When he offered to buy her coffee, she raised her eyebrow in surprise. He could tell that she suspected he might have ulterior motives; and while he had, they were nothing like she was thinking.
"How do you deal with all of – this?" he blurted out at length, too frustrated to elaborate on that.
"I'm not a mind reader, you know," she reminded him gently, staring at the cup she was cradling in her hands.
"Emotions. Feelings. Sentiment," his lips curled in disdain. "How do ordinary people cope with those things?"
Molly shook her head, then gave him a tired smile. "You learn to live with them in time. Not that I have a great track record, remember?"
He let out a sigh. "I reckon you fare better than I do."
"Is it about – John?" she dared to ask after a long, awkward silence. "I mean, I know he's your best friend, but –"
"I'm not entirely sure. He's definitely a part of the problem, I presume."
"It's okay to love other people, Sherlock," she said softly, her hand resting on his own for the briefest of moments. "You're human after all, just like the rest of us."
He leaned back against the chair, turning his gaze around the small café. "I've never felt the urge to kiss John, nor am I looking forward to take him to bed. I suppose all I've ever wanted was to get to spend the rest of our lives together – which isn't quite feasible now that he has a wife and a child on the way."
"Mary likes you. I'm sure she would never put herself between her husband and his best friend."
An amused smirk played across his features. "Probably not. If that was what she wanted, then I'd actually be dead."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. I like Mary, I really do. And Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. You."
"But we're not John," she offered, smiling sadly as if she didn't mind.
He averted his gaze and slipped back into silence.
xxx
"Breathe, Sherlock. Everything is going to be alright. Just breathe."
How was she capable of sounding so calm, when the world as he knew it was crumbling to pieces all around him? The life of John's daughter was hanging by a thin thread, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The hard cold truth was that he – Sherlock Holmes – was panicking. Molly had just managed to haul him out of the hospital, because the last thing John needed was his friend throwing a fit while he waited for news about his wife and child.
"We can't lose her. I can't – please," he muttered incoherently, holding onto her as if she'd suddenly become his lifeline.
"You're allowed to cry, you know. It's just the two of us, and I don't count."
Oh, but you do, he thought but didn't say. All the dangerous emotions he kept safely locked away in his mind palace had finally broken free, and he was left reeling in the upcoming storm.
She felt warm and familiar and safe as she held him – and strong, far stronger than he had ever given her credit for. John Watson was the one who kept him sane, but Molly Hooper kept him grounded in ways he wasn't expecting.
When his phone bleeped with an incoming text – She's alright, they both are – he laughed out of sheer relief and placed a grateful kiss on her brow.
"Let's go meet the little one, shall we?"
She nodded and followed his lead, as she always did.