His second meeting with Larry had gone better than expected. They seemed to have a certain understanding about them. He presented the therapist with three articles of possible issues that seemed to ring true to him, and Larry looked them over.

"Good, good. Yes, I agree. And all three of these fit together. They could actually be one single diagnosis. But we'd need to do some testing. Still, let's focus on the Sensory Processing Disorder one first. I think it fits the previous discussion of your methods…"

When he left, Sherlock didn't even know how he felt. He probably needed another therapist just to work through what this one was telling him. Of course, most of it was subject to testing, which he really wasn't in the mood for, but at least they had a working theory.

It would require more reading, of course. But he sensed Mary was getting annoyed with him walking the floors and pacing while he read late at night. He'd probably consumed more academic research in the last few weeks than actual trained psychologists. Well, at least he'd have that to fall back on should the detective thing not work out.

It was Molly's day off, so she was in her blue grandmotherly chair that they'd moved into the flat with the rest of her things. She looked up from her knitting when the door opened. "How'd everything go?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I have answers… which leads to loads more questions." He sighed. "More research needed, I suppose. And I was given the names of a few books to read."

"Slow progress is still progress," she assured him.

He tossed himself onto the sofa on the other side of the room. "Because I am so very patient. I want myself sorted NOW. Not two books and countless articles from now."

Putting her knitting in the basket next to her chair, she got up and went over to him. He sat up so she could sit down, then rested his head in her lap. "You want it sorted. Just keep that goal in mind?"

"I'm sorry."

"Quit apologizing."

He frowned. "I'm not a proper bedmate. At some point you are going to figure that out and leave."

Molly ran her hand through his hair. "Sherlock, you are a lot of things. Rude. Cantankerous, lazy, obsessive, messy, sometimes devoid of common sense. And you're brilliant, and you're brave and you do genuinely care about the people you help, even if you never show it. I know all the important stuff. And I'm still here. So, no, I'm not going to 'figure it out' and leave."

Staring down at the carpet, he shook his head. "I know you have needs, and I'm not doing right by you."

A giggle escaped Molly's lips suddenly, which she choked down as quickly as possible. "Oh love. When I go shopping, I am sure to buy a lot of batteries."

He stared up at her for a moment until his brain caught up. "Oh. I see."

"And this isn't just about me. Believe it or not. You should be doing this for you too, not out of guilt. Sex is fine and lovely, but not if it's out of obligation, ok?"

His right eyebrow crept upward. "Do you really think I do things I don't want to?"

"Actually wanting to, and thinking you want to are not the same thing. I mean-I've learned. If you're taking life advice from me. Which maybe you shouldn't."

"Who else am I going to take it from? You're here. You understand what my brain's like-corridors upon corridors of…. stuff.

"That you sometimes put to good use."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Larry The Therapist-I'm sure he has a last name, I just never cared to learn it-he thinks it's a sensory processing disorder. I freeze because I'm afraid it might be TOO good."

Molly smiled. "Interesting reason. Actually, that's kind of sweet." But there was a sadness in her eyes. Pity? He didn't know. "So what do we do about it?"

"I haven't quite worked that bit out yet either. But he says that's probably why I can walk into a room and SEE everything all at once. My brain isn't filtering my senses-it's only processing what I've seen AFTER I have taken it all in. Maybe it's why I make a good detective and a lousy grocery shopper."

Molly laughed. "I'm sure there're lots of reasons you are a poor shopper. The least of which is your Internet addiction."

"You're taking this far better than I deserve. You have been for months."

"Sherlock, you don't even know what you deserve. Sometimes it is a kick to the head, sometimes it's just some patience and time. We're fine. Like I said. Copious amounts of batteries." She leaned down and kissed his nose. "And I have my own problems. I mean, no one in this nut-farm is normal. But, you know, Mary and John pass better. You'd never know that they're both addicted to trouble. It's the cuddly jumpers, I think."

"And us?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

She tugged the ends of his hair a little, which he always seemed to like. "When I was interning, my bedside manner was so awful my advisor told me to go into pathology." She blushed. "I can't talk to strangers. I never could. They thought I was… stupid growing up. Because I didn't talk to anybody." She shrugged. "I'm here. You keep me here. It's fine."

He blinked. Stupid? Molly. "You seem just fine."

"Fine is relative. We went to that New Years party and I had more booze at that thing than I've had since university. Possibly total. Cos I was terrified to talk to anyone not in my department." She blushed. "I have no idea how the thing with Mary started. Most of that is hazy."

"Oh. Huh." He hadn't really thought of a good explanation for why Molly had said they'd be gone before midnight, then the next thing he knew she was deeply intoxicated. "I used to do that at university. To be around people. To shut down my brain."

"See? Matched set."

And it did make Sherlock feel better. Now knowing conclusively that they were each rubbish around other people in their own special way. They were alike sometimes. There were times when they both wanted to flee public places. Neither of them really cared for the trains, or even the tube stations with their clacking and echoing and lack of personal space. They both were annoying fiddlers with things. she channeled it into knitting, and he the violin, but if neither were at hand, just about anything else would do. He supposed he'd never noticed that. Or really put much thought into it. "He also said I may have some...other things."

"Are they finally going to put you on happy pills for when you turn into a human rain cloud when you don't have cases?" Molly joked.

"Um…" he hesitated. "I'm not sure if I want to. I mean, what would it change? Really? Knowing?" It would be equal parts relief and terror, he was convinced. And he didn't know if he could go through with it. Ignorance, sometimes, was bliss.

"Knowing what?"

"He wants me tested for autism."

"Oh."

zyx

"Why is the shortest person in this flat the one dusting the high places?" Molly asked, trying to maneuver a long-reach duster into a corner over a bookcase. The cobwebs had dust on them, it hadn't been done in so long.

"I used to ask that same question when I lived here," John said, as he pulled the furniture out for her. One-handed, of course. The knee was better but the arm was still a pain. Still, he could do it far faster than her. "I don't think he acknowledges the existence of anything over his sight level. I put his birthday gift on the fridge and he didn't notice it for a month."

"Still. It's nice to get it done while he's out of the flat. For godsakes don't clean anything while he's working at the desk. He'll get into a panic about you moving his precious piles of paper because the dust on the piles tells him their age."

John laughed as he pulled the chairs away from the fireplace. "Don't touch the dust!" he shouted in his best imitation of Sherlock's voice. "The dust telllllls me things," he mocked generously.

"Hah!" Molly hopped off her chair and moved it over, so she could do the rest of the corner. Sometimes she fantasized about dressing up in black PVC, sitting in his chair with the Taser with her legs crossed, tapping her foot while she made him clean. There were some really naughty parts deep inside of her. Really.

John pulled the drawer out on the table, removing a handful of butterscotch wrappers and dumping them in the nearest bin. The windows were open and a stiff breeze pushed through occasionally, stirring around the dust, but also getting rid of some of the winter funk. Molly was very serious about spring cleaning. "What did you say he was doing today?"

"Oh his specialist sent him to another specialist," she said casually, passing it off as nothing.

John paused. "So, not only did he go to see the fellow I set him up with, he's seeing someone else besides? The man who hasn't had a tetanus booster in fifteen years because it would mean walking into a doctor's office?"

Molly smiled. "Yeah. And he complains the whole time. But he wanted to do it, in the end. As long as the first bloke warned the second person about him, I think it's fine."

"Warned? He didn't get fobbed off for being a horrendous git, did he?"

"Oh, no no. They just… have a unique situation. He lets Sherlock go off and do homework, then Sherlock comes back and tells him what HE thinks the problem is."

"Oh, That's tricky. I like it."

"He was sure you would disapprove."

John sat in his old chair. "Do you know the hell I used to go through to get him to go to a hospital sometimes? I am shocked to death he even went to the person I made him an appointment with."

Molly shrugged. It kind of wasn't John's business. And it kind of was. It was weird, Sherlock having a best friend who was a doctor. "I didn't think he'd take the appointment with the other specialist. I told him it was his choice. I didn't care either way. I told him to look at it like… a toe fungus."

John folded his arms over his chest, bouncing on his heels. "Oh, I'm sure he loved that."

She shook her head. "There was a context. I just mean… he had a list of things that sounded right for what he was struggling with. And… we read up on what to do about it. And if any of those solutions helped, maybe he should consider the diagnosis more seriously. Like a toe fungus. It's itchy, you try antifungal medication. If it works, it was a fungus. If not, you go to the doctor and find out what it is. That's all." She pushed her hair out of her face. "It won't change anything."

Molly put down the duster and curled up into her own chair. "And we tried some of them. And it worked. So he was a little more open to the idea of talking to an 'obvious idiot' about his issues. We'll see what happens."

"Am I allowed to ask what they think the issue is?"

"I think that's his story to tell."

"Fair enough."

"And as long as he's not too embarrassed, I think he will. You're his best friend. Danger-buddy. Really strange life mate. Whatever you want to call it."

John shook his head and smiled. "Yeah. We don't quite have a definition for that. Sorry about the kissing thing, by the way. Again."

She waved it off. "He said it was fine. He wouldn't mind doing it if you both weren't attached. But you might not want to bring it up again." It had been months, certainly they weren't still going in circles about that.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't scar him or something."

Molly laughed. Scar Sherlock. Sherlock was the one who let John's daughter play with a real human skull. "Oh don't you worry about him. He's tougher than he looks."

He put his elbow on the arm rest and put his head in his palm. "It's just...I know this is Sherlock we're talking about. The most reticent man in the history of the universe. But I'm a doctor. There isn't much I haven't heard."

Molly shook her head. "Sorry. I'd feel terrible if I said anything and he didn't want me to. Besides. Nothing's conclusive until the results are back."

She stared at the vacuum. She was going to have to Hoover under the furniture soon. Probably the first time it'd been done in ages, too. But, then the spring cleaning would be over, and Toby would stop sneezing. It was bad when the cat had allergies.

He held his hands up defensively. "Alright, alright. I won't press you or him. It's just… the whole situation is weird. Sherlock actually seeking medical advice."

Molly pulled her knees up to her chest. "I think he's finally figuring out that it's ok to be happy. That's all. And he's got a whole family here. A whole load of us who care. So there's no real reason for him to play at being a lone wolf character any more. He's even being nice to Greg's people sometimes."

John nodded. "Yeah, I've noticed. More importantly, THEY have noticed. Who'd have guessed that the desire for sex could drive Sherlock Holmes into NOT calling Anderson a twat all the time."

"It's not that," Molly said quickly. "It's more complicated than that. We're… sorting it out. It's ok. It's a good thing."

John let it drop. He knew Sherlock was complicated. He had his own suppositions about what Sherlock's issues were. But he didn't blame Molly for not wanting to share a private matter that wasn't hers to share."Other than that… you two are good?"

She made an indeterminate face. "You know how it is. The ups, the downs. The conversations with the cat. I don't know. We might get a dog."

"You really think he'll walk a dog and take it outside to do its business."

Molly grinned. "Not a chance in the world. I know his limitations." With reluctance she got up from the chair and began unraveling the power cord for the vacuum cleaner. "How often did you vacuum in here?" she asked as she plugged it into the outlet.

John shrugged. "Quarterly? When I could see the dust on the carpet. Or when Mrs. Hudson made us. Or got disgusted enough to do it herself. Yeah. Once a quarter."

"Oh great." She turned the Hoover on, glad for the end of that conversation.

She and Sherlock had had numerous discussions over the last few weeks about the whole testing thing. They'd gone round in circles with potential benefits, potential risks (if it got out, would the police be willing to work with him?) and a whole lot of research and arm-chair diagnosis, of which Molly was on the receiving end more than once. Maybe Sherlock was making sense. He seemed to be making sense, when he talked about her habits and trouble in group situations, but she wondered if he was diagnosed, if he just didn't want to be alone. Somehow, she had a soft spot for that.

And no matter what, he'd never be alone.

If only she could convince HIM of that.

zyx

"Yes, yes. I know. I know. I KNOW. I know. I KNOW." Sherlock beat the back of his head gently against the wall.

Molly barely contained a giggle.

He switched ears with the mobile phone, looking like he was ready to die. "I know. Yes. I know." His chest deflating, he went over to the desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then held it up to her.

'Go downstairs and ring the doorbell.'

Oh.

Without asking why, she did as he wanted. She rang it once, then two more times, holding it down the last time for good measure. Satisfied with her thoroughness, she wandered back up the steps.

"I know. I have a case. Yes. They ring three-not everybody only rings twice if they're a client. Oh look, Molly let them in. Have to go, we'll have to do this again later. Ta." Without waiting for the person on the other end to stop talking, he ended the call, then tossed the phone on his chair. "You are a lifesaver. An angel in human form. A blessing to all who know you." He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides and squeezed tightly, picking her up off the ground.

"Hey, hey, I need to breathe. Who WAS that?"

He put her down, wide eyed and breathing heavily. "That… was mummy."

She laughed. "Your mother? Surely it can't be that bad."

"She wants to meet you."

"Oh. Well." Were they at that point? It was almost a year since she'd moved in. Maybe it was.

She put a hand on his neck, and was going to stretch up to kiss him until she felt his heart rate. "Sherlock.." Looking into his eyes, the pupils were dilated. "Sit down, ok?"

"What? Why?"

Molly had to push him into his chair. "Because I think you're having a panic attack."

"I'm not having a panic attack. It's fine. Everything's fine." His hand waved in front of his face. "She just drives me nuts. That's all. She drives me insane and she's so… pushy. Just… quit checking my pulse." He pushed her hand away. "I've never had a panic attack before in my life."

That made Molly laugh.

"What? Do I look like someone who is prone to panic attacks? In my line of work? Quick, cold thinking. Not...panic."

"Your mum does not require quick cold thinking. In fact, I think she gets you kind of emotional."

"Well, she's so… so…" He groaned in disgust, devoid of a word that encapsulated his mother.

She ran her hands through his hair. "You know, you ridiculous man, you dislike talking to her so much you made me go ring the doorbell. Obviously talking to her is a little tense."

A head popped through the kitchen door a moment later. "I heard the door. Client?"

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock was on the phone with his mum."

"Ohhhhh," he said in understanding. "Everything ok, there?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together and he gave the slightest shake of his head to Molly, telling her explicitly not to say anything to John.

She almost said something. John was a proper doctor, not one who cut people up for a living. John would have real medical advice. But if he didn't want anything said, she wouldn't force it. Still-this was going to be another uncomfortable conversation later.

Still standing behind him, she kept her hand in his hair. "I think we're OK here. He'll bounce back from the trauma of talking to 'mummy,' and we'll see you two at Angelo's for dinner?"

John stared at them for a minute, as if he knew something was up, then left. "Yeah. Tonight. Six. We have the sitter for three hours."

"If it takes us that long to eat, there's something seriously wrong with us," Sherlock gasped out.

"People like to socialize, Sherlock. There's going to be talking and drinking in addition to dinner," Molly told him. It would be fine. It was just Mary and John.

"You'll survive it," John promised. "And it's Angelo's. What's the worst that could happen. Wait. Don't answer that. Molly?" He gestured to the door with his head. "Walk me out?"

Molly shrugged and followed him to the door.

John stopped just outside the threshold. Guiltily he looked down at the floor, judging what was the right thing to say. "He's really alright?"

"He will be soon. Apparently talking to his mum is a dramatic thing. And he had to do it on the phone. You know how much he hates the phone."

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he hesitated. "Right. And you'd tell me-well, I guess not. If he's playing things so close to his chest with this stuff lately."

"I know. That's the difficult part," Molly reassured him. "If it's really big, or really dangerous, I will tell you."

John nodded. "Hard to let go of the job of being his mother hen. That's all."

"I fit the role ok," Molly promised.

"Yeah… yeah. You do. See you tonight." He headed down the steps slowly.

Molly sighed in relief. Coming back into the flat, she shut the door and locked it. No more surprises for a bit. "Are you feeling any better?"

"You mean less like I want to strangle my mother?"

"Less like you're going to have a heart attack."

He was quiet for a bit, trying to analyse his own body. "Hmm. Yeah. I suppose so."

She pulled the hair tie out of her hair and ran a hand through it. "Sherlock-feeling like you're going to die isn't a regular feeling, ok? THAT is a panic attack."

"And you know this because…?"

She sat down on the arm of his chair and kissed his cheek. "Because I've been having them since I was four."

They really were more alike than not.