Hello guys! It took me some time to start writing a new fic but now here I am. Forgive all mistakes, English is not my first language.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to write this, just a fan so this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

"Enough" would make him happy…..tell me "I'm enough" - "Ordinary day" by Ben Barnes

1

Molly opened her locker door. Looking at herself in the small mirror hanging inside, she gave a vigorous brushing to her hair, tied in a ponytail throughout her shift. A sudden splash of water hit the hopper window to her left "Oh, Jeez!" she exclaimed through gritted teeth, "That's all I needed…rain!". She undressed quickly and just as quickly took a shower to get rid of smell of chemicals and death that went hand in hand with being a pathologist.

As she zipped up her beige miniskirt, her phone rang the sound of a text, "I'm coming Mrs H!" Molly said to herself rummaging in her bag to take the device. Surprisingly, the text was from Sherlock and not his beloved landlady

ALMOST SOLVED. I THINK WE'LL BE BACK TONIGHT – SH

She smiled glad he had found time to update her. It was a slow process for him to learn not to ignore people around him, especially if he was busy with a case, but Molly appreciated his efforts and willingness to improve.

As the hissing of the wind had added to the rain beating against the window, Molly texted Mrs Hudson to tell her she would be in Baker Street in half an hour. The elderly woman promptly replied with two emoticons, the thumbs up and the face blowing kisses. Molly couldn't help but burst into laughter as she retrieved a small umbrella form the bottom of her locker. Sometimes she had the feeling the old landlady was more modern and more technological than them all together.

Five minutes later she was outside Bart's waiting for the cab to arrive. She had to hold the umbrella tightly in her hands so as not to have it snatched away by the wind. "Miss Hooper" a voice called from behind her.

Molly turned and faced a man of about sixty-five, as tall as she, with grizzled hair and beard, a tired, hollow face. Soaking wet. What struck her most, however, were his dark grey eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and anger.

"Do you remember me?" he asked and when she raised her eyebrows questioningly, he added "I'm Winston's father". At the mere hearing of that name, her blood froze in her veins and instinctively took a step back, "My son has never forgotten you" the man put his hands in the pockets of his dark coat and leaned forward, "I want Winston back" he said in an angry tone.

Molly swallowed hard and as calmly as she could, replied "Your son has been found guilty. He has to pay for what he did". A grin of ill-concealed hatred appeared on his face, "He took his own life…because of you" he hissed try to control his anger.

Molly felt her heart leap at that news and looked painfully at the man, "He was innocent" he went on in a calmer tone, "How many other innocents have you had convicted in these years with your autopsies or your depositions?". She opened her mouth shocked by those accusations and ready to answer him, but he turned his back on her walking away at a brisk pace.

As soon as she was in the cab and gave the driver the destination address, Molly grabbed the phone with shaky hands and called the person who was on charge for the case at that time. The only one who could give her some explanation, namely DI Greg Lestrade.

"Hello, Molly!" he greeted her with his usual enthusiasm, "Did you know Winston killed himself?" she asked without roundabout, "Who told you?" the policeman asked back. She sighed heavily slumping into the seat "You knew! Why didn't you tell me?".

"Does the news change anything? Does it make you feel better?", she shook her head as if he could see her, "No! Not at all!" she exclaimed so loudly the driver glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. "Then why tell you?" Greg insisted, "Because I preferred to hear from you than from Winston's father!" Molly reiterated trying to keep her voice low.

"Did Martin Stapleton come to you?" the DI asked and she felt his disbelief. "What did he want?", Molly took a deep breath "Tell me it's my fault!", "What a bastard!" cursed Lestrade, "Did he threaten you?". Molly ran a hand over her face wearily, "No. It's just…I thought this was over" she heard the man on the other end move something, perhaps a chair, "It's over, Molly. You did what you had to do" Greg said in a firm tone as she heard Sargent Sally Donovan's voice calling him, "I have to go now. I'll come by tonight and we'll talk about it". Molly greeted Lestrade although the conversation with him had not reassured her at all.

It was six o'clock when the cop came to her. Molly let him in pointing to an armchair while he handed her two folders, "I got the police transcript and your postmortem report" he explained. She took them and turned them over in her hands, "Anyway I checked…what Stapleton told you, isn't true".

Molly looked at Greg with a frown, "Winston didn't kill himself" the DI revealed. "What do you mean?" she asked sitting on the armrest of her chair, "He had been working as GP in Sussex ever since he was released from prison. According to the people he met there, he was peaceful" he stated, "What happened to him was an accident…he went on a boat with a friend and fell overboard. His body was found several days later".

Greg slipped his hands into his trousers' pockets as he approached her "It is only Winston's father who believes it was a suicide, Molly", he gave her a tender smile, adding "Stapleton is a father who doesn't resign himself to the death of his son and seeks a scapegoat".

Molly sighed sadly and as her eye fell on the papers she was holding, Greg suggested she read them as if it were the first time, "There was overwhelming evidence against him – the petrol cans, the primers, the lack of an alibi. Winston Stapleton was not convicted just for your deposition or your autopsy report, understand? So don't get upset, Molly".

It was nearly ten pm when Sherlock and John separated at the Heathrow International Airport's exit. They both took a taxi, both headed for their home, both hoping that 'she' was still awake at that time of the night.

John's 'she' was little Rosie whom, in the two days he and Sherlock had been on a case in Belfast, he had placed in the care of a new neighbour. A single mom of a girl a couple of years older than Rosie. Nice, charming and above all reliable, named Sophie.

Sherlock's 'she' was Molly who had been living in Baker Street for roughly three weeks. A month earlier Mrs Hudson had had a surgery on her right shoulder and Molly had kindly moved in temporarily, as she had been keen to point out, to lend a hand to the elderly landlady. Sherlock had offered to give Molly his room as the other available in Mrs Hudson's flat was occupied by a night nurse, but she refused and settled in John's old room.

He hadn't gotten to see her often as he'd been busy most of the time in Berlin with a very complicated case. Then a couple more had been added, and finally the one in Belfast which he had successfully closed in the late afternoon. Which, all in all, hadn't been a bad thing because working had kept him from thinking.

Thinking about how good his sister was at deducing him, not that there was any doubt after four months earlier Eurus had forced him to confess his feelings to Molly. Feelings he had realized he felt, as in some kind of epiphany, when his sister's threat to blow up Molly no longer seemed part of a perverse game to test how brilliant his mind was. And now there were those drawings of her which showed him once again that for Eurus he was an open book.

It was not an easy thing to make Sherlock Holmes blush, but when the luminary in psychiatry, a certain Dr Abbington, in whose care Eurus had been entrusted, had shown him those sheets she had drawn…well, Sherlock had distinctly felt how hot his face had become.

"I'm not showing them, Mr Holmes, to embarrass you" said the doctor, taking off his eyeglasses and holding them dangling by one of its temples, "As with the previous sketches, I need to know if what she draws is an event that really happened, recently or in the past, or if it's a figment of your sister's imagination".

Sherlock moved nervously in the chair clearing his throat, "She…she is just deducing me". He sensed the man's questioning gaze upon himself and awaited the inevitable question, "Is she deducing you…having sex with a woman?". He rolled his eyes and grumbled reluctantly "It's Molly".

The psychiatrist looked down at the pile of papers collected in a brown folder that he had pinned on his thighs, "I see" he whispered, nodding. Sherlock did not have to explain who Molly was because Dr Abbington before accepting to have Eurus as a patient, wanted to know and, about what happened inside Sherrinford, to see everything his sister had done.

The two men were silent for a while. Psychiatric sessions weren't Sherlock's thing so he wasn't going to say more. "So…I remember you told me you loved her but didn't know how to act on your feelings for her" the man coughed briefly, "What stage has your relationship come to, if I may ask?", Sherlock snorted giving back to him the drawings, "We are definitely not at this one" he asserted, standing up and making it clear he considered the conversation closed.

But Dr Abbington was not a doctor who let himself be dismissed so easily, "Obviously not, but…compared to four months ago something has changed" he paused briefly, "If, as you say, Eurus has deduced you…now you want this to happen".

Sherlock pushed back in his mind the memory of that exchange with the psychiatrist and tried to focus on the London skyline was passing before his eyes. But…God, yes. He could no longer lie to himself. He wanted Molly in his arms, in his bed and hear her moan and say his name.

Since she had moved to Baker Street he, no matter how little time has spent at home, had often found himself fantasizing about her. The more the days passed the more their chaste physical contacts, such as holding hands or kisses on the cheek or being hugged in front of the fireplace, had triggered a stronger desire in him.

This thing for Molly…it wasn't like him. Not that he was a virgin of course, he had had his experiences during his early Uni's years but since he had decided that love, women and sex were too great a distraction and weakness for his mind, him and his work, Sherlock had succeeded to dominate his natural stimuli.

Exactly as it had happened with The Woman. Although it was more of a mental than a physical attraction, he remembered very well what Irene Adler had stirred in him, but not a single shiver or butterflies in his stomach, that he had forced himself to keep at bay, could be compared to how now his body reacted when Molly was around. It was completely unexpected.

Being able to love her properly, as a woman deserves to be loved by a man, had been one of his biggest concerns, when he decided to give himself and Molly a chance, which had happened on Sherlock's way to London from Sherrinford, the very night of that forced phone call.