A/N: Oh my goodness, I hope you like it... *cowers waiting for responses*

Sherlock took the bag of ice Molly shoved into his hand, glancing at John sitting next to him on the sofa to watch his reaction as she forced one on him, too.

"Now you boys are going to sit there and have a proper chat without doing any more damage," she instructed firmly. "I am tired of patching up injuries. I'm going to check on Mrs. Hudson, make sure she hasn't wound herself up into shock."

The two men looked after her as she made her way out of the flat. John tentatively put the ice on his cracked knuckles. He glanced at Sherlock.

"When did she become..."

"I do believe she's always been that way, just been too thick to notice," Sherlock offered. He gingerly applied the ice to his bruising cheek, looking firmly ahead. "Don't hold her accountable for any of this, she was simply doing what was asked of-"

"Wouldn't dream of it," John cut him off. A moment of silence passed, both looking at the flat they knew by heart. John cleared his throat, brow furrowed. "So what have you been up to, then?"

Sherlock looked over and when he met John's eye, the most familiar, warming feeling hit him. He saw the slight quirk of his friend's lip and couldn't stop the corners of his own mouth from lifting. Moments later, they were both laughing, a feeling Sherlock had been uncertain at times that he would feel again. Molly had made him laugh, of course, but there was always the edge of sadness to anything that had occurred over the last year.

"You'd better stop it, they'll think we've lost our minds up here," John chuckled.

"You're laughing, too."

"Your voice carries more," John wiped at his eyes, sighing. His brow lowered a bit. "In all seriousness, Sherlock, what have you been doing?"

He told him all he could, about his 'suicide,' Moriarty's promise to kill his friends, his mission to track down and destroy the rest of the network, and how the assassin in custody would lead to their exoneration in the kidnappings. He told him of Molly's help, but out of respect for her and a nagging uncertainty in his brain, he left out every personal detail of their time together.

"She spent a year lying for you, helping you, and keeping you alive?" John asked. Sherlock pulled his lower lip tight, looking away. John shook his head. "You owe her dinner, mate."

I owe her more than that…

"So when is the wedding?"

"Two weeks," John told him. "Mary's lovely. You'll like her, she'll set you right on your pompous ass the moment she meets you."

Sherlock grinned at that.

"Are you going to make me wear a bloody top hat and tails?"

"If you're lucky. I should make you wear a sign that says 'I lied to my best friend because I'm a massive wanker,'" John smirked.

"Oh God, you're never going to let it go, are you…"

The media went into a delirium when the details of Sherlock's story became public. If he had been popular before, he became a downright icon when the press unleashed the whole sensational tale.

She made sure to be present when he returned to the Yard, biting back a smile as he waltzed right passed Anderson and Donovan with John at his side. She saw the self-satisfied turn of his mouth, even if no one else seemed to. Despite his proclamations that he could care less about what people thought, she knew he'd been waiting his whole life to outdo the cool kids. She knew the feeling all too well.

Lestrade had stared at him with stunned gratitude before pulling him into a quick hug, muttering something about undoing the death certificate not being his division.

From that moment on, she'd stayed put in the mortuary and lab. Her job had been secured by Mycroft flexing his power and insisting she had been ignorant of the whole situation, tricked by falsified evidence planted by Mycroft's team. She suspected a bit of brotherly arm-twisting had been involved there, finding it hard to believe Mycroft held her in enough esteem to volunteer the effort.

As for the press, she'd never liked too much attention and the frenzy around Sherlock was enough to encourage her distance. She also suspected that the last thing he needed was a snapshot of the two of them at Baker Street, God forbid in a compromising situation, plastered all over the morning news.

She could just see the headlines: "Corpse Couple Finds Love!"

The thought made her grimace.

She knew he was becoming beyond annoyed at the fuss, if her text alerts were any indication.

Do you have anything of interest in the morgue? SH

I need body parts for an experiment. Anything will do SH

Why do these morons insist on glamorizing the methods used for the suicide? Did they pay NO attention to the careful calculations of the placement of that rubbish truck? How are showy dramatics more interesting than basic physics? SH

After a week of barely seeing him as he whisked through Bart's in mad attempts to escape (sadly, his presence at the hospital only stirred a flurry of photographers looking to get a picture at the scene), she was woken one night by the familiar dip of her mattress. He pulled her against him and buried his face in her freshly washed hair, inhaling deeply. She inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that he had chosen to come to her. She loved him enough to let him move on if that's what he wanted, knowing that it would potentially break her heart permanently. That was what it was to love Sherlock Holmes – giving every bit of herself, her strength to let him go if she needed to, in order to see him survive.

But he came back.

"Were you followed?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Who gives a damn."

"You do."

"I've missed you, Molly," he murmured, lips brushing her temple. "Don't ruin that by reading my thoughts."

She let out a small breath as she smiled, rocking her hips into him to take her teasing revenge.

John and Mary's wedding was beautiful. She tried valiantly not to stare at Sherlock, dressed to the nines, thinking how awful she looked up on the altar with the other bridesmaids in her mustard yellow dress. People immediately swamped him as the party moved to a garden reception behind a stone meeting hall, asking probing questions about what they had read in the papers. She could tell by the look on his face that he was fighting the urge to bolt and hole up at Baker Street. She shot a sympathetic look in his direction and he gave her a tight smile before turning away. Biting her lip, she chose to make her way to the outdoor bar.

She promptly managed to spill some of her wine on the chiffon fabric and swore at her clumsiness, wiping hopelessly at it with a wet napkin.

It was apparently enough to draw the attention of a slightly stocky man named Sam who decided that she needed someone to talk to. It was tedious small talk, but as she hardly knew anyone else it was tolerable.

"She's clearly not interested, why are you still trying?"

His voice came from right behind her. She glanced around to see he had sidled up to the bar, leaning casually on the counter with a tumbler of something strong in his hand. His other hand came to rest possessively on the small of her back, toying with the chiffon of her dress. The sensation of his fingers sent a jolt of heat through her spine. She gave Sam a tight smile and he got the message, shooting Sherlock an annoyed look as he walked off. She turned to face her consulting detective, causing his hand to drop away from her waist.

"Chasing off my potential dates, again," she teased, not wanting to let him off the hook so soon. After all, he had yet to acknowledge their relationship, whatever it was, to anyone but her cat. "He was nice."

"He was a moron," Sherlock took a drink from his glass. "Vapid expression, not particularly loquacious, probably hasn't read a book in about four years, not to mention the sweating and flushed complexion indicate sedentary lifestyle and high risk for cardiac issues." He leaned in to her body and lowered his head so that his mouth just grazed her ear. "He wouldn't last two nights in your bedroom." Now it was her turn to flush. He smiled when he saw his desired reaction and leaned back again. "He was beneath you, Molly. They all are."

Realization suddenly struck her. She looked up at him with a knowing smile, eliciting a furrowed brow and his full attention.

"That's why you always did what you did," she marveled. "Drove off every man I brought around. Even that Christmas… you made fun because you were jealous. You couldn't stand the thought of some other chap getting that pristine present. Jealous of yourself, in the end, silly man."

Thought he didn't say a word, she could tell by the set of his mouth and his eyes darting to look everywhere but at her that she was right. Her smile softened from teasing to affection. They stood in silence for several moments, watching the party unfold before them.

"You appear to have spilled something on your dress."

Her cheeks warmed, feeling ten years old, suddenly.

"I know…"

"It's a horrendous color on you, anyway. Mary did you no favors, I would have ruined it, too."

"I do believe the official name is 'saffron,'" she told him, smiling as she looked down at the hideous dress. He took another sip before abandoning the glass on the bar.

"Can't wait to get you out of it," he said lowly.

Her cheeks flushed in earnest now. She wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn't manage to elicit that reaction from her.

"Have you had a dance yet, Molly?" he asked casually.

She shook her head and took his offered arm with a smile. Not surprisingly, he led her away from the dance floor and through a side door in the garden wall that opened onto a small, unoccupied pass-through from the main building. Quite alone, he wrapped an arm around her waist and took up her hand with the other. She rested her hand along the back of his shoulder, easier to reach in her high heels, and enjoyed the way he swayed with her to the easy, acoustic music. They shared a few lovely minutes before she heard the sound of raucous voices approaching. Sherlock leaned down to whisper against her ear.

"Should have picked a better spot. I owe you a dance."

He slid his hands away and stepped back just as Greg and John wandered through the doorway with drinks in hand.

"Told you they came through here," John exclaimed, handing a pint over to Sherlock.

"You can't let this poor girl have one day off without bothering her about work, can you, mate?" Greg ribbed him, earning an eye roll and a forced smile from Sherlock.

"It's fine, really, I don't mind," Molly said with a nervous laugh, hand running along her arm, more to undo the goosebumps from Sherlock's touch than anything else.

"No work today, today is only for celebrating," Greg proclaimed, handing a glass of white wine to Molly. "So many good things to celebrate!"

"What are you rambling about?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Good news in," he told them. "Just got word that the newspapers are retracting every word Kitty Riley ever printed about our dear Sherlock. She's been disgraced."

"Here, here," John declared, lifting his glass in the air.

"Glad to hear it," Molly grinned. "She was a right bi- erm, witch."

She took an innocent sip of her wine, ignoring the intrigued look Sherlock was currently giving her.

"Cheers all around," Greg lifted his glass at Sherlock before turning to Molly. "Can I rescue you from this bothersome but extraordinary man and offer you a dance."

"Not wasting any time after signing those divorce papers, are we?" Sherlock said coolly.

Molly shot him an incredulous look as she took Greg's offered arm. There was no harm in testing his ego every once in a while, she decided.

Sherlock watched her go with a critical eye, needing a moment to process the sight of her on another man's arm.

His hopes for solace were dashed as John stayed with him, looking slightly drunk and stupidly happy from marital bliss. Sherlock barely contained his patronizing look. Unbothered, his friend smiled at him and pulled two cigars from his coat pocket, handing one to Sherlock.

"Lestrade," John explained the origin of the cigars. "I figured since it's a special occasion and all."

"Yes, we can celebrate your eternal bondage to domesticity," Sherlock smiled at him as he ignited a lighter.

"Ah, Sherlock," John sighed, taking a puff from his cigar. "One day I hope you get to realize there is slightly more to life than murder."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Ohhh, I don't know," John smirked and looked at him. "You tell me – how much fun have you been having with Molly?"

Sherlock choked a little on the inhale of his cigar. John looked forward with a smug expression.

"Thought so," he grinned.

Molly allowed him to approach the situation in his own way. It didn't take long to decipher Sherlock's method for keeping her around.

Inexplicable nerves hit her the first time he summoned her to Baker Street, asking for her opinion on an experiment he was conducting. He kept her around for a sufficiently long amount of time and then proclaimed it was far too late for her to be traveling home safely. Perhaps it was that he was shifting their relationship from the cocoon of familiarity in her house, perhaps it was because the presence of all things him was just overwhelming in the space, but Molly was nearly trembling in his arms when he lowered her to his bed, kissing her tenderly in every place that set her skin on fire.

He asked for her help on experiments frequently. If she had to stay afterwards and if they wound up making love for the better part of the night, well, so much the better. And if she needed to keep a toothbrush and a few extras sets of clothes at Baker Street, just in case, who was he to argue?

He was adamant about keeping some of his equipment at her home when she suggested she help him move it back to Baker Street.

"If I'm here and I need it, what good is it that it's all been moved across town?"

The first case to pique his interest came just after John's return from his honeymoon. The three of them fell easily back into their roles, the only difference being that John returned to his home with Mary at the end of the day and Sherlock usually looked to Molly with a silent request to not let him spend the night alone.

Some things didn't change. He still drifted off while solving problems, still snapped at anyone who wasn't up to his standards, and still requested coffee when Molly appeared to be too idle in the lab.

Since he had eliminated her from the group of people he became overly snarky with, she granted him the requests, though the first time had set her laughing when she left the room.

Sherlock had taken one sip of the coffee and recoiled in disgust. He held the offending cup out to Molly.

"What have you done to the coffee?" he demanded.

Molly cast a helpless glance at John, fingers pulling at the sleeve of her lab coat.

"I… I dunno," she gave a small laugh, trying to figure out what he could possibly be complaining about. "It's just the coffee from the break room, as always."

"Did you put petrol in it? Extract of embalming fluids?" he nagged, taking a final whiff before putting the cup on timeout a good arm's length away from him. "It tastes nothing like your coffee."

"Oh," Molly exclaimed, realization dawning on her. "Oh, I always put a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg in my grounds before I percolate at home. No one here seems to like it much." She smiled after the simple explanation and grabbed the mug. "I'll make you a new cup."

Sherlock stared after her with a mildly stunned look as she left the room and could see John fighting back a smile out of the corner of his eye. He turned a narrowed look on him.

"What?" he barked.

"Oh, nothing," John sniggered. He let a moment pass before he dug in. "You've grown accustomed to her face."

"Shut up."

"She almost makes the day begin!"

"Really, do shut the fuck up, John."

She didn't even try to hide her laugh at his embarrassment from the other side of the door.

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at the balance he had found in returning to his old life and incorporating Molly into the equation. Considering John had left him to live with his wife, Molly's presence in 221B had been quite welcome… for more than one reason. Contrary to what he had believed, it wasn't an entirely insufferable arrangement.

Watching her get ready in the morning had been an interesting study. He'd always suspected her haphazard style was the result of rushing, but he was intrigued to find out that her mornings were actually quite calm and thought out.

At least she's color coordinated today, he thought as he watched her with one eye from his sprawled position on the bed, head face down in a pillow.

Molly pulled her hair to tighten her ponytail and turned to climb onto the bed to plant a kiss on his head.

"Come by Bart's, I'll have those samples of aquatic fungi ready for you," she promised him as she stood up.

"Is it strange that hearing you talk about mycology does something to me?" he murmured.

Molly snorted, pulling on her jacket.

"A bit," she said, trying to keep a straight face. "Don't go too soon, I'm trying to meet with John this morning."

Sherlock grunted his agreement.

His arrival at Bart's found no Molly and no samples. Brow drawn in disappointment, he busied himself with other activities in the lab until John showed up with a potential case file.

"Did Molly find you?"

"What?" John looked up from the file. "Um, no, she didn't."

"Mmm," Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Should have by now… Probably got dragged into another hallway conversation with Stamford, agonizing storyteller that he is."

"She'll turn up soon."

"She had better, there's a body I need her clearance to look at," he muttered. "Not to mention that I need to use the electrophotometer and she's supposed to 'supervise' me after the incident with the fingers. Tell me, John, how else would you have tested the turbidity of water containing decomposing flesh?"

"Forcing everything back to normal, then," John said, slightly disappointed in his friend's attitude. "Yelling at Anderson, embarrassing Lestrade, and ordering Molly around like Cinderella."

Sherlock's eyes shot up, feeling like he had been hit with a brick.

"Say that again."

"You're back to normal, Sherlock - "

"That last part, John! Say that last part again!"

"You're ordering Molly around like Cinderella," John furrowed his brow as he repeated himself slowly. "She's your very own little kitchen maid again, which, by the way, makes you a bit of a tosser, considering."

Sherlock barely heard John, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as wave after wave of information hit him, the long abandoned letter and disputed certainty that Moran was not the last of the network hurtling through his brain. IOU… U! The picture of the Grimm's index flashed through his mind and the pieces crashed into place.

"It wasn't a throwaway warning. IOU, John, it was there all along and I missed it! Damnit!" he slammed his hand on the table. He thought out loud, launching into a stream of consciousness, standing from his stool and beginning to pace. "Obvious. How could I have been so stupid! IOU, letters nine, fifteen, and twenty-one of the bloody English alphabet! Also stories nine, fifteen, and twenty-one of the book. The Twelve Brothers, Hansel and Gretel, and Cinderella. I've done Hansel and Gretel. Saved the children from the witch and caught the kidnappers. Twelve Brothers – a princess is forced into exile and nearly burned at the stake all in order to save the lives of her brothers, her family, all for jealously. I've done that, Moriarty threatened to burn me but I returned from exile and saved my family. The letter U, number twenty-one… Cinderella… she's Cinderella. She's the last story and he knew it. I thought he had missed her…"

John began to grow concerned at the increasing look of distress on his friend's face. His stomach tightened at what he was fairly sure Sherlock was implying.

"Sherlock…"

"Only it wasn't just him," he continued. "What do all of those stories have in common, John?"

"I – I couldn't say for sure," John said.

"The witch. The wicked mother-in-law. The jealous stepmother," Sherlock's eyes had grown dark and he practically growled as he came to his conclusion. "Moriarty was right, every fairy tale has to have a good old fashion villain. And we know who that villain is in almost every story the Grimms ever wrote."

"Sherlock, who? Who are you talking about?"

"You heard Molly say it herself, John… 'Kitty Riley is a witch.'"