A/N: This is a one-shot for Morbidmegz to celebrate her birthday! It was first posted on tumblr, though un-edited. Now it's been altered and edited to the way I like it. Obviously based on my favourite story of the bard himself - Much ado about nothing! Pretty much skipping the idea where I was going to make a multi-chapter version of that, but let's ignore that fact shall we? Yeah, let's.

He'd like to take back the bit about him "don't be dead," especially since Sherlock Holmes was truly alive, and he was cocking up absolutely everything.

Three years, three bloody years of John believing he was rotting in the earth, and now he wasn't even dead. He was bloody well alive, mucking up him popping the question to Mary, interrupting their sodding dinner with him telling them he was alive. Well, of course he was – he was bloody there to begin with.

Of course he was happy, he had his best mate back, that was brilliant, but he still thought he was an arse.

John didn't exactly know how long he stared. Neither did he properly hear the comment about his moustache, which he wilfully ignored, as Mary returned from the loo, also taking to staring at Sherlock.

Apparently Sherlock was looking for the last man standing, of Moriarty's network. His speech going so quickly, that obviously, he didn't know how to communicate like an ordinary human being anymore (not that he ever knew).

He heard him of course, briefly understood the whole thing, and then he punched him.

That had been brilliant; of course he wasn't the only one who reacted with full-blown outrage, especially since Sherlock was returning with flair.

The one thing that John hadn't expected was the slap that came from the usually blushing pathologist Molly Hooper, who he didn't expect would leave a fiery mark on Sherlock's cheek, adding to his own bruise.

He felt oddly satisfied with that. After all, the woman had been through several disappointing moments with the man, but he thought the slap would be the end of that. Apparently it wasn't, since she deliberately ignored Sherlock at every turn, speaking over him if he addressed her, and even on some occasion made fun of him.

John didn't know that Molly's humour was dark. In fact he didn't know she was particularly funny, but after a few glasses of champagne the woman had enough anecdotes about the man to cause a whole group of people to flock about her during the wedding. But this unexpected change – where did it actually come from?

Sherlock seemed to believe he deserved each backhanded compliment, though he never made any comment as to why, and John didn't exactly feel like prying (much).

"Why is she so angry, then?" he asked, when he'd popped round at Baker Street, assuring himself that Sherlock was still alive, and also eating (he was still odd when it came to food of course).

"Who?" said Sherlock with an uninterested expression, changing the slide he had at the microscope.

"Molly," said John taking a sip from his coffee, studying his friend's un-amused face, as Sherlock looked up at him. He looked at him like he was being stupid, but he didn't give an answer, and John didn't bother him (much).

The fact was, John fully expected Molly to revert to her old ways of fidgeting around Sherlock any time soon, except she didn't, at all. She did avoid making too many crass remarks, but John was amazed when Sherlock seemed to be returning those with his own cutting retorts.

"You're still alive then?" asked Molly, when they'd entered the lab one day, and she was stood with bunches of paper work, obviously over-worked and tired.

Sherlock stood with his back far more rigid than usual, drawing himself upright, and said, "I'd rather not be dead in your hands again."

Again?

"Again?" said John loudly, as he caught Molly's red-face, and Sherlock's amused expression.

"Yes, since then I'd make sure you were dead…this time," she said picking up her papers, and storming out.

"Sorry – what the hell just happened?"

"Conversation amongst friends, John. Obviously," said Sherlock looking pleased, as he slipped off his coat.

Months past, Molly went from being called Molly to Doctor Hooper, and Sherlock was in turned called Holmes by her.

Luckily John wasn't the only one who'd noticed their strange behaviour, "Every time I go in with him, it'll end up with the pair of them having a go at each other, which honestly is fun, but it is starting to get old fast," said Lestrade taking a long appreciate sip of his pint, in the pub one evening.

Mike Stamford was seated between the pair of them, listening to their conversation with a curious expression on his face, "Well…we could of course, no, that wouldn't work-," and he hid away a laugh with his drink.

"What wouldn't work?" said John leaning forward on his stool, hoping that Mike had some explanation, as to why they were all finding themselves in a middle of a row.

"Obviously…well, it's not obvious, come to think of it, but what if something happened?" said Mike.

Lestrade blinked, "What are you on about?"

"I mean, what if in the three years he was dead – that they, you know," said Mike with a furtive gesture of his shoulders, causing the three of them to turn silent.

"No," said Lestrade with a shake of his head, "It's Sherlock, obviously – nothing would have happened between them…or…"

John frowned, "Mike, what exactly is the idea, then?"

Mike grinned in return, downing the remains of his drink, as he said rather carefully, "OK, so, it's an absolutely stupid idea, and will probably not work, but at least they'll stop with all the fussing…what if we just trick Sherlock into believing Molly fancies him."

"I think he already knows that," said Lestrade with doubt etched in his face.

"Does he though? He might be absolutely sure where we've been, what we've been doing, but he isn't an actual mind reader. He especially doesn't understand women, to be honest, and I don't even think she does fancy him anymore."

"No, I don't think she does," said John thoughtfully touching his chin, "But I'm not sure it would work, anyway, what good would that do? We'd have to sort – oh – I can get Mary to do it – she and Molly are friends after all."

Lestrade guffawed, "Are we trying to get Sherlock – a girlfriend?" he said with knitted brows, "Sherlock Holmes? We're talking about the man who's all about his job - about the cases. A man who's more likely capable of falling in love with a triple homicide than an actual woman."

"There was Irene Adler, though, wasn't there, John?" said Mike with a slight grin.

"That doesn't mean he's going to start swanning about like an idiot though…Actually, I'll put several pounds on that he doesn't," said Lestrade pointedly.

Of course they made a bet about the whole thing.

A part of John felt terrible about it, but oddly enough he had a lot of confidence in Mike's plan. Pre-sobering up of course, but when he mulled over it in the morning the outcome in his head was different. He came to the conclusion that it was stupid piss-talk between men, "And then we shook hands on it…it's never actually going to work – they probably don't even remember by now," he said to Mary, who was eyeing him oddly.

"Oh, but what if it does?" she said after a minute.

"Yeah…but…" interrupted John, only to have Mary take the plates off the kitchen table, as she half-shouted from the kitchen sink, "We could at least try!"

They were being so bloody obvious with their body language that he didn't know what to do with his posture. Firstly Greg was mimicking him, by also crossing his arms, which he suddenly felt was unnatural behaviour.

So, he dropped his arms to his sides, and clenched his hands instead, leaning a bit forward, as to give the impression that it was a private conversation.

The pair of them knew where Sherlock was, or at least they hoped they did (just around the corner in hallways of Bart's).

"So are you sure?" he said, trying to seem like he was keeping a low voice.

He was well aware of Sherlock's Vulcan-likehearing, and knew that the man was a natural eavesdropper, especially when his name was mentioned.

"Yeah, she's still in love with the git."

"I can't believe Molly would still love him, after how he's been behaving…you should talk to her," he said with an overly theatrical expression even for him, but he could hear footsteps suddenly still close by.

They both grinned at each other, slowly trying to mask their faces into outmost concern, looking faintly ill instead.

"I tried. She wouldn't listen to me at all. She's miserable, but she's hiding it well you know. After all he's done, Molly is still in love with the consulting idiot."

John stifled a snort, as he saw the all-too pleased way Lestrade delivered consulting idiot. He could hear a faint release of breath in the distance; "We'll just have to hope she gets over it, then," he said trying to seem thoughtful.

"Let's do – imagine if he knew? He's married to his work after all, and hasn't exactly ever given her the time of day."

"No…he hasn't," said John throwing a glance back, as he heard the steps, "Shit, he's coming," he said pretending like he and Lestrade were keen to shift the subject, "So, are there any – err – suspects we can talk to, then? A man with a bike - possibly a blue bike, at least that's what Sherlock said…"

Sherlock appeared at their side, his face unreadable, "I think Molly has the list of the DNA matches we got -," said Lestrade clearing his throat, as the pair of them eyed Sherlock rather awkwardly.

"I'll go," said Sherlock striding off, and when he was far enough away, they both broke out laughing, wondering if it had at all worked.

"Please not you," said Molly with a tired expression, looking up from her desk littered with papers, one of them bearing a large coffee stain. He knew that her desk was usually tidy, at least – before - it was. He observed her longer than necessary, the slight pink in her cheeks, the bright brown eyes, and the hair that was cascading down on her slender shoulders.

Her eyebrows were raised, furiously knitted, "Err – ok – what do you need, then?" she said with pursed lips, a pen in her hand, as she looked at him expectantly.

He should have known. He should have seen it. It was so very obvious by the grimace she was giving him. She was in love with him, by the furtive expression in her eyes, and the impatience to get rid of him. He was slowly torturing her with his presence.

Obviously.

Internally he struggled, his mind racing, contemplating the entire concept of her feelings. He had been aware of those, of course, at least – then – but the creature before him wasn't fawning blatantly, neither was she – "Holmes?" she said at his silence.

It felt wrong hearing her call him Holmes, a word designated for his brother or father. He did long to have her call him Sherlock, and somehow, it was as if a profound weight had been lifted from his chest, and a new sensation took place at knowing the extent of her feelings.

Hesitating speaking for a second, he finally opened his mouth, and said rather slowly, "I require the DNA matches - Lestrade told me you had them, if you'd be so kind." He gave a brief nod and a hint of a smile.

Her eyes widened, as she stared at him gaping slightly, "OK…" there was a sudden up-rise of pink in her cheeks, "He did mention…right…ok…well – here you go," she said scrambling up the papers, holding them out for him.

"I hope it wasn't too difficult for you to get hold of these," he said with a pro-longed smile now, taking hold of the papers, and feeling his pulse raise as he briefly crossed paths with her hand.

Molly's brown eyes only narrowed ever so slightly, obviously she was too reacting on the contact with his skin, "It didn't hurt, as much as giving them to you, no," she said blinking a lot, her gaze turning downwards, as if she was afraid of looking at him.

"Ah, of course," he said, "Goodnight Molly." He lay emphasise on her name, it felt almost foreign on his lips now, and he saw her stir at the words, briefly looking up at him in shock.

"Right…" she said, a concerned expression on his face, obviously for his welfare. The case wasn't that dangerous to him at least, but he was somehow glad to have her care.

Sherlock would be deluding himself, if he pretended that he wasn't amenable to finally reciprocate her feelings. Molly Hooper was no ordinary woman, neither did she flounder around him anymore, give him compliment upon compliment either, which made her even more interesting. He could not deny he found her attractive, but he had to admit he was still somewhat surprised she was in love with him. After all she'd said and done lately, those actions spoke the contrary, but his conclusion to this was that she was trying to chase him away.

She too obviously saw the downsides of any relationship, and too thought he wouldn't reciprocate her feelings, doing it for the benefit of them both.

No, he would.

He would give her what she yearned for, what he too upon considerable thought, had for some time.

The dinner party was in full swing when she left the table mid-chatter, to go to the bathroom, but when she walked down the hallway, she heard the loud voices of two women talking in the bedroom.

It was Mary and Sally Donovan.

"You're kidding?" said Sally Donovan sounding outraged, "He's in love with her?"

She had almost pushed the bedroom door open fully, but found her hand stilling, as curiosity took over, "Yes, Sherlock is absolutely heartbroken over Molly," said the voice of Mary.

Molly gaped, taking several steps back from the door, as she soon stood pressed against the wall, listening.

"Who would have thought anyone would ever get into the tin man's non-existent heart, after all?" said Sally with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, you've got to give him credit – Molly hates his face right now."

"Lestrade told me they were bickering, but I didn't think it was that bad."

"John tells me he barely eats at all, or sleeps, and seems even a bit bored with his cases – whatever number they're supposed to be," said Mary with a loud sigh.

"Wow, he's got it hard then?"

"Oh yes, but John's going to have a chat with him – tell him to stop messing about with the idea, and just let her go."

Molly was gaping in outrage now. They weren't even going to tell her? They were just going to make him get over her, when she – when she – she stalked off, leaping off to the bathroom, and ended up staying there thinking much longer than necessary.

Yes, he drove her mad.

Yes, he was an idiot.

But…but…if she were entirely honest, she'd never properly gotten over him, at all. And now, after years of trying to move on – he fancied her – and everyone was keen on him to forget her? The fact that Mary didn't feel like telling her stung, and she couldn't believe her friend would think she was that heartless. She wasn't even close to that heartless, at all. No, she would…she would do something about it. He was heartbroken? He'd called her Molly the other day, so softly that she didn't know what to think, and…he'd been much more muted in her presence lately, too.

How hadn't she seen it?

It was so obvious.

John knew there was a sudden change, when he saw Sherlock taking a bit extra-care in his appearance, as he told him they'd be heading off to St Bart's. He tried to keep his face normal at that, even ignoring Molly who was turning red at the sight of Sherlock.

She didn't throw snide remarks anymore, and Sherlock had perceptively softened around her. Firstly, he didn't actually think it was going to work, as he assumed Sherlock would race to tell Molly off for fancying him, but that never actually took place. They seemed to believe their scheme entirely, to everyone's surprise, and John felt almost a bit guilty.

Except, the way that the pair was acting around each other. Well, it was almost like before, but different. He couldn't put his finger on it, though there were enough of examples. From the way the two constantly looked at the other, while the other one was oblivious to their attentions. Even taking to turn around quickly, when they met each other's eyes. It was like watching a pair of teenagers work their way around romance by doing it terribly, terribly slow.

Everything went wrong one day however, when Sherlock and John had managed to solve a case to the relief of even Molly. She'd been more present than usual in the event, and the three of them were in the lab sharing relieved smiles. It was then that Sherlock said, "Dinner?"

John felt his stomach churn at the word, "Yeah – I'm a bit-," he started, never allowed to finish.

"Not you," said Sherlock throwing him a look, "Molly?" The man inclined his curled dark head to the pathologist who'd been carrying a bunch of papers, which she promptly dropped at the utterance of her name and the word dinner. Obviously she knew what that word meant in Irene Adler's dictionary.

The papers covered the floor, completely forgotten, as she cleared her throat, "Oh – oh – me?" she said, quickly remembering the papers, and bent down to get them.

Sherlock however followed suit, assisting her, "Obviously," he said briefly touching her hand, as he helped her, making the pair of them slow down entirely.

John made a face, quickly intending to slip out unnoticed by the bumbling fools, except he heard the loud exclamation of, "You are in love with me - it would be good of me to reciprocate after all."

He groaned at those words, stepping back inside, as he heard Molly's rather enraged, "What? I'm sorry, but I've heard you're heartbroken over me."

"I think you must have confused that with yourself, Molly."

They were standing now, in two very defensive positions, staring daggers at each other, lacking all the sweetness they'd had prior to this, and John felt like burrowing himself underground with the stupid plan.

"I'm not confused - I heard Mary talking with Sally," Molly said with red cheeks, her eyes turning to the floor, until she met Sherlock with a brazen stare.

"Well – I-," started Sherlock, who's expression hardened, before he wheeled around, "John – explain."

He saw their bewildered faces, the anger that was directed to each other, turning confused and muddled by the second, especially considering his guilty expression, which he couldn't at all hide, "Right…ok…so," he started, scratching at his head, "- I might have – well we – thought - err – you know what – sod that – I'm not going to pretend that either of your behaviour has been good. Since, let's be honest – you've been right idiots with each other! We all know that this is some sort of weird repressed…thing…" he said, not mentioning the word sex, despite feeling that it would ease his own mood, "So…could you just get over that, and actually have a coffee, or something?"

It was a moment of silence, worse than any other really, with the pair of them staring at him, before looking at each other.

Molly spat out, "No," rather outraged, before she ran out of the lab, her hair bouncing in its ponytail.

Sherlock's expression was far more condescending, "You did this for your own amusement, then?" he said quietly.

"No – we thought-,"

"Everyone knows then. Brilliant, John," sneered Sherlock, "What on earth possessed you to believe we were in love with each other?" He followed Molly's actions, striding purposefully out, leaving John sighing to himself.

When he finally got home feeling dreadful, for having cocked everything up – he was surprised to find an ecstatic Mary greeting him, "It worked, then! They played right into our hands," she said giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Sorry?" he said slipping off his jacket.

Mary blinked at him, "Molly's been texting me…they're having dinner, right now? Didn't Sherlock tell you? She was a bit cross when she figured out what we'd done, but not so angry anymore, at least," she said grinning, giving him a long kiss on the mouth, "Let's have dinner, then, shall we?"

John chuckled to himself; a thing he did a lot when he took up his duties as the best man, years later. Retelling in his speech how he'd helped getting the pair together in the first place.