Dr. Molly Hooper had quite a few friends, thank you, and was unsure if she needed, or wanted, any more. This one, in particular. It had started out as jealousy, she knew, but now had devolved into suspicion and distrust. But she found herself on her way to have lunch with the woman anyway. This could turn out very badly, indeed.
Molly's inner circle of friends contained Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, Dr. John Watson, his partner and blogger, and DI Greg Lestrade. With friends like these, one tends to become exposed to the seamier side of life, the more dangerous side. While she was usually buried in the bowels of St. Bart's morgue/lab, the others walked the more dangerous streets, sometime coming under grave threat. She had learned to live with this, patching them up occasionally, as well as tending to wounds to their psyches. They seemed to be constantly at risk. The were all dear friends. The fact that one of them happened to be the love of her life, however unrequited, was beside the point.
It was almost three years since the day Sherlock Holmes had taken a leap off the roof St. Bart's, a fall which should have killed him, but, with Molly's assistance, hadn't. She had faked an autopsy, falsified reports, and kept him secretly alive for all of two years as he shut down Moriarty's network of criminal activities, and his friends mourned his passing. Mycroft Holmes had been the only other person to know his brother still walked among the living, although there was certainly no guarantees as to how long. She and Mycroft had met regularly for updates, often over tea. He realized how much she cared for his younger sibling, and did his best to comfort her. It was then that she grew to realize that her infatuation had morphed into love. She had not realized before how much she would do for him, as she had never truly been called on to do anything beyond allowing access to her lab, assisting him at all hours, or providing specimens for his experiments. But when she made the instantaneous decision to risk her life, her job, and freedom to assist him, she knew how much he truly meant to her. And, given his uncanny abilities, he must have certainly known, also, but chose to never acknowledge the fact.
Sherlock Holmes had returned from two years away to find Molly engaged, his best friend involved, seriously, with a new woman, and his tarnished reputation newly polished. After some delicate negotiations, John forgave him for faking his death. Sherlock grew accustomed to, and even fond of, John's newly minted fiance. He was best man at their wedding, which Molly had attended with her own fiance, Tom. But her own engagement ended not with such a wedding, but in her broken promise as she came to realize that she could not settle for such a life without Sherlock Holmes.
Things moved quickly after that. She and the detective were truly friends now, with her replacing the newly married expectant father John Watson is some regards. They would share meals, sometimes. She would accompany him on some non-dangerous cases. They would often do experiments together, something which John never did. But then Sherlock was shot, and her world turned upside down.
The story, as widely known and accepted, was as follows. Sherlock and John had gained access to Charles Augustus Magnussen's office, using Sherlock's erstwhile "girlfriend" Janine. Once inside, they had discovered an unconscious Janine, whom John had tended to. Sherlock then found Magnussen being held at gunpoint by an unknown gunman, and been shot at point blank range, while Magnussen had merely been pistol whipped. He had come so close to dying, even flat lining for a time, that Molly still cringed at the memory. She had spent long hours at his bedside at the hospital, holding his hand and listening to his drug induced comments. John had told her that the first word he had spoken after coming out of his life saving surgery had been, "Mary."
While Molly was certainly not as gifted as Sherlock, she was not a complete idiot, being much more intelligent than most people gave her credit for. People tended to see her as the quiet pathologist held in thrall to the brilliant detective, overlooking her agile mind, her quick wit, and her intuitive intelligence. She knew that Sherlock had been facing his assailant, yet he would give no description of him. And why would someone break into Magnussen's office, only to leave him alive, and Sherlock at death's door. And why not go after John? Added was the fact that, having tearfully asked him repeatedly if he had known who had shot him, his single half coherent answer through the drugs and pain had been a repeated, "Mary." But it seemed that Sherlock Holmes was determined to deny this fact, and to protect his best friend's wife at all costs. So Molly Hooper, ever compliant to his wishes, would do the same. But not at all costs!
Then came that awful second Christmas, one that put the other festival of insults to shame. Molly was jealously left to spend it on her own, while John and Mary had joined Sherlock and his brother at the family home. She couldn't deny the envy she felt that the newest addition to their circle had the privilege of a family holiday, but that didn't last long. John and Mary had been going through some rough times. She could only assume that it had something to do with the shooting. Did John know? Before or after the fact? She couldn't imagine the honorable doctor being involved before the shooting. Her guess was that he had been informed of the circumstances and, like Sherlock, was maintaining his silence due to circumstances of which Molly was not aware.
A few days after Christmas, Sherlock Holmes came to visit. Magnussen had been killed. As soon as she saw the detective Molly knew something was wrong. He had told her that he would be going away for perhaps six months, and had come to say goodbye. But Molly could always see him, really see him, and she knew instinctively that he intended this as a final farewell. He barely spoke another word, and as tears rolled down her face he kissed her forehead and walked out her door. As fate would have it, Moriarty chose that precise time to make his reappearance, broadcasting his presence on every media outlet to be found. She had Sherlock back, and would not risk losing him again. And so she had asked Mary Watson, nee Morstan, to lunch with her.
"I'm so glad you called, Molly. I've been wanting us to become better acquainted for so long!"
"Yes, well, I know you've been busy. what with the baby and everything…"
"Which baby? This one," Mary said with a laugh, pointing at her swollen belly, "or John? Or even Sherlock?"
Molly smiled a bit, then turned more serious. "How are you doing? Are you happy? Is John happy?"
It seemed a bit odd to Mary Watson that a mere acquaintance was asking such a question about the state of her marriage, but she tried to shrug it off. "Of course we're happy! We're ecstatic! Why wouldn't we be?" She was now studying the woman across the table from her with new attention to detail.
"It's just that so many marriages end unhappily these days. The statistics are horrendous. I just don't want to see John become a victim in such a situation. Some divorces can be murder, I've heard." Molly watched as her remark hit home. Confirmation of this fact came with Mary's next comment.
"You know, don't you? Did Sherlock tell you, despite the fact that he promised…"
"Sherlock didn't tell me. Well, he did, so to speak. I spent many a night in the hospital with him, listening to his incoherent mumbling…"
"Ah," Mary slowly let out a breath.
"Mary, do you love John?"
"I do. With all my heart and soul!"
"I'm sure Sherlock is counting on that to keep him, and John, alive, as I'm sure your exit strategy from your marriage would involve a rather more permanent solution than divorce. However, I don't know you as well as he does, and it seems that, with this conversation, I am putting a target on my back, as well." Molly studied the other woman carefully. "But I am more than willing to do that if it helps to protect my friends."
"He underestimates you, you know. I'm willing to bet most people do."
"Perhaps. Sometimes, I underestimate myself. But never underestimate the lengths I will go to to protect those I care about…"
"You mean Sherlock Holmes, of course."
"Of course I do! And I want to give you something to consider. I don't really know you at all. I don't know what your story is, or who or what you really are. I know that Sherlock Holmes believes that you are worthy of his protection, and friendship, so I chose to accept that. But if something untoward should happen to me, you will not have to worry about convincing Sherlock of your innocence, but his brother…"
"Mycroft? What has he…"
"I have done what Sherlock, in his misplaced arrogance, would never consider doing. I have taken out an insurance policy with Mycroft Holmes. I have given him a document outlining all my evidence and concerns, to be opened on my untimely demise, or disappearance. If anything were to happen to Sherlock, I would also advise him to open the document. I gave it to him last week, during one of our frequent teas. I'm sure he believes it contains an expression of my undying affection for his brother, and various other maudlin sentiments. He will be very surprised if he ever has cause to open it!"
"You love Sherlock very much, don't you?"
"I only hope to god, for all our sakes, that you love John half as much!" Molly gave an unhappy little laugh.
Mary reached across the table to take Molly's hand and was surprised when she did not flinch. "I never meant to kill Sherlock. Believe me. He does. I can't tell you what I was. I can't bear to relive those days! I can only tell you that I would give my life for my husband and my child. I know you don't trust me now, but I hope you will learn to trust me in the future. Sherlock has been willing to risk his life to keep my secret, but he would never risk yours. That's why he has never told you. Perhaps that's why he keeps you at arm's length." Mary let go of her hand, and picked up the menu. "Let Mycroft have the damned letter. If he ever has cause to read it, my life will be pretty much s**t anyway! Let's order. I'm starving!"
Molly stared for a moment, unwilling to believe that everything had been settled so relatively amicably. "That's it? No threats? No…"
"That's it! Whatever secrets I had died with Charles Augustus Magnussen, as far as I am concerned. My past is past. I am now a happily married expectant mother. Hopefully, with one more friend than I had yesterday?" Mary glanced at Molly hopefully.
"We'll see. How do you feel about scifi movies?"
The rest of the lunch passed uneventfully as the woman, for the first time, actually had a conversation. They found out that they had enough in common to get along famously, and enough differences to make it interesting. All in all, a good start to beautiful friendship.
Molly Hooper returned to her flat that evening after finishing her shift in the lab. She was exhausted both mentally and physically. Evidently standing on one's feet all day carving up cadavers, and confronting potential murdering housewives was very debilitating. But rewarding. When she entered her flat she was a bit surprised to find Sherlock Holmes waiting on her couch.
"So, Molly, how was your day? Anything new?" he asked, arching his eyebrows.
"I see your friend Mary has had a talk with you. Already?'
"Were you really jealous that she got to spend Christmas with my family? If I were to tell you the whole story, I guarantee, that would change."
"Don't tease me, Sherlock Holmes. You and I both know that you're never going to give me the whole story…"
"It seems you figured out enough on your own, Molly. Enough to take out a little insurance policy with my brother. Just how friendly are you with Mycroft, anyway?"
"Jealous, Sherlock?"
Surprisingly, the detective answered, "Probably." He then continued to study her closely, summing up the pros and cons of some unasked question. He then moved closer, slowly taking her in his arms. "I always seem to be trying to protect you from one thing or another. Moriarty. Mary's former life. Me."
"I don't need protection, Sherlock. Least of all from you. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself!"
The detective then moved his hand to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair, and brought her face close to his for an extended passionate kiss which had been way too long coming. "But what if I want to take care of you, Molly?"
"Well, in that case, I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement! But you better treat me well, or I can always write a letter to Mycroft!"