Sequel! Squeals! I'm so excited. Well here you go! I decided to incorporate some elements of S3 but this is still definitely AU.

Molly sighed, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the receptionist counter of the library. It was a nice place, with all sorts of people walking in and out, but as much as Molly convinced herself she was happy there, she knew it didn't fit in with who was she again? Ah right, Molly Pyne. Molly Elizabeth Pyne, Molly Elizabeth Pyne, Molly Elizabeth Pyne—oh a man needed his books checked out. She did that now. Right. She gave him a smile as she viewed the titles. Little Dorrit, Our Mutual Friend, A Tale of Two Cities…

"On a bit of a Dickens kick?" She asked him as she took a good look at him. Good looking, sandy blond hair, fairly successful writer, here almost every day, recently divorced, abusive relationship—she was the abuser. Sometimes Molly wished she could turn that portion of her brain entirely off.

"Yeah." He smiled shyly at her, tracing the edges of the books she just gave back, for some reason not leaving. Oh. He was going to ask her out.

"Hey, are you free?" She interrupted him before he could ask and she saw the tiniest shining bit of hope in his eyes. He nodded but before he could say anything, she scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and pressed it in his palm, "See that girl over there?" Molly nodded towards a dark haired girl hiding amongst her books, "She's twenty-five, works as a teacher, and is currently working on her doctorate. She's single because she's painfully shy and I bet she would love to have coffee with you if you're not a complete oaf. Hand that note to her, don't look at it, just do it."

The man looked a little overwhelmed and awestruck before nodding and taking the paper over to her. Moments later, they were talking, not animatedly, but in that muted way that two people who realize that there's no need to rush or shout do. Molly was quite pleased with herself and using her powers for good instead of doing something particularly horrible.

Molly Pyne was a good person. She simply had to remember that.

Theodore Asimov cocked his head to the left, and then to the right, before moving forward and inching the frame up a bit. He stepped back, viewing the work he had recently obtained from a gallery. It was a beautiful painting of a woman, circa 1865 by an almost unknown Canadian artist. What Theodore found so remarkable about it was the fact that the subject of the painting resembled his Ma—Molly—so well, even down to the distant expression the woman often made. He thought it would make a fine addition to the first floor hall to set opposite to the mirror on the other end of it.

This was his house now.

This was his family.

The closest thing he had to a daughter was always there.

He practically had a clever little granddaughter he could lavish gifts and praise on.

Even that idiotically intelligent man Molly grew so attached to could be considered part of his family.

This was his house. Therefore he had every right to hang a lovely antique painting in it. He could repaint his room simply because he knew that a month from that moment, he would still be there to appreciate the color. There was a level of peace and permanence that he found in Molly's tall skinny house that cost more than most people made in a lifetime. He could only hope the peace wouldn't be shattered. He did still, after all, lock his door and keep a gun in his bedside table. There were some habits that might never die, no matter how long he lived without the lifestyle that required them.

John Watson was immensely happy. His best friend wasn't dead after all. He had met a beautiful woman who actually wanted to properly marry him. Of course, Sherlock had met Mary Morstan, but Molly hadn't the chance yet. He did hope the women got along. They were both rather strong willed, after all. If Mary took a dislike to Molly, things would be immensely complicated. But if Molly took a dislike to Mary—well she could end up on the missing person's list. Of course, John assumed Molly had more self control than that, however he was always cautious when it came to his friends.

Molly Hooper wasn't what anyone was expecting, not even Sherlock knew. Moriarty didn't know until he was too late. John laughed cautiously. Surely everything would be fine. Everything would fall into place much better if Molly was a maid of honor instead of Mary's friend—Janice was it? No Janine.

Anna Pyne sat twisting her hair around her pencil in class, watching as the curl grasped it before falling down. She cared very little for the teacher at the front of the room, trying to teach a disinterested class fairly basic maths. Her mind was abuzz, trying to figure out what next to focus on. Her professor was going through a particularly nasty divorce, contributing to her short temper. Outside there were three older kids conspiring to keep their involvement in a student's accidental death secret. Anna would have to put an end to that one at some point. She hated secrets. They were bitter things that ruined relationships far more than whatever was being kept secret.

At lunch she drifted off alone, only to be joined by a girl who smiled too wide with large front teeth and a wild mane of reddish hair. Fiona. Anna offered a smile of her own as the girl plopped down her lunchbox.

"I like our new orchestra professor. Was it really worth all of that trouble though?"

"What? It's not like I can go up to administrators and say 'hey, I don't like this teacher because she told me I was a pathetic excuse for a human being' and be believed. Mom had me write the apology letter, but otherwise she took care of it."

"I wish my parents did things like that."

"Mom's a bit too used to me being uhh—difficult."

Fiona laughed, "I want to meet her so much! She sounds cool."

Anna's smile faltered a little, "Yeah…."

Gregory Lestrade was still trying to figure out how Sherlock and a nuclear unit could ever be possible. He was failing miserably.

Sherlock didn't sleep much, especially when he was on a case, but once he was off of it, he often sagged and wished to obtain food and sleep at the next possible opportunity. He trudged up the stairs to the room he and Molly shared to find it empty—typical. After a long hard three days, all Sherlock really wanted to do was curl up next to her, feel her hand running through his hair as he recounted the case until he fell asleep.

Sleeping with the two cats lingering on the foot of his bed wasn't nearly so inviting. He sighed, knowing Molly didn't like sleeping alone, and moved two doors down to Anna's room. Just as he thought, Molly was there, asleep with her arms around her daughter in a gentle embrace. He slipped in, closing the door behind him, and slid into the narrower (maybe they should go ahead and invest in a larger bed for the girl?) bed beside them, throwing an arm over both of his girls.

"Hmm, you don't tread light enough." Molly murmured, shifting against him.

"I always wake you up."

"Want to move to our bed?"

"No, this is fine." He pressed his lips against the back of her head and began murmuring about the case John dubbed "London's Missing Heads."

They were all more or less happy. The biggest problem with equilibrium is that it cannot be sustained for long.