressed about the weather. It was the worst winter in fifty years, and it chose to appear in its full form on her wedding day.
Typical.
Molly sighed as she stepped away from the window overlooking the frozen garden and lake. Perhaps Michael's plans of a spring wedding would have been easier, as it was clear to her that Mrs Holmes mansion wasn't unavailable during that time either, but it was too late to suggest that on her actual wedding day. She could only imagine Michael's face, and it's not like she would pick this place again. She had tried to beg off from Violet, but the woman had not listened to a single one of her protests. Instead Violet had fully separated herself from the wedding, and sent her protégé Eve to take care of the last minute details. It felt wrong, of course she couldn't exactly tell anyone of this fact, especially Michael who would most likely turn deranged knowing it was Sherlock's childhood home. There weren't any obvious clues, not if one hadn't been looking, but she had found one when she'd arrived with the rest of her bridesmaid the night before. They'd been shown to all of their respective rooms, of course, all large, with beautiful old furniture – "We're in a Jane Austen novel," said Mary out of the corner of her mouth, as the butler showed them around.
He was a stuffy old man, but he obviously wasn't deaf, "Well, she is not Lady Catherine de Bourgh," he said in a loud voice.
They all went to bed after that, but Molly hadn't managed to sleep. Instead she wandered throughout the darkened hallways of the house, exploring the place out of natural curiosity, causing her to find a portrait of a young man. She returned to her room quickly, only finding her mind filling up with the image she'd seen, Sherlock – with a familiar smile on his lips.
When she finally managed to fall asleep she found herself woken again by Mary, it was morning, but it still felt like night. She was surprised her alarm clock hadn't woken her, but then she realised that her phone was missing. They looked everywhere, "You must have lost it last night."
There really was no point in worrying about the phone, as several of the bridesmaids had repeated to her over breakfast, "Everyone you know is going to be here today, anyway – it's not like you're expecting a call, are you?"
"Someone at Bart's-," she stopped talking at that, feeling stupid – seeing Mary glance at her, unlike the rest who were laughing over her loyalty to her job. She was the only other person who knew that there was one person who wasn't going to be there. Molly slowly slipped off the robe that covered her wedding dress.
She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror of the bedroom.
Her phone missing wasn't the only thing that went wrong really, as Eve the wedding planner kept coming up with bad tidings.
Molly did not blame her.
It wasn't Eve's fault that Michael's mother was hysterical at best, a right nightmare to be around, or that guests were missing, or that some of the food was arriving late, or the fact that the fresh flowers that were supposed to be put out had frozen over night.
Yes, everything was a right state.
Yet she calmed down at the sight of her dress with its long train, the buttoned-up back, and the lace that covered her perfectly. It helped looking at her dress, knowing it was hers, but it certainly did not help knowing that it wasn't in fact her purchase or that this particular spot belongs to the man who'd bought it.
It wasn't his home anymore according to Mrs Holmes, but he had grown up there. It was far more tranquil than she'd suspected from the regular mess he'd have in his own flat, but then – she wasn't supposed to be thinking about him.
He hadn't even been in the country since he…confessed. He'd been abroad with John trailing after cases in foreign countries, but she knew he was back in London... Molly hadn't allowed herself to think of him properly since, occupying herself with the wedding plans, and allowing herself to delve into her work instead. Even Mary seemed considerate enough not breach the topic of the man; avoiding even mentioning John, which Molly thought was a pity. They should be able to speak about John, at least, and it wasn't as if Sherlock was a sore topic to her. He wasn't a difficult topic, at all, but she could feel herself having difficulty with breathing where she stood.
It wasn't long now; soon she'd be carrying her flowers walking slowly, until she stood face to face with Michael. She was going to be married, but she didn't feel particularly happy. She was nervous, that was it, she thought - it was her nerves and the jumble of the plans that was making her feel so terribly…empty.
The door to the room opened, "We've still not found your phone, and I'm starting to think you left it in the flat – that isn't a problem, is it?" said Mary in her deep purple bridal gown.
"No," said Molly with a smile, "It'll be fine – Eve's got all the important numbers."
"Yes, the woman's a miracle worker, really," said Mary stepping into the room.
"There're not any more problems, are there?"
"No, actually, it seems that everything's sorting itself out, thanks to Eve that is. I'm glad she's here, so I'm not the only one looking harried."
Molly giggled slightly, "That's – that's good."
"Is it?"
Molly turned round in surprise, "What do you mean?"
"That's the first time I've heard you laugh in weeks," said her friend with her hands clasped before her, "Don't you think-,"
"It's nerves," said Molly exhaling.
"Yes, but that usually involves a person being a bit more – happy."
"I am happy. Of cour-," but she didn't get her chance to finish, when the door to the room barred open and her dad ran in.
She felt herself freeze on the spot; for in his hands was a great brown envelope that she recognised instantly, "There's a bit of a problem," he said rather breathlessly.
"I wouldn't call it a bit of a problem, Charlie," said her mother who popped up behind him with her arms crossed.
"Muriel, please – could you-," he said hastily shutting the door behind the pair of them, "Molly – you alright?"
Mary had hurried to her side at that point helping her to sit down, "I sent - sent that."
"You did – except – there's this young man downstairs -,"
She blinked – was he here? Her father would mention him by name, wouldn't he?
"You seemed to have forgotten to -," her dad said but instead of finishing what she suddenly felt she already knew he displayed the annulment papers, and showed her the barren dotted line that she thought she'd put her loopy signature on.
"But – but – I – Mary-," started Molly.
"You just wanted us to post it," said Mary with both her hands on her shoulders, "I thought you'd already signed it."
"It arrived later, there was apparently something wrong with the address-," her dad continued.
"Oh God," said Molly clapping her hands over her mouth.
"But – he said that if you signed it now, it would be alright, that they'd sort it out, just in time, of course," said her dad chuckling, he was on bended knee in front of her, handing her the papers.
"Oh – really?" she said with a dazed expression.
"Yes, really – if that's what you want of course."
"Why wouldn't I want that?" said Molly who wasn't stupid, as she saw the three of them glancing at each other.
"Let her have some air, Charlie," said her mother slapping her father's arm, making him stand up, "You don't need to ruin this wedding too."
"You were using too long in the bathroom," he said to her angrily.
"I was getting ready!"
"You hadn't needed to throw the iron on my face for that."
"I don't think now is the time," said Mary who was trying hard not to laugh interrupting their argument. They looked at her in surprise, though quieted down immediately.
Molly's father handed her the pen silently, before frowning at her mother who only rolled her eyes in return, but they locked hands finally leaving the room.
She stared after them in surprise, "What-,"
"I thought that was quite obvious," said Mary with a nervous laugh, as she released Molly's shoulders, "OK – let's not talk about them right now, I think we've got much larger problems."
Molly groaned rather unladylike, "Did everything have to go wrong today?"
"This is not everything."
"I'm still married!"
Mary opened her mouth, soon shutting it, as she said, "Right, that's a bit problematic on your wedding day-,"
"What if Michael finds out?"
"Michael's not going to find out – if you're not going to tell him, and you have no reason to tell him – or do you?" Mary's blue eyes met hers.
"Could you – just -," said Molly with a wave of her free hand.
"I'll leave you," said Mary heading towards the door, but she turned around, "It's your decision, Molly - don't let anyone else make it for you." She was gone after that, and Molly found herself staring at the papers for a very long time.
Her mother was the one who returned, "So – have you signed, then?" she asked.
He had been playing on his violin for hours; the music was sweet, forgiving, soft, surprising and everything he had ever seen her as. There in the music he found her, he was conducting, finding the words he did not bear to utter in the swell of the music, with the sharp way he dragged his bow on the steel strings. His hands ached, he ignored the stabs of pain, or the way his body felt heavy, muted, telling himself that it was the travelling that took its toll on him. John had left hours ago, not without his attempts at rousing him into action, but the words he had given were fruitless. It was her happiness that was the price he would not pay, for she was getting married, and he would not stop it for the world. Sherlock became aware of the incessant ringing that poured through the flat, he welcomed the disruption, though with annoyance, "Mrs Hudson!" he cried out, soon recalling that she was – out – at the wedding in fact. He grudgingly brought the land line to his ear, "Sherlock," said the voice of his brother.
"Mycroft," he said with a grimace.
"She has not signed the papers."
"What?"
"You're still married – now – I suspect that-," Sherlock put the phone down, practically banging it on the receiver, as his eyes flickered around the empty flat.
"If there's even a chance-," said John.
"There isn't."
There was, and so Sherlock ran.
"Are you sure?"
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"But – Molly – it's-,"
"Don't argue with me dad – please – don't –,"
"OK, if you say so love."
Her decision had been made, and there was nothing that was going to make her change it.
He called for the cabbie to stop, when they'd past the gates; he could run faster at this rate. He slammed the door of the taxi behind him, as he sprinted the familiar path leading to the mansion, "Stay there!" he cried out behind him, causing the taxi to halt.
He barely glanced at the frozen exterior of the mansion, while he skidded on the patches of ice on the ground that wasn't covered by gravel. Sherlock's breath grew ragged by the sheer speed his legs were bringing him forward. Here he was – forgetting all possible sense, all that selflessness he had promised to have, as he finally found the mausoleum rather breathlessly, the cold air nipping at his lungs.
He stopped in his tracks – it was empty – there was no one there.
His eyes narrowed at the sight, there was rice, there were snow-covered garlands with barely twinkling lights – there were stains of wine on the ground, and he drew for breath.
The only person present besides himself was an old man who was clearing off the bits and pieces on the ground, the rest of the clutter that was left behind. He could hear the music, the laughter, as the rush of blood stopped pounding his ears. The sounds were coming quite obviously from the house, but he chose to ignore it – he wished to ignore it, "Is it over?" he said in rapid speech.
The man looked up in surprise, "Oh – hello – sorry? Do you mean the ceremony?"
"Yes," he said with his chest heaving, and his blue eyes flickering towards the house that was well light, where he could see the people inside passing the large windows. He was clinging to hope like a fool – all the evidence was before him, but for once he liked to think he had been tricked.
The man stopped with his work, "That was a while ago – the blizzard kept you, then? Some of the guests weren't here, but they didn't waste time – the bride was ready to be married, apparently-,"
He didn't let the man finish, as he strode off across the grounds feeling his mouth turn dry. He was back at the start with the taxi, the cabbie stared at him in surprise, "You alone, sir?" he asked.
He seated himself in the back, briefly shutting his eyes, "Yes."
In the distance he heard his name called out, a quick glance behind him told him it was John, but he ignored him, "Go."
When the distance between him and the house was large enough, he finally let his unreadable features soften, and he pressed his lips together, his hand trembling ever so slightly - he was a fool…and she was married.