AVENUE Q INSPIRES PEOPLE, OKAY? Course, I could've done a 'If you were gay' inspired fic, but I obviously have dark angst that needs to be fulfilled. Which is inspired but puppet musicals. The idea was given to me by a MOST loyal reviewer (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) who found Molly a bit OOC in the Mumfordverse when John runs to her after Sherlock...well, mustn't spoil. Basically, it naggled at me. And this was the plotbunny that emerged. Please enjoy.

FIC BEGINS HERE BITCHES. MMKAY? MMKAY.

Molly liked to think she knows Sherlock quite well.

She would also like to point out that she knew him first.

For the longest time, she was the one who knew him best, the one they came to when they needed something from him and he was gallivanting around Piccadilly Circus. Then John Watson waltzed in and Molly faded into the background. It's not that she didn't like John, he was a nice man and he seemed to treat Sherlock well enough.

But mainly, he made her feel good about herself.

She didn't know if John knows she knows, but could he really expect to hide it? Molly had been in love with Sherlock for so long that it had become her default state, a sort of accepted fact in her life. Every time she saw him, her chest squeezed and she couldn't stop smiling. She'd long ago prepared for it, took deep breaths when he walked into a room, tried to keep professional. She dared anyone to stay professional around Sherlock though. At least she wasn't making a fool of herself lately. Slowly, she learned what he approved of and what he saw as idiocy, talking it over at length with her cat Toby (now the only one who wouldn't block their ears and groan the minute she mentioned his name)and she had been succeeding, sort of.

Then John f-bloody (he didn't deserve that sort of language) Watson. He did give her a bit of nasty glee occasionally though. Meena told her the word for it, once. She always was good for that sort of thing.

Meena came around her flat and plucked a stalking Toby from her black skirt, waving her wine glass and happily predicting embarrassing failures for her.

"If he hasn't noticed you yet, what's to make you think he ever will?" Meena asked shrewdly, brown eyes glinting in the light of the TV.

Molly felt the prickling heat on her cheeks and ducked her head. Even she wasn't sure what she mumbled. She heard an impatient, but guilty-sounding, cluck from Meena and felt manicured hands rest on her shoulders.

"Molly, I just meant he's...well, he sounds very insular. What about Jim?"

Molly looked up at her in confusion. "I told you about Jim?"

Meena shrugged and grinned. "In between sobs."

At Molly's stricken face, she added consolingly, "You were very drunk. You were going to get 'Sherlock Holmes is fit' tattooed on...well, you don't want to know."

Molly groaned and buried her hands in her hair. "Meena," she wailed. "Why do you let me do these things?"

Meena laughed. "I don't know. You're persuasive. Besides, I've got my own convoluted relationship problems."

Molly blinked. "May I remind you," she said, grinning, "that this conversation is about my tragic love life?"

Meena waved a hand dismissively. "And I listen, if only because then I don't feel so pathetic."

Molly laughed at the sidelong grin that took the sting out of the words, and shoved Meena with her shoulder. Red wine sloshed and Meena jerked forward to save the cream carpet.

"Careful!" her friend yelped.

"Well, you started it! Do you only listen to my problems because they make you feel better?"

Meena shrugged, unrepentant. "Schadenfreude."

Molly choked in surprise. "What?"

Meena sighed, sounding very put-upon. "Haven't you seen Avenue Q, woman? Schadenfreude. Taking pleasure in other people's pain."

Molly crinkled her brow. "Is that German? It sounds German. Sherlock would know. He speaks fluent German. He told me once."

Meena rolled her eyes, said "Here we go again..." but Molly ignored her resolutely and continued listing Sherlock's skills and extensive wardrobe of scarves.

But that was how she first heard the word, and it was like whenever you learned a nice new bit of vernacular: it kept popping up. The next time she saw Sherlock, John was with him. She'd known for weeks, of course, that she was no longer the only member of the Tragic Love Brigade. John had that same self-depreacting grin, the same this-is-just-for-show sigh and the same way of following him. Molly could recognise it in herself, and she could recognise it in herself. At first, she'd felt more sorry for John. Of course she assumed Sherlock was straight. But now with reason to consider it and hash out the issue with Toby (even he, though, was finding other subjects more interesting. Like string.), she realised that Sherlock had never obviously leaned either way.

So now, feeling more on equal feeling, Molly felt that slight happiness instead of just pity. John's eyes tracked Sherlock swanning around the morgue, and Molly was split between being fascinated by Sherlock's catlike motions and John's musing face. She wondered if she was that obvious when she thought nobody was looking. Sherlock, of course, was none the wiser, but to be honest she had hardly hidden her interest, and he seemed oblivious. But watching John pine too made her a bit more cheerful. It wasn't quite Meena enduring her Sherlock obsession so she would feel less stupid for the crush she harboured for the ginger on the fourth floor, but it was close.

"Schadenfreude," she muttered to herself.

"German," Sherlock announced unexpectedly from her shoulder. "For 'taking pleasure from the suffering of others.'"

Molly jumped, but managed not to blush, which she was quite proud of. "Erm, yes," she managed, and cursing herself for her ineloquence seconds later.

"Doesn't sound much like you, Molly..." Sherlock mused, but Molly was saved from a humiliating comment about him knowing her well enough to assume things like that by John speaking up from by the body. He didn't even look up from the crumpled skull.

"Sounds more like you, Sherlock," John said, the teasing and painful truth in his voice almost eerily familiar.

"Mmm," Sherlock said, as if considering the judgement seriously. "Do you really think so John?"

Now John glanced up, fond smile curling his mouth. "Joke, Sherlock." he informed him.

"Ah," Sherlock said, with the air of an eminent philosopher about to bestow wisdom. "You really must signpost them better."

With that, he swept out. John took a little longer to follow, his eyes meeting Molly's over the man's skinny pale chest. Their eyes met and there was the self-deprecating little smile, saying 'It's crap isn't it, this Sherlock lark?'. It was unsettling and slightly odd. For some reason, Molly had never realised that John might recognise the kindred spirit he had in her, at least in regards to Sherlock. That he acknowledged that they were in the same boat was almost like having someone to tell secrets to.

But before she could say anything, he had jogged after Sherlock. Molly caught sight of him grabbing Sherlock's shoulder, of Sherlock shaking him off and breaking into a sprint, John's arm left hanging in empty air for a second before he seemed to pull himself together and run after him. Molly felt better, definitely, after seeing that.

She felt guilty about the smile she'd worn at that sight all the way through until she saw the dynamic duo again about a fortnight later. Sherlock breezed straight past her to the bodies she'd prepared in the morgue, ready to attack the poor sods with a bullwhip. John, though, stayed behind. Molly fiddled with the sleeve of her lab coat and wanted to leave, but excuses stuck in her throat, their crassness catching in her voicebox. John leant stiffly against the wall.

"So," he said, and cleared his throat. "You too, then?"

Molly looked up, feeling blindsided. "Yes," she admitted. "Maybe just a little bit."

To her surprise, John laughed. "That's what I thought as well, at first. Never just a little bit though, is it? With Sherlock, I mean."

He looked very sympathetic. Molly felt like she could talk to him, that friendly open face, and with Toby seeming to now recognise the sound of Sherlock's name as an opportune moment to flee, she really had no other option.

"No," she said. "He's so intense! And I feel like I can't..." she trailed off, feeling a bit embarrassed.

But John wasn't nearly so easily put off. "Breathe? Yeah, I get that too," he said frankly. "Bit inconvenient, if you ask me."

Molly laughed. "Yeah, absolutely. I sound like an absolute idiot when I talk to him as well..." She made a face.

John returned the expression, and she giggled. "Ugh, I'm even worse. You should've heard me this morning..." He shook his head.

"Still..." Molly mused. "I wouldn't give him up, would you?"

"Despite the head in the fridge and the eyeballs in the microwave? No, I don't think I would," John smiled crookedly. "Unless it was to you of course. May the best woman win, and all that."

"Oh, come on!" Molly protested, even thought she felt vindicated at the very words. "You've got as much a chance as me!"

"Not quite," John said, looking blackly resigned. "He's straight, if anything. Believe me, I asked."

"Oh," Molly said, feeling less inclined to schadenfreude at the expression on his face. Sherlock, picking his moments as theatrically as possible as per usual, burst from the morgue and sped through the door, fingers flying across the keys of his phone. John looked after him, caught Molly doing the same and took a step towards the door.

"Keep him safe?" Molly blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She couldn't believe she'd just said that!

But John seemed to understand. "Yeah," he said sympathetically but seriously, and dashed from the room.

That was the last time she saw Sherlock for quite a while. The symtoms of withdrawal included a lot of grumpy phone calls to Meena, depressing music, and managing to trap Toby to talk to him. She was doing this one Sunday afternoon when her phone buzzed. She sprang up guiltily, tipping a yowling cat onto the floor. Toby streaked away under the sofa and Molly snatched up her phone and tried to apologise with her eyes. Couldn't he understand that it could be Sherlock?

"Molly Hooper?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

"Yes," she said gingerly. "Who's this?"

"Sorry, I'm DCI Lestrade. I'm a...an associate of Sherlock's, and he's not answering his bloody phone. And neither's John. Listen, I hate to ask you, but I drowning in annoying financial people and I can't go get him myself..."

Molly caught on quickly. "You want me to pop over?" she asked, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

"Yeah," said DCI Leastrade, sounding relieved. "Could you just tell him that we've got Jonah Oakley in custody and that he is in fact missing the little finger on his left hand. You do know where he lives, right?"

Molly nodded, then remembered that she was on the phone. "221b Baker street." she confirmed.

"Brilliant. Thanks very much Molly," he said.

"No problem," Molly said, slightly breathless, and ended the call.

She could hardly contain her excitement, not in pulling on her coat and not in the cab on the way. It was only when a nice woman called Mrs. Hudson led her up to the flat and left her to it that she began to feel nervous. What was she going to say? She definitely didn't want to sound stalkerish, or worse, stupid. In the end, she decided to just deliver DCI Lestrade's message and go from there.

She knocked nervously on the door and waited. Not two minutes later, Sherlock opened the door, and she damn near fainted. She'd never seen him outside of work, and now, barefoot and two buttons of his white shirt undone, he looked incredible. His eyes pierced her, dark curls brushing along his forehead.

"H-Hi Sherlock. DCI Lestrade wanted me to tell you something..."

Sherlock sighed expansively and raised his voice. At first she thought he was shouting at her, but then she realised he was addressing his flatmate: "Didn't I tell Lestrade I had Sundays off?"

John's voice came from within the flat, and seconds later the man himself, wearing a striped jumper, came into view. "Maybe he's getting revenge for all the times you've nicked stuff from him?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled slightly, looking vaguely like a petulant child. "I hate being disturbed on Sundays, John," the man said plaintively.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you were bored out of your mind."

Sherlock tilted his head, admitting something. "Maybe. I had you to entertain me, however..."

Molly was too busy trying to surreptitiously get a look at Sherlock's flat to particularly listen to the conversation, but she heard that bit. Her ears pricked and niggle of something black began eating away at her chest. John tried to cover it with a cough, but she remembered what she'd heard.

"What did Lestrade want, Molly?" John asked quickly.

"Jonah Oakley is in custody," Molly said mechanically, examining John's face minutely. "His little finger is missing. On the left hand."

"I knew it!" came Sherlock's triumphant shout, and Molly's eyes were drawn irresistibly to him. And so she was watching when Sherlock swung towards his flatmate and kissed him full on the lips.

Sherlock came past her, knocking her aside, but she barely even noticed. She felt like her whole world had been turned upside down and thoroughly shaken until everything that made sense had fallen out into outer space.

"He likes to show off," John said awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Molly's voice came out a hoarse, accusing whisper. "You said...you told me he was straight."

John winced. "I was wrong. And...for what it's worth...I'm really sorry. You probably would have been better for him. You'd keep him safe."

A wan smile, but Molly knew pity when she saw it. "And maybe that's why I never had a chance. He doesn't want a partner. He wants a follower."

She saw the shattered look on his face, but she didn't take it back. John Watson deserved everything he suffered at Sherlock's hands. He made her believe there was hope, when all along he must have known...he must have known Sherlock would choose him. She whirled jerkily and fled the house. John didn't call after her, and Sherlock didn't even register her in his triumph. Molly hailed a cab with tears burning caustic in her throat.

She stifled tears in her fists so the cabbie wouldn't ask questions and when she unlocked the door, she threw her keys against the wall as hot anger flooded her body, leaving an irregular dent in the wall. She stared for a moment at what she'd done, what John had made her do, and dropped to her knees on the carpet.

She cried for hours, but nothing magical happened. Sherlock didn't appear in her doorway and apologise. That never happened outside of Disney and Hugh Grant.

She cried for hours, and nobody ever knew.