Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. The song "You don't know me" was written by Eddy Arnold and Cindy Walker. I suggest to listen to Ray Charles or Michael Bublè singing this song,they are both brilliant. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

Another suggestion from Sammykatz for a perfect Sherlolly song. Thanks to her for the prompt, and to Flavialikestodraw, for her words of wisdom!

Molly didn't come back to London for two years. She used to send a long letter to John, every anniversary of Mary's death; she called Mrs Hudson every Christmas; Lestrade saw her once, when one of his cases forced him to go to Scotland.

Every time, the three of them tried to include Sherlock in their conversation;Molly always changed topic. Not once, she asked about him.

In London, every time the three of them tried to tell him how Molly was, Sherlock ignored them. Not once, he asked about her.

Until the wedding.


Sherlock always suspected that Anthea was something more than just a valuable assistant for his brother. Even before his "death", he had been sure that Mycroft had at least tried to find someone who resembled a companion for him; after his return to London, he had hinted at that, but Mycroft had dismissed the idea with disdain.

Now, nearly six years after that conversation, he was struggling with another best man's speech (thank God his brother wasn't interested in a stag night!). Mycroft and Anthea had agreed for a small, private ceremony, mostly because it was safer for the both of them, since the older Holmes position in the english government. Only the family, a few trusted friends...Sherlock wiggled the pen, growing frustrated with the stupid speech. He heard someone ringing downstairs, and Mrs Hudson's cry of joy when she opened the door. "My darling, what a surprise! I'm so happy to see you!" his landlady shrieked...and then, a voice he had not heard in a long time, answered. "It's good to see you too, Martha". Molly. Molly Hooper. No, Molly Hooper-Wallis. That was her name, now.

He left the living room, and went directly to his bedroom, slamming the door with violence.

Downstairs, both the women jumped, startled by the sudden noise. "Let's take a tea, my dear..." Mrs Hudson offered, seeing Molly's gaze wandering towards the flat upstairs. "You do have a lot to tell me, don't you?".


Sherlock decided to leave Baker Street; maybe he should ask John and Greg for help with the speech. Going down, he noticed that Mrs Hudson's door was open, and took a look inside. The light in the living room was on, and there, sprawled on the old sofa, was Molly, asleep, her left arm dangling down. That time, he couldn't avoid to observe her. She looked so calm, so peaceful, so innocent...and she wasn't wearing her ring. No sign of discolouration on her finger, so she must have taken it out from a long time. More than a year, probably.

He left the room silently, more confused than when he had entered the flat...so confused, that he didn't notice his landlady smirking at him, hidden behind the kitchen door.


When the cab left him in front of Mycroft's house, Sherlock was even more baffled. He picked the lock with discretion (Mycrof hated when he did that...), and went towards the study. There, reading some files at the desk, were the master of the house. Without raising the gaze, the older brother addressed the younger.

"Why here, brother dear? Was Baker Street too crowded, for you?"

"You invited Molly to your wedding. Why? You don't know her, Mycroft".

"Oh Sherlock, still the idiot one, I see...I know your pathologist very well, instead. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't call her that, should I? She's not been your pathologist for a long time,now..." Mycroft answered, smiling affably.

Sherlock decided to ignore his teasing. "Why are you marrying Anthea, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, are you trying to dissuade me from making a mistake, now? The night before my wedding?"

"I'm simply curious...you were against goldfish, a few years ago".

Mycroft seemed to ponder about it for just a second."In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore, never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion".

"Quoting Shakespeare, are we?"

"When the occasion arises, yes. Always. And to give you a more personal answer, simply because I want to. She makes me happy, and I want to make her happy, in return. Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you want to make her happy?"

"Who?"

"Oh, brother, ignorance really suits you...but you're an awful liar".

It was Sherlock's turn to reflect upon his next words. "I've always wanted her to be happy. She deserves it. That's why..."

"You let her go? You ran away, and didn't speak to her for years? You feigned she didn't exist?"

"...I didn't interfere. I would have made her suffer " Sherlock finished.

"How would you know?".

Silence.

Mycroft sighed. "Have it ever occurred to you that, maybe, letting her go didn't make her life happier, but only more miserable? And that you made your life even more pathetic, in return ?"

"I don't count".

How ironic, his choice of words.

"Sherlock, you are really the idiot one, between us. Now go home, I don't want my best man to be sleepy tomorrow".

The consulting detective was approaching the door, when Mycroft spoke again. "Do you remember those sappy movies Mummy always watches? There's one line in one of them that Althea quotes often. "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible". Think about it, Sherlock".


The ceremony was "so sweet, and moving", in Mrs Hudson's words. For Sherlock, it was a torture. His (and Mycroft's) parents fussed around him all day, and what was worst...Molly was enchanting. Her chestnut hair was shorter, a sleek bob that suited her; she was a bit thinner, and the red sleeveless cocktail dress she was wearing, accentuated her petite figure. He had ignored her the night before, and when the morning came, he came up with an excuse and arrived at the church an hour prior Mycroft had requested. When she approached the bride and groom to make her congratulations, Sherlock's gaze fell once again on her ringless hand.

"We need to talk, later" he whispered to her, when she was near enough. "She must be cold", he thought, because she shivered at his words, before nodding. Then another guest arrived, and his attention shifted to him. He missed completely the smirk on Mycroft's and Anthea's lips.


This time, Sherlock didn't play the violin for the bride and groom's first dance. When the lights were dimmed, and the music started, he spotted John and...George? Gabriel? Garrett? Lestrade approaching Molly, surely with the intention to ask her for a dance.

"May I?" he asked, intruding between the two men. Both of them walked away, not saying a word. Molly offered him her hand, and he led her towards a rather secluded spot on the dance floor.

You give your hand to me
And then you say, "Hello."
And I can hardly speak,
My heart is beating so.

And anyone can tell
You think you know me well.
But you don't know me, no

"You look...well. No, you look more than well, sorry".

"Thank you. You're dashing.". Her reply made him smile. He loved how, after the fall, she became bolder, more assertive. It suited her. Strong, brave Molly Hooper.

No you don't know the one
Who dreams of you at night;
And longs to kiss your lips
And longs to hold you tight

How perfect she felt in his arms. She still wore the same perfume: bergamot, jasmine, rose. He had dreamt her scent, lingering in his nostrils; he had imagined the texture of her luscious hair spilled on his pillow; he had fantasized about the softness of her skin, until he could almost believe that she was there, in his arms, in his bed, and not in another city, in another man's life.

To you I'm just a friend.
That's all I've ever been.
No you don't know me

She had always believed that her feelings were unrequited, that her love were hopeless. Now, it seemed she had fooled herself.

For I never knew the art of making love,
Though my heart aches with love for you.
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by.
A chance that you might love me too.

Maybe, she had been wrong all the time.

You give your hand to me,
And then you say, "Goodbye."
I watched you walk away,
Beside the lucky
guy

The song was wrong. In the past, he had escaped from her, like a coward, not wanting to watch Molly walk away with stupid, boring, insipid Tom. But he was not the same man he was six years ago. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't make the same mistake twice.

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