John called Molly later that morning. She sounded as if she might cry from joy.

They arranged to meet in the pub across the street from Bart's. She claimed to have the afternoon off, but John suspected she had sorted something out for his benefit. He appreciated the effort, or at least was prepared to act as if he did. This is just one of those things, he thought, pretending to be okay for other people. He wondered if Mary would have been proud of him.

Her smile was cautious and a touch forced. She chattered for some time about the hospital and informed him on the lives of various mutual acquaintances. John sipped his lager and nodded in the appropriate places. For a brief, guilty moment, he thought he might be able to leave the pub without discussing things like funerals or babies or the…whatever it was that was festering at present in the air of 221B. Sherlock, he realised, would have delighted in telling him how wrong he obviously was.

'John?' He glanced up. 'I don't think you called me just to grab a pint.' He didn't reply, his jaw shifting into a hard line. 'I know you don't want to talk about any of it,' she continued, her words boring into his gut and spraying acid up his throat. 'Avoiding it won't make anything better.'

He watched the foam of his lager bubble and pop, more than aware that he was taking too long to respond. 'I know that.'

Her head settled to one side and he realised how much he was regretting ever executing this conversation. 'It must be terrible for you.'

He chuffed. 'Yeah. Of course it is.'

'Is Sherlock being helpful?'

Warmth crept up the side of his neck. He fumed and prayed she didn't notice. 'He's doing quite a lot, yes.'

'So that's what's got you out of sorts.'

'I suppose.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'What's there to talk about?'

'Loads?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I think you need to talk about it all, John. I think you need to get it all out of your system before you explode.'

'It won't change anything.'

'It might make a difference. It might mean something to him.'

He wanted to glare at her. He wanted to tell her off for making assumptions and overstepping her bounds and insinuating all sorts of ridiculous things, but of course he couldn't. God knew she had figured them out long before they had ever managed it. He could see her now-it seemed like a lifetime ago-face pinched and furious, screaming at Sherlock for lying to her about the nature of their association, shouting at John for the enthusiastic bit of snogging that had caused Sherlock to slip and sprain his wrist. The memory tugged at his chest like someone pulling on a fresh suture. He averted his eyes, his fingers stilling on the table.

'Could I give you some advice?' He shrugged. He never used to shrug. He used to say 'yes' or 'no' or 'thank you, I can manage'. He had never been non-committal before. He hadn't been a lot of things before. Molly shifted closer. She smelled of Clinique and antiseptic and John tried not to think about the last time he'd been this close to a living, breathing woman. 'I know it hasn't been long, and I know you're a bit mixed up right now.' John snorted and took a too-large gulp. She waited until he stopped coughing to continue. 'You two really need each other. Not just now, but for the rest of your lives. He still loves you-' His eyes were too calm. She felt her throat close up against her words. 'He does, John. You know he does. He's never been happier than when you two were boy-'

'No.' Molly's teeth clicked shut, face burning as she realised her mistake. 'Don't say that. Don't even-' He pursed his lips and looked away a moment. 'Sherlock,' he said, 'Was not my boyfriend.'

'John-'

'He was never my boyfriend. I don't care what was going on between us and what you knew-what anyone knew-about…about whatever it bloody was. He was never that. And do you know why?' Her eyes were impossibly wide. 'Because boyfriends do nice things for you. Boyfriends take you to dinner and remember your birthday and-yes, I know he did all of that-but boyfriends don't feel the need to supplement that with throwing themselves off of buildings and pretending to be dead for two fucking years! You don't do that to someone you love! That is not a thing you do!'

'No,' she whispered. 'That's a thing Sherlock Holmes would do.'

'Jesus Christ…' John wiped at his face, exhausted by everyone else in the whole dismal world being right except him.

'Have you ever talked about that day? Did he tell you anything about it?'

'I don't need to know, Molly.'

'You do. You absolutely do. You stupid git.' She wore the same frown that came with a hard slap to the cheek and an admonishment that he ought to be ashamed of himself. 'We sat in that building just across the street and he told me what he had to do. And I begged him not to, John. I begged him not to leave you.'

'Stop it.'

'He was so lost. He was miserable and scared and do you know what he told me?'

'Is this really the place for this conversation?'

'"I can't live without him," he said. "How can I go on if my heart stops beating?"'

John closed his eyes. 'Molly, please-'

'I know it's too soon. And I know you're still angry with yourself for letting her go through with it.'

'I didn't know-'

'And that only makes it worse; I know it does. But she did know. And if you think for one minute that she didn't work this whole thing out beforehand, you really are a stupid git.'

'You know, it would be so nice if someone would just look at things from my perspective for once.'

'I am looking at it from your perspective, John. You're frustrated and irritated-'

'No, I'm very pissed off.'

'And you've every right to be. And I'm sure Sherlock is being impossible and distant because he's Sherlock after all and that's not making this decision any easier.'

John snorted. 'What decision?'

'The decision on whether or not you're going to let him back in.'

'Uh, I don't think that's my decision to make. Not since…since His Insufferableness decided to step in and take control.' He felt flushed, his anger boiling over before he'd had any chance to so much as label it. 'Do you know what he's doing, Molly? He's taken over keeping an eye on Will! He's tucked me into his bed every night since I got back! He's bloody cooking! And-and sorting out the christening! And he's just doing these things and tearing himself apart and completely ignoring the fact that it's so extraordinarily outside of his character that it's bloody terrifying!'

'Of course he is.'

'Of course he is. What in God's name is that supposed to mean?'

Molly fixed him with a look: half knowing and half amused and entirely infuriating. He lost a weak and manic giggle, his head falling to the table. 'Oh, god. How I hate him.'

'You really should.'

He rubbed his face before leaning his cheek against his palm, his eyes exhausted. 'You think I should just kiss him and get it over with, don't you?'

She shrugged. 'You might have to. He's completely impossible.'

'God…' he repeated. His eyes wandered over the other pub-goers, those blessed strangers who had no idea how maddening life could be whilst living with Sherlock Fucking Arsehole Holmes. He chuffed on a laugh. It must be so boring. 'I can't believe I'm actually considering this.'

Molly shrugged. 'I can.'

'Shut up,' he sighed. She smiled and ordered him another drink.