A/N: I've had this idea for a while, but I've been reluctant to write it. I know you'll all end up hating me for this. ;) But, seriously, I wanted to do this. There are some things that should never be swept under the rug, and this, I think, is one of them. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

"Please, Molly. Would you talk to him? Just this once."

He was doing it on purpose, she knew. The diffident stance, shoulders bowed, hands resting on the desk, he looked the picture of submissiveness. When coupled with those soft, pleading grey eyes, and the perfectly formed moue by those cupid lips, he was utterly endearing. However, his stance did not engender the sympathy he so obviously expected.

"That," she said flatly, with a hint of bitterness lending acidity to her monotone, "is what you said last time."

His pout turned into a full-fledged grimace. "I know," he said quietly. "I know, alright? I messed up again. That's what I do, don't I?"

The anguish and confusion radiating off this man, he whom she had once assumed to be unbreakable, broke through the last bit of her reserve. "Don't, Sherlock. It's not you."

He shook his head, smiling bitterly. "Of course it's me. It's always me."

Sighing, she reached out and placed both of her delicate yet steady hands on the two larger ones, that were resting palms up on the desk, fingers spread out as if in supplication. The long, slender fingers wrapped around her palms, squeezing gently. Giving comfort, and taking in the same.

She looked at him. Met those brilliant, grey-blue, pleading eyes, shredding the last bits of her hesitancy. He deserved to know the truth. "The Emperor has no clothes," she told him steadily.

A flash of something passed through those eyes, those trusting, innocent eyes. "No," he replied instantly, defensively. "No," he repeated, and he was no longer defensive, only pleading. "No, you cannot make that analogy. John is my friend."

She was surprised that he got the reference to the story. (Did his mother read those kind of books to her brilliant little boy? Didn't he delete all such extraneous information such as fairy tales and fables?) She wasn't surprised that he had connected it to the person she had intended to reference. That realization only served to reinforce what she had known for a while.

"Yes, he is," she agreed. "Depending on the definition of friendship you'd like to use."

He pulled his hands away from her, angrily, desperately. "I didn't think you were the jealous type, Molly," he said coldly.

Her heart broke just a little bit more. Not for her broken dreams, but for those of the man she loved, in so many ways. "If the clothes are there, Sherlock," she insisted, hating herself for every word she uttered, for twisting the knife even deeper, but nevertheless never backing down, "If they're there, you are the only one who sees it. You, and him. You know what that means."

He didn't answer. For many long minutes, he stared at a spot on the desk, eyes sunken into his very pale face. "Maybe. Then we'll just have to find him some, won't we?"

"Look at me, Sherlock Holmes," she commanded quietly. He complied instinctively. "You cannot do that for him. This is something he'll need to do himself."

"He needs someone to save him. She told me to save him!"

"I know, Sherlock." She bit her bottom lip. "You did. But you can't keep on doing this, can you?"

"I should. As his friend."

"As his friend, you should help him by not encouraging his delusions. You should let him save himself, for once," she retorted.

"I won't abandon him." He said it like it was a vow. Which it probably was.

"You're a good friend. A good man." She bit her lip again as she felt the tears welling up. Stupid. She couldn't show how much she was hurting for him, not if she wanted to help him. Sherlock didn't do well with overt sympathy. Back to cold, hard truths.

"You let him blame you again and again. You let him hurt you, verbally, emotionally, even physically. He never apologizes, and you never expect him to. Tell me if this is the kind of man you want Rosie's father to be."

The spasm that crossed his face time her that she had touched on his pressure point, his hidden concern that he would never admit he had.

"He would never hurt her!" His defensiveness was fueled by raw pain and worry.

"I didn't think he would. Yet she shouldn't have to live with seeing him hurting you!"

"John Watson," he said, putting up his last line of defense, "is a good man."

"He is," she agreed, immediately. "That's why, I believe, he will be willing to change. Once you let him."

"Once I let him?" he asked cautiously, not quite understanding.

"Open his eyes. And see what's missing."

The silence stretched. "I always thought I was the boy who saw what everyone else refused to see. But that's really who you are, aren't you, Molly?"

"Please, Sherlock," she pleaded, wondering if she would ever be heard. "Please let John find himself before it's too late."