Sherlock sat in the muck that was the southern bank of the Thames underneath Battersea Bridge, tide lapping up against his shoes. The ruined clothing he could deal with, but he could not deal with returning to Baker Street defeated and with his tail between his legs. No. That was beneath him.

(He ignored the fact that traveling across London covered in filth was at times also beneath him.)

Gravel crunched and Sherlock turned to the sound. "Oh, it's you," he huffed, and turned back to the water.

Molly, all done up for John's wedding, looked at him.

"You can tell Mycroft to mind his own business," Sherlock bit out.

She looked at him in shock. "He—but how did you—?"

"Oh please. You're still holding your mobile, which has GPS capabilities, but you're demonstrably incapable of tracking me on your own. And you walked all the way here in the rain by yourself. What? Mycroft couldn't separate himself from whatever crisis he's dealing with to send you a car?"

"Haven't you been horrible enough for one day?" Molly asked, accusatory.

Sherlock flopped in the mud. "Not you, too," he pouted.

"Of course me too!" she exclaimed. "I mean, what did you honestly expect? I realize you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, but even you should know that's not something you confess to someone at their wedding to another person!

"Look, Sherlock," she continued. "You're my friend. I care about you, and I've been worried about you ever since you asked my help to fake your death. I just want to see you be happy. You should know that Mary called off the wedding. John didn't get married."

Molly could see Sherlock perk up as she said that and he shot her a look. Though he was trying to hide it, it was the most hopeful look she had ever seen him wear. She sat down next to him, not caring about her dress.

Hesitatingly, unsure of how he would react, Molly placed a hand on his shoulder. When he didn't brush her off, she said, "We both know he's romantically interested in you and that's half the battle won right there. You'll need patience for the next bit since John'll be skittish from this whole episode, but I know you can bring him around."

Molly smiled and nudged him with her elbow. "You've got this."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded her head vigorously. "You bet your life on it."

Sherlock leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Molly nudged him again. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go on; get going! You've got some hard work ahead of you!"

Sherlock leapt up, and Molly was hard-pressed to keep from smiling as broadly as he was. Once he was out of her sight, she fished out her phone and hit the redial button.

She put it to her ear and waited for the voice on the other end.

"Mycroft Holmes, after what I just did for you, you had better be sending a car to come pick me up because I'll be damned if I'm walking across the city in this mess on these heels. Do not make me pay for a cab."

It was late by the time Sherlock got back to Baker Street. All the lights were out, and there wasn't even the faint glow of whatever late night program Mrs. Hudson usually watched coming from her bedroom window.

When he entered the flat, he immediately noticed three things: there was a new chip in the wall, John was passed out in his chair, and the place reeked of alcohol. A second glance told him the odor came from the spilled bottle of Jameson at John's feet.

Lovely.

Well. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to drag John to his bedroom upstairs. That venture would have them both tumbling down the stairs, sustaining potentially serious injuries.

His room it was, then.

With a great groan of effort, Sherlock hoisted John over his shoulders. John mumbled something that Sherlock couldn't decipher.

Sherlock made his way to his bedroom without any difficulty or bumps or bruises to John. After depositing him gently on the bed, Sherlock removed John's shoes. Then he stood there, debating whether or not to remove the rest of John's clothes.

Eventually he agreed with the side that argued that sleeping while black-out drunk in soaking wet clothes was a bad idea. He began removing John's shirt, thinking that he'd much rather be removing John's clothing under vastly different circumstances…preferably while John was awake. Sherlock put John in a flannel shirt before quickly removing his dress trousers, not trusting his hands to keep from wandering.

After pulling the blanket up to John's chin and ensuring that the bin was nearby. Sherlock just stood there, unsure of what to do. Then, very quickly, he pressed his lips to John's forehead and left, shutting the light.

A/N: Well, it's been a while! I've been in the mountains since the beginning of July with no internet access. Here's a little fluff as an apology for the delay. I had originally planned for the dialogue in the beginning to be between Sherlock and Lestrade, but then I decided that Sherlock would have had a deeper connection to Molly after Reichenbach Fall and that the conversation would make more sense coming from her.

As always, the response has been absolutely overwhelming and I love the feedback! Let me know what you think!