Molly took his hand and led him cheerily into the darkened house, slamming the door shut and beginning to twirl about the empty marble floors of the entrance hall. Her giggles of joy echoed through the empty walls of the manor while Sherlock stood rather awkwardly by, wondering just what pleasure she got from looking like a complete idiot and twirling until she stumbled in her thin white heels.
"Oh Sherlock I just love your house, our house. So old, with so much history, oh and the portraits are just so exquisitely painted! Maybe I could get one of myself, and of you of course. Oh you have the most beautiful face Sherlock, it should be preserved." Molly insisted, making Sherlock smile rather nervously.
"Yes I have been told." Sherlock agreed.
"Oh you are such a narcissist, so in love with your own good looks." Molly murmured with a laugh, tumbling over towards Sherlock and falling into his arms with a yelp of excitement. Sherlock had the strangest urge to just drop her; however that was usually considered rude, especially on a wedding night.
"You're the one that brought it up." Sherlock defended rather spitefully.
"Who tells you that you're beautiful?" Molly wondered, draping her arms around his neck and looking into his eyes with a very unnerving look in her painted eyes.
"Victor does, at least five times a day." Sherlock admitted. Molly simply laughed, rolling her eyes for a moment before letting her head fall momentarily onto Sherlock's shoulder, rolling it gently back and forth along his collar bone as if trying to show some sort of very odd affection.
"Oh that boy is in love you Sherlock; you really must approach him on the fact." Molly suggested. Sherlock let loose a very nervous little laugh.
"I don't think it affects much, do you?" Sherlock wondered nervously.
"Well I won't have it that someone else is in love with my husband." Molly insisted flatly, picking her head up once more and staring indefinitely into his eyes. Sherlock simply looked over her shoulder at the darkened staircase, clearing his throat rather awkwardly. Might this be the time to confess?
"Well I hate to admit it Molly, but I'm sure there are others, not just Victor, who are in love with me." Sherlock admitted in a murmur. In fact one of them had the privilege of being loved back, and it certainly wasn't Molly.
"Yes but a homosexual? Isn't that a bit obscene?" Molly insisted with a pout.
"What makes a man's love any different from a woman's?" Sherlock wondered. Molly simply laughed, shaking her head as though that was a ridiculous question.
"Well the morality of it of course! You can't tell me that you're actually okay with that poor boy's infatuation?" Molly wondered with a laugh. Sherlock shrugged rather passively, making Molly laugh again, laughing as though she found this to be some sort of joke.
"Oh Sherlock you really are funny." She squeaked, and with that she did the unthinkable and yet the inevitable. She kissed him. At first Sherlock was okay with it, for he knew that this was coming and he had already discussed with Victor the many ways he could tolerate such a kiss from someone he had no interest in kissing. The first, most obvious step was to pretend that the kiss wasn't happening at all. Sherlock attempted to put himself into his happy place, which of course was just right upstairs, and instead of a woman in his arms he had a violin on his shoulder, playing the music and humming along quietly. However that wasn't enough to distract him, for he still felt that woman's horrible lips on his own, and her bejeweled hands running through his hair and on his skin, oh it was dreadful, it was absolutely dreadful. And so he went to step two, the more affective of the steps after all. He imagined that it was John. Now this was a little bit difficult to do considering John had kissed him much more timidly yet much more lovingly, his skin was rougher than Molly's, his hair was shorter, and never in his life would he be caught in something as hideous as a white chicken feather dress. Sherlock simply imagined that it might be John Watson in his arms and at least he had the bravery to lift his arms around Molly's neck, making it look like he was somewhat enjoying the most horrible (and longest) kiss of his existence. And it was going fine, at least he was tolerating it for the time being, it was only once Molly got a little bit too confident that he began to have issues. It was when her lips traveled from his lips to his neck where Sherlock began to panic, it was when her hands began to unbutton his collar that he felt his heart begin to stop and his breathing begin to increase. Suddenly he felt as though Molly was suffocating him, pressing the shadows from the walls and engulfing him in an airtight box of some sort, stealing the breath from his lungs and the beat from his heart and the life from his body. It was terrifying, it was the most unpleasant feeling he had ever experienced, and in in instant he pushed her away in disgust. Sherlock let out a great cry of protest and fell backwards onto the floor, scrambling away from her as if his life depended on it all while heaving great breaths, the world spinning and spotting before his eyes.
"Sherlock what on earth are you doing?" Molly demanded in exasperation, looking completely scandalized at his sudden nerve. Sherlock shivered horrifically, looking up at his new wife with a distraught expression, looking almost as though he were about to burst into tears.
"No I'm sorry...I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured, his hands trembling as he fought his way back to his feet, staying away from Molly and from her affection for a moment longer. Another kiss would drain him, it would disgust him, he already felt his stomach turning in disinterest, no not even pretending she was John could make this night go any smoother, oh how she disgusted him!
"I'm sorry...Molly I'm feeling quite ill." Sherlock murmured, clutching his stomach truthfully.
"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock I'm sorry I didn't realize." Molly assured, taking a step forward to which he held up a hand to stop her, shaking his head in protest. She seemed to take offense to that, however Sherlock couldn't figure out a situation in which that would matter to him and so he ignored her for the time being. All he needed to do was get her out of this house, out of his life for now. Marriage wasn't as easy as it was meant to be, that was obvious.
"No, no Molly I'm fine. I just need to go lie down, I'm sorry. Feel free to um, to go home." Sherlock insisted, clutching his stomach and stumbling towards the staircase, nearly doubling over when he reached the landing for his vision was beginning to spin. He clutched at the railing and yet his feet were still stumbling over themselves, eventually one of his shoes caught a stair and he fell in a bit of a daze, crying out momentarily and hearing a scream in return, a very feminine scream. As his vision went black Sherlock remembered the only thought, the only wish, that Molly would stay far away from him. He would rather die in a trance on these darkened stairs than be held in her arms once more. For once in his life, death was more favorable. 

 It was a sort of dreamlike trance that awoke him, but not his physical form no; he was still very much unconscious, shivering with multiple blankets covering him and a wet washcloth on his forehead. But the eyes of his subconsciousness were opened, and suddenly Sherlock saw a world that he could never hope to venture to beyond anything other than a dream. Maybe it was a utopia, where all of his wishes came true, or maybe it was simply his future, a future that would have been had he not lived under Mycroft's rule for so long. Maybe it was his future as it was; intact and just waiting to come to be, waiting for Sherlock to be braved enough to leave his young wife of two hours and decide that there was more to life than money and family values. Whatever it was, where ever it was, it was simple. That might have been just what he liked about it. It was the beach, and yet the clouds had parted and the waves were blue, the rocks smooth under his bare feet and the sun beaming down on his white skin. And there was Victor, swimming off near the sandbar, his arms pumping through the waves in delight, his brown head bobbling up and down as he swam and dove and resurfaced, flopping around like a seal in danger. Sherlock smiled, and yet he knew that he was not alone on the shore. No, as predicted, a stone skipping across the surface of the waves alerted him of another presence, another man, standing just to his left, far enough so that Sherlock couldn't reach out and touch him but close enough that if he had wanted to touch him it wouldn't be more than a couple steps and a meager effort. 

"Did you see that one?" John asked with a mesmerizing smile, tossing a flat shining stone into the air before catching it with a swipe of his hand, trapping the rock between his sandy fingers and watching Sherlock with a smile, as if wondering why he was staring like he was. Sherlock, however, was much too in love with the man next to him to care about what he might think about his staring. John Watson was never quite as beautiful as he was in this vision, wherever this was tucked away in his head, with his golden hair slightly parted by the salty sea air, his skin tanned and his chest bare, standing with his bare feet sinking into the smooth rocks below with the surf bubbling over top.
"I wasn't looking." Sherlock admitted finally.
"Well then you what were you looking at? I told you to watch!" John protested, his smile dropping for a moment and looking almost like a pouting child who didn't get their way.
"I was watching you of course." Sherlock admitted with a grin. John dropped his head in exasperation, however he couldn't hide that smile, or conceal that giggle, for it warmed Sherlock's heart just as effectively as the bright sun warmed his skin.
"Oh so now I've got a stalker?" John carried, to which Sherlock just smiled even wider.
"An admirer, my Love." Sherlock murmured.
"Oh really? Now I'm your love? You've never called me that before." John admitted with a teasing voice, as if Sherlock's admiration was something to be ashamed of.
"Well I should've, if I hadn't already. And I'll call you that until the end of my days if you see fit." Sherlock assured.
"You'll love me for that long, will you?" John wondered, nodding as though he didn't believe such a preposterous claim. Sherlock nodded, certainly not doubting his own sincerity for one moment.
"Longer." He assured in a little mutter. John nodded, looking a bit stony faced as he tried to process that information. He didn't have anything to say, evidently, because he simply tossed his stone once more before flicking it across the waves, and this time it bounced and bounced along the surface, skipping until Sherlock could barely see it anymore, skipping to forever, maybe even longer than that. 

 Sherlock awoke with a fright, a horrible twitch, and a small shriek as he tried to part himself from the hand he felt on his cheek, a cold yet startlingly human hand. He could not let that woman touch him any longer, he could not let her come near him, or kiss him, or do any of the sort. He required something of a minimum safe distance, and Molly Hooper was violating that distance as if she had the right. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock calm down!" cried a voice, a familiar voice, a very deep voice, one that did not match what Sherlock remembered to be Molly Hooper. And for a moment he calmed.
"I can't, I'm not..." Sherlock looked up at his attacker to see a friendly face staring down at him, Victor's face, leaning over the bed with his hand held out ever so gently. "Victor." Sherlock breathed.
"Yes, Sherlock it's me, it's quite alright." Victor assured. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing at Victor's hand and clutching it with both of his, pressing Victor's hand against his lips in thanks, nearly crying tears of joy.
"It had all been a dream." Sherlock decided flatly, a breath of relief on his lips, a breath that escaped just in time for him to notice the other faces in the room.
"More than just a dream, I'm afraid." Mycroft murmured, looking over to where Molly stood at the end of the bed, still in her horrible wedding dress, clutching at the bedpost in anxiety. Sherlock's heart plummeted, and for a moment those tears of joy almost leaked out as tears of distress, for it had all been reality after all.
"Oh Sherlock darling I was so worried...Are you ill? Should we get the doctor?" Molly wondered, looming around the bed so that she might be close to Sherlock as well. Sherlock, however, clutched at Victor's hand even harder, as if insisting he not leave his side, and instead just stared up at Molly with a rather horrified look. This whole episode had been brought about by her, and now she seemed to think it was her responsibility to make it all better? As if her presence in this room wasn't a catalyst!
"Oh he'll be fine; it's nothing physical I'm sure, just a mental need to be over dramatic." Mycroft insisted with a roll of his black eyes.
"I'm not overdramatic, and what would you know? You can't even notice drama when it's presented to you on a stage!" Sherlock growled. Victor chuckled, however no one else seemed to notice his little joke. Molly looked distraught and Mycroft looked rather indifferent, gazing off into space while taping his fingers against his magnificently carved wooden walking stick.
"What do you think happened my Lord, do you think you were just overwhelmed?" Victor wondered softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gently pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead to feel for a fever. Evidently he was satisfied, because he breathed a sigh of relief and let his hand drop.
"Yes, overwhelmed." Sherlock agreed, looking into Victor's eyes as he tried to display all the other emotions that had gone through his head in that moment before the darkness. The disgust, the horror, all of it wrapped up in a miserable ball of crippling anxiety.
"Oh I didn't know what I was to do my love, so I sent for your brother." Molly admitted in a breath, swooping around the other side of Sherlock's bed so that she too could sit next to him, sliding all the way across the large bed and trying to sit at his side as if she belonged there. Sherlock's grip on Victor's hands increased as she drew closer, and soon he doubted that Victor had any blood flow in any of his poor fingers. Surely the servant wouldn't dare pull away; even if he could he never would, for this closeness and this appreciation was all he could've hoped for not a couple of days ago. It was funny how a marriage brought everyone else closer together.
"Sending for me was the right thing to do, of course. I'm not sure how much help anyone else would've been." Mycroft admitted. Sherlock just looked at him in annoyance, his mouth agape as he pondered just why Mycroft would overemphasize his usefulness.
"You're just standing there!" Sherlock pointed out, to which Mycroft just grinned, almost all knowingly.
"Yes Sherlock, but I brought Victor." He defended with a smile. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking with large eyes to Victor in appreciation, and kept his mouth shut, for he couldn't argue with that. No one except Mycroft would know of Sherlock's need for that servant, no one except Mycroft would think to bring him along.
"Victor you really have been a good help, I can surely see why Sherlock needs you." Molly agreed, sitting up against the headboard and looking upon Victor with the same look Victor usually wore when John entered the room. Oh so now there was a jealousy triangle, or a love square, with Sherlock being sought after by three people, two of which never stood a chance. And so the war for Sherlock's heart commenced once more, just when everyone had laid down their weapons and donned their suits and dresses for the Holmes and Hooper wedding.
"Well of course Ms. Hooper, that's what I was hired to do." Victor assured, caressing Sherlock's hand in an almost possessive way, as if daring Molly to come any closer or to try to get any more intimate.
"Mrs. Holmes, actually." Molly corrected, her usually warm brown eyes flashing venomously, to which Victor just smiled.
"Yes, I suppose titles do change." He agreed with an air of carelessness, almost as though he wanted her to realize that while her name might have changed her place in Sherlock's heart stayed the same as it had before the wedding, that being absolutely nowhere to be found. Sherlock couldn't help but grin at Victor's daring, and he could've sworn he even saw the slightest of soft expressions of Mycroft's face, however he couldn't be certain.
"While the carriage is loaded, shall I send for anyone else?" Victor offered, looking at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, for they both knew the only man missing in this scenario. Sherlock sighed heavily, aching of course, for John's company, however it didn't seem fit. Molly was here, sitting in her wedding dress, and John's presence would only catalyze the silent war between Victor and Molly, fighting breathlessly for the position of second place.
"No, no that's quite alright. Thank you Victor." Sherlock assured, finally letting Victor's hands drop however he did edge ever closer to the boy's side of the bed.
"I think maybe some privacy is in order?" Mycroft guessed, raising his eyebrows and swinging his walking stick towards the door as if inviting everyone to make their leave.
"Yes my Lord, maybe we can get you up and dressed for dinner, or maybe..."
"That means you, Victor." Mycroft interrupted, to which Victor quieted immediately.
"Me?" Victor clarified, growing whiter with every passing moment.
"Him?" Sherlock cried, suddenly grabbing Victor's entire arm, trying to make him stay despite Mycroft's direct orders.
"Yes Sherlock, I'm sure you would like to talk to your wife. Victor and I will be quite fine doing other things, preoccupying ourselves." Mycroft assured, rapping his stick sharply against the wooden floor in beckoning. Victor ever so reluctantly let his arm slide away from Sherlock's grip, smiling softly at his master and getting to his feet. Molly sat proudly in the bed, as if she thought that she was achieving something by being the only one allowed in the room, and Sherlock shuttered horrifically, really wishing they didn't have to leave him. and yet as soon as he was beginning to reconsider calling Victor back he had already left, and Sherlock was stuck with Molly and her horrible smile, her soft motherly complexion, as she tried to pull up the cover to his chin as to ensure his comfort in the most uncomfortable situation of them all.