"But he was the only one, the only one who knew?"

"A couple others, it was a very elaborate plan. It had to be. The next of thirteen other possibilities-"

"Who. Else. Knew?"

"John," Lestrade's voice cut in, and John, still glaring at Sherlock, lowered his voice.

"Who else knew you were still alive, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair across from his (perhaps former) best friend. He glanced between the D.I and the doctor.

"Molly."

John felt himself take a very careful breath. Lestrade let out a breath, leaning back in his chair, looking at John.

"Molly," he repeated.

"Yes. Molly Hooper." Sherlock held unnaturally still. "I needed a confidant, one other than my brother, you understand. She provided me with a bolt-hole immediately following my 'death' and for when I had to return to London.

"What do you mean 'back in London'?" John snapped.

"I- well surely you didn't think all of Moriarty's network was based in foreign lands. I had to return to England for some of them. Usually only a night or two and Molly was most accommodating, you know how I hate to take charity from Mycroft-" he trailed off as John got to his feet, phone in his hand as he walked out of the restaurant.

oOo

Molly was arriving at Barts for her night shift when she felt her phone buzz. Seeing the name show up, she smiled at the name on the screen.

"Hello John, what's up? I thought you and Greg were going to the pubs."

"Molly Hooper you-" he sounded positively livid. He stopped speaking so abruptly she thought he'd hung up. Looking at the screen, seeing she was still connected, she frowned.

"John what is it? Are you there still?"

"You knew."

"Knew?" she frowned, hanging her coat up in her locker. "Knew what John?"

Then suddenly she understood.

Sherlock told him. He'd scared her half to death the previous night, showing up in the locker room, announcing he was back in London for good. He'd also explained how he would tell John the following night, which of course, would include her involvement in Sherlock's 'death'.

Of course he would tell him, as he should. She supposed John had a right to be mad too, that she was chosen as Sherlock's confidant and not him.

"He's told you then?" she asked quietly.

""You knew." John sounded so eerily calm, as if dumbfounded. That was certainly unexpected.

"Yes," she wrapped her free arm around her waist, leaning against the counter.

"The whole time, and you didn't tell me anything?"

Molly felt the familiar pang of guilt she'd learned to stamp down for the most part. The past two years had been hard for her. Harder still, every time Sherlock would return for a night or two, exhausted and bloodied, and remind her that the life she had with John was precariously balanced and that any day it could be snatched away from her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John repeated and she blinked, feeling tears begin to fall.

"I couldn't, John."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

Before she could answer he'd hung up and she was left alone with her thoughts.

One Year earlier

Sherlock collapsed onto the couch with a heavy groan.

"Lie still, I'll tape your ribs in a minute. Let me look at your eye first."

"Ribs first, if you please," he grunted, forcing himself upright and removing his shirt. Unrolling the ace bandage, she began to wrap him up.

"Exhale-" he let out a breath and she wound the roll around him again. "And again," the flat was quiet, her voice was soft, and Sherlock felt the adrenaline he'd been running on for days at last begin to ebb. Molly's flat was an oasis, a place where his never-ending mind found solace in the peace and quiet. Molly never said much unless he asked. She looked remarkably better than his last visit, but then, his last visit the crate that preceded his arrival carried sutures, pain medication and an instruction booklet on how to set a broken leg. A day before Sherlock would arrive on her doorstep, a non-descript package arrived containing whatever mending Sherlock needed, a fresh change of clothes and a new disguise. This time it was mostly medical, and a bottle of hair dye.

"How long are you here for?" she asked finally.

"Three days. Mycroft insists," he winced as she finished taping his ribs. "Have you seen John?" she looked up at him, and then followed his gaze to the shelf behind her. One of the buttons from John's coat had come loose when he'd stopped by, she'd saved to give to him the next time she saw him.

"Only for a few moments." Scooting closer, she very carefully began to dab an antiseptic swab over the gash. "This doesn't need stitches, but it does need to be cleaned out, I don't like the look of it."

"Bruised mostly," he muttered. He let her fuss over him a bit more. "You should see John again." She looked startled.

"What?"

"He fancies you, always has," Sherlock said. "You might be just what he needs to-"

"To what?" she interrupted, angry. "I can barely look anyone in the eye, and you tell me your best friend fancies me?"

"He needs someone, Molly."

"I'm not that someone," she looked at her lap, fiddling with the damp rag. Sherlock covered her hands with his bruised ones.

"He needs you, Molly." He crooked a finger under her chin and she finally lifted her head.

"I can't even look at him, Sherlock, every time I see him I think- 'I'm a liar' and I could never- I couldn't do that to someone I love, I couldn't!" sniffling, she stood up, going to the kitchen. "You need ice for your face and we need to color your hair still-"

"Molly, please," holding his waist, he followed after her. She slammed the kettle down on the counter.
"I told you, Sherlock, when this all began, I'd let you stay in my flat, I'd fix you up, but don't ask me…I can't lie to them anymore than I already am, least of all John!"

"Why least of all him?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his gaze.

"Because-" she let her hands fall limply to her sides. "He's your best friend, Sherlock, I had to see his face when you fell, when he went to your body,"

"And I heard him," Sherlock countered.

"I had to see him at the funeral, and every night in my dreams since, Sherlock. He thinks I'm broken up over you,"

"A perfect way for you two to bond," He answered. "I would not ask if it were not important Molly," he closed the distance between them, arm still wrapped around his waist. His words gave her pause.

"What is it?" Sherlock seemed to hesitate, loathe to say.

"His limp is back, he's…Mycroft's informants tell me he's the way he was before…before the cases and Baker Street."

"Well…" she floundered. "Well can't Greg or someone talk to him, what about-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "It needs to be you."

"Why?"

"Because he trusts you, he's got no reason not to, he thinks you and I were nothing more than workmates, that-"

"That I don't count," she finished and turned away with a sigh.

"You know that's not true." He murmured. She turned again to face him. "You do too count," he looked at his feet. "You've always counted. You made all this possible." He glanced up at her. "You are one of my best friends."

"And right now John needs a friend." Sherlock nodded.

"I wasn't lying either," he said after a moment. "He really does fancy you." Molly flushed red.

"How do you know?"

"He's got a snapshot of you in that frock you wore to the Christmas Party, and if you require more proof, I can list several occasions he defended your efficiency and skill in the lab to a number of people."

Molly would admit John Watson certainly did turn her head. He was an extraordinary man, a soldier, an army surgeon, a doctor and saved countless lives. He'd always been nice to her, and there were times while they'd be working a case she'd get the feeling there was a distinct feeling of mutual attraction between the two of them. And while she was listing his good qualities, he was quite a looker. She hadn't really allowed herself to dwell on those feelings, but now she wasn't so sure.

Still, Sherlock begged her to see John more, and so when his three days were up and he was off to Kazakhstan or God knows where, his hair dyed a bleach-blonde, she pocketed the button that had come from John's coat and made her way to the good doctor's flat.

"Did he call you?" Startled from her reverie, she looked up, seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Oh! God, you scared me," she breathed. "Yes, he just called.

"Was he…angry?"

"I don't know," Molly shrugged. "I guess…I guess he was shocked." Sherlock studied her carefully, scanning her appearance.

"I always miss something," he murmured, and she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze. He suddenly looked at her left hand, seeing the light catch a glittering object. "He proposed to you." He looked hurt, as if he suddenly realized how much he'd missed while he was gone, and too of the fact that she never told him when he last visited. He recalled distinctly her wearing the engagement ring, but he'd been too tired to properly inquire of it.

"Yes," Molly looked at her ring, suddenly remembering it was there. "We um…" she gave a half-hearted laugh. "You were right, Sherlock, he fancied me." Sniffling, she began to cry. Without another thought he crossed the room, drawing her close. "I love him so much, what's he going to do with me now?" she sobbed.

"Did he call it off?" Sherlock asked quietly. She shook her head, trying to wipe her eyes.

"He didn't say anything about it, oh no, look at your shirt," she sniffled, trying to wipe of the tearstains.

"Never mind it," he waved it off, hand on her back he guided her to the locker room. "Go home, run a bath for yourself, take the night off. Mycroft will arrange it."

"But John-"

"He will probably need a few days." Sherlock said confidently. "Never fear, Molly, he doesn't hate you."

Not believing him, she plodded home, tossing her keys on the table, coat and purse following. Toby wound his way between her legs, yowling and purring. Flopping onto the couch, she rolled over, turning on the television to drown out the quiet. A picture of her and John sat by her stack of dvds. It was from their fifth date, he'd actually been the one to suggest it.

She'd honestly only meant to return the button. One date turned into two and three, and by the fifth, she'd begun to forget why she'd started seeking out John's company in the first place, why she'd reminded him to call anytime, day or night. Their first date he forgot to feel sad. Their second date he genuinely smiled, and by their fourth, she'd gotten him to laugh so hard he cried. Their fifth date, they'd gone to dinner and then for a walk. He'd taken her hand, lacing his fingers in hers.

"I hope you know…" John stopped them in the path, turning to face her. "How much you've made a difference in my life. You're so…" he smiled, forcing out an embarrassed chuckle. "You came when I needed someone so much, I'd hoped…if it was to be anyone, it would be you." He met her gaze steadily. "I love you." She didn't know what to say. No man had ever told her he loved her. Well, once, in UNI, but that chap loved her for only one particular reason (hello, her father was finally right). "You don't have to say it back," John rushed out. "God, I know it's too soon, it is," he insisted when she stammered it wasn't. "I'd feel funny if you said it back. Say it when you feel like it, if you ever do, but I just had to tell you, I hadn't planned on it tonight, honestly," he raced on. "Geeze you must think I'm mad, but, Molly, I was so numb…when Sherlock died and…it was awful…and nothing seemed to matter anymore and then you came back into my life, and all this between us happened again, and I remembered what it's like to feel and here you are, looking the way you do and I couldn't help it. I want…" he trailed off. Molly stared back at him, quite moved, almost not believing what was happening. John Watson was looking at her as if he were seeing a light for the first time. He took a breath, trying again. "You're so…" She closed the distance between them, and he took it from there.

Two months later, when he was heading off to work, he called his usual goodbye, followed by 'I love you!' and she answered in kind. He poked his head around the corner. "Sorry?" Flushing pink, she stepped up to him.
"I said I love you." Hands around her waist, he tugged her close, admiring her in his usual way that meant they'd both be late for work.

"You did." He nodded. Another month passed and he proposed. Molly, accepted, trembling and crying, forgetting as she often did when she was with John what might happen when Sherlock came home.

Her phone ringing startled her and she sat up with a start. Sunlight pouring in through the open curtains nearly blinded her. Groaning, she checked the time on her phone, then seeing who was calling, quickly tapped the screen.

"Sherlock, has he said anything, how is he?" Questions tumbled out before Sherlock even had a chance to greet her.

"Ehm…no…I er…he's refusing to answer my calls, which is unfortunate as I rather need his help on a case. I um…I wondered if you would help me…solve crimes."

Molly blinked.

"Oh. Um…of course…are you sure?"

"Perfectly," the confidence was back in his voice, she could hear him walking around his living room, kicking papers out of the way. "Be at Baker Street in an hour, our first clients will be here shortly."

The day was spent fielding clients, until Greg called them and they went off to investigate a man about trains, and then what was supposedly the remains of Jack the Ripper. Neither of them talked much, both were missing John in their own ways. Sherlock simply wished John would stop being so pig-headed, especially now that London needed them both. Molly was an excellent assistant, but she wasn't John Watson. And Sherlock knew for a fact he could not compare to John in Molly's eyes. Still they worked comfortably together, as they always did. Molly and Sherlock, the night he'd 'died' had it out once and for all about what really was between them. Sherlock had whole-heartedly been sorry he couldn't love her as she deserved. If he were to have romantic feelings for anyone, he supposed it would be Molly, but he was married to his work. Molly had nodded understandingly, and pointed out that married people still had friends, didn't they? That was all that was between them, just good, companionable friendship and implicit trust, and Sherlock had even told John so. He didn't seem to think anything had gone on between the consulting detective and his fiancée, but John still wouldn't answer their calls.

"I know this was your way of thanking me," Molly said, following Sherlock down the flight of stairs.

"Correct, as usual," Sherlock called over his shoulder. They paused in the doorway to put on their scarves. "And too as a distraction for you." Sherlock was looking at her engagement ring again. "I never told you congratulations."

"It was a surprise for you, I'm sure," she murmured.

"No, I knew it wouldn't take John long to propose, once you gave him a chance," Sherlock replied. "I know you'll be very happy with him Molly, and he with you. If anyone deserves to be happy, after everything, it's you."

"If he even wants me anymore," she said glumly.

"He does," Sherlock promised. He let her hug him goodbye and then asked her to let him buy dinner for her. "I know a man who gives me extra chips."

"Did you solve a murder for him?"

"No I helped him install a set of shelves," he retorted. "Come on. You look like you could use a good meal." 'And a good talk with John.' He added silently.

Still licking salt from her fingers, she balanced the take-away container in her free hand as she pushed her key into the lock. The door swung open and she stepped back, suddenly afraid.

"It's alright Molly." The voice within called and she gave a sigh of relief, however short lived. Stepping inside, she shut and locked the door behind her. Setting her take-away container on the table, she tugged off her coat.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked softly. "Tea? Or…I've got leftovers…the man gave us extra chips…"

"I'd like to talk." John stepped forward. Her hand automatically went to her ring finger, twisting the band around and around, and she took a step closer. They both started at once:

"John I'm sorry I-

"I needed a few-"

"Sorry," she murmured. "Go ahead." He paused, going over his thoughts again.

"I needed a few days to let it sink in, think about it," he said at last. "And while I've every right to be mad at you for keeping it from me, for hiding it from me when we started dating and all through our relationship, Sherlock, Greg, Anderson and even bloody Mycroft have made it abundantly clear that your keeping it from me was a protection, and…" he shifted, looking a bit begrudging. "That it couldn't have been all that easy for you."

"It wasn't," she admitted. "John I wish- I wanted to tell you for so long, not just since everything happened between us, but if I did-"

"I know," he nodded. "I know why you did it, and I can't fault you, you did it to save him, and…all of us. That took courage. I just thought…when Sherlock told me you'd been the one to help him I thought it meant that maybe you still felt the way you used to about him…" he looked at her left hand, at the engagement ring glittering in the lamplight. "That you'd been behind my back or," he shrugged. "Or that you were putting me on." She turned to face him completely, about to tell him just what she thought of him even believing for one moment she would ever cheat on him or ever lead him on, but the bruise on his right cheek distracted her.
"What on earth is that from?" she touched it gently and he winced, sighing.

"That…uh…that was Sherlock telling me off for my thinking you and he would ever mess around behind my back." She looked closer, seeing the faintest of handprints.

"Did he slap you?"

"No…um…that was Mrs. Hudson," he answered sheepishly.

"Oh no, oh John I'm sorry-"

"No," he shook his head. "I was an ass. I was pretty mad when I went to talk to him last night." Molly looked up at him, quite shocked.

"You did?! He never said!"

"No, he wouldn't, probably didn't want to upset you," John rubbed the back of his neck. "I got it in my head to have it out with him, let him know just what it was like, having to go for two whole years thinking he was dead. He said some things too, you know."

"Oh?"

"Mmhm," he nodded. "Like how you and he had it out about what really was between you, and that you turned each other down, and that after a while he asked you to look after me."

"He never asked me to date you," she clarified."

"He said he told you that I liked you,"

"'Fancied me', were his words, I believe," they exchanged smiles then. She sobered quickly. "I didn't date you out of pity, if that's what you're wondering. He asked me to check in on you, and I suppose in his own way was encouraging us to be friends. You just happened to take it to the next step." He nodded. "I'm so glad you did, you made the past year and half so wonderful John, I've never been happier, not with anyone."

"I'm glad." Again, she began to twist the engagement ring.

"Do you…do you still want to- want me, that is?" she asked, her voice was small.

"Yes. Oh my God yes," he crossed the room then, bringing her into his arms.

Some months later, living room of 221b

Time went on, and John and Molly's relationship flourished. Now with Sherlock back, they threw themselves completely into planning the wedding, which Molly admitted she'd stalled a bit on before Sherlock came home. Now the three of them were thick as thieves, and Mycroft grumbled about having to keep an eye on all of them. John and Sherlock got into enough mischief on their own, and while Molly could oftentimes talk them out of doing anything too serious, she could on occasion be persuaded to join in the mischief.

Four months until the big day, she and John were at Baker street, looking over wedding plans while Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, deep in his mind palace, mulling over a cold case Lestrade had given him to keep him quiet.

"Here, this is the best one I think," Molly said, handing John a menu sample. "It's not heavy, and its vegetarian plate should please your sister."

"Hm," John nodded.

"Harry's not a vegetarian anymore," Sherlock called from the sofa. Anyway I told you, Anthea already booked your reception at Claridges, there's no point going over those menus.

"Sherlock I told you, it's way out of our budget-"

"Obviously Mycroft is footing the bill, which reminds me you have a fitting at Zuhair Murad boutique end of this week." Molly frowned.

"Isn't that in France?"

"Mm. Anthea is going with you, she figured you could use a chum." With that the consulting detective sank back into his mind palace, leaving a dumbfounded Molly to turn to her fiancé. He shrugged.

"Just go with it."

"You asked him to be best man didn't you?" Molly asked and he nodded.

"Ages ago. Greg promised to walk you down the aisle too." Companionable silence settled between them.

"Oh, my landlord called, she says congratulations, and to let her know what I plan on doing about the flat," Molly said. "We never really talked about it, who's moving where?"

"Hm?" John looked up from an ad for an alarmingly disturbing fuchsia and lime bridal party.

"Where are we going to live? It's up to you, you know I'll go wherever you go."

"Oh," John nodded. He looked around 221b, then back at her. "Here." Molly laughed.

"Seriously."

"Oh, no, seriously," he said, raising his eyebrows. He shut the catalogue. Molly frowned.

"What?"

"Sherlock told me a couple months ago he was having the flat above fixed up, he'd put a hole in the ceiling and Mrs. Hudson made him fix it, he sort of went from there, and decided it might make a good wedding present." She punched him in the arm.

"You git!" John laughed, tugging her chair closer to his, settling his arm around her.

"I just want you to have the full Sherlock experience," he teased. "After all, you having him in your flat for two or three days at a time hardly a chance to really get the full effect."

"We cannot live with him. He's impossible! I never even lived with him and I know he is!"
"Oh no, no, we'd be above him," John corrected. "I told you, he's had the flat above completely redone. It's all up to snuff, fully furnished too."

"He'll still fill the fridge with cadavers."

"Probably," John bent and kissed her.

"And he'll keep us up all night with the violin."

"Most," another kiss. "Definitely."

"He'll probably try and steal my birth control." There was a twinkle in John's eye and she nudged him, mostly laughing but still annoyed.
"I can't believe you told him yes."

"Wellll…to be fair, if I'm to keep assisting him in cases, it will be easier to just run downstairs rather than across town, and you'll only be a quick cab ride away from Barts. You know Mycroft always foots the bill for you."

"Oh hell," she tipped her head back, rolling her eyes. "Why not." John leaned in to kiss her but she stopped him, a hand over his mouth. "On one condition, Toby comes too."

"You and that cat," he groused, chuckling as he kissed her.

"You should talk," they both turned to see Sherlock stretch himself out, rolling over into the most ridiculous of positions as he heaved a sigh.

"Are you two quite finished or can we get on with this cold case? Mrs. Gordon's head didn't just pop off on it's own you know!"

"We did say for better or worse," John shrugged and Molly laughed.