John pushed open the doors to the lab, finding the paperwork right on the counter where Sherlock said he'd left it. He turned to leave, pausing when he heard a scuffling sound.

"Hello?" he called. "Molly?" He peered around the counter, finding Molly sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to her chest. "Molly, what is it?" he asked, startled. "What's the matter?"

"Shut the door!"

"It's shut," he soothed, even turning to make sure. "It's shut, Molly, will you tell me what's wrong?" She sat on the floor, pale as a sheet, hands trembling. He recognized a panic attack when he saw one. "Can I come over there?" he asked. She nodded briefly and he crossed the room, sitting down on the floor only a step or two from her. He spoke quietly, helping her control her breathing. His tones were soothing, and though she was shaking, she managed not to give way completely. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "Did something startle you?" she shook her head.

"I just…I need to go home, I want to go home," hands shaking she rubbed her wrists and her palms together, scratching her skin. John placed his hands over hers.

"Scratch yourself raw if you're not careful," he said gently. "Stay right here, I'll make a call." John got up, crossing the room to get his phone from his coat pocket. At first, he wasn't sure who to call. His fingers hovered over the keypad. He couldn't just take Molly home; Molly would have to go to Mike Stamford before leaving. Before he could decide, the screen of his phone lit up.

Stamford has been informed about Molly Hooper's sudden bout of stomach flu. He wishes to assure Doctor Hooper she is free to take the rest of the day off and wishes her a speedy recovery. – MH

John looked around the room, frowning. Trust Mycroft and his eerie CCTV's everywhere, as well as being clever enough to come up with a discreet excuse.

"Molly," he approached her again. "Mike says you can go home, can you stand?" she nodded, bleak and bleary-eyed.

"Don't tell Sherlock, he wouldn't understand."

"I won't tell anyone you don't want me to," he promised. He waited by her locker as she fetched her things. "Are you sure you want to be alone tonight?" he asked. "Mary and I aren't doing anything, you don't have to talk at all, just come and watch telly." There was a long pause.

"I don't want to be a burden." John shook his head.

"You won't be." After a long while, she nodded, and John smiled kindly at her. "Come on, let's go home."

In the cab, John had texted Mary, and being the understanding woman that she was, greeted them at the door in her pyjamas, already putting the pathologist at ease that this would not be any kind of social visit. Even before Molly could force a smile, Mary was gently ushering her to the living room, helping her out of her coat, dropping her things as they walked.

"Coat and shoes anywhere, doesn't matter, lay on the sofa," Molly, too exhausted to fight did as she was told, flopping onto the couch. A blanket was placed over her, tucked under her feet, over her head and under her chin. "You rest there," Mary said. Molly shut her eyes, keeping her breathing even. Being at John and Mary's was better in the long run. They didn't care if she lay on the couch and said nothing. For the first half hour, they left her alone, letting her rest.

In a while, Mary shuffled in, holding two bowls.

"Bunch up a little, you can't lie down and eat ice cream."

"I shouldn't feed my feelings," Molly said, sitting up anyway.

"Who's feeding feelings? We're eating ice cream because we want to." Molly offered a smile then, taking the bowl from her. She played with it mostly, eating what she could.

"What brought this one on?" Mary asked. "Someone say something? Or was there a bad autopsy?" Molly shook her head.

"Just felt panicked, couldn't stop it, you know?" she managed finally, feeling her throat swell as she tried to swallow her tears. "I hate feeling like this."

"Feelings don't have to make sense," Mary shrugged. "I used to have panic attacks, so I do know how you feel; it's the worst, not knowing why you're feeling afraid."

"I can't imagine you ever panicking," Molly said.

"You haven't seen her at the shops looking for just the right pair of shoes," John called from the kitchen.

"Oi!" Molly smiled at this interaction. She loved Mary dearly, and was beyond happy that she and John were married. They were perfectly matched. Molly was grateful for her friends, especially in times like this. She wished she could be more like Mary, strong and brave, full of confidence. "Stop that," Molly looked up, startled.

"What?"

"Stop comparing yourself to what you wish you were," Mary said. Molly looked at her lap, embarrassed. Mary always seemed to know what was going on in her head. "You're more than that, you know, far more than simply what you wish you were."

"I know I'm not as bad as I think I am," Molly said finally.

"You're certainly not bad!" Mary laughed. "Molly, you're the dearest person I know, you hardly ever get mad without real reason. You've got the British Government on speed-dial, and you've got the strongest stomach of anybody I know. You're one of the very select few people that can get through the thick skull of Sherlock Holmes and make him listen. Do you know Mrs. Hudson brags about you?"

"Sh-she does?" Molly squeaked. She couldn't picture anyone bragging about her. Nobody wanted to be mousy, little Molly Hooper. Molly didn't especially think she was very much of a person.

"Before I met Mary, she kept trying to set you and me up," John said. "She said Sherlock couldn't possibly deserve you, and I had a far better shot."

"Poor thing had to settle for me!" Mary joked.

"No he didn't!" Molly gasped as the Watson's both laughed. "Oh that's awful!"

"Why?" John asked.

"Well it is you Mrs. Hudson was trying to set poor Molly up with," Mary said, laughing, Molly tried to hide her giggles. "Come on," she patted the pathologist's knee. "Let's order food, I don't feel like cooking, and John can only make eggs. You must be starving."

"A little," Molly admitted.

They were studying the menus when the door banged open. Only Molly jumped, and Mary touched her hand, steadying her.

"Is it possible for you to ever come in like a normal human being?!" John barked. Sherlock quirked a brow, studying him and then Molly.

"I'm sorry, Molly, I hadn't realized you'd had a trying day," Mary and John frowned. "Are you better now?" He actually was sincere, and didn't understand when John affixed him with such a look. Sherlock seemed confused.

"What are you doing?" The Consulting Detective shifted, not quite sure how John didn't understand.

"Apologizing, I believe. Am I wrong? I did say sorry."

"No, it's fine," Molly said. "We're ordering food, are you hungry?"

"Yes," he crossed the room, seating himself in John's chair. "Whatever you order is fine." John and Mary both looked at the pathologist.

"Sherlock, Molly's having a bad day, we were just going to keep things quiet tonight," Mary said. Sherlock looked up, expression unreadable; though Molly knew he was deducing her.

Tense.

Exhausted (most probably due to the afternoon's panic attack)

Clearly uncomfortable in my prescence.

"Yes, I see," he said. "Well, I'll go then-"

"No!" Molly hated for anyone to go on her account. Though the peace of the evening was probably gone, she couldn't bear making anyone uncomfortable. "No, it's fine, really- stay, everyone stay, please-"

"Molly-"

"I mean it," she said quickly, swallowing hard. "It's really okay, please don't anyone go." John nodded after a moment, picking up the menu and his phone to call in the order. Mary squeezed her hand, smiling.

"If he gets mouthy, we'll send him packing, I promise."

Sherlock had known Molly was having a difficult night as soon as he'd come in. The last time she'd had a panic attack; John had taken her home to Mary, later telling Sherlock about it, voicing his concerns. Sherlock was genuinely surprised; he'd never known Molly to have them. Anthea informed Sherlock they started happening after the death of James Moriarty. While Sherlock didn't understand Molly's panic attacks, he did wonder that she never trusted him enough to talk about them like she did with John and Mary. After all he trusted her enough to help him fake his death, and when he'd been shot while in hiding, he made sure to have Mycroft bring her along to help him recuperate. Why didn't she trust him as he trusted her? Why were John and Mary so much easier to talk to? Probably because they cared. Sherlock cared too, of course, but it was difficult to show those feelings. He was unaccustomed to putting people at ease, especially Molly. It was easier to deduce people and then crack on. He wanted her to trust him in all aspects of her life, especially now that that Tom fellow was gone.

It took Molly almost an hour to visibly relax. Mary and John got up to clear away the dishes and bring dessert out of the freezer. Sherlock took his chance. He stretched out on the sofa, head in Molly's lap. He looked up at her a moment, and then shut his eyes.

"Scratch my head please, headache."

"Um…well- are you sure?"

"Certainly," he answered and opened his eyes again. "I shouldn't like anyone else to."

"You're not getting Mr. Harley's pancreas, Sherlock." He opened his eyes.

"I don't recall asking for it. I just want you to scratch my head." He did want Mr. Harley's pancreas, but it wouldn't do to ask for it now. He'd wait until the next day when she was at work, which would surely be a more appropriate time to ask for cadavers.

After a moment, Molly settled her fingers in his thick curls, slowly combing through them. It was a bit like petting a cat, and Molly suddenly thought of Toby and how much she wished he was still alive. After a moment, Sherlock sighed, she supposed in a content way. He steepled his fingers under his chin and shut his eyes.

"Sherlock, don't make her do that!" John exclaimed.

"I don't mind, really," Molly insisted, and she honestly didn't. The motion was repetitive and soothing. Sherlock was quiet, and his breathing was steady. She in turn, wasn't tense, and she had relaxed visibly. "Like petting Toby, I half expect him to start purring," she joked.

"I am not a cat," Sherlock insisted, eyes shut and John guffawed.

"Yes you are!"

"You so are!"

"That's exactly what you are, you great preening berk!" they all talked at once, John shouting the loudest and Mary and Molly burst out laughing, Sherlock protesting for her to stop shaking the couch.

"Where's my cake?" he asked when their laughter died down and John told him to shut up and that it was coming in a while. He and Mary returned to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone again. "Feel better?" he asked quietly. Molly smiled a tiny smile, and it reached her eyes.

"A little bit, yes."

"Good." He settled into the cushions, careful not to dig his shoulders into her lap. "Whenever you have an attack, you know you can always come to me, provided I'm not on a case." He said. "I…could keep you company…if you wanted. Play cards or…whatever it is people do." Molly looked at him and was surprised to find he was looking back. He kept his face stoic, but the expression in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Even if I don't have a bad day?" she asked finally. He quirked a smile at her before shutting his eyes again.

"Even then," he said.

He felt her mouth against his forehead, pressing a gentle kiss.

"Thank you," she said softly. That meant a great deal, knowing he wanted her to trust him implicitly. "Now what?" she asked softly.

"You could keep scratching," he said. She laughed a little.

'I'd rather have cake," Molly said.

"Pfft. They'll be at least another ten minutes. Mary never waits for the cake to cool before frosting it, invariably making a great mess of it."

In the doorway of the kitchen, John and Mary stood, staring.

"Do we dare disturb them?" he asked.

"Let's just give them another twenty minutes," Mary said with a smile.
"Mary…"

"Oh shush! It's good for them. Especially him."