Fun fact: this story was initially going to be smut. Don't worry, it isn't. I guess smut just isn't my cup of tea.

(But actually, I kinda really hope that John and Molly end up together. It isn't that far-fetched – in The Sign of Four, John marries a woman named Mary Morstan and Molly could be a nickname for Mary….)

And onto the story!

Chapter One: Molly Hooper

She was the one who knew.

It should have made it easier. It really should have. She didn't have to grieve like everyone else – she could come into work without glancing around for a tall man in a black coat and then catch herself, remembering he was dead. Of course she did that anyway, looked for him despite herself. But she didn't have to grieve.

But everyone else did, and it was at least a little bit her fault. John came in the day after and asked her the same questions over and over with a dazed look on his face. She gave the same lie to each one and handed him off to Lestrade, who for his part looked awful, face grey and eyes red.

Maybe she shouldn't have grieved for Jim, the man she had gone on three dates with before she ended it. She had known ever since she saw his body, bullet wound up through the mouth, that somehow he was responsible for Sherlock's deception – and besides, he was a criminal. That was what she told herself, because why on earth was she crying over Jim when Sherlock was, to everyone else, dead? But, as much as he may have been an evil mastermind, he had been nice to her. He made her feel a bit more worthwhile even as Sherlock was stripping away her layers of self-esteem one by one. So she cried for both of them and felt terribly guilty, and then guilty for grieving when everyone else had it so much worse.

Sometimes she hated Sherlock for what he had done to everyone around him. Some nights she went over each cruel word he had ever said to her, one by one, until she had worn away the sting. But she couldn't help remembering the words that canceled everything else out: "You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." And she almost, almost convinced herself that somewhere deep inside of him was a shred of what might have been a good person.

When the door of the morgue opened one morning, she spun around, half-expecting to see Sherlock striding in again, tempting and dismissive as ever. John Watson raised his hand at her in greeting and she slumped a little, righting the sealed vial of samples she had upended.

The weeks since the fall had not been kind to him. His face seemed more lined, his hair more grey. As he walked towards her, she couldn't help but notice that his limp had returned. Guilt twisted inside her again.

"Molly." He smiled tiredly at her, stopping next to the table she was working at.

"John," she returned uncertainly, trying out a smile that fell off her face almost immediately. "How… how have you been?"

"Well." He sighed and shifted his weight. "How has anyone been?" She didn't know quite what to say to that, and luckily, he continued. "But actually I've come to apologize."

"For what? You don't need to apologize."

"I came in here the day after Sherlock—" John cleared his throat. "The day after he—you know what I'm talking about. But I'm sure I was terribly rude, and upsetting. So I would like to say… sorry."

This smile lasted a little longer. "Thanks, but there's no need. Everyone's been—well, you know."

"Yes." John looked away across the lab. "I don't know if—would you like to grab lunch sometime?"

Almost certain he was joking, she turned back to her microscope. "I'm free at one if you'd like."

"That works great, yeah. The little café across the park?"

She looked up, startled. "You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious, why wouldn't I be serious?"

This time, the smile was genuine. "See you at one, then."

"See you at one."

She watched as he walked out the door again, still limping slightly, then turned back to her samples. Her eyes fell on Sherlock's usual station, now bare and sterile, and the smile fell off her face.

Knowing should have made it easier, but seeing what this was doing to John, it really, really didn't.