It had taken months for John to tell Sherlock about his fondness for the doctor.

It wasn't so much that he was embarrassed or anything. The object of his affection was nothing to be embarrassed about. But to be quite honest, he didn't see much point in sharing those particular thoughts with Sherlock. He didn't seem the type of person one could have those sorts of conversations about a girl with – much less a girl they both knew on a professional basis.

Woman. Not girl. She is a woman.

Initially, the intensity of his attraction to the pathologist had taken him by surprise. The day he met her had been an interesting one, the most interesting day since his return to civilian life, if he was being frank. And meeting Molly Hooper was the gloriously melted chocolate chip in the middle of a freshly baked cookie, right out of the oven. The bit that made it even better.

"Ah, Molly! Coffee. Thank you," Sherlock had said. "What happened to the lipstick?"

John had been confused by his "Afghanistan or Iraq" comment to fully process that there was a person standing next to him, handing Sherlock a brown mug of what Sherlock announced was coffee.

"It wasn't working for me," a gentle voice replied.

John spared a glance at the owner of this new voice. She was a petite woman, with an angular nose and her chestnut colored hair swept back into a simple ponytail. Her smiling mouth was faltering as she looked towards Sherlock, who had spun around and retreated to his perch on the stool behind the table.

Oh, and she was gorgeous. At least, from the side view that John got of her. There was a delicate, elfin quality to the curve of her ear and the slope of her neck.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too," Sherlock paused, a hand flitting up to make a nonsensical gesture. "… small, now."

The woman, Molly, wrung her small hands together, taking a deep breath.

"Okay," she said airily, letting her breath out with one word. But it was clear from the blush creeping up her neck that she was embarrassed.

John watched her skirt around him and quickly dart out of the lab.

Yes, she was absolutely gorgeous.

The day that they were properly introduced was a different day altogether.

About a week after he moved into 221b, Sherlock sent him an urgent text to come to the hospital, ASAP. The git had only wanted him there as an extra pair of hands – "John, I couldn't just ask one of the nurses or technicians – they're working. Do be considerate. This is a hospital." – for an experiment he was running. He was to press down on the hollow between a recently deceased Mr. Abramson's collarbones firmly for 10 minutes. And he did, with a grumble and a sigh.

A quiet whirring of machines and the clicking sounds of Sherlock typing where the only sounds in the stillness of the morgue. John chucked under his breath. Heh. Deathly quiet. Because they're dead.

Molly Hooper teetered into the morgue, pushing the door open with her hip while carefully holding two stryrofoam cups of coffee.

"Oh, hello!" She said, crashing through the silence with a warm greeting. She shot a cheery smile John's way, and he swore his heart did the rhumba. "Sherlock, I brought you coffee. I thought you were alone in here."

"I was," Sherlock took the cup that she offered him without looking up from the computer screen. "This is my flatmate, Dr. John Watson. John, this is my pathologist, Dr. Molly Hooper."

"Yes, hi," John said with a stutter. He stretched out his latex gloved hand to hers over Mr. Abramson's body. Molly placed the other cup on the tabletop before taking his hand with grace, her fingers curling around his palm warmly. "I think we met in passing before. Last time I was in the lab. With Mike Stamford. You brought Sherlock coffee that day, too."

Okay, so he was trying to make some sort of conversation as an excuse to keep her hand in his. Can't be the first man to have used that trick.

"Oh yeah, I think we did," Molly smiled. "Nice to meet you again."

She loosened her grip on John's hand, letting it fall as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Stepping around the body to pick up the coffee cup, she handed it to John.

"You can have my coffee. I was heading back down to the canteen anyways," she said.

"Mmm, no you weren't," Sherlock interrupted. He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Why would you bring your own coffee upstairs to give me mine? You were clearly intending on staying in the morgue, if not heading back to the lab."

"Yes, um, I guess, I was going to run a second round of tests on that bile sample you brought in. The color and smell seemed a little off," She stated simply. "But if you're using the centrifuge right now, I'll come back later."

John noticed a familiar blush blooming on Molly's cheeks.

And Sherlock noticed that John was staring at Molly instead of pressing down on Mr. Abramson's collarbone.

"John! The hollow! Now we'll have to start all over again with a fresh body," Sherlock groaned. "Molly, bring me the most recently deceased. Preferably male, between 40 to 50."

"Sherlock, I can't just – "

"Thank you, Molly. You are the most competent person this hospital has ever hired."

"But, I have to – " Molly started. Sherlock glanced up with a quizzical expression, as if he'd just noticed she was in the room. His eyes darted over her features in the split second before he spoke.

"Oh. Your hair looks quite nice when it's let down. You should do that more often," he said casually, taking a sip of his coffee and returning his gaze to the computer screen. "Please bring the body round when you're able. Thank you, Molly."

As cruel as the gesture was, John thought it was an apt observation and suggestion.

"John, I have to ask you not to attempt to engage in any sort of courting ritual with Molly Hooper."

John nearly choked on the chips he was chowing down. A coughing fit dislodged the piece from his esophagus and he was able to breathe again.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

Sherlock had been in his mind palace for the past hour and a half, laying flat on the sofa, with his fingers steepled beneath his chin and his eyes closed. He hadn't said a word since he closed his eyes. Despite the pitter patter of the rain, John had been able to step out to the fish shop around the corner and come back, settling onto his chair as he scrolled idly through Facebook and other blogs. He felt caught in the act. He was currently on Molly's Facebook page, browsing through the various pictures she posted and was tagged in. Her cat, her friend Meena and a little tea place were currently the reoccurring motifs in her pictures.

"I mean it, John," Sherlock continued, his eyes still closed. "I can't have you sleeping with Molly and then making things difficult for the both of us, post coitus. You are bound to botch things up. And none of the other doctors at Barts will work with me."

"Excuse me, but I believe that only I and whoever I am dating decide whether or not we will sleep with each other," John crossed his arms heavy over his chest as he stared incredulously at the man on the sofa. Unbelievable.

"Yes, in all other cases this is true, but not with Molly Hooper. I must insist that you do not try to date her."

"Sherlock, you can't tell me who I can or can't date. If I want to date Molly, I will. And that's not your decision. It would be between me and her."

Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the couch, sitting up and fixing John with a pointed stare. He leaned forward slightly as his eyes squinted with an accusation.

"So you do want to date Molly."

"I never said that," John bactracked. "It was a hypothetical situation. Jesus, Sherlock."

"But your tone of voice became defensive and your left foot is tapping incessantly on the rug – stop it, it's quite annoying. You do that when you're nervous. Also you're looking everywhere but at me."

John made a point to direct his glare from the bison on the wall back to Sherlock.

"Doesn't mean I want to date Molly Hooper, though, does it?"

"Debatable. So you don't want to date Molly Hooper," It was a statement, not a question.

A quiet pause filled the space between them. Sherlock stared at John. He didn't blink. It was altogether an uncomfortable silence. Neither moved. Neither breathed.

"Fine!" John broke. "Fine. Okay, alright. Yes, I fancy her. Okay? I was thinking about ask her out. Jeez. You could have just come right out and ask me instead of pulling some bloody reverse psychology stunt."

The scoff that escaped Sherlock's mouth was obnoxiously loud.

"I wasn't trying to use reverse psychology," He leaned back against the sofa, his legs splayed out in the picture of ease. "Your attraction to her is glaringly obvious and I tried to prevent you from pursuing her for good reason. I'll have lost my pathologist, and then who will supply me with the necessary materials for my consulting business? I'd have to resort to sneaking around and stealing – or worse: Mycroft."

John shook his head. It was unbelievable. Sherlock was being absolutely unbelievable. To reduce the kind, attentive doctor in the morgue to the human equivalent of a chemistry pantry was unnecessary and uncalled for. She was more than that, Sherlock had to have seen her quiet strength. Unless… well, it wouldn't hurt to test this little theory out.

"Yeah, alright, fine," John shrugged, his palms open in a gesture of surrender. "You're right. I won't ask her out. It would be too complicated. Especially with your raging crush on her and all."

"Don't be ridiculous," he retorted. Very bitingly, John noted. "You know I'm married to my work."

With a grin and a nod of his head, John returned to his laptop screen.

"Eh, doesn't mean you can't have an affair every now and again. And with Molly Hooper no less."

"Stop it, John."

"You're being awfully territorial. 'My pathologist' and all," he sniggered, the pitch of his voice dropping in mimicry. "Might as well tell her about it. She'll be over the moon."

"Shut up."

John looked up with an expression of feigned innocence.

"Would you like me to play matchmaker? I'm on Facebook. I can message her right now."

"John. Stop it."

Sherlock leaped off the sofa with the fervor of a bloodhound, his blue bathrobe trailing behind him as he bounded over the coffee table and aggressively snatched John's laptop out of his hands. Flipping it over, he wrenched the battery out of its place and tossed it into the fireplace, which, thankfully, was not alight.

"Oi!"

"Do not. Tell. Molly," Sherlock growled.

He wagged a warning finger in John's face. Then with a huff and a stomp, Sherlock stormed to his room, slamming the door shut behind him and effectively holding John's laptop captive.

No matter, John thought. I still have my phone.

AN: This was for Arrandelle from Tumblr. Her prompt was "A fic where John fancies Molly when he first meets her and Sherlock gets jealous." Hehehe. Hope you enjoyed this, friend! :)