#aka luminoustico

"Mine certainly was," Molly muttered bitterly. Now away from the main wedding party, she'd let all pretence drop and her face, framed by her veil, was drawn into a concerned frown. She worried her bottom lip. "This is all so sudden -- oh, I cannot bear it! No, no," she said, barely letting herself breathe for the speed of her thoughts, "it will be alright. I shall claim a headache. Then he shall not have to consummate the marriage, and he can divorce me on the grounds of non-consummation. Yes, yes, that is the correct path---"

"Molly?"

Miss Hooper, Mrs Holmes as she was now, finally stopped in her chattering, looking to Mary. Her look, Mary was fascinated to note, did not carry relief. It instead carried a sort of... regret. Or perhaps not even regret, but a note of a wish made and lost in the same second.

It was not her place to make that observation out loud, however. Molly was close to fainting as it was, and Mary pointing out that perhaps the reason she felt so nervous was not the characteristic nerves of a new bride, but in reality, the fear that her new groom would reject her---that would be enough to make Molly swoon.

So instead, Mary Watson calmed her friend with a pat on her back and nodded.

"Yes. A headache solves all ills," she said, growing pleased when Molly managed, at least, a laugh. "There," she continued. "I'll distract the party while you calm yourself."

Molly nodded, thanks shining in her eyes and quiet smile. Content, Mary headed back into the fray.

---

The newly married couple of Holmes wore their mutual smiles for as long as it took them to reach the end of the drive. As soon as they knew they were out of sight of the wedding party (each one delighted by the success of the ruse), both Mr and Mrs Holmes' dropped their feigned delight and set about their individual business.

Sherlock leaned back against the carriage seat, closing his eyes and losing himself in thought, his palms steepled under his chin. Mrs Holmes, seemingly unknowing of what to say or how to start any kind of conversation, watched the scenery go by.

They were heading to the Holmes' familial estate, Petworth. Even without the silence between bride and groom, it would be a long journey, and as a result, prior arrangements had been made to stop at an inn. The innkeeper was a genuine sort, welcoming but not to the point of being suffocating. The rooms too, Sherlock observed, were of a good size and to the back of the property, giving sleeping guests privacy from any ribaldry around the bar.

Mycroft had organised everything perfectly.

I'll give it a month. His words haunted him as he stood in the same room as his new wife, both of them mute and useless while the innkeeper's maids unpacked their trunks and put away their clothes.

The maids bid them goodnight with a solemn curtsey, but the second of them -- dark-haired, dark-eyed -- let out a giggle as she closed the door.

The silence was unbearable; like he was trapped in a bed with too many blankets and furs upon it.

Lord, he was thinking of beds. Why was he thinking of beds? Such impropriety!

And yet, still struck silent.

If he remained this quiet for a moment longer, Miss Hooper (Mrs Holmes) would think him a mad fool, as well as cruel.

Six years. Too long a time, and yet, with her stood before him, now carrying his name, all too short a time as well.

Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I..." His voice was ragged after so much quiet.

"I have a headache!"

Sherlock blinked. His wife immediately blushed. Her outburst hung in the air between them.

"Oh." His wife was ill. Even if they were only to be a marriage of convenience, he needed to... remedy that. It wouldn't compensate for those six years but it would be polite. He could do polite. For a time.

He would definitely try to be polite. It was the least she deserved.

"I hear that lying down can help soothe a headache." Standing to the side, he gestured to the chaise longue that was situated underneath the window. The summer evening was ending, the sunset casting orange and purple hues across the sky and green grounds. Sherlock kept his eyes on it as he spoke. "Maybe here would be ideal."

"Yes. Yes, I think it could be." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched as this new bride, like a newborn babe learning to walk, stumbled and then hurried to sit upon the chaise. Every movement she made was awkward, too stiff or too loose, clearly so aware of his presence, of their... situation. Of what was expected.

Heavens, what had her mother taught her? That the man she would marry would pounce as soon as she was alone and demand his rights?

A beast, that was what she expected. Instead, she'd got something worse; she'd got him. The man who'd let her hope, and then snatched it away from her when he'd become scared. Fearful of a little chit like her because she'd spoken openly, unfolding her heart as easily as breathing. She'd dared to feel something for him beyond what he wanted her to feel, and such defiance had set him running.

"Oh dear--" Her soft voice pulled him back to the real world, this room and this sky. "The sun - it's in my eyes--"

Sherlock leaned over her and immediately tugged the curtains shut, bathing the room in darkness. He fumbled for a lamp and match and breathed easier when he achieved his goal.

Dragging the bedside table closer to the chaise, he placed the lamp on it and stood, staring down at his wife.

She was laid out, but not in any manner seductive. Instead, she was merely herself, at long last, settled and her features softened by the low glow of the lamp. All while he'd fumbled and fussed for light.

Unsure of why, but certain that he had to do it, Sherlock strode towards the footstool by the bottom of the bed and pulled it over to the window, uncaring of what scraping and banging might result. Removing his coat, finally relieving himself of such heavy a weight, he unbuttoned his cuffs and loosened his collar to sit by his wife.

His wife frowned curiously at him.

"Mr Hol -- Sherlock." She wrinkled her nose slightly, a soft laugh escaping her. "What are you doing?"

"However you feel about me, we are husband and wife, at least for this night, and rules of etiquette dictate that a husband should at least be kind to his wife. I don't have much knowledge of kindness, God knows I have been told that many a time, but what knowledge I do have, I learned from you so---"

"Why are you being so nice to me? We are only meant to be married a month."

Sherlock's words died on his lips.

"I -- uh," a strange noise came up from his throat, a noise of confusion and denial all at once while his mind tried to reset. "Pardon?"

Molly sat up, suddenly miraculously cured of her headache. She glanced down at her hands, fiddling with the hem of her shawl.

"The wedding breakfast. Mary engaged me in some conversation, away from the main party and she, well, she departed after a bit, and I was left alone. Such madness, such chaos… I was relieved to have a few moments by myself. There was a window nearby that was open to let in a little air. And it… it let in voices as well."

"My voice."

"And your brother's... and Mr Watson's," replied Molly, a soft, knowing smile forming on her lips. "I heard the full conversation, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt as if he'd been caught in a winter rainstorm, chilled to the bone.

He buried his head in his hands.

"My tongue is sharp, Molly. A weapon I wield to keep away some and imprison others. I am... sorry, for what you heard. It was said in anger. But..." he ventured as she sat quietly, patiently, openly, as she had six years ago. He shifted in his seat, facing her fully. "That anger was not for you. It was for my brother, and it came from jealousy. I envied that he knew... he knew what I wanted before I knew myself."

Molly swallowed. Leaning forward, her small hand encapsulated his large one, turning his palm upwards. She stroked her thumb along the lines of his palm and counted each of his long fingers. She was no longer smiling but there was a certainty, beginning to bloom from within. In the little light of this room at an inn, she sat up straighter and held his gaze. Her eyes were warm and soft, the colour of the earth; she looked at him with a growing glint in her eye.

"Don't think I have forgiven you yet, for running away these last six years."

"Can I earn forgiveness? For it seems I've been running in circles, right back to you."

Quite without warning, his wife -- Mrs Molly Holmes -- leaned forward, cupped his cheek and joined their mouths in a delicious kiss. A reunion, a reclamation of what, if he was to be honest (finally) with himself, had always been hers.

"A kiss," she murmured against his lips, laughing as he chased her for another, "is the beginning of forgiveness, Mr Holmes."

"And what comes after it, Mrs Holmes?"

She gave a wicked grin. "I don't know. But I'm very happy to find out with you."

Sherlock brushed his lips against her cheek, dropping his head to press a kiss on her shoulder as he moved her to lie back on the chaise, clambering over her. Her fingers were already on the buttons of his waistcoat.

"By the way," she said through a breathy sigh as he knelt before her, "your brother lied about the merger."