Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Spoilers for all of season 3, and set after His Last Vow. Truth be told, I'm not even sure how this happened: This is pure, undiluted cross-over fluff. Unrepentant, pure, undiluted cross-over fluff. I would apologise to all the characters whose dignities I'm about to decimate, but what would be the point? So sit back and enjoy. And thanks to Katya Jade for her beta.

~ Anglo-Asgard Relations ~

When thinking back on how this all started, Sherlock decides that he blames Mary.

Not that he doesn't think any of the other Avengers (and isn't that an abysmally stupid name for a group?) didn't play their part in what the British tabloids are now terming Lokigate, but the bulk of the blame can be laid at Mrs. Watson's door.

After all, she's the one who suggests Molly leaves the country until they apprehend Moriarty, and she's the one who calls on her old friend Natasha Romanova in order to make that happen.

She's the one who arranges the internship for Molly in Stark Industries, reasoning that if Hooper can keep her temper around Sherlock Holmes then she'll probably be able to keep her temper around Tony Stark. And Bruce Banner. And, well, the Hulk.

(Sherlock's not exactly thrilled by what that says about him.)

Mary is also the person who recommends Molly changes her appearance and style as much as possible when she's abroad, the better to conceal her identity should anyone become suspicious. She's the person who brings her shopping and teaches her some self-defence, and brings in a, frankly, ridiculously short, hirsute man named Logan (with whom every woman in the flat inexplicably flirts) to go through her personal safety in the wake of Moriarty's Return.

And perhaps, most damningly, Mary is also the person who suggests that when Molly eventually comes back from New York she brings her new charge with her. The one she's been watching over while she was in New York. The one who wants to reconnect with his brother in London. The one with the high security clearance that Mycroft doesn't want to talk about. The one currently bloody… canoodling with Sherlock Holmes' pathologist in the middle of the St. Bart's canteen- Disgusting, Sherlock thinks, just completely unnecessary-

And it is for this reason that Sherlock has decided that a) all of Mary's future interactions with Molly should be monitored heavily, and possibly curtailed, and b) that Molly's charge, Serrure, is the most obnoxious, preening, overweening, overbearing arsehole in the history of western civilisation, and that he absolutely, positively should not have his hands anywhere near sweet, innocent, possibly alcoholically-inclined Molly Hooper.

She is Sherlock's pathologist. This Serrure fellow can keep his filthy mitts off her.

Even if his attentions don't seem the least unwanted, and Molly, in fact, seems perfectly happy in his company, Serrure is clearly still a twat.

"Take it easy, mate," he hears John's voice chime from across the table at him, his amusement clear even though he's trying to hide it. He is poking his bacon and eggs gingerly, having insisted on their both going to the canteen to get some food. "She's only having her breakfast with the bloke, stop staring daggers at him."

"I am not staring daggers at anyone," Sherlock snaps. Looking over the table at John. Staring daggers.

Even he must admit his reaction is less than helpful.

Watson's grin widens- it looks irritatingly like Mary's now- and he crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair. "Fine," he says. "Then go over there. Say hello. Welcome Molly's new prospect to St. Bart's. You made that effort with Tom, didn't you? So try again."

And calmly, maddeningly, he pops a forkful of scrambled egg in his mouth. Waggles his eyebrows. It is astonishingly childish.

It takes Sherlock a moment to recall both the significance of the name and to realise that his glare will not stop John teasing him, so he shoots his friend an imperious look, stands and makes his way over the canteen to Molly's table. The trainee doctors scatter away from him like pigeons, a couple abandoning their meals in the process, but it doesn't bring the satisfyingly warm glow it usually does. Without waiting for an introduction he seats himself beside Molly on the table bench and crosses his arms. Shoots Serrure his best glare. He can feel her thigh pressing against his as she murmurs her hello and he's not entirely sure why but it feels a little bit… Not Very Horrible.

Goodness, he hopes she doesn't realise that.

Goodness, he hopes John doesn't realise that.

He really wishes John would do him the courtesy of masking his guffaws at a time like this but Watson's looking at him, devilment in his eyes and laughing with nary a thought for his friend's tender feelings. The git.

"So this is the clever detective in the funny hat," Serrure drawls in a sharp, cut-glass accent every bit as upper-crust as Sherlock's own. Holmes stiffens. "Molly's been talking about you- Don't worry, she did you justice."

And he leans back nonchalantly, his green eyes raking over Sherlock's impeccable suit before he shoots a cheeky wink at Molly. His look is evaluating, mocking; Serrure too is wearing a suit, his heavier, more expensive and charcoal grey. A dark green tie and matching, dark emerald cufflinks are set against a snowy white shirt, his collar-length black hair sleek and combed. It's effortlessly elegant in the way Sherlock always likes to think he is, but for the first time in a very long time the detective feels a smidge of… discomfort. He refuses to characterise the sensation as jealousy.

His suit is just as nice as Serrure's, he assures himself.

And anyway, it takes more than a spot of bespoke tailoring to turn Molly Hooper's head.

Apparently you need to be a higher-functioning sociopath too.

Which for all he knows, Serrure is. He can't help but notice the way her eyes sweep over the other man when she thinks he's not looking, her pupils dilating, her mouth opening unconsciously as her tongue pokes out to lick her lips, and it occurs to Sherlock that it may not be the notion of Serrure in the suit, so much as the notion of him out of it, that's engaging her interest. Which is not something he's ever really thought when she looks at him. He's not entirely sure how he feels about that- No, he's entirely sure how he feels: dismayed- but he's not about to say that out loud. Instead he casts around for something to speak of that won't result in him sounding like an idiot or thumping Serrure for his epic engittedness-

"You look well, Molly," is what he settles for, mainly because it's true. She does.

She beams at him and Sherlock has the satisfaction of seeing Serrure stiffen. "I feel well," she says. "Pepper and Darcy took me down to Malibu for a few days before I came back; I'd forgotten how much I like the sunshine." She hums happily, forks some bacon and eggs into her mouth with a grin. "It's so beautiful there, Sherlock- Not like dreary old London-"

"You're right," Serrure says, shooting another antagonistic, imperious look at Sherlock. His eyes are mischievous. "London is just so dull and slow- I'm not sure how you could bear to come back to it, my dear."

Molly blinks at him. "It's my home, Lo-" She clears her throat self-consciously. "It's my home, I'd never abandon it," she says. "Going away is nice, but having someone- ahem, somewhere to come home to is nicer. Don't you think, Sherlock?"

"Yes," Serrure echoes mockingly, "Don't you think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock fights to urge to grit his teeth. He will not lower himself to this level of childish one-upmanship unless it involves his brother. "I think that Molly will always have a home in London, no matter what flight of fancy destination she decides to fritter away her time on," he says quietly.

And he shoots Molly his best grin, the one that got him a human head out of St. Bart's morgue.

Molly grins back at him and he has to rein in the desire to stick his tongue out at Serrure.

But his sense of triumph is premature. "Ah yes," the other man says, "London can be the reliable husband, and her wider destinations can be the exciting new man. I think I could get behind that notion." He reaches across and brushes a kiss over Molly's knuckles and Ms. Hooper actually bloody giggles. Giggles. Serrure grins at Molly, the force is it nearly blinding the entire room. Seriously, Sherlock's astonished those teeth don't carry a public health warning. And with that he leans down and whispers something, presumably, flirtatious, in her ear- Sherlock can't make it out because, irritatingly, he's positioned himself precisely so as to avoid lip-reading- and then Serrure is gone. He makes his way to the hooks along the door and puts on a long, flowing wool coat, turning the collar up against the cold-

"Dammit," Sherlock says, and Molly blinks at him.

"Something the matter?" she asks.

Sherlock looks at her, mumbles something about having left an experiment going in Baker Street and having to head back there right away- "John should join me," he mutters, "welcome back, and all that…"

He doesn't answer when John asks how the meeting with Serrure went. Nor does he comment on John's, "I think you scored, mate,"- because he's too bloody busy reflecting that his friend was right.

Because turning your coat-collar up around your cheekbones does indeed make you look like a ponce. And unfortunately for him, he's no longer the only ponce in town.

Bugger, Sherlock thinks as he and John stalk out of St. Bart's. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

"Oh yes," John chortles. "You definitely scored, mate."

Sherlock reminds himself that even without Mary's cooperation, he can still murder John quite handily, but the thought brings no comfort at all.

Drat.

So, what do you think? Would you like to read more? Let me know, he he he. And hobbits away, hey!