In between appointments, filling out paperwork and the daily "Dear God this is actually happening," moments of panc, Molly still had work to do. She did try not to let it interfere with work, which was thankfully distracting enough and required enough of her concentration to put the whole "I have breast cancer and am losing my breasts in four weeks" situation on a back burner. Temporarily at any rate. The night shifts were the worst. She tried to concentrate on paperwork but even that was tedious and her mind drifted. What if she ended up habing to go through chemo? She wasn't afraid of losing her hair. She and Mary both knitted, they could find patterns for nice hats. She was afraid if having to go it alone. Yes, John and Mary would be there throughout, and they had been. One or the other had come with her to every appointment, been there to hold her hand or simply distract her from worrying. But every night she was alone with her thoughts and sleep was fleeting. Work at least had some kind of distraction, even if the nights were too quiet for her liking.

A cup cup was placed on her desk and she looks up from her notes, startled. There stood Sherlock.

"What's this?"

"Tea. I made tea," he answered. She looked at the steam curling up from the styrofoam cup.

"You don't make tea."

"Clearly I do."

"Oh. Well, thank you, that was good of you." She sipped gratefully of the strong brew, sighing.

"Long night?" he asked, seating himself.

"Mm, and tedious,"

"Let someone else have the night shift,"

"We all have to take one once a week," she yawned hugely. He shrugged, looking around her office. She could see he was clearly bored. "What are you doing here Sherlock?"

"Keeping you company," he replied. He stood and went round the desk, reading over her shoulder.

"Sherlock, these are confidential files!"

"Not any more, Oo this one died with an oozing rash, may I see him? I have an experiment-"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" His expression was the epitome of innocence, and Molly didn't doubt he had no idea that what he was asking was wrong.

"If you're going to keep me company, then you can help me file."

"Ugh. Dull."

"Yes, but it keeps me occupied," she stacked the folders, setting them in a pile on the corner of her desk.

"Occupied? Oh yes. Keeps you from thinking." He nodded. He watched her go back and forth between files and cabinets for a time, her expression seemed to wobble between earth-shattering bordome and the inability to direct her thoughts anywhere but the upcoming surgery. That would never do. "Where would you like these?" He asked, holding up a stack of papers.

"Are they lettered?"

"Yes of course they are." Without another thought he flung them into the air, papers fluttered around them, hopelessly mixed up.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried. "You absolute idiot, it's going to take me hours to organize them again! Some of these have court cases!"

"Dear oh dear, you'll have a time getting them back together," he commented. She looked up at him, glaring. He only smiled at her. "It's going to take up a good chunk of the evening at any rate." Molly looked back at him from where she sat on the floor. Shaking her head, she began to laugh.

"Only you, Sherlock, would be able to get away with this, now get down here, the least you can do is help me."

The remainder of her shift was spent on the floor of her office, meticulously going through the papers, making sure they all went into the appropriate files. Sherlock noticed with no small degree of smugness that Molly was concentrating on her work, not her surgery. When it came time for her to finally punch out, she was yawning, exhausted.

"Thank you for staying to help. It was not the most ideal distraction, having to re-file all those autopsies, but it did keep me busy."

"How many night shifts do you have left?"

"Two, one on Sunday, I'm filling in for Mike, and my usual on Friday."

"I'll see you Sunday then. Unless I have a case," he said. Molly found herself smiling a little at this.

"If you promise not to throw my filing all over the floor, then I'd be glad for the company."

"Not totally ineffective," he reminded her. "But I do have an experiment that requires an extra pair of hands if you can spare them." Molly pushed her hair out of her eyes, laughing.

"I'll see what I can do," she nodded. His expression fell,

"No, I meant, another pair of hands- your hands, help hold the -"

"Oh!" Molly realized then.

"-test tube, it's tricky with gloves and pliers," he paused. "Unless of course you were offering a spare set of hands as well,"

"You'll just have to come back on Sunday and see." She laughed. Before she could stop herself she rose on tip- toe, pressing his cheek. "Goodnight Sherlock, and thank you." He watched her head out into the street, hailing a cab as she went. He did not miss the wince she made as she raised her left arm, nor the twinkle in her eyes as she turned back, waving goodby one more time. He waved in response, smiling.

Four Weeks Later

The night before her surgery, John and Mary picked up Molly and brought her to Baker Street. She would be recuperating between their flat and Sherlock's, as they all lived at 221 now. John wanted to keep a close eye on her, so during the day she would stay with Sherlock and he would change her dressings and check the drains and so on until Mary came home. John would look after her at night. She'd sleep in 221b as Sherlock's couch was a pull-out sofa and John and Mary didn't have a spare room.

She wasn't allowed food after eleven pm, so by nine the dinner plates were washed and put away, and she was relaxing on the couch. She and Mary sat on the fold out bed, painting their nails and confiscating the remote from Sherlock. When John finally got off his shift at the hospital, he found all three of them in the living room, watching some Jane Austen nonsense, Sherlock shouting at the television while Mary painted Molly's toes, both of them giggling at the consulting detective.

"Molly, get the cat off the drapes, it's bad enough that I can't keep Sherlock from climbing them half the time," John said, setting his things down. The cat merely turned about from where he was perched, staring at him with wide, yellow eyes. "Why's he here anyway?"

"Molly's going to be recuperating here, and Toby can't be by himself," Mary said, she beamed at her husband, who only shook his head, giving her a peck on the lips.

"I could very well stop in on him once a week," Sherlock said.

"Once a week?" Molly frowned. "He'd have my flat an absolute mess."

"So you brought him here to destroy ours?" Sherlock retorted.

"Be nice." John cautioned.

"You brought him here," Molly said.
"You insisted!"

"Lady losing her breasts tomorrow currently has the upper-hand on all arguments for the next six to eight weeks," Mary said, Sherlock sank deeper into his chair, scowling.

"Sherlock, your parcel came today," John handed him a box, along with the rest of his mail.

"Oh, good," He stood up, fetched a pair of scissors and handed it to Molly. "Here." Glancing at the others, and then at the box, she didn't know what to do at first.

"Um…thank you, Sherlock, that was very nice of you,"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Yes, of course," she cut the tape along the edges, handing him back the scissors. John came to sit beside Mary, both of them exchanging secretive smiles. Molly gave a delighted gasp, lifting from the packing paper a beautiful painted silk dressing gown.

"Yours is old and natty," Sherlock said, he seemed quite proud of himself that he'd thought up a present for Molly all by himself that she appreciated and indeed needed. "I assume you'll be wearing a robe a good deal of the time after surgery and won't want that old flowered thing, I already threw it out, which is why you were wondering why Mary couldn't find it to pack it."

"Ok, swiftly descending back into idiot," John cautioned. A knock on the open door made them all turn and call:

"Come in!"

Greg stepped in, scuffing his shoes along the rug, wiping off the rain from the streets below.

"Hey Molls, I can't stay, but I wanted to drop this off, they say it's good to hold something after surgery, so…" he handed her what he'd hidden behind his back. She laughed, taking the floppy plush animal from him.

"Thank you Greg," she said.

"That's not-"

"Shut up Sherlock," John cut him off before he could finish.

"Anyway," Greg turned back to Molly. "I'll try and stop by tomorrow after the surgery, see how you're doing."

"I can't promise I'll be coherent, but I appreciate the thought," Molly replied and stood up to hug him goodnight.

"Take care," he said into her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"For God's sake, she's having a simple mastectomy, not a lobotomy," Sherlock snapped.

"Be nice," Molly said. "Thank you Greg, goodnight,"

"Night Molls."

"I'm gonna jump in the shower, you need anything else before I go?" John asked and Molly shook her head. "Mary's here and Sherlock can fetch anything I need." This was all the incentive John needed and headed upstairs. "Mary, will you make Sherlock his tea? He won't ask you because he's still afraid of offending John."

"I can bloody well make my own tea."

"But you won't," Molly said with a smile. "Not if we're here." Mary got up, biting back a grin.

"I'll get you your tea, just a minute."

Sherlock stood by the couch, clearly wanting something. Molly looked up at him from the television.

"My head hurts." He informed her. She shifted down to the end of the couch, placing the stuffed animal on the arm rest, she patted her lap. Sherlock flopped onto the couch, sighing.

"Ow!" she winced, feeling the pinch in her chest as the couch moved under Sherlock's weight. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware. "It's fine; I should have told you to ease down onto the couch is all. Come on, probably the last time I'll be able to scratch your head in a while." He obeyed, shutting his eyes, hands under his chin as Molly carded her fingers through his dark curls.

"TV's too loud." She turned it down a few ticks. "I hate this show." Her hand stopped running through his hair.

"Sherlock," he cracked an eye open.

"Sorry." He mumbled, and relaxed again. Combing Sherlock's hair was the one thing that could keep the consulting detective from becoming an impossible wretch when headaches plagued him. Molly was the one Sherlock preferred, and as John flat-out refused, and Mrs. Hudson was not in a position to run upstairs every time he got a headache, Molly was the best candidate. Not that she minded, after all if it made Sherlock easier to get along with, why not? In a little while, Sherlock opened his eyes, realizing Molly had stopped combing his hair.

"Why've you stopped?" he murmured.

"She's asleep," Mary whispered, John was setting a mug of tea down.

"Get up, I'll tuck her in," he said. Sherlock got to his feet carefully so as not to rouse the sleeping pathologist. Rest was fleeting for Molly the past few weeks; John said it was imperative she get her rest the night before her surgery. Carefully, John eased her down onto the couch, tugging the blanket up over her that had been pushed aside earlier. Putting out the light, he paused, touching her head for a moment before sighing, turning back to Mary.

"Turning in, Doctor Watson?"

"Suppose I should," he nodded. "Yes, I'll be up in a bit."

"I'll go turn down the covers," she kissed him goodnight before padding quietly up the stairs. John turned from watching her go to see Sherlock tucking Molly in. He was surprised, observing the care he took in seeing Molly was properly tucked in and that the heating pad she slept on was plugged in, that she had water and her slippers were by the couch for her. Sherlock then tugged his chair closer to the couch so he could put his feet up on the arm rest. John paused in the hallway.

"You're staying up?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked up from the chair. "Oh. Yes. I suppose I am."

"You don't have to, you know. Mary and I are just down the hall from her."

"Hm." John waited a moment,

"Well if you're sure," he said finally.

"There's no reason why the surgery shouldn't be a success."

"You can't ever be certain with these things," John answered carefully. "But no, her case is thus-far pretty optimistic."

"If something goes wrong though," Sherlock began. "If it doesn't work and there are secondary tumors…"

"Yeah…" John looked at Sherlock, watching Molly's still form, hands between his knees. He seemed almost lost, and John felt quite sorry for him.

"You don't have to say anything," he said, still unmoving from his chair. "In fact I hope you won't."

"Look, Sherlock, I know you don't love Molly, not the way Mary or I do-"

"What do you mean 'not the way I do'?" Sherlock asked.

"Shh!" John hissed, glancing at Molly, who rolled over to face the back of the couch. "And you know very well what I mean; clearly you love her, more than a friend, obviously." John smirked, and Sherlock had a dreaded suspicion that his friend was about to launch into a tirade of reasons to prove his point. Eyes twinkling, John rocked back on his heels.

"John-"

"Oh, you have it coming, sonny-boy so you just shut up and listen," John cut him off. Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You have her medical file here, everything from dental records to her last check up. You follow her to her appointments; employ the use of Mycroft's sway in the government to make sure that everything possible is done, and exactly to procedure. Then there are the usual tells: you always get the door for her so the weight of it won't put pressure on her chest. You also keep two steps behind for a moment or two, which is your not-so-subtle way of admiring her bum. 'I do not do that, John!' of course you do Sherlock; you're more obvious than Greg was at the Christmas party when Molly wore that dress that would defrock a minister," Clearly, John was having much too much fun mocking Sherlock, and using his own methods to boot! Sherlock didn't know whether to punch him or let him continue. He chose the latter, merely because he knew John had a tremendous right hook. "You go out of your way to touch her, hands, arms, small of her back. Your pupils dilated the last twelve times you two met up, whether at work or heading to an appointment. You brought her cat here, despite the fact that you hate cats. You haven't broken into the lab since you got back from the Reichenbach case. You've gotten her coffee on six separate occasions, and ate twice when she brought you something on your last case."

John seemed to be reaching the crescendo of his deduction, face aglow, as Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrest.

"The last two times we all went out to eat you gave her your arm. Not a gesture of mere friendship but one that suggests something more intimate, yet nothing established. Respect then, for her perhaps wanting to keep the relationship friendly, as you haven't figured out if she still wants to pursue something with you. She does, by the way, I'll elaborate later," Sherlock made to interrupt, his expression, dare John suggest it, looking hopeful. "It's the other way around, she's worried the cancer won't clear up after this surgery and if she were involved with you it would only add further stress on you and you might grow distant as the illness took its toll on her. Therefore you both keep your distance as far as romance goes, however, with this new crisis coming to a head; both your defenses are down. I suggest, for the sake of time and circumstance, you get it over with and ask her out before it's too late." With that John took a breath, hands on hips. "Did I miss anything?"

"No…your deductions are correct," Sherlock got up, bringing his cup into the kitchen. John followed him, glancing swiftly back at Molly's still form. "You really observed all that?"

"Not all of it. I suggest you take up with Mary, next time you want to find out something, she's better than Mycroft." Sherlock snorted, though he did catalogue that particular thought away, just in case. "I don't bring it up to embarrass you, Sherlock."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Yes you are," John retorted.

"Uncomfortable,"

"Upset that I figured it out,"

"Annoyed at you prying-"

"You pry!"

"Shh!" Mary hissed at them both, arms full of blankets. "If you two are going to bicker, do it in the hallway! She's going to hear you!" she went back upstairs, shaking her head. John and Sherlock followed meekly, leaving the door to 221b open.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm telling you this for Molly's sake, and even your own I suppose. If, God forbid, these are going to be Molly's last months, why not make them good for her? As good as you can make them."

"John, I couldn't make her happy, not the way she deserves to be. I'm not the type who throws gifts at their girlfriends, takes them to the pub on Saturdays and meets the family. I don't even remember to feed myself half the time, how can I be expected to be a decent mate to her? You said yourself I lack any type of proper filter."

"Sherlock," John said, his voice just above a whisper for fear Molly would hear them. "You really haven't been paying attention to yourself the past few months have you? Did I not just say you've been trying to put Molly first? You get the door for her, you're respecting her first by not pursuing her until you're sure she wants to. You haven't broken any of her lab rules in weeks, that alone speaks volumes for you," Sherlock dared smile then. "You told me once she was the one who counted, the only one, the first one, if you care for her then prove it to her, before you lose her and you regret it for the rest of your life." Molly stirred in the living room and they both jumped, John shuffled back into the flat.

"What is it?" Sherlock heard him ask, followed by Molly's quiet response. "Yeah, I'll go get one, hold on."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Another blanket," before he could move, Sherlock was already heading for his room, pulling the down comforter off his bed.

"I can do it," he said when John reached for the blanket to cover Molly. John stepped back, amused and touched by the way Sherlock awkwardly tucked Molly in. His hands were steady, but his eyes were nervous, and he glanced at her now and again, worried she could see.

"I'm gonna head upstairs then, if you've got it," John said.

"Night John, ta," Molly waved her fingers just poking out from under the covers.

"Night Molls."

"Thanks for the blanket." She murmured.

"Hm."

"Was it yours?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes. Go to sleep Molly."

"I can't keep your blanket, you'll get cold."

"Hardly," Sherlock answered. He seated himself in his chair, propped his feet up on the end of the pull-out bed and tucked his feet under the blanket.

"You're going to stay there all night?"

"I won't sleep tonight. I'm working on a case."

"Are you? You didn't say."

"Hm. It came up yesterday. Barely a four but Lestrade is insisting. I'll give him my answer in the morning."

"Shouldn't you call him right away?" Sherlock opened an eye. "You have figured it out, since it's only a four."

"Yes of course I have," he replied.

"Then you should phone Lestrade tonight." He frowned pursing his lips.

"No. Dull. He can wait. Incidentally, after the operation, may I have your breasts?"

"What?!"

"I actually don't need them both, just the left one. I want a sample of the tumor and surrounding tissue for study."

"Sherlock, there isn't one thing different about this tumor than any other that you can quite easily study in a book or the morgue. Besides the doctor will need it for his own samples."

"Very well not the left one, may I have the right?"

"That one doesn't have a tumor,"

"Inconsequential. I have another experiment I'd like to try."

"On…breasts?" Molly blamed her father and his life-long school-boy humor that he instilled in her. John for his part only encouraged it and both of them were endlessly sending each other pictures of signs or quotes that were easily misconstrued. It drove Sherlock mad. As was her urge to giggle at this moment.

"Stop it," he answered. "And yes."

"Why mine though? Can't you get some from the morgue?"

"Not while you're out on leave, unless I have your permission to take your keys and root around the morgue myself."

"Absolutely not," she said. "Fine, yes, I suppose you can have the right one. I'll talk to Doctor Clark tomorrow before I go under."

"Thank you Molly. Goodnight."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"Go put a pair of socks on or get your feet off mine, you're freezing!" Sherlock bounded for the bedroom, returning in a few moments having grabbed two different socks, (one grey and one argyle). "That's charming," she laughed.

"Hm? Oh. Shut up Molly."

"I will, but only because I'm tired." And she curled deeper under the coverlet. In a while her breathing evened out and Sherlock knew she'd fallen asleep. This seemed to be the cue for Toby to come down from the mantle, padding across the living room and onto Sherlock's lap.

"Shoo," he muttered. Toby only turned around thrice, kneading his claws into Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, purring noisily. "In your own time!" he snapped and Toby sniffed at him, turned around once more and then lay down on his lap. After a moment, Sherlock reached into his pocket and tapped out a quick text to John.

"Really? It's 2AM Sherlock. I know you finished that case for Lestrade already."

"Yes I did. I have a question."

"What?"

"Is it rude to ask Molly if I can have her breasts for an experiment?"

"WHAT?!"

"I believe my previous text was perfectly clear."

"What is WRONG with you?! YES it's rude! Don't ask her."

"Hm."

"Oh God, you asked her already didn't you? What did she say?"

"She didn't seem insulted when I asked. Perturbed. No. Not perturbed…curious? Perhaps she was curious. Should I include her on the experiment?"

"No. No. No. No. NO. Tomorrow you tell her you're not taking her breasts home with you for an experiment. I forbid it. If Mary were awake she'd forbid it, and Mrs. Hudson would forbid you and hit you upside the head with her kettle."

"Molly already promised me the right one."

"Cripes and criminy. You beat all, you know that? Most guys, when they want to make an impression on a girl they fancy, they buy her flowers, compliment her dress, they don't ask for her breasts."

"I was given to understand that was a custom reserved for a third date."

"Go to bed Sherlock."