I've been meaning to get this out for a while, sort of a John/Molly friends to more than friends fic. It covers their first meeting all the way through the Reichenbach Fall and a little afterwards. Enjoy dearies!

When John Watson and Molly Hooper first met, sparks didn't fly. There were no rainbows or shooting stars or flutters in their stomachs when they first clapped eyes. It was more of a "Good God, you know Sherlock Holmes and you still hang around him?" exchange.

John did give Molly her credit; she seemed to be the only one devoted to really helping Sherlock. She knew her profession and enjoyed it. If he could levy some of the Consulting Detective's negative comments off the harmless pathologist, he might even feel better about himself. After all, she hadn't done anything to deserve Sherlock's comments (one usually didn't have to though; it wasn't as if he had a filter). In Molly, John found a kindred spirit. It seemed natural that the two people Sherlock worked with would be good friends. Together they sort of balanced him out, like two halves of a whole person, and the same was true of each other. Having Molly in his life, and John in her's, and Sherlock in between them, they all sort of found their place, a little piece of themselves they didn't quite know was missing.

Molly found herself smiling when the good doctor joined Sherlock in the lab. He was kind and respectful, asked her about her profession without the look of "You handle dead people, gross." Besides, who could they complain about Sherlock to without having to then explain why they still spent time with the 'High-Functioning Sociopath' if he made them pull their hair out? Their friendship started slowly, nothing more than an exchange of smiles when he and Sherlock entered the lab and a short discussion on current cases. Molly liked to know what Sherlock was working on, and John was always happy to fill her in on the details, sometimes her fresh perspective helped them out. One day, when she handed Sherlock his usual coffee, John suddenly found himself being given one as well.

"I didn't ask for this," he said, trying to hand it back.

"I know, but I was running upstairs anyway for Sherlock, I figured you'd want one too." She replied with a shrug. She'd got it wrong the first time, she'd put in sugar. Next time she went upstairs he went with her, (partly because Sherlock wanted to be in his mind-palace) and she discovered how he took his coffee. "Oh I put sugar in last time, didn't I?" she asked. He nodded,

"It's ok, it was still nice of you to think of me," he said, then watched as she heaped three teaspoons into her own cup. "Did you give me yours?" he asked. She turned a little pink.
"Well, I was bringing Sherlock a coffee and I usually get mine at the same time, and I forgot you come here now with him so…" she shrugged then.

"Thanks for the thought," he said. "It's not often one is remembered, standing in Sherlock's shadow."

"You hold your own," she said, grabbing a packet of crisps and pulling a chair out. "I heard you tracked down that thief the other day." John was a big enough person to admit his chest swelled a little bit at that. It's quite nice when other people notice things you've accomplished. "I'm rubbish at noticing things," she said, munching on a chip, she held out the opened bag and he reached in, helping himself to a few. "I'd probably be too busy singing along with the song, rather than listening for the background noise!"

"It was a good song," he admitted.

"Classic," she agreed. "But then who doesn't know all the lyrics to 'Piano Man'?" John paused.

"You like Billy Joel?"

"Oh yes!" she nodded.

"Yeah? Who else?"

"Paul Simon, Pat Benatar, Diana Ross, Whitney Houston, and, I do admit, I'm a fan of Barry Manilow-"

"Noooo!" John rolled his eyes, "Ugh, stop,"

"Nope, sorry, my dad loved him, he and my mum both. I was raised by Manilow fans; I must admit it's in my blood,"

"Alright, I suppose I can allow that, you did say Diana Ross," he said with a laugh.

"What about you?"

"James Brown, Richard Hawley, The Beatles, Laura Nyro," he ticked off.

"Oo, 70's soul!" she laughed.

"Well, can't go wrong with James Brown," he said with a shrug. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who's said they dislike him," she nodded agreeing.

Taste in music was similar, (except for that whole Manilow thing…) and so from there on out, coffee breaks became music discussions, hashing over their favorite bands and musicians, eventually branching on to movies and books, she was surprised to find he enjoyed reading.

"Why?" he asked when she said so.

"You don't seem the type," she replied with a shrug. "I mean, you do hang around Sherlock Holmes, a man who invented his own career," and he laughed. "One doesn't really sit around with Sherlock, unless he does."

When he knew she'd be working late he'd drop off take-away for her so she wouldn't have to eat the food in the cafeteria.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" she teased when he handed her a to-go box from the Indian place down the street.

"Stop, no, I will leave," he replied, opening his own box.

"I couldn't resist, but thank you though, you don't have to do this every Wednesday." Wednesdays she was on call, and nothing ever happened in the middle of the week. Not usually anyway. It was always quiet and Molly usually spent the time doing paperwork. John's company was welcome, as was the food he brought. Sometimes Sherlock would join them, making use of the lab while they ate. Sometimes a case would come up while they were talking and Sherlock would take John by the scarf, yanking him out of the lab, leaving Molly to her own devices again. When that happened, John would shout down the hallway for her to please take his food home for him.

A week after they solved a particularly boring case (it didn't even rate a six on John's scale, if he had one), John invited her over to watch a movie.
"Are you sure?" she asked, heart skipping a beat though at the thought of seeing Sherlock's flat, and for the fact that she often didn't go anywhere. Fridays were spent doing laundry and eating ice cream out of the tub.
"Of course," he said. "Bring your slippers, the floor gets cold."

"Who's cooking?" she asked, referring to the two of them.

"Sherlock's commandeered the kitchen for a while so, we'll get take-out," he said so she agreed.

Sherlock had not been informed of their company until the doorbell rang.

"Can you get that?" John called; he was folding up a throw blanket and setting up the dvd player. Surprise was evident when he opened the door to see Molly Hooper standing on their stoop, arms full of take-away and a case of beer.

"Evening Sherlock," she said, breezing past him.

"Oh good, you went to Golden Palace," John said.

"I didn't know what you liked so I just grabbed a couple orders for the buffet, loaded up the containers with a little of everything,"

"Oh brilliant, I'm starved," he replied. Sherlock came to stand between them, looking at the six opened containers, nose wrinkling. Another foam carton was handed to him before he could complain there was nothing there that he liked; it contained an order of egg rolls and beef with broccoli, his favorite.

"I know you don't like buffet so I made sure to order something off the menu for you," Molly said and he took it. John pinched his arm as he walked by.

"Ow!" Sherlock snapped. "What was that for?"

"You could thank her," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock replied and climbed onto his chair, crossed his legs and stuffed half an egg-roll into his mouth.

"Save it John, he hasn't thanked me since-" she paused, trying to think. "I don't know, but I stopped trying,"

"Well I'll thank you at any rate, this is perfect," John said, grabbing a beer, a set of chopsticks and one of the containers. Molly followed, shuffling her feet into her slippers.

"Are you going to watch with us?" she asked Sherlock as she sat down.

"'Us'?" Sherlock asked. John and Molly looked up from their places on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table. Molly wore slippers shaped like rabbits with pointy teeth.

"We're watching Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail," she said.

"With nasty big, pointy teeth," John added.

"What?" this only made John and Molly laugh.
"Great slippers by the way, where'd you get them?" Now they were ignoring him.

"Online," she said. "I'll get you a pair if you want,"

"Hah! No, as charming as they'd be, I think they look better on you."

Sherlock was being ignored, and laughed at and he did not appreciate it. However if he wanted Molly and John to pay attention to him so he could remind Molly he needed Mr. Henderson's brain, he would have to change the subject.

"Why are you here?" he asked again.

"We're watching a movie," John said as the opening credits rolled.

"Come watch with us, it's a classic,"

"He won't get it," John said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"Why?"

"Because it's Monty Python, it's pointless," Sherlock huffed and sat down, certain she was only trying to drive him from the room. Two hours later, he glared at the screen, confused.

"Everyone is mad here," he said. "While the representation of 12th century England is probably meant to look cheap, due in part to low-budget, the script jumps all over the place, there is no definite plot, except that Arthur runs around with his manservant, who are both suffered under the delusion that he is riding a horse! The most logical argument thus-far has been how they got the coconuts to England in the first place!"

"African or European Swallow?" Molly asked and she and John burst into fits of giggles. The pack of beer was gone, and while they weren't drunk they were certainly more relaxed. The clock on the mantle struck twelve, and Molly realized she'd stayed much later than she meant to.

"I've got an early start tomorrow!" she said and got to her feet, wobbling.

"I'll call a cab for you," John said, helping her gather her things and seeing her downstairs.

Sherlock was left alone to ponder the evening's events. Molly Hooper came over to 221b. That never happened before. She and John shared a meal, and watched a movie together. They drank alcohol together, and spent most of the night talking over the other, at one point engaging in a sofa-pillow fight. Sherlock also noted that her stammer which usually plagued her whenever he was in the room was not apparent. She was relaxed as soon as she stepped through the door. She and John sat close together; they ate out of each other's food containers. There was no hand holding or crossing legs together, but arms brushed and there were teasing pinches and ear flicking and at one point Molly tried to lick John's face (apparently when Sherlock had gone to the bathroom John had instigated a tickle fight and the only way to end a tickle-fight with the ex-army doctor was attempted face licking). So she was comfortable with John. John didn't seem to mind her either. Their state of comfort with each other suggested intimacy.

Ah. That was it then.

John plodded back upstairs, whistling to himself. He locked the door behind him.
"Molly head out alright?"

"Yep, she said goodnight and said thanks for letting her come over without too much fuss,"

"Oh no, no problem," Sherlock said, glancing up from his microscope. "When will you be seeing her again?"

"I don't know," John said with a shrug. "She's got a busy schedule, and frankly I never know what is happening when we're in between cases- why?"

"Because once you two start dating there's certain expectations, hopes, needs that every woman has. If the evening goes awry, then I am left with a sobbing, useless pathologist who can't get me the parts I need for experiments and cases because she's too emotionally overwrought by you screwing up her sex-life."

"Sherlock-" John opened his mouth, then sighed angrily. "Goodnight." and he went to his room.

"You will remember to pleasure her properly?" Sherlock called. A pair of shoes came flying down the stairs, narrowly missing his head. "Good," he replied before throwing himself back on the sofa, sinking into his mind-palace.

Months went by and John and Molly laughingly called themselves Sherlock's minders. Mycroft had on several occasions met with them, separately and together, discussing how their friendship was benefiting his brother. They giggled over the fact that Mycroft was, in his own Holmes way, thanking them. As good friends do, they supported each other, shared dreams and silly thoughts, went to the cinema and ate too much and then complained about it the next day. They helped each other through break-ups, rough dates, bad days and hang-overs. When Molly got sick, John brought her soup and a couple movies, and even rubbed some Vapo-rub on her chest. When John's sister relapsed and started drinking again, Molly went with John to to help find her and convince her to go to rehab. On the way home John put his head in her lap, too tired to cry any more or even think. Molly carded her fingers through his short hair, humming quietly to herself. Words were important, but sometimes silence was just as nice between them. When John worried Sherlock would relapse, Molly was the first person he would call. If she had a date, John helped her pick out a dress. He warded off the undesirables at the pub, and she returned the favor, (usually without knowing she did). John did think Molly was quite a looker, even if she didn't believe it. Molly Hooper suffered from low self-esteem. John was honestly surprised at how little she believed herself capable of.

"I don't understand," John said, one night to Sherlock. "She's top of her field, she's funny and clever- shut up Sherlock."

"I didn't say anything!" and he was actually indignant. Molly Hooper was silly, watched insipid shows and knew far too many pop songs for a woman her age, but Sherlock knew it was a fact she was the best pathologist in London and she had a keen mind. John looked up, somewhat startled by Sherlock's reaction. "Anyway, what's the matter, her cat die or something? Is she menstruating?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" John shook his head with a sigh.

"I just wish she could see how capable she is, she's not anything people say she is,"

"Of course she isn't," Sherlock said. "We know that, so what does it matter to anyone else?"

"Because people's opinions matter to her, especially ours."

She'd been especially quiet since Moriarty had used her to get to Sherlock. John did not bring the subject up to her, letting her come to them in her own time. That didn't stop John from worrying.

"Isn't there something we can do? Increase security or something?"

"Why?"

"He placed cameras in her flat Sherlock, does that mean nothing to you?" John asked incredulously. "I don't know if you noticed, she hasn't quite been herself lately."

"Hm."

"I'm serious!" John said, hands in his pockets, he was looking out the window. "She's quieter, she doesn't…she shuts me out, sometimes." Sherlock actually frowned at this. "It's like before we were friends," John said. "Like…" he sighed a little. "Maybe I'll give her a call. Maybe she'll want to go to the pub tonight." He grabbed his jacket, hurrying out the door. In a moment, Sherlock's phone beeped.

"Is the little mouse a plaything of yours? Have I broken her?"

Sherlock turned back to the microscope. In a moment the mobile's screen lit up again,

"So you don't mind if I play with her?"

Again he turned away, this time shaking hands fiddled with beakers, attempting proper measurements.

"I'm much too busy keeping you distracted to amuse myself with her. Perhaps I'll pay her a visit after you're gone."

One Year Later

"What do you need?"

"Molly, if I wasn't everything you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?"

"You."

That conversation seemed to haunt Molly whenever she climbed into bed. Sherlock's voice was quiet and desperate. It had been just about a year since she'd helped Sherlock during the Reichenbach case. While Moriarty's face still followed her in her nightmares, she did take comfort in the fact that he was gone forever. Sherlock was bringing down his spy ring one by one. Every now and again she would get a coded text from Mycroft.

"Fetch a carton of milk" meant Sherlock was in London and would be hiding in her flat. She found out rather quickly it was also a plain and simple message to make sure she had some milk in her fridge, (Sherlock took a lot in his tea). The in-between parts were hardest, when she would go to bed, Sherlock asleep on her couch. In the morning he would be gone; no sign of him ever having been there. She watched John struggle between trying to move on and flat-out depression, some days he'd sit in the flat, unmoving. These were the days Molly would come and clean and cook for him, he'd mutter for her to please take out any alcohol in the flat. He wasn't alcoholic, but his sister was, and he worried he carried the same trait. Twelve months Molly watched and cared for him. Slowly, slowly, he began to come back to himself, altered somewhat, as death has that affect on people. More than anything she fretted that he would never forgive her. How could he, all that time her knowing his closest friends were conspiring together, lying to his face. Molly was certain she would lose him, and the thought made her sick.

As usual, she tossed and turned, sighing heavily. Toby, her cat, had quite enough and jumped off the bed, tail lashing back and forth. She rolled onto her side, finding she couldn't keep her eyes shut. Guilt has a way of keeping sleep from a person. Toby was purring noisily, arching against something in the doorway. Molly squinted, then with a shriek sat bolt up, fingers fumbling for the cricket bat she kept near her bed.

"Molly!"

The light flicked on, revealing Sherlock with his hands raised to defend himself (she had on more than one occasion cracked him in the head when he broke into her flat).

"Sherlock?" she dropped the bat, sitting down again. "Thank goodness I thought-" she ran a hand through her tangled hair. "What are you doing here? I never heard my phone, did Mycroft text me?" she reached for her mobile to check the messages.

"It's done," Sherlock said. For a moment the room was still, save Toby purring and winding his way between Sherlock's legs.

"What- when- how?"

"Moran was the last link; he was taken care of tonight. Mycroft is cleaning up and sorting the affairs."

"Oh," she nodded. "When…are you coming back officially?"

"Tomorrow, sooner the better." He poked at the things on her dresser. "Will you come with me?" Her stomach did flip-flops and she didn't know what would be worse, seeing John's reaction or waiting for him to come find her. Probably the latter. She'd hid enough from him. Molly Hooper was many things, most often a coward, but she couldn't hide any longer from John.

"Yes I will," she said. Sherlock nodded, wandering back out to the living room, so Molly followed. He'd lost weight during the past eight months. It was a chore to feed him when he did come. Now that everything was solved, he didn't seem to know what to do with himself.

He felt her small hands over his coat collar, helping him out of it, not unlike the time he was drugged and John had to help him. Only in this case Molly was considerably gentler.
"Sit down," she said. "Put your feet up and I'll make you something to eat."

"It's late."

"You haven't eaten in probably a week," she replied. He sat on the couch, hands between his knees, staring at the wall. In a little while he smelled food, and he realized Molly was holding out a plate of eggs and hashed potatoes. "They're dippy eggs, just the way you like," she said. Sherlock took the plate, fighting back a smile. She'd cut the toast into soldiers. He tucked into his food, mumbling a 'thank you'. When he was finished she directed him to the bathroom to shower and shave. When he appeared, feeling considerably better, she guided him back to the couch where she'd made up his bed.

"Headache." He grumbled, falling face-first onto the couch.

"Honestly," she laughed. "You're worse than John sometimes, you know that?" he turned over onto his back and she sat on the arm of the couch, combing her fingers through his hair. Sherlock recalled Molly doing so for John more often than anything else. Usually after a case. Molly would have dinner waiting for them, and after John would complain of a headache. Molly would rest John's head in her lap and run her fingers through his short hair, humming quietly while she read. Sherlock never understood why anyone would want such human contact until she'd done it to him after his fall. It was a rare occurrence that he ever asked her to, but right now she seemed to understand what he needed.

"What if he doesn't forgive me?" Sherlock asked quietly. She paused only a moment, but he knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

"John will always forgive you," she said, quite sure of her words. "He may hit you, he'll most definitely hit you, and probably not care if he hits your jaw or your nose this time," she smiled a little at this. "But in the end, he will forgive you."
"And you," Sherlock said. Molly was quiet, so he opened his eyes, looking up at her with a frown. "Molly?"

"Goodnight Sherlock," she got to her feet, shutting off the living room light.