It was different. It was so different for him, and Molly had resigned herself to trying to grasp that. She never expected it to be smooth sailing, in fact, she never expected it all. She never expected any kind of close relationship with Sherlock. The funny kind of companionship they had fallen into over the years had been lovely, although occasionally somewhat torturous – her mother often told her it was slightly masochistic to stay infatuated with a man who messed her about so much. Of course, her undying love for him hadn't helped matters.

But then, he'd come to her for help, trusted her above anyone else. He had told her she counted, that she mattered. And things … shifted. She could actually call him a friend after that. The odd few times he showed up at her flat to hide out were comfortable, friendly, warm. She would cook him a big meal, knowing he wouldn't be eating properly wherever he was. He would update her on the little he could that wasn't classified. She would distract him with interesting autopsies and stories about John, Greg, and Mrs Hudson. He would sometimes show up with bags of takeaway. She would stitch him up and treat any wounds he'd neglected to care about. He would let his eyes linger on her for a moment too long. She would feel electricity when he brushed his fingers over hers. He would tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear and caress her cheek. She would cry and he would comfort her. And then he would be gone, and she would have to fall back into a world without Sherlock until the next time he showed up.

She tried not to let those intimate moments cloud her judgement, she had long since learnt not to view Sherlock's actions with such rose-tinted glasses. When he came to her it was because she was his only option, the only friend who knew the truth. She knew him well enough to know he would never go to his parents or his brother. Molly was convenient and she accepted that. As always, she was happy to help him. But the fact remained that he wasn't with her by choice, she was a comfort to him. A security blanket when he felt the most alone. It couldn't mean anything more than that so when Tom came along, she let him. Only after Sherlock hadn't visited her for more than six months, mind. She figured that he was deep into something she would never know about and that's why she had agreed to go to the pub as a distraction. That's why when her friends introduced her to Tom, she said hi and batted her eyes a bit and let him flirt with her. It was nice to have a man flirt with her and it be completely genuine, not a method of manipulation. Tom actually thought she was pretty, that she was worth his voluntary time. She had loved him, she really had. He was kind, loving, considerate, and real. He was perfect. Or would have been if she had really lived in a world without Sherlock Holmes.

When he returned for good, she knew something had changed. He had changed, he was softer, more aware of his actions and gentler with other people's emotions – though she had no doubt that John's punches might have had something to do with that. She'd fixed up his busted nose in the lab, her engagement ring safely in her locker. Their day solving crimes was bittersweet. She loved it, she felt like his true friend, and he'd told her as much. She mattered most – at the time, she thought he simply meant in regards to the whole Moriarty situation. But she took it, and his kiss on the cheek, and she let it warm her heart again. Let it thaw the ice she'd strategically created between herself and her hope for him. Poor Tom was never going to last after that little stunt. Turns out all the men she falls for aren't sociopaths, she just loves one particular sociopath more than she could ever love anybody else.

After that, she thought they were really friends. Mary's death hit them all hard. And it killed her to watch John push Sherlock away like that, but what else could she do? She knew her place and she would hold John when he cried just as she would hold Sherlock. Then came his disastrous descent into drugs. She shuddered when she thought about it. Thought of the state of him in the back of that ambulance, the state of him when they all helped him detox. She shivered when she thought of the time he had pressed his lips against hers, in a daze and probably trying to coax some drugs out of her. She had avoided him for a while after that, took the night shifts. She watched over him while he shook in his sleep and pressed cold flannels to his head, but she didn't see him fully awake anymore. She didn't want to face the consequences of that kiss, which was probably the best she'd ever had. The best he'd ever had too, from the look on his face afterwards.

The days merged into one after all that. It was a lot to process – death, drugs, and deceit. On top of all of that, her little tabby cat had finally let go. Toby was an old man who she'd like to believe lived a good life with her, but that didn't make his passing any easier. That was the day Sherlock called her. Or, well, Eurus did. It was torture, it was ripping her heart straight from her chest. It was watching Sherlock drop her already fragile glass heart and seeing it shatter across the floor. It was death and life in a breath because when he said it … when he said it, she almost believed it. And then he showed up with his explanations and his reasons and his heart. His confessions and that look in his eyes. His lips on her lips, his hands on her skin, his body in her bed, and his heart beating in time with hers. His love finally aligning with hers. He meant it.

He loved her.

And he did, she knew that. But it wasn't easy, and now she was winding down from their latest fight in their bedroom. She'd moved in two weeks prior – the fight was Molly finally snapping after ten days of not being able to put food in the fridge because of his experiments. It had been building, and she felt guilty for it. Bubbling under the surface for those two weeks had been her frustrations about his experiments, his penchant for ignoring housework, his lack of consideration for her space when he's on a case. She had no doubt he had his grievances too. She was too perky in the morning, she sang in the shower, she had a guilty pleasure of curling up in his chair to read her book, she made him eat and sleep. It was never going to be simple, and she didn't want it to be.

Upon hearing the opening notes of a violin concerto, she lifted herself from her seated position on their bed and stripped out of her jumper and khakis before stepping into the comfy (but flattering) silk pyjamas that she knew he liked. She also grabbed his second favourite (her first favourite) burgundy dressing gown and slipped her arms through. He loved her in his clothes and any positive brownie points she could get she would take. She rounded the corner while brushing her fingers through her loose hair.

"Hey."

He looked up at her as she leant against the wall, slowing his bow on the violin, and letting one side of his mouth flick up into a smile.

"Hi."

Their voices were soft, it was a sharp contrast to the raised ones from half an hour ago. She stepped closer to him, and he put his violin down.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I overreacted."

He shook his head, one of his long strides closed the gap between them. Running his hand down her arm, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

"No, I'm sorry. I should have been more thoughtful. I need to change for this to work."

"No!" It came out sharper than she expected, her other hand coming up to rest on his chest. She softened. "No, I don't want you to change. I love you. I love who you are. It's me who needs to adapt to this crazy life of yours."

"Ours." He slid one of those strong and warm hands around her waist, pulling her in closer.

She blushed. "Ours."

He brushed his lips over hers.

"Let's not fight anymore."

It was whispered against her lips, but she didn't miss the way his hold on her hand tightened for a moment. He always seemed so afraid that she would just disappear.

"Okay."

"Good."

Sherlock kissed her again, she would never tire of his lips against hers and he would never get used to the feeling of her skin below his fingers. When he finally released her lips, his hold on her remained strong, his hand stroking a line up her forearm before it joined his other around her waist. Hers had, as always, wound around his neck and tangled into his hair.

"I know this is different for you, Sherlock. I know you've never done anything like this, and I promise to be more patient. Change is hard even for us goldfish."

She giggled and felt his deep huff of a chuckle vibrate through her. He shook his head slightly which was met with a raised eyebrow. He brushed his fingers against her cheek and caressed her forehead with his kiss.

"You're no goldfish, my Molly." He punctuated his (real, sincere) compliment with a sweet kiss on her forehead. "But don't you see?" He looked into her eyes, "I don't mind different."

She laughed. "Sherlock, come on. You hate change. You hate different."

"Usually, yes."

"Exactly."

"But I don't mind changing for you," he gave her a look to silence her protest, brushing his nose against hers, "I don't mind adapting with you."

"You don't?"

"No, Molly Hooper, I don't." Another kiss on her forehead. "Would you like to know why?"

She nodded.

"Because, my love," he paused, breathed, kissed her lips, "different is wonderful if different is with you."

She couldn't help it, Molly's eyes filled, and her breath caught in her throat. She saw panic flicker across Sherlock's features as he lifted a hand to wipe away a stray tear. She placed hers softly over it, sliding the other back into his hair.

"Happy tears, Sherlock."

His whole body relaxed. She giggled.

"Wonderful, huh?" She smirked up at him through her tears, it was more like a blinding grin.

"Marvellous."

"I think we're watching too many period dramas."

He chuckled again.

"I think I just love you very much."

"I love you too."

He let his hand slip down to her shoulder and it pushed the smooth fabric of his dressing gown down her arm. He toyed with the strap of her silk camisole before leaning down to press a kiss to her newly bared skin. Her eyes fluttered shut involuntarily. His voice vibrated into her skin.

"Wearing my clothes and my favourite pyjamas, are you trying to seduce me, Dr Hooper?"

He went to straighten up, but she held him there, breathing against the skin on his neck in the way she knew he liked. Her lips brushed his skin as she spoke.

"I don't know, Mr Holmes. Is it working?"

She managed to place a single open-mouthed kiss on his neck before he stood up. His pupils were blown wide, and his breathing had shallowed slightly. She had no doubt she looked the same.

"Always."

His whisper was more of a growl as he took her in his arms, his destination was clear even as his lips against hers stole her senses.