Because I haven't said it recently, thank you EVERYONE for the reviews, follows, and favorites! I appreciate each and every one so, so much!

And to MizJoely, for her never ending patience with my typos ;)

Molly felt nervous as the lift rose in her building, taking her up towards her flat. It infuriated her that Mycroft had managed to leave her unnerved, questioning her motivation, Sherlock's motivation. And the prying, going behind his brother's back and attempting to sabotage his happiness. Maybe it was presumptuous of her to feel she knew Sherlock was finally settling into contentedness, despite the barriers he set in his own way, but she'd never seen him so open to the love and friendship those around him were willing to give. She would never be able to comprehend what drove Mycroft to micromanage Sherlock's life and emotions.

And to bring up her father, to try to inflate the vices that had never, ever made him less of a professional or a loving, supportive father, was so off base. So incredibly off the mark. The doctors had made it clear what the cause of the cancer was, but when comparing indulgence to causation, they told the family he had fallen victim to pure bad luck. He had not been a drunk. He'd had it under control…

Molly stopped short in the hall, keys dangling from her fingers.

"Oh god…"

No… There was no possible way Mycroft could be right. Alcohol and heroin…not even comparable. Alcohol in moderation was fine, normal. Heroin in moderation was still getting high, still abusing.

And where did that leave her? Having to validate being with someone who was categorically worse than her dad?

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts before she went inside.

Everything was fine. Sherlock was doing so much better, back to solving cases at a superhuman rate and making huge efforts to be less difficult. The most dreadful thing that could happen would be for the people around him to start doubting how great he could be. Unlike Mycroft, Molly would not act like every step he made in the right direction was doomed to fail. She wasn't going to tolerate any regression on his part, but berating him before he even had the chance to prove himself was something she would never do.

Working her hand back into motion, she reached for the door and unlocked it, stepping quickly into her flat. Sherlock was on her sofa, his feet propped on her coffee table with Toby settled happily on top of his shins. His coat was pulled tightly around his torso and he was focused intently on his phone.

He was easily the most complicated person she'd ever met, and for some reason she was out of her mind in love with him.

"Picked up Toby from your neighbor this afternoon," he told her quickly. "He looked a little overfed so I lightened his dinner. Ordered some dumplings and rice, should be here any minute. John keeps texting – absolutely tedious – demanding to know if there's anything else going on he should know about. I told him he could pick the next case, but that doesn't seem to be the right way to apologize. Is there something else I should do?"

Ah yes, that was why she loved him. That was exactly why.

She tossed her keys and bag on the dining table and shrugged out of her coat.

"How can your brother have the audacity to be the way he is?" she asked, walking into the lounge and planting her hands on her hips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glancing around before looking at her again.

"This is not related to apologizing to John, is it?" he said.

"Mycroft came into the morgue today - "

"Ah."

" – to warn me about being with you," she said angrily, feeling everything from earlier well up again. "Is he so unsatisfied with his life, does he have that many control issues that he has to treat you like a, a rebellious five year old?"

"Mm, wouldn't be the first time someone has treated me like that."

"Doesn't it bother you, Sherlock?" she asked, not understanding his flippancy. "Doesn't it drive you crazy to have him shoving his nose into your personal life all the time?"

Sherlock looked at her and she knew he was analyzing what had really gone on during her shift. He clicked his phone off and put it in his coat pocket, reaching forward to lift Toby off of his legs. The poor cat woke up with a startled look mid-lift, stretching his legs out to prepare for his landing on the floor and then trotting off into her bedroom. In a few strides, Sherlock was right in front of her.

"What did he say to you?" he asked calmly.

"That – that you're using me to replace your addictions. And apparently I'm in love with you because my dad died from liver cancer," she told him sardonically, her eyes darting away from his as he continued to watch her. "Oh, and he assured me the video footage from last night was destroyed."

"CCTV?"

"Yes."

"I've been behind in sweeping the flat for his bugs. Dammit," he bit out.

Molly shifted fretfully, fearing that he would brush the entire thing off.

"And the rest of it?" she asked him.

"He's an idiot if he thinks I'm replacing anything with you. That's what the cases are for."

"Sherlock," she snapped, her mouth pulling tight as she shot him a look.

"I've been clean since getting shot, Molly," he told her vehemently, stepping closer to her. "You know I have."

"I know," she said, nodding quickly.

"I'm not planning on changing that fact," Sherlock said. "Do you honestly think your dad has anything to do with wanting to be with me?"

"No, not really," she admitted.

"Then there's nothing more to be concerned about, it's settled."

Molly took a breath and hesitated, her hands clasping together.

"It's not that simple…"

"It doesn't have to be that complicated either," he said with a sigh. "Childhood is highly influential on the selection of significant others later in life, but your father didn't enter the stage of his drinking that contributed to his cancer until you had left for Uni. The chances of influence are minuscule. If anything, you're inclined to seek out ambitious men with a strong sense of justice…in which case, thank you for the compliment."

She let out a small laugh, partly amused at watching him follow his own line of logic. Rubbing the back of her neck, she looked up at him.

"So…are you keen to be with a quirky mathematician who likes to boss you around?" she asked.

"You are describing my mother."

"I am."

"No. I have no desire to bring any of my family members into my relationships," he told her with a smirk. "I prefer odd pathologists with a strong right hook."

"Good," Molly agreed, stepping into his personal space and smoothing her hands up the front of his shirt. "Because I prefer obsessive consulting detectives with short attention spans."

"Hm," he replied, eyes darting over her face before landing on her mouth.

Molly felt a ripple of energy spread from her belly as he leaned down and pressed his lips firmly to hers, his skin smooth as velvet. His arms wound about her waist, pulling her close.

Her intercom buzzer sounded shrilly, signaling the arrival of their food delivery at the front door. What sounded like a low growl emitted from Sherlock's throat and he barely pulled his mouth away from hers

"Food's here," she whispered.

"I don't really need to eat."

Molly laughed and leaned up to press one more kiss to his mouth.

"Well," she said. "I do."

The sustenance turned out to be very much needed as Sherlock led her to the bedroom after dinner, stripping the clothes away from her body, then his, and sitting on the center of the bed, pulling her into his lap. She joined him eagerly, loving the feeling of him rubbing against her clit as he reached for the band holding her hair up, slowly sliding it away and letting her hair fall free. One of the benefits of being at the start of a new relationship was constantly feeling ready to fall into bed, wanting to be joined immediately – not that she would ever not be ready for Sherlock; his very voice seemed capable of sending heat pooling between her legs.

With his lips caressing the side of her neck, making her eyes practically roll back in her head, Molly had to concentrate incredibly hard on reaching for the box of condoms in her bedside table. She ripped open the foil impatiently and reached for him, taking a moment to enjoy the hot, silky feel of him before rolling the latex on. Lifting her hips, she positioned him and lowered herself, humming as he filled her. Length-wise, he probably fell into the category of average, but his girth was something that hit buttons no one had ever managed to before. It felt amazing.

"God, Molly," Sherlock groaned, rocking into her and wrapping his arms around her back.

Apparently he felt the same way.

Her hands slid up his lean, toned arms and around his shoulders, holding on as his hands lowered to her hips, encouraging her to start moving. She obliged, helped by his hands on her arse, riding him until they both shuddered with pleasure.

Molly's place was noisier than Sherlock's was. She lived on a busier road and cars often drove by throughout the night. Being three floors up, it wasn't as distracting as it could have been. At the very least, they were spared the bright intrusion of headlights as the cars passed by. Her room was dimly lit by outside ambient light, making it easy to watch her while she slept, tucked contentedly against his side. Two nights of disturbed sleep, a full shift in the morgue, and a full belly caught up with her and she had passed out fairly quickly after their love making.

The more he was with her, the more he wanted her. The chemicals of love were working well, increasing the bond they already had and encouraging the trust he already placed in her. He had extraordinary self-control, but even Sherlock could not regulate the chemistry of his own body – the surge of dopamine, vasopressin, and oxytocin. Logically, he knew what was happening to him. It was practically a parlor trick.

That didn't mean his already protective nature didn't spike through the roof at the thought of his brother trying to destroy yet another personal connection.

Moving gently, he grabbed his phone from the bedside table and turned it on, punching out a text with one hand.

Brother mine, if you ever speak to her that way again, I will raise a hell the likes of which you have never seen – SH

Merely looking out for the interests of all parties involved. You and I both know you're capable of ruining her. And she, you.

My warning stands - SH

With Molly at work for the day, Sherlock threw himself into a new project at Baker Street: pigment and chemical makeup of different kinds of ink. Though he had a wealth of knowledge filed away already, a well categorized list on his blog would be advantageous. He had been at it for four hours when he heard knocking.

"Sherlock? You in?" John called from the hall.

"The door is open, John," Sherlock sighed, putting down the latest strip of pigment paper.

"Yeah, well, after yesterday, I figured a little caution was in order," John said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Sherlock held his hands up, confused.

"If the door is open, what do you think you'd be walking in on?"

"Oh-ho," John laughed, looking doubtful. "It would not surprise me in the slightest if you just…didn't close the door."

"Molly is at Bart's," he explained slowly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Your virtuous eyes are safe."

"Right," John said with a smile, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. "Got something you might be interested in…that is, if you're taking cases."

"Why would I not be?"

"Dunno," John shrugged, pulling up the information on his phone. "Spending more time with Molly now that you're…doing…things. Getting to know each other."

"I don't need to reserve time to get to know Molly, I spend plenty of time with her already. We've been sleeping together for months," Sherlock told him, reaching for another pen to start a new ink test.

John shot him a confused look.

"I thought all of this just started," he said.

"The intercourse, yes," Sherlock said calmly, ignoring the disgusted wince from John. He drew the pen across a strip of paper and primly replaced the cap. "I've been sleeping at her place for months."

"Yeah, moving on," John said with a shake of his head. "Got an email from a woman in Hoxton whose seventeen-year-old daughter ran away from home eight months ago - "

"Boring."

"No, hang on, she ran away eight months ago and her mother, Susan Fisher, called in a missing person's report. Police found her living with a friend in Hamstead. They wouldn't look into it after that because the daughter was calling home and sending letters, telling her mother she was alright - "

"Boooring."

"Would you just – her mother is a psychic."

Sherlock paused in the process of filling a beaker with water, his eyes flicking up.

"A psychic?" he asked, his interest slightly piqued.

John made a relieved face, taking a breath before continuing on.

"She swears that she had a vision and knows that her daughter is dead, but she's still getting the phone messages and letters," he told Sherlock.

"The girl is probably embarrassed by her mother, she wants to be left alone to start a new life, but she doesn't want to hurt her. Where's the mystery?"

"That's what the police assumed, too," John said, reading the rest of the email on his phone. "So, on a hunch, Susan paid for a lab to analyze the DNA on the latest letters. They all contained solely male DNA."

"Boyfriend. The police can verify."

"She's done with the police," John said, pocketing his phone. "She only wants you. Says she has a 'good feeling.'"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I'm not wasting my time on a family feud case with no real crime," Sherlock said firmly, picking up the pigment paper and poising it over the water. "Call me when a real case comes in."

John shifted his weight and looked at the ground.

"At least meet with her. See what she has to say," he entreated.

"I don't think so."

"Well, you have to," John told him with a nod. "I told her to meet us here, she should be arriving any minute."

"You did what?" Sherlock said, his lip curling slightly as he looked at John.

"You said I could pick the next case," John said quickly, pointing a finger at his friend.

Sherlock blinked, gritting his teeth. The doorbell rang and he glanced in the direction of the noise, putting down the pigment paper and the beaker of water.

"Fine," he snipped, standing up to walk haughtily to his chair and plopping down in it.

John grinned and walked down the stairs to let their client in. A few moments later, a short, middle aged woman walked in, looking somewhat less eccentric than Sherlock would have expected. Her greying hair fell in waves halfway down her back and she wore faded jeans, a multi-colored blouse, and a green cardigan. She had a variety of rings on her fingers in different gems and metals and a necklace with a pendant Sherlock recognized as a moonstone. His nose twitched a bit as she approached him, smiling – she smelled strongly of herbs.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," she said reverently, holding his gaze for a moment before turning to John. "And John Watson."

"Yeah, please, sit down," John said, gesturing to the ottoman and taking his old seat.

"Mr. Holmes," Susan began, looking more serious. "My daughter is dead. I know this. I also know you're going to be the one to find out what happened."

"Ms. Fisher, there is no body, no one has reported her missing, no real crime has been committed that I can see," Sherlock said, stretching his fingers out over the arms of his chair. "What makes you so certain anything is wrong?"

"I know it. I can see it," Susan said, tapping the space over her heart with the fingers of her right hand. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"That's not much for me to go on," he said.

"Find out where she was living – the police know, but they wouldn't tell me – and go there. Please. I know something is wrong."

Her voice dropped the ethereal quality it had held since she started talking, becoming a soft plea. John glanced at Sherlock, his brow drawn in concern. Sherlock knew that look. It was the look that said John was already invested in a client, feeling sorry for them, and would harp on him until he did something.

He never should have allowed him to pick a case.

"Fine," Sherlock said with a nod. "We'll look into it right away."

Molly pushed her way out of the morgue, reviewing the list on her clipboard and happily crossing off the second to last name. Three post-mortems in one day and she was going to be lucky if she managed to finish the last one without staying overtime. She pushed at the strands of hair that had escaped her plait and fallen into her face, letting out a tired breath. As she passed the corridor to the lab, her co-worker, Daphne, came around the corner and joined her in walking down the hall.

"Alright, Molly?" she said with a smile, her arms occupied with a box of supplies. Daphne was taller than her, athletic, a few years younger, and probably one of the friendliest people who worked in the pathology department. Her curling blonde hair emphasized her constantly sunny disposition.

"Fine, thanks," Molly said.

"I heard you spent a few days fighting crime," Daphne said eagerly. "Fun, was it?"

"Oh, um, very glamorous," Molly replied with a laugh, thinking she never wanted to go anywhere near a tent or a mountain or campground again. Her phone chirped in her pocket and she gave Daphne an apologetic smile, pulling it out to read the message.

Out on a case. Won't be over tonight. Possibly not tomorrow either. Will text – SH

She sighed and typed in a quick reply of understanding.

"Everything okay?" Daphne asked.

"Yeah," Molly said, tucking her phone back into her coat pocket. "Plans for the night just got canceled."

"Boyfriend?"

"Um…sort of," she said, her brow wrinkling as she realized they had never really defined what they were to each other. Boyfriend sounded like such a casual word when it came to what Sherlock meant to her and she had the feeling he wouldn't be fond of the endearment either.

"That's the way with them, isn't it?" Daphne said with a sympathetic look. "Always leaving you high and dry."

"He's got a good excuse. I think," she explained. "He's a detective."

"Oh," Daphne said, her eyes opening wide and turning her head to look at Molly in surprise. "Oh! Is it that chap with the coat, comes in here like he owns the place? Voice like a panther?"

"That's him," Molly muttered, ducking her head slightly and feeling her cheeks warm. Daphne smiled knowingly at her.

"You come find me when your shift is over," she told her. "We're going to the pub."

Molly could hardly argue with that line of thinking.