"This is silly, I look ridiculous," Molly stared at herself in the mirror.

"You look beautiful," Anthea said, voice crackling over the speakerphone.

"Anthea the top half is practically sheer! This beading is going to break, I swear I'm gonna get a pull and it'll all come undone and I'll be in public with my tits out."

"It is not, you most certainly will not, that's what the nude corset is for," Anthea soothed. "Elie Saab does not make mistakes. It's beautiful on you, Mycroft, tell her she's beautiful,"

"As I have yet to see whatever it is you are wearing, I can only assume Sherlock will think you are ravishing, my dear," Mycroft said over the phone. "The car should be there in ten minutes, we'll see you there."

"Yes, right…" the phone blinked, signaling the end of the call. She turned back to the mirror, reaching into the bodice to tug at the corset once more to make sure it was firmly in place. It didn't budge, so that meant she wasn't going anywhere at least. "Okay," she looked at her chest. "If you promise to behave, I promise never to wear my old ragged bra again." She looked at her reflection, scrutinizing, trying to look at herself the way Sherlock would. That didn't do any good, but she honestly could find no fault in her appearance, and gave a little twirl, smiling. The gown was beautiful. It was so light and the fabric floated and billowed with every step she took. The heels Anthea had bought for her were stunning, and clicked deliciously on hardwood floors that made Molly (even at thirty-four) to giggle like a child and feel like a princess. A sudden knock on the door and she stopped twirling, catching herself on the chair.

"Coming," quickly checking her hair and lipstick once more, she hurried across the room, one hand firmly over her breasts to keep them from jumping (down, ladies) as she ran. Opening the door, she swept her skirt back so she wouldn't step on it. "Sorry, I'm nearly ready, I just have to change my bag," she waved Sherlock on. Turning from removing her phone and wallet from her bulky day bag, she gave a delighted gasp. "Oh you look so handsome!" Sherlock blinked, still standing in the doorway.

"Thank. You. So do you." He thrust the nosegay he was holding out towards her. "These are for you. John told me it was- I thought- anyway they were nice."

"Oh, thank you," she murmured. He watched as she bent, inhaling the fragrant roses, sighing delightedly. She went to the kitchen, finding a vase. She turned back, touching the soft petals, admiring them. "My favorites, how did you know I loved cabbage roses?"

"You said your father always grew them, and every year on the anniversary of his death there's a bouquet of them, on your desk." Sherlock said.

"Yes," Molly nodded. "I think he must have arranged for it before he died," she smiled at the nosegay. "These are so beautiful," she smiled up at him. "Honestly they're just…well," he reached into his pocket and she trailed off, seeing him retrieve a long velvet box.

"I hope…anyway you've done so much for me…I hope you will accept this…" He held out the box to her, suddenly as awkward as a schoolboy.

"Sherlock, you don't owe me anything," she hadn't even opened it.

"I know I don't," he said honestly. "I hope you don't think me so petty as to try and thank you for all you've done with diamonds. But…you- you said once…you watched that movie and the man gave the woman a necklace."

"Well I-"

"You sighed," Sherlock said. "Elevated pulse, you thought it was romantic."

"I-I did," she admitted. "But if you, you don't have to-"

"I want to," he insisted. He looked at the box, willing her to open it, so she did. She gave a delighted gasp and he reached for it, removing the necklace and moving to stand behind her to fix the clasp. She touched the cool metal, shivering as his fingertips brushed against the nape of her neck. She turned to face him, and again Sherlock had to remember to breath. "Just so," he nodded and went to the coat rack where a stole was hanging and held it out for her.

Some Time Later…

"Is that all they're going to do?" John slouched at the table, holding Mary's shoes. Mary leaned against him, his arm over her shoulders as she yawned. In the ballroom, Molly and Sherlock continued to dance. No hint of anything substantial between them had happened. Sherlock was his usual self, deducing everyone, everyone that is, except Molly. He'd been the perfect gentleman. Conversation was easy between the pathologist and consulting detective, even if they discussed post-mortems and cases the way most people talked about cars or politics. There was some argument earlier over dinner, Sherlock insisted that he had solved a case, Molly swearing up and down she had been the one to find the knife blade in the victim's liver had contained traces of acid (the woman at the next table fainted, no one noticed). In the end, a compromise was reached. Sherlock had solved it, but he could make up for being ridiculous by dancing with Molly. And so for the past two hours he had tangoed, waltzed and fox-trotted to Molly's heart's content, and, if he was honest, to his own as well. He was enjoying himself immensely.

"Do be patient," Mycroft said. "It's only," he checked his watch. "Cripes. Twelve."

"It's early yet," Anthea said. "The party is still going."

"If you call this a party," Mary and John both muttered.

"Well our plan to get them together has clearly worked," Mycroft said, still watching the couple. John frowned.

"Has it? All they've done is argue about murders, discuss how quickly acid eats through a corpse, and dance."

"And you claim my brother as your best friend?" Mycroft tutted. "He's comfortable with her. He's not viciously tearing down every person in the room. Molly's attention is on him, she herself is not nervous around him. Tension is quite abated between them, of the hostile kind at any rate. The rather more carnal is…disgustingly apparent." He frowned at the couple. Anthea laced her fingers in his.

"Don't make me remind you of our trip to Moscow, mister-inappropriate-under-the-table-grabbing."

"Upper extremities are not inappropriate," Mycroft hissed as John and Mary burst out laughing. "Anyway you didn't seem that bothered by it." He sniffed.

"So, how long do we have to pretend that we know nothing of their set up?" Molly asked, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. He glanced at the table still watching them.

"I suppose we've toyed with them long enough," he waltzed them back to the table, holding Molly's chair for her. Mary smiled, applauding as Molly flourished her skirts.
"Lovely," John nodded with a laugh.

"So…Sherlock," Anthea began, and the consulting detective rolled his eyes.

"I've already told Molly she looks beautiful tonight," he said. Molly flushed, biting her lip.

"Well, uh, wasn't it nice of Sherlock, to escort you, Molly?" Mary offered.

"It was," Molly nodded. "It's nice to do this, once in a while, I feel out of place here though,"

"Nonsense, you fit in beautifully," Sherlock said. The four looked at each other, and then at Sherlock and Molly.

"How long have you known this was a set-up?"

"Since Anthea said she'd just remembered she had a spare invitation to tonight's party," Molly admitted.

"Since John woke me up and dragged me to Savile Row." The four continued staring at them. "What?!"

"So…" Anthea gestured between the two of them.

"I hope you know how awkward this is for the both of us," Sherlock said, Molly giggled, covering her mouth.

"They just want us to be happy,"

"We are happy," he insisted. "Aren't we?"

"Yes…" Molly nodded. She glanced at Mary, who nodded, warmth shining in her eyes. "But…we- we could be happier…couldn't we?" Sherlock was very quiet, and no one moved. He blinked, drew a breath, and shifted his hand to his trouser pocket before quickly leaving it be. Only Mycroft noticed. He stood quickly, still holding Molly's gaze.

"May I see you home? Please?" She looked, panic-stricken to the others, Mary covered her mouth, wide-eyed.

"Of course you can," Molly smiled, blinking as if to clear her vision. "I'm tired anyway, thank you, Anthea and Mycroft, for the invitation, and my dress and everything, I'll see you Sunday, Mary?"

"Yes," she nodded, putting on a brave smile. Molly took Sherlock's arm, looking over her shoulder to the group before he led her away.

"Well," Mycroft tapped out his cigarette. "That's that."

"Oh my god what did we do?" John rubbed his face. Mycroft blinked, looking over at Doctor Watson.

"Isn't that the result you wanted?"

"No, I did not want them to awkwardly leave before he had a chance to properly ask her out, or- court her or even cripes, give her a chance!"

"He is," Mycroft said. Mary and John both looked surprised, Anthea just smiled. "What makes you think someone like Sherlock would sit with all of us watching and propose to the woman he loves? I certainly didn't when I asked Anthea to marry me."

"He's what?"

Molly's Flat

"Thank you for tonight," Molly said.

"May I come in?" Sherlock burst out.

"What?' she frowned.

"Um…tea, please."

"Oh, yes, I- I guess I could make us some," she nodded, unlocking her door. She set the fur stole on the coat rack, stepping out of her shoes. Moving across the kitchen, she took down the kettle. Suddenly Sherlock was taking it from her.

"Why don't you go change, I know you hate wearing that thing." She gave a laugh, nodding.

"You know me too well," she said, already unhooking the back of her dress as she walked towards her room. Sherlock stared after her, mesmerized until he felt water soak his cuff and he turned with a start, seeing he'd overfilled the kettle.

"Bollocks," he muttered. Setting the kettle aside, he took off his coattails, undoing the blasted bowtie and top collar button. A breath of air at last! Rolling up his sleeves, he returned to the task at hand, setting out Molly's favorite mug and a plate of light biscuits.

"Toast?" Molly called, appearing again from the bedroom and Sherlock stopped and stared, yet again. Clean of all the make-up, she'd taken out her contacts, opting for her glasses. Instead of the designer gown that showed off her svelt figure she'd replaced it with a comfortable night shirt (he was certain used to belong to him) and a pair of pyjama shorts. She looked at him, then tugged at the hem of her shirt. "What?"

"You're you again," she smiled. Coming to stand before him, she tugged at his opened collar, tossing the end of his tie.

"This is you as well," her eyes twinkled. "Much better." Standing so close together, Sherlock towering over her, Molly didn't know where to look. "Toast," she murmured again.
"Yes," he nodded. "Please. I would like-" he never finished because they'd both stepped forward, finally embracing. However long the kiss lasted, Sherlock didn't know. He let instinct guide him until suddenly they pulled apart, the kettle whistling startled them. She pushed back her hair, face flushed, though she was grinning. She unplugged the kettle, filling their mugs. His arms came slowly about her waist, tugging her close. "You know what I'm asking you, don't you?" One hand left her waist, fishing through his pockets. His chin against her shoulder, he held her close, in the palm of his hand he held a glittering diamond ring. "I want…all of this, Molly Hooper," he murmured against her neck. "I want…the ridiculous tailcoats and ball gowns once a year, and the everyday baggy pyjamas you've pilfered from my flat and your mismatched socks and glasses that are bloody sexy on you. I want everything in-between. I want toast and tea and one in the morning and to fight with you about who solved what murder first and to discuss blood coagulation over breakfast eggs." She turned in the circle of his arms, head bowed and sniffling.

"Then you'd better put that on my finger," she lifted her head, smiling beatifically. He felt himself release a breath, smiling. "Because that's what I want too." The ring on her finger, he bent, kissing her again.

"Promise me one thing," he said, when they pulled apart and returned to making tea.

"Hm?"

"You'll keep those shoes." They looked at the discarded pale pink Louboutin's and Molly laughed, flushing red.

"Promise."