People are reading this! Excellent! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, bookmarking, whatever. You are the best ones.

Big thanks to my lovely betas.
1st beta: Monica, aka mattressesflollop
Final beta: The ever wonderful Donna who has helped me out on several projects before.

Chapter 2: The Blind Banker

"What are you thinking?" she asks. "Pork or pasta?"

"Oh." Sherlock blinks down at Molly who's just appeared at his side. "It's you."

"Is that any way to greet your oldest of friends?"

"Molly! By Jove! It's smashing to see you. Truly, smashing!"

His false enthusiasm and saccharine tone do not impress the detective and, rolling her eyes, she turns back to the buffet before them.

"I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want to be doing roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers," she says, far too cheery for this late in the evening.

The putrid smell of the cafeteria – and his gourmet supper, packed and perfect and left home in his refrigerator – have him in a mood. Molly's presence brightens it slightly, although he is well aware that she is only here because she needs some exhausting favor or another.

"What are you having?" he asks, considering the options before him: Both equally disgusting.

"Sherlock, you know I don't eat when I'm working." She smiles and pats her stomach. "Digesting slows me down."

"Right." He does know better, but part of him hoped she was here for the company only. His company. "Working. Why else would you be here?"

"Why indeed. I need to examine some bodies."

She gives him names and he consults his list.

"Could you wheel them out again for me?"

"Molly," he says, groaning slightly. "The paperwork's already gone through."

"You cut your hair," she says, dazzling him with her smile.

"Don't," he replies, once more looking at the truly sordid dinner options before him. "Don't you do that."

"It suits you," Molly says, pressing against his side. She pushes her fingers through his hair.

"Molly!" he scolds. "There is no need for that. All you must do is to ask nicely."

"I did ask nicely," she snaps, all charm rapidly deteriorating as she stomps her foot and pouts.

"Say 'please.'"

She scowls at him for another few seconds. "Please, Sherlock. Please let me have a look at the bodies."

"Of course, Molly. Anything for my oldest of friends."

"Tosser," she whispers as he leads the way to the mortuary and Sherlock grins down at the paperwork clutched in his hands.

"You better not be wasting my time, Miss Hooper." A law enforcement official that is decidedly not Detective Inspector Morstan, Molly's typical contact from the yard, falls into step with them as they emerge from the lift.

At his side, Molly is rolling her eyes again. She tugs the sleeves of her jumper over her hands.

"Give my pathologist a bit of time, DI Dimmock," she says. "Just a few moments more."

Sherlock holds the door to the mortuary open for Molly and the new DI, gesturing for them to enter.

"We're just interested in the feet," she declares.

It is far from the strangest thing he's ever heard Molly say.

"Bloody posh uniform." Molly tugs on the collar of her crisp white shirt, and slouches in her seat, eyes darting around in her head as she watches the countryside whiz by.

"Such language only contributed to you getting thrown out of your last school, Molly," Mycroft says from behind his newspaper.

Next to Molly, Sherlock silently imitates his brother. When she grins at him it feels like a great success and his heart nearly flies out of his chest.

"I did not get kicked out," Molly says, her gaze once more on the window. "It was merely suggested that my education might benefit from a change in scenery."

He is not entirely sure what prompted Molly's departure from the local school and she certainly isn't giving details, but apparently she was trying to help someone and the whole thing went horribly awry.

Typical story, really.

Sherlock is very glad she's here. Since finding Molly Hooper on the side of the road, studying a dead bird five summers ago, leaving for school has always been particularly painful for it means leaving her behind.

But this year everything is different, as evidenced by Molly sitting at his side in a uniform identical to his.

"Regardless of circumstance, it is my belief that you will be far happier away at school with Sherlock," says Mycroft.

Sherlock wonders if George had any input in Molly's schooling. The doctor is probably glad to be rid of her, the giant wanker.

"School is boring. Classmates are boring. It's all so boring, boring, boring." She slumps even father in her seat and nearly tumbles to floor of the compartment.

"All your courses will be very advanced. Perhaps you will find some subject that will keep your interest enough to inspire grades good enough to keep you from failing out," Mycroft says, still behind his newspaper.

Molly glances up at Sherlock, anticipating another Mycroft impression, but she gets none. Sherlock agrees with his brother in this and hopes that Molly takes this opportunity as the fresh start it is. Despite being the smartest person Sherlock can ever even imagine knowing, she is crap in matters of school and her marks are notoriously poor.

"You too, Sherlock?" she whispers.

"It'll be good, Mo. Promise."

She very nearly smiles at him.

"Sherlock!" Molly tugs on his elbow, stopping his forward movement towards the library, the first location on Molly's tour of campus. He glances up from Molly at his side – in recent years not looking at her has grown difficult – to see a pair of his friends quickly approaching them.

He understands her panic, the strength of her grip on his arm. Between getting off the train, completing paperwork in the office, getting settled in her room, and now, Molly's barely spoken a word. She's looked only at her feet and Sherlock is nervous too. This is difficult for her, he knows, and although he's not actually seen Molly interact with her peers in a school setting before, the few run ins they've had with local kids over summer were painful. With adults, with Sherlock, Molly is enthusiastic and bright but it's all been teased right out of her by damnably cruel youths.

"You know them?" she says to her feet.

"Yeah. They're my mates. But we can make a run for it."

"No, no, no. You... you, pro-probably missed them this summer. I'll just sta- sta- stand here silently."

Stuttering. Not a good sign.

"You don't want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, eyeing his friends as they rush across the quad.

"Would it be strange? To not introduce me?" she asks, turning her back on the boys, pressing herself into his side and standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"A bit. It would be a bit strange."

"Hey! Sherlock! How's it going, mate?"

"Introduce me!" Molly hisses before stepping away to meet his friends head on. She lingers close, slightly behind Sherlock, halfway hiding.

"Hello," says Sherlock, grinning as he shakes Victor's hand. This one, he genuinely did miss.

The same cannot be said for the other.

Sherlock not overly social himself, although compared to Molly he is the life of the party. But truly he has few friends of higher quality rather than many loose acquaintances. The other boy, bulky, mean Carl Powers, is not so much a friend but more of an annoyance Sherlock is forced to tolerate.

"Victor. Carl. I trust you had a good summer?" he asks.

"Oh, you know. Got a bit boring, at the end," says Victor, shrugging.

Carl is staring intently at Molly who is staring intently at her feet.

"Who's this then?" Carl crosses her massive arms over his chest and leers at Molly.

Leers.

"This is my best friend, Molly," he says, placing his hand on her shoulder. He focuses on making this a bit easier for Molly rather than his sudden and powerful hate for Carl. "Molly, this is Victor and Carl."

"Hello, hello," Molly chirps. She darts forward, vigorously shaking first Victor's hand and then Carl's as she stares at their feet now, before quickly retreating to Sherlock's side. She vibrates in place and Sherlock does not approve of the look on Carl's face. While a moment ago he was leering, now he appears repulsed. Although Molly's behavior is a bit strange – the handshake went on too long and spanned to great a distance, too high then too low – there is no need to look so scandalized.

Greetings and handshakes and other social niceties do not come naturally to everyone. Sherlock learned this from Molly ages ago.

"Molly Hooper?" asks Victor, smirking at Sherlock. For years, Victor has teased Sherlock for being hung up on a girl back home and Sherlock blushes. "I was beginning to think Holmes here invented you as an excuse to explain why he never goes on dates."

"No," Sherlock attempts to explain. "We are merely friends."

"No, Sherlock." For the first time in hours she looks at his face to pout at him for a moment. "Not just mates. Best friends. And I've heard of you as well, Victor. Sherlock likes you because you are the only one around here who can keep up with him academically."

"Oi!" shouts Carl.

Molly flinches, but otherwise ignores the interruption as she once more stares at her shoes. "Although the humanities are more your area while Sherlock is blindly devoted to the sciences. You really should start writing for the school newspaper. As daunting as it must be you have nothing to be embarrassed of and I see you've wanted to try for sometime."

"Wow," Victor says, blinking. "You told her all that did you, Holmes?"

"No, no, no," says Molly, waving a hand around her head. "I can see it for myself. Oh, and I'm dreadfully sorry about your dog. Had him your whole life, did you? It seems as though he waited for you to come home for summer before succumbing to old age. That's something."

Victor's eyes are wide and Sherlock tries not to laugh. "It was a cat, actually."

"A cat!" shouts Molly, stomping her foot. "Of course it was a cat. I always miss something, don't I, Sherlock?"

"So it would seem, Molly."

"You, now you, Sherlock has not spoken of," Molly continues, obviously talking about Carl now. Although perhaps this is only clear to Sherlock as the other boys look wholly bemused. "I can help you, you know. Just because you don't have a head for maths does not mean that you'll need to be held back another year. I'm excellent in maths, although Sherlock would probably make a better tutor as he actually cares about completely arbitrary grading systems. He could help you. Wouldn't you help him, Sherlock?"

Carl is now glaring daggers at Molly, hands clenched at his sides. "What the fuck you say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says to the ground. Sherlock's hand is back on her shoulder as he stares down Carl. "I've made you mad. That was not my intent. I was merely saying that all is not lost in the maths department. And better marks will surely make things less tense at home. Give your mother once less thing to criticize. And it's eczema, by the way. You have eczema and I would suggest going out for swim as you certainly have the shoulders for it if not the waist."

"Who told you about my Mum!" shrieks Carl.

"No- no- no- no one!" Molly squeaks.

"Hey, Carl, Why don't you calm down? Although it might not seem like it, she was trying to help," says Sherlock, putting himself between Molly and the enraged boy before them. Although physically she could probably take out Carl, clumsy as he is, as she's been training with Mycroft for years. But he knows this situation is horrible for Molly and he feels the need to protect her in anyway he can.

"Who the fuck told!" yells Carl, taking a step forward. Victor has his arm now, pulling him back.

"I observe!" says Molly. She turns to hide her face against Sherlock's arm. "I observe and deduce. Was it not good, Sherlock? I was just trying to help."

"I know, Mo. It was a bit personal, that's all."

"Oh."

"Carl, there's no need to get violent, yeah?" says Victor.

Carl yanks his arm from Victor's grip. "Fuck you, bitch." Molly flinches again. If it wasn't for her quaking presence at his side, he'd tackle Carl, right here. "Keep your girlfriend under control, Holmes!"

And then he is stalking off across the campus.

"Come on, Molly," Sherlock murmurs. "He's gone now. It's over."

Sighing heavily, Molly steps away from Sherlock and scrubs her hands over her face. "Stupid, stupid," she mutters. "That was horrible of me, wasn't it Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't say horrible. Certainly not good. Again, too personal but your intentions were pure and nothing you said warranted such a reaction," Sherlock says, getting angry all over again as he thinks on it.

"I embarrassed you," she says, glancing up at him. "Didn't I? I talked about this with Mycroft. Tying to not embarrassing you I mean. But I just failed so spectacularly! I didn't want to embarrass you!"

"Really? You think I care about Carl Powers or his undoubtedly stupid opinions? I can't stand the bloke. Frankly, he deserves a good beating for what he said to you. Mycroft thought you'd embarrass me?" Sherlock asks, frowning.

"No, no, no. I thought that. He scoffed and said that you adore me."

"Right he is."

Molly flashes him a beautiful, brilliant, blinding smile before she returns to her hand wringing and fretting.

"I am sorry. I get nervous and it all just comes tumbling out and I want your friends to like me so I thought to make myself useful," she murmurs, tears in her eyes now.

"You can't save everyone, Molly. Especially if they don't want help."

These familiar words make Molly smile again, tears evaporating into nothing.

"Yes, yes." She nods. "So you say."

Sherlock smiles down at Molly, once more so pleased to have her here. His reasons are mostly selfish as he always wants to be near Molly, but he feels confident that being at this school will benefit her as well. Before, Molly would be forced to deal with the aftermath of such situations on her own. Here, she has Sherlock to talk her through it.

He smiles at her again, wondering when she got so beautiful. Sometimes the softness of her face makes his chest tight.

"So," says Victor. He clears his throat.

Sherlock startles, having totally forgot about his friend's presence. "Ah, Victor. Thank you for your assistance there. Things got a bit tense, didn't they?"

Victor laughs, as easy as he always is. "You could say so, mate."

"Yes, thank you, Victor," Molly says. Again, thanking is not a natural inclination for Molly but she does all right following Sherlock's lead.

"So, have you seen the library yet, Molly? It seems like your kind of place. Plus, maybe you can take a look at something I've written? Maybe give me some edits before I submitted it to the paper?"

"Really?" Molly lights up and Sherlock's chest gets even tighter. "You'd like my help?"

"Sure. Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine so I figure I can trust you with my writing."

Sherlock is no longer nervous. Molly will be all right here. In fact he is sure she will flourish.

He yawns his way through the last hour of his shift and dozes off in the taxi on the way to his flat. After a scalding shower, he considers the refrigerator but gets distracted by his violin. He plays for several hours, knowing he should retire for the night but still unable to put down his instrument.

The music relaxes him more than sleep does, feeds something in him that food does not satisfy.

When he finally does finish, he turns to see Molly sprawled out on his sofa. Eyes closed, breathing deep, she did not even manage to remove her leather jacket before succumbing to sleep.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock watches her for a moment. He smiles, taking in her delicate features made soft by sleep. Her cheek rests on her hands and one leg has fallen off the sofa, her boot resting on floor.

Sherlock removes her shoes and places her leg gently back on the cushion. He covers her with a throw and tries not to let the fluttering in his chest get too out of control when she sighs as he touches her cheek.

It is well after ten when Sherlock wakes. At some point in the night, Molly migrated from the couch to his bed. She facing him and awake, probably has been for quite some time.

In moments such as this, he does not regret that she somehow managed to hold onto her key, despite everything that's happened since she moved from the flat.

Since Sherlock kicked her out, more accurately.

If he ever manages to find – and even more daunting, maintain – a girlfriend he'll really have to get that key. Although a few locks are far from enough to keep Molly out.

"I'm hungry," she declares.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Vigorous case, was it?"

"John was kidnapped."

"By Mycroft? Again?"

"No, this time the threat was far more serious." She throws back the covers and sits up, stretching her arms above her head, revealing hideous jumper number eleven. "Deadly, even. But never fear. I saved the day and solved the case, as per the usual. Sherlock, I'm hungry."

He blinks at her and then pulls the blanket over his head.

"Sherlock!"

"Doesn't your Doctor John typically feed you?" His deep voice is muffled by layers of bedding.

"He is preoccupied after last night with another doctor called Cyril. Cyril was also kidnapped. Not the best way to end a first date, so I imagine John spent the night attempting to redeem him self with intercourse. When we returned home he absolutely refused to even make me a sandwich."

"Huh," mutters Sherlock into his pillow, closing his eyes once more.

"Sherlock, breakfast." She pokes him in the side.

"Ten minutes more." He grunts, Molly falls silent, and he drifts off to sleep again.

"Breakfast, Sherlock," Molly says, approximately three seconds later.

"I said ten minutes!"

"It's been ten minutes."

"Has not."

"Down to the second. We are well over at this point. After all this unnecessary speaking."

Sherlock emerges from the blankets to squint at Molly. "Say 'please'."

"I haven't eaten in four days. There is nothing in the fridge at Baker Street but dactyls and John's leftover take-away that I've been banned from consuming. Please cook me breakfast, you giant tosser."

Sherlock chuckles and rolls out of bed. Molly follows close behind him as he moves to the kitchen and removes a carton of eggs from the fridge.

"Do you remember Bastian? From uni?" she asks, busying herself with the kettle.

Sherlock pulls a face. "Holland? I hated him."

"Did you?" She sounds absolutely giddy at the prospect, beaming at him and bouncing over to the sink to fill it. "Yes, of course you did. He asked me out. Of course you hated him."

"That's not why!" Sherlock insists, turning away from her to hide the color in his cheeks. "Well, not wholly. He was a vulgar, obnoxious plebian, Mo. How could I possibly not hate him?"

"Yes, well. Works in banking now. That's where I found the case."

"Holland had a case for you that prevented you from eating for four days?" Sherlock asks, busying himself with preparing their breakfast.

"Yes, he contacted me to find the hole in his firm's security. They had a breech perpetuated by a Chinese smuggling ring," she says, as if it should have been obvious.

As bizarre as it sounds, the whole thing is pretty standard where Molly's concerned.

She recounts the details of her latest case and her own brilliance. Sherlock listens happily, soothed by the enthusiasm in her voice and her presence in his kitchen, demanding as it maybe.

"I don't know how you stand to spend ten minutes around her, Sherlock," says Carl as they make their way from the science building to the canteen. "She has no since of privacy. How does she know all that? It's creepy."

His hand tightens on the strap of his bag. "She observes. That's all. You'll get used to it." In the months since returning to school, Sherlock has not forgotten or forgiven Carl's behavior towards Molly that first day. The idiot seems completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock is on the precipice of extreme violence.

"No way," says Carl. "Under no circumstances will I be getting used to it."

"I like her," says Victor. "Those dark eyes really do it for me."

This statement, though seemingly more complimentary, is equally enraging to Sherlock, although simply the latest in Victor's never ending campaign to get Sherlock to admit his feelings for Molly and therefore forgivable.

"The small, dowdy ones are wild in bed," says Carl. "Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't know," he replies through a clenched jaw. "Molly is simply my close friend and I find this talk highly offensive. I barely restrained myself last time you spoke to her and have no plans to do so again if you continue."

Despite his seriousness, Carl laughs.

"Come off it, Sherlock," he says. "No way has a bloke put up with a girl like that unless they're getting shag out of it."

Sherlock turns red, a combination of embarrassment and rage. "Stop!" He demands, rounding on Carl. "You will not talk about Molly that way. I will not hear it!"

"You like her," Carl says, poking Sherlock in the chest. "You love her. You're in love with a psychopath! What the fuck does that make you?"

"High functioning sociopath." At the sound of Molly's voice all three boys whirl around. She stands in her rumpled uniform, arms crossed over her chest, absolutely furious.

Sherlock gapes at her. Something in his Molly seems to have changed since he saw her – last night, dinner – and for the first time she is filled with a righteous anger, a resolve, a demand for respect.

For a moment he forgets his embarrassment and discomfort for he is simply proud.

"Sociopath?" stutters Carl, looking properly frightened.

"Do your research," she snaps before turning on her heel and stomping in the opposite direction.

Carl laughs, the sound uncomfortable this time, and rather than punch his former friend's face, Sherlock follows a fleeing Molly, finally catching up with her in a clump of trees just behind the chapel.

"Molly, I'm sorry," he says, although he's not totally sure what exactly he is apologizing for.

Definitely for his terrible choice in companions. Maybe because he failed to protect her from such mockery.

She drops her book bag in the dirt and proceeds to climb the nearest tree. Her movements easy and lithe, hidden muscles making the climb seem effortless. She stretches out on a limb some ten feet above Sherlock's head.

"Molly?"

She taps her chin and does not respond. Sherlock tries several more times to get a few words from her, but she remains silent, lost in her Mind Palace. Seeing no other option, Sherlock places his bag by Molly's and starts to climb.

He is nowhere near as graceful, but he manages to settle on a branch just below her.

"You are not a high functioning sociopath," he says.

"Course I am."

"You are not."

"Yes, I am Sherlock. It must be obvious even to you that I am not like these normal people." She speaks with utter contempt. It is am improvement on her usual sadness and hurt.

"No. You are autistic."

Her head snaps around and she glares at him. Despite her size and her delicate features, the effect is terrifying.

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispers.

"I overheard your father discussing it with Mycroft years ago," he says, shrugging.

"Years. You've known for years?"

"Yes."

"And you said nothing?"

"What should I have said?"

"Nothing."

"Alright then."

For a moment, Molly is silent. Sherlock is a bit baffled as Molly has a tendency to know everything. How she could have missed his knowledge in this area is a mystery.

"It's only the smallest possible bit of autism," she whispers.

"It doesn't matter, Molly," he replies. "You are brilliant and that's that."

Molly is tapping her chin again, but she relaxes back against the tree.

"Sociopath?" He squints up at her. "Truly? You truly thought you could pull of sociopath?"

"Maybe?" she ventures.

"No. Absolutely not. If anything you are the direct opposite of a sociopath. You care. You care with everything you are, even for useless wastes of space like Carl Powers."

"People matter, Sherlock."

"Some people," he mutters.

Sherlock adjusts, trying to find a more comfortable position leaning back against the truck of the tree. Molly stares straight ahead, tapping her chin with a finger.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Did you very nearly assault Carl out of some misbegotten sense of duty? To defend my honor, so to speak?" she asks, talking slowly as if she hasn't quite figured it out as of yet.

Sherlock chuckles. "Maybe."

"I think I should be the one beating people up in the future, thank you. I'm much better at it than you."

"You're welcome. Anytime."

She very nearly smiles.