The late morning was busy for the pair. John and Mary left to attend their last ante-natal class. Mrs. Hudson brought up some tea and a light lunch and Molly cleaned up with Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock analyzed the data he had on who was out for him and how to draw him, or her, out.
Sherlock knew he had to tell his parents about getting married; he also knew that Mycroft would follow through with his texted threat. Mycroft really was a rubbish big brother. He knew that his mum would want to plan a fancy reception with lots of people and pomp. He was happy to just have Molly by his side, a party or formal ceremony wouldn't change that. Mummy would also start on about grandchildren. Sherlock liked the idea of children with Molly's beauty and his intelligence, or the other way around. It didn't matter, he realized. Suddenly he was a romantic sap and loved it. The real question was how to tell Mum and Dad.
There was the most direct and fastest way but he felt that a phone call would be tedious. A visit? Time consuming and he just didn't want to go face-to-face with his parents right now. Sherlock supposed he loved them but he felt a bit put off. He was, after all an adult fully in charge of his life and didn't like all the meddling. Another way was a simple announcement in the newspaper. Mummy still read the Times so it would reach her without the fuss of a call or a visit. There was also the added benefit of perhaps drawing out his enemies.
Molly was, understandably, a little apprehensive of this plan. She would have preferred to meet her in-laws face to face but agreed to Sherlock's idea after looking into his pleading eyes. They drew up the announcement together:
Miss Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, daughter of the late Robert Hooper and Elizabeth Smith Hooper, and Mister William Sherlock Scott Holmes, son of Mister and Misses Sigur Holmes announce their marriage in London, twenty-seventh December two-thousand thirteen.
The Times was contacted and the announcement was paid for using Mycroft's credit card. Sherlock had nicked it sometime ago and Mycroft never said anything. He never used it frivolously, only when he wanted to make a point. Let the chips now fall where they may.
They also arranged for a grocery delivery for the afternoon. Molly was much better at the domestic side of life than he was so she made the list and sent the order in. They would have food in soon. When the delivery arrived, they both put it away and, and when it was time for supper, Molly fixed a light supper of baked fish and jacketed potatoes. Sherlock did the washing up and Molly got a chance to do some reading.
Sherlock found that being with Molly did calm his mind. She didn't distract him but helped him focus. It was like she cleaned the cobwebs from and rearranged his mind palace so data was more easily accessible. Sherlock didn't even object when she asked him to eat. At this rate he would need to replace his wardrobe due to weight gain. That evening, before bed, he started a fire in the fireplace and invited his wife to curl up on the sofa with him. He stroked her hair as they watch the flames dance. Thoughts turned to the future. He saw a tiny child in Molly's arms being doted on by its grandparents. A few years later, the same child with dark, curly hair and warm chocolate eyes building with blocks at their feet, another infant in his arms.
His reverie was broken by Molly's voice, "A penny for your thoughts."
"Molly, do you want children?" He started. "I wasn't expecting to live so the question was moot. I once would have never asked that question of anyone. But, you… you are so, so, all-consuming. In a good way. I'll never be a great husband; I'd probably be a horrible father. But, I don't know, I can see myself procreating with you."
Molly giggled at the term "procreate". It was just so Sherlockian. Her answer made his heart leap. "Someday. I just want to enjoy us for a little while. We didn't have a normal courtship and I just want some time with you. I know we can't wait for long but we can let nature take its course. It will take a while for the contraceptive hormones to work out of my system anyway. How about this. I finish my prescription of pills and then let it happen when it does. I have two months left."
Sherlock smiled, "That would be wonderful."
Morning found them still wrapped in each other's arms on the sofa.
At ten AM the ringtone on Sherlock's phone cut through the fog of sleep as efficiently as Molly's scalpel did on flesh. He carefully untangled himself from his wife and answered, "Sherlock Holmes."
"Will, why didn't you call? When can we meet her? Does this mean that we will finally get some grandchildren? Mycroft is a lost cause, we all know that." Violet Holmes began. "I need to plan a reception. No child of mine will have something this monumental go unrecognized!"
Sherlock knew his mother and knew that it would be very difficult to stop her incessant and inane questioning. "Mummy, Molly and I just wanted to avoid all the fuss. We didn't get married under the best of circumstances. No, I don't think we want a reception but we are having a gathering tomorrow night at the flat, you and Dad can come." Sherlock know that they wouldn't come to London on New Year's Eve. "We haven't decided on children, yet." That wasn't quite true; it was just a number they hadn't decided on.
By the end of the conversation, Sherlock knew he was beaten. He agreed to a birthday dinner at his parent's cottage on Sunday the fifth of January. A sleepy Molly watched him with a bemused expression. "Your mother?"
"Yes. Doctor Violet Holmes, mathematics. Almost living proof that they will give a PhD to anyone. "
"Sherlock! You can't mean that!"
"Wait until you meet her. My father is worse, I assure you."
"They had two exceptionally bright children…"
"Three. My oldest brother Sherrinford. I don't know much about him. No one talks about him much. About all I know is that he died when I was an infant."
Molly's thoughts turned to Doctor Holmes, how awful that must have been, losing a son while raising two others. "What happened?"
"I don't really know. I've just been told that he was working covertly and his work couldn't be spoken of. I just followed along and never got too curious as to what did happen. Maybe because it upset Mummy and Dad too much? I don't know." Sherlock really didn't know why he wasn't curious about the older brother that was rumored to be better at "the work" than he was or than Mycroft could ever hope to be. Someday, he might just explore that mystery. Now, he had better ideas.
"Molly, did you want to go out? A nice walk, lunch? A proper date?" Sherlock asked of his wife.
"That sounds great, Sherlock. Let me get ready. Maybe we can stop by my flat and look in on Toby?" Her husband nodded his answer as she went into the bathroom. She emerged fully dressed and ready to go. Even in jeans and a bulky sweater, she took his breath away.
They gained a tail when leaving 221B. Mycroft's guard followed a respectable distance away as the couple walked the city. As they walked along, they engaged in light conversation. A few strangers congratulated them in passing on their marriage. Molly politely thanked them, Sherlock ignored them. They ate lunch in a small café near Molly's flat, a flat she would soon be giving up. Toby was fine and they both decided that it would be best to move him after the New Year's Eve get-together. Too much upheaval at a time would not be good for him.
Molly didn't notice that their guard wasn't there when they left her flat. Granted, it was just over an hour as they insisted on behaving like newlyweds there, but he still should have been there. Sherlock's sharp eyes and keen observations lead to discovering him lying in an alley. Dead. A quick examination of the body yielded no clues as to why he died. Mycroft was informed and a team of agents quickly stormed the area. The body would be autopsied and Sherlock and Molly were asked not to get involved. Of course, Sherlock was scheming to do precisely that. They then heard a faint popping sound. Molly gasped and fell. A red stain seeping through her sweater as she lost consciousness.