And you make me talk/And you make me feel

And you make me show/What I'm trying to conceal

If I trust in you, would you let me down?/Would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you?

Could you feel the same way too?

-The Name of the Game by Abba

I was an impossible case

No-one ever could reach me

But I think I can see in your face

There's a lot you can teach me

Molly watches as Mary escorts David across the terrace and out of view. They seem very chummy, so apparently their chat went well. As they head down the steps they pass Sherlock on his way up, who pauses briefly to speak to them. Mary laughs at something he says, David says something, then Sherlock smiles and steps aside so they can pass him.

As soon as they're out of sight the smile vanishes and he looks...sad.

Molly feels a pang of...she refuses to call it jealousy, even though she's a hundred percent certain Sherlock would never look sad about her for any reason. Does he still have feelings for Mary, she wonders? Is he thinking about the fact that he might be Rosie's father? Janine's right about their goddaughter not having any of Sherlock's looks about her, but that doesn't mean anything. Genetics can be tricky. Rosie's certainly very clever and observant, but so is Mary…

Shaking her head at the useless speculation into which she's fallen, Molly looks again at Sherlock. He's still standing at the top of the stairs, looking a little lost, at least to her eyes. She slips off her barstool, murmuring an excuse to Janine, who's too busy flirting with Ajay and the little semi-circle of admirers she's attracted to do more than nod an abstracted good-bye as Molly leaves the bar.

She threads her way through the growing crowd of hotel-slash-wedding guests to stop irresolutely behind Sherlock. Without turning around he says, "Problem, Molly?"

Of course he's noted her presence; he's Sherlock Holmes, noticing things is what he does. "Sorry, didn't mean to bother you," she begins, already regretting her impulse. "I'll just-"

"Just spit it out," he snaps, glaring at her from the corner of his eye. His fingers are twitching and she has a bit of an epiphany.

"I used to smoke," she blurts out, and he turns and stares at her. "Back in uni." She lets out a nervous titter, and gestures toward his hand. "You look like you could use - anyway," she hastily interrupts herself, "that's not what - I quit after my dad died. You're a bit like him." She closes her eyes in embarrassment. "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation," Sherlock says. "It's really not your area."

She feels herself cringing at his words - not that he's wrong - but soldiers on, determined to have her say. "When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

She sees him tense. "Molly," he says warningly.

"You looked sad," Molly finishes in a rush. "Just now, after Mary left. Are you okay?'

oOo

Your smile, and the sound of your voice

And the way you see through me

Got a feeling, you give me no choice

But it means a lot to me

Sherlock manages to keep his surprise to himself. When had Molly Hooper become so observant? If she saw him (supposedly) looking sad from across a terrace full of people, what else might she have noticed about him?

It's not panic - he refuses to admit to any such sensation - that causes him to go on the offensive, or so he tells himself as he settles a scowl on his lips. "You never told me you knew Mary Morstan."

"I did so!" she insists, scowling right back at him - but allowing the change of subject. He's noticed that about her (one of many things he's noticed about her, he recalls uneasily) - she tends to stutter and stammer around him, and then, just when he thinks he's got her neatly categorized as timid and mousy, she reveals a backbone of purest steel. "Lots of times. You probably just deleted it or something. 'Do stop prattling about your friends, Molly,'" she says, voice lowered in a fair imitation of his most condescending tones. "'Unless this is one of them you're about to autopsy I can assure you I have absolutely no interest in hearing the tedious details of their boring little lives.'"

He winces a bit at that devastating bit of mimicry; John, he recalls, had scolded him quite harshly for it when Molly spun on her heels and marched into her office. Not because he'd brought her to tears; Molly wasn't the type to cry just because someone had said something crue-ah, a bit Not Good to her. However, he's positive she's never spoken about either a Mary or a Rose. "I thought her name was Meena, or Janine," he says with a frown.

"Janine is my other friend, the one Mary and I were sitting with," Molly replies patiently. "Meena is Mary's cousin, the one who got divorced from that cheating bastard Sebastian Wilkes last year, remember? John called it the Case of the Blind Banker," she adds, as if he needs reminding.

He bares his teeth in a savage grin. "Ah yes, the case involving my dear old uni pal." He hadn't been remotely interested in taking on Mrs. Wilkes' spousal infidelity case until she'd told him her husband's first name…at which point a 'one' had turned into a 'ten'.

Ugh, cases, he could certainly use one now - a real one. Lestrade had lured him away with the promise of one, only to turn around and grill Sherlock about his past with the mother of the bride. Word certainly had got around quickly, but then, gossip always did.

"Right, Sherlock, not a case but I knew it was the only way I'd get your attention," Lestrade had huffed when he'd demanded the details. "What's this about you an' John knowin' Rosie's mum? Rumor has it one of you might actually be the father of the bride, if you can credit it."

He laughs, as if inviting Sherlock in on the joke, but the laughter quickly dies when Sherlock doesn't offer the expected denial-and-deduction routine. "No," he breathes, staring at him. "You an' Mary, really? What about John, then? Didn't think you'd known him back then."

"I didn't," Sherlock replies coldly. "But yes, apparently we are two of the three candidates for Rosamund's father, the third being a man called David Greene who arrived with us on the launch earlier today. I do hope you're not going to lecture Mary about her so-called questionable morals or demand your son call off the wedding because of this, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's eyes had narrowed. "Ain't my business," he'd shot back. "Just tryin' to get my brain around the idea, is all." He'd let out a quiet little chuckle. "Always knew you were human, guess I just never realized exactly how human. Must've been a bit of a shock, yeah? How's John taking it?"

Fortunately they'd been interrupted by the groom-to-be, apparently in a rush to speak to his father about the very subject of their discussion. He seemed sharp enough; one look between Sherlock and his father and his expression had fallen. "Well, shit," he'd said. "How'd you find out already?"

At which point Sherlock had excused himself, leaving the two to their tête-à-tête as he went in search of the elusive Miss Morstan the younger.

Instead, he'd run into Mary and David, acting quite...chummy. He'd mentioned his desire to meet Rosamund, Mary had made some half-cheeky, half-exasperated comment that she, too, would like to speak to her daughter, David had added something Sherlock hadn't bothered to remember, and then...and then Molly had approached him and he'd realized that at least one of her boring friends had turned out to be not so boring after all.

Almost as not-boring as Molly herself, a sly voice (John's?) whispers in the back of his mind, almost drowned out by his brother's voice reminding him that caring wasn't an advantage.

Almost drowned out, but not quite. After all, he continues his internal debate, he'd never believed Molly was boring - nor, he insists to his inner Mycroft, was she someone he cared about.

Inner-John's voice blasts a loud "HAH" that makes him physically wince, causing Molly to ask if he was all right. "Fine, fine," he says. "Just...going over things in my mind palace."

Molly nods. "Right, that explains the buffering," she says cheerily. "Anyway, now you know who Meena is, and Janine, and Mary-well, of course you already knew Mary," she adds, once again flustered. Honestly, she's so inconsistent around him, no wonder he can never get to the bottom of her (his inner adolescent snickers and presents him with several lascivious images he does his level best to ignore).

"-want to talk," Molly is saying, oblivious to his internal discomfort, "I'm here. About cases, or, or Mary or Rosie - have you met Rosie yet?" she interrupts herself to ask.

"Not yet," he replies, relieved to be on somewhat safer ground.

Seriously?

This time it's Lestrade's scoffing voice he hears. Talkin' about you possibly bein' a dad is safer than just admittin' that you find Molly extremely - )

"Competent!" he practically yelps, then recovers, speaking in a normal tone of voice. "That's the key, must text Lestrade that the, er, perpetrator was definitely someone competent in their field." He plasters a pleased grin on his face to which Molly responds with a somewhat doubtful smile of her own. "Anyway, yes, Rosie, I haven't met her yet, just saw some pictures when I looked her up on MyFace or whatever boring social media site she uses."

His smile becomes fonder, more genuine as he recalls the laughing eyes and wavy blonde tresses of his maybe-daughter. In none of the pictures was she alone; always she was surrounded by friends or at the very least accompanied by Lestrade the younger. No pictures of Mary, of course, else he or John might have stumbled across their mutual ex's secret long ago. "She seems very outgoing."

"That she is," Molly replies with a laugh.

While they've been talking they've also moved away from the stairs till they find themselves at the farthest corner from the hotel itself, looking out over the ocean. Molly leans on the wrought iron railing (original, in sore need of repair as is much of the rest of the hotel; must make a note to Mycroft to deposit some funds in an anonymous account for Mary to access) and continues talking about Rosamund and the wonderful job Mary's done raising her.

Just as Molly is relating the details of the fraught night twenty years earlier when she'd delivered her very first (and only) baby into the world, the subject of said anecdote finally makes an appearance - and Sherlock is absolutely struck dumb at his first sight of her.

Molly, sensing his distraction, glances over her shoulder and greets her goddaughter with a smile and wave. "Rosie! Over here, there's someone who wants to - um, that I think you'd like to meet." She gives Sherlock's arm a gentle squeeze - of encouragement? He has no idea, but he appreciates the gesture. He watches with bated breath as Mary's daughter alters course and heads over to them, faltering a bit as she gets close enough to realize who he is.

Molly offers her the same arm-squeeze (definitely encouragement) as she wraps her other arm (protectively?) around the girl's slender shoulders. "Rosamund Mary Morstan, I'd like to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes."

Then she says something about...something and she's gone and Sherlock is finally face to face with the young woman he may or may not have fathered - and realizes with a feeling akin to panic that he has absolutely no idea what to say to her.

End note: Thank you everyone for your continued support! Portions of Molly's conversation with Sherlock are taken from TRF as transcribed by Ariane DeVere