A/N: Sorry for the lengthy delay, other projects demanded attention. This is the final chapter, but there will be a follow-up at some point (soonish) entitled "Pillow Talk", possibly M rated if the interest is there. Enjoy and thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing!

Molly never ceased to surprise him. Which was doubly astonishing, considering how he'd originally dismissed her after his initial assessment of her – competent at her job, perhaps a bit more-so than many of the other pathologists he'd worked with; eager to please, just this short of being needy (an attribute he detested); and hopelessly (or so he'd believed) infatuated with him.

Slowly, gradually, he'd learned that she was more than competent at her job, although still eager to please, at least as far as he was concerned. That what he'd originally dismissed as a somewhat pathetic desire for attention from men other than himself was actually her way of trying to get on with her life when he'd made it clear (idiotic of him) that there was not nor ever would be anything between the two of them of a romantic nature. More importantly, he'd discovered that she was completely trustworthy, utterly loyal whether he returned her affections or not – and that, somewhere along the way, he'd grown to rely on her, much as he'd come to rely on John Watson.

That he cared for her.

Then had come that astonishing afternoon in the morgue lab when she'd told him he looked sad…and suddenly stammering, foot-constantly-in-her-mouth-around-him Molly Hooper had shown herself to have a keen insight to go along with her generous nature and skill at cutting up bodies.

Another man – an ordinary man – might not lump her finesse with a scalpel at the same level of appreciation as the insight and generosity of nature she routinely displayed, but Sherlock knew (quite without any sense of superiority or bragging) that he wasn't an ordinary man.

An ordinary man, he'd come to realize, could never appreciate Molly Hooper the way she deserved to be appreciated. Oh, he might treat her better when it came to things like romance, remembering birthdays and anniversaries, or pretending to like the same movies and music she did, but he could never be what she actually needed.

And what she needed, what made her happy, was him. It was quite a breathtaking realization, all in all. He had many faults, and could list them off alphabetically or according to how deeply irritating others found them, but Molly Hooper loved him, warts and all as the saying went.

He suspected he was capable of returning that love, and quite looked forward to seeing if his hypothesis was correct.

But right now, the only thing he needed to do was nip this infernal interrogation in the bud. He'd hoped that by taking the bull by the horns, to borrow an American expression, and simply showing up with Molly firmly by his side that the others would take the hint and consider their nosy, intrusive questions answered.

A tactical error on his part. He hadn't taken into account just how intolerably interested everyone would be in everything about him, being just back from the dead and all. He should have done as he'd promised Molly, and let her take the lead.

He would be sure to apologize to her later. In private. With a great deal of enthusiasm...

To that end, as soon as Molly asked her question, he locked gazes with first John, then Lestrade, then Mary Morstan (who looked understandably wary), then Mrs. Hudson. Who merely smiled sweetly at him before turning to Molly. "Now, dear, no one else has anything else unpleasant to say, I'm sure," she said, once again patting the younger woman on the arm. "We all know why you did what you did, even if we don't quite know the details as to how you did it – nor," she added, shooting Lestrade a rather forbidding look of her own, "do we need to hear those details. We just want to know that you're happy, that's all."

This time the forbidding look was aimed squarely at Sherlock, who acknowledged her rather broad hint that he'd best treat Molly right by nodding and finally sinking back into his chair. John sat down as well, and there was nothing but silence for a long minute, broken only when Angelo himself bustled into the room with baskets of fresh-baked Italian bread and butter.

Sherlock had sharp hearing, but even so he knew he was only imagining he heard Molly's sigh of relief from his end of the table. He was not, however, imagining the relieved expression on her face as she glanced at the same people he'd just used his best intimidating glare on.

He saw Lestrade looking apologetic as he raised his lager and took a large gulp. He saw Mrs. Hudson busying herself with her order as Angelo hovered by her shoulder. He saw Mary smiling at Molly and giving her a small, not-quite-surreptitious "thumbs up" from behind her napkin. He saw John...well, actually he saw the piercing look John was giving him and raised his eyebrow in mute challenge as their gazes locked. "Something on your mind, John?" he drawled.

"Sherlock," Molly said in obvious warning, but John flashed her a grin before returning his attention to his friend.

"Don't worry, Molls, I've got this," he said.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot toward his hairline and he felt a small muscle in his cheek twitch in irritation – not, of course, due to jealousy. "'Molls'?" he repeated, not bothering to hide his sneer. "Ah, I see, the two of you formed some sort of rapport during my absence, how...sweet."

He would have continued in that vein, perhaps interjecting some sort of sneering insinuation regarding John's feelings for Molly when a glance in her direction shut him up. She was white-faced with strain, her fingers clutching her napkin so tightly her knuckles were almost as white as her face.

John, who was too busy trying to get his point across to Sherlock to notice anything else, kept going. "Yeah, we're friends, Sherlock, all of us, Molly included," he snapped. "While you were off saving the world from Moriarty's criminal empire..."

"Untrue, he had nothing going in South America or Antarctica," Sherlock interjected by way of correction – and as a mild attempt to ease the tension growing between them – but John just plowed ahead, obviously determined to have his say.

"While you were off saving the world," he repeated, his voice a bit louder this time and accompanied by an aggravated eye roll, "we were busy mourning you, you git. And Molly was one of us, in that same club, mourning your death, at least we all thought so – "

Sherlock wasn't imagining the sharp intake of breath he heard from Molly's lips, and that was enough for him to consider punching John the way he'd just decked Lestrade.

Fortunately cooler heads prevailed. Mary placed her hand on John's arm, and the fists his hands had clenched into relaxed as he shot Molly a rueful, apologetic glance. "Sorry, Molls, that wasn't what I meant." He nodded at Sherlock. "He asked us to go easy on you, but what he doesn't get is that even though the truth is out, that you always knew he was alive, you were still worried sick about him."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock watched her nod anyway. "I was," she admitted. "It was really hard, pretending and lying to you all, then going home and...and not knowing if I'd hear from him or when I'd see him again..."

"You were in your own particular hell," John concluded when she fell silent, tears pooling in her eyes. She nodded, and it was clear to even Sherlock, famously dense when it came to emotions, that she was grateful that John – that all of them, since Lestrade was nodding silent agreement and Mrs. Hudson's arm had gone around Molly's shoulder for an affectionate squeeze and even Mary had an understanding expression on her face – saw that she'd gone through exactly the same emotional turmoil the rest of them had.

Before things could descend into maudlin emotionalism, John glanced back at Sherlock and added in a deliberately provocative tone: "By the way, if you didn't want us to know that you two were involved, why tell us to take it easy on Molly in the first place? Why stroll in here and make it clear that the answer to that question was yes, you are involved?"

He offered Sherlock a challenging stare.

Sherlock opened his mouth…and then closed it, nonplussed. What, after all, could he say? John was, as was bound to happen once in a while, absolutely right. He'd bungled this whole thing right from the start, starting with his behavior to Molly in the aftermath of their first – and so far, and possibly forever after if he didn't fix this, only – sexual encounter. He'd managed to redeem himself at her flat, only to go ahead and make a greater mess of things upon their arrival at the restaurant.

Molly, fortunately for him, had relaxed and was grinning at John. Interesting, that; he'd have expected her to continue second guessing herself, or to be angry at him. Something to file away for future reflection. "Oh, it's all right," she said. "Sherlock told me he asked you all not to badger me too much – then unilaterally decided to just make a grand entrance." She cast a faintly critical glance his way. "I'm surprised he didn't just announce that we're in a relationship as soon as we walked in the door!"

Mrs. Hudson beamed (she hadn't smiled this much in his presence since her husband's verdict had been read out, how had he not known how anxious she was for him to find the right person and settle down?) and let out a gentle chuckle. "Well, he might not have said the words but he made it quite clear to us all. Which is probably why some of us forgot our manners a bit."

Lestrade, who had straightened up to reach for a breadstick, slumped back in his chair and took another huge gulp of his lager before muttering: "Already said I was sorry, didn't I? Don't have to keep rubbing it in."

"And now can we please get on with placing our dinner orders?" Sherlock practically barked. He blinked and stared as the rest of the group – Molly included – broke in laughter.

"What?" he asked, brow furrowing in continued confusion. What could possibly be so funny?

"Good to have you back, mate, and good to see you haven't changed," was all John said. The only answer he was to receive, it appeared, so he shrugged and pretended to let it go.

He would just have to get an explanation from Molly later.