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standard disclaimer: not mine.

—

Sherlock spent the first week after he left the morgue taking on every case he could find. He solved every case, even the dull domestics, even the money laundering. One seemingly dull cheating spouse case had turned into a 6 when he'd discovered that it was a particularly inventive form of corporate espionage. The wife had been a plant and her supposed rendezvous were meetings with her handler. It was an enjoyable five hours of pure Work, and had ended too soon for his taste.

After that it was all botched divorces, ghost stories, and people stealing from the till. It was only when he found himself rescuing a literal cat from a literal tree that he had to acknowledge he'd run out of cases. There were no further distractions available to him (at least, no distractions he was willing to utilize).

John had thrown in the proverbial towel four days ago and refused to come back until Sherlock found a real case, or until he was willing to "talk about it." Whatever that meant. Sherlock was actually quite relieved that his friend hadn't been present for the cat incident. John would almost certainly have felt compelled to write it up on his blog, and he'd never have lived it down. Ten years from now, people would have still been quoting "The Ballad of Mister Tibbles".

Since then he'd alternated between sleeping (needs must, even he had his limits and eight straight days of cases pushed them), sending an escalating series of harassing texts to John, staring into space, and driving Mrs. Hudson insane. He'd been able to enjoy a few moderately interesting experiments involving household solvents, but this too was limited by his lack of Moll- of morgue access for body parts. He had ordered three new types of cigars and cigarillos from Bolivia, Antigua, and New Mexico to add to his extensive list of ash, but even eBay could only work so quickly. Pity that human remains weren't a service offered by Amazon Prime.

Regardless of the distractions he attempted, his thoughts kept going back to Molly Hooper.

"About five months gone, now. Bit of a surprise, but I'm quite chuffed about it."

The day they'd solved cases together, he'd kissed her cheek. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper."

Why couldn't he be happy now? She was downright chuffed. Then again, he hadn't been all that happy about it when he'd said it that in the first place.

Sherlock had returned to his life and found that almost everything about it had changed. He hadn't known whether to be disappointed that his pathologist was engaged or relieved that he didn't have to do anything about the way she made his chest tighten when she smiled. He was off the proverbial hook.

He had hoped it would quiet the half-formed thoughts and desires that had crept into his head at night in Serbia and France and countless other places. It had only made them louder with an embarrassingly masculine impulse to mark his territory, to drag her back to his cave and prove to her that she was his. It was something he was certainly above and he had ample practice at ignoring his emotions.

He had done the right thing. Mostly. He did nothing to interfere in her relationship with that idiot man child (now to be remembered only "Meat Dagger"), but he couldn't stay away entirely.

Sherlock informed her that her flat was now one of his bolt holes and began spending time there with alarming regularity. He turned up at odd times, usually when the emptiness of 221b became too pronounced. Sometimes Molly was there and sometimes she wasn't. She allowed him to take over her bed even when she was home, so long as Meat Dagger was gone. His feet hung off the end of the lumpy futon in her spare room and the sheer amount of junk stored in the room made it impossible for him to concentrate on anything.

He could admit (at least to himself) that he slept there because it smelled of her. It allowed him to imagine what it would be like to be an ordinary man with ordinary needs in an ordinary relationship with an extraordinary woman.

For a time, it has been enough to sleep in her bed and use her shower and sit beside her yelling at the screen while she watched crap telly.

The day he might claim he'd been downright chuffed was the day her relationship with Tom had ended.

Sherlock had left his third date with Janine feeling disturbed on a level he didn't completely understand. It had been challenging to convince her that he didn't want sex, claiming a desire to take things slow because he valued their nascent relationship. Still, he'd had to engage in some heated snogging that left him feeling both worked up and strangely unclean.

He quite liked Janine in her own way, and in the deepest recesses of his mind he could admit that it bothered him to deceive her. She had been an enjoyable companion during the Watson's wedding, was clever for a woman of ordinary intelligence, and even he could see that she was beautiful by societal standards. But while he was mildly fond of her, he felt no romantic affection or even attraction to her. While he was willing to do what was necessary for the case, he would not cause her more harm than he had to, and he would not take the physical relationship farther than was necessary to keep her happy.

Sherlock had finally given her a final, gaggingly saccharine goodnight kiss and departed her flat. He knew he ought to return to Baker Street and update his notes on Magnussen based on the details he'd pried out of Janine tonight, but found his feet turning towards Molly's little house anyway. After all, he reasoned, it was closer than Baker Street and a cab would be hard to come by at this time of night.

He let himself in with the key she'd given him ages ago. It was well past midnight and he expected her to be asleep or at Meat Dagger's. She wasn't.

Molly was sitting in her living room, watching a movie with most of the lights off. His eyes flashed between her and the evidence spread around her - face blotchy, used tissues at her feet, rapidly emptying ice cream carton, empty glass of wine, afgan from her gran on her lap suggests unconscious comfort-seeking. He turned to his right in the entryway and found exactly what he expected - a box filled to the brim with men's clothing, dog toys, CDs. Ample evidence suggests a breakup. He stepped farther into the flat and looked closer at her ring finger. Hypothesis confirmed by the absence of an engagement ring.

She stood and moved toward him. "Sherlock? Are you staying here tonight?"

He could hardly hear her over the relief coursing through his veins. Molly wasn't going to marry the idiot. "When?" he asked, nodding at the box near his feet.

"Oh. Yesterday. It's been coming for a while, certainly ever since the Watson's wedding. I cleaned his things out of my place today. I suppose it was a bad sign that there wasn't more-"

"Thank God," he breathed, and then he was kissing her. Her lips were heaven; after a moment of hesitation, she made a positively sinful little moan and melted into his kiss. Any resolve he had shattered the moment her hear that noise come from her throat. After that it was a blur of scattered clothing and trying to press as much of his skin against hers as he possibly could.

There was something about the way her warm skin felt against his own, the heavenly little noises that she made, the quirk of her smile in between kisses, the very Mollyness of her which filled him with a wildness somewhere between radiant joy and a heart attack. He'd been on a roller coaster once as a boy (at his parents' insistence) and it had felt like this.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he was aware that this was a terrible idea, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Molly was free, she was his (or could be, might be, if she still wanted).

She did still want.

They stumbled to her couch, then later to her bedroom for a second round. They spoke little, and Molly didn't push him for an explanation. He wasn't sure he had one, other than that he felt something very strongly and had for much longer that he wanted to admit.

Afterward, he slept in her bed as usual, but this time there was much less clothing involved. He was vaguely embarrassed to admit that it was the best sleep he'd had in… ever. He couldn't remember a time he felt safer, happier.

That was why it couldn't last. He couldn't have this, couldn't have a liability this great, while engaged in battle with a man like Charles Magnussen. It would endanger his mission, and more importantly it would put Molly at too great a risk.

In the morning he showered and woke her just enough to tell her that he was leaving. He silently vowed not to return until after he'd taken down Magnussen.

His resolve lasted for nearly eight days. Then had come the drugs, all part of his grand plan to deflect away from his greatest weaknesses. Riding high on a speedball of cocaine and heroin with a dash of benzodiazepine, Janine tucked safely into his bed at Baker's Street, he'd found himself at Molly's door, then in Molly's bed (and couch, and chair, shower, desk and kitchen island over the coming weeks). Every time.

When it was all over, when she knew about the drugs, when Janine had plastered an inflated version of their relationship all over the papers, when Molly hadn't come to visit him at the hospital, he knew he was beyond forgiveness. It seemed better to give her space, or at least easier. He had always been terrible at people, and the idea of yielding to sentiment was ludicrous even in the unlikely event that she forgave him everything. She would be better without him, and he would be better without sentiment clouding his judgement.

oOo

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs Watson?" Her distinctive tread on the stairs had announced her arrival - steps graceful even in the late stages of her pregnancy, overuse of the handrail to compensate for extra weight, and a pause at the midpoint to rest.

He didn't bother to turn and look at her, pulling his pajama-clad legs up and crossing his arms where he lay facing the back of his sofa.

"It's not like you to ask a question you already know the answer to, Sherlock."

"Checking up on me then, are you? Where's the other half of Team Fuss-Pot?"

"John sends his love. He's at work. I'd have waited for him, but honestly I can't stand another moment of being home. Oof!" He heard her sit heavily in John's chair. "I had to start my maternity leave this week. I've been having a few too many contractions when I exert myself and we'd like to keep Watson junior baking another few weeks."

Sherlock had sprung to his feet before she finished speaking. "My God woman, are you trying to give birth in my flat?" He wrenched his coffee table closer and scooped her feet onto it. "Keep those elevated. What on earth possessed you to climb the stairs?" He moved into the kitchen.

Mary chuckled. "Who's fussy now? Don't worry so much; I took the car here. Being a nurse is like being a perpetual motion machine. With 24 days to go till the finish line - not that I'm counting, mind - I just can't keep up. One flight of stairs at Baker Street won't do me in."

Sherlock took a glass from the cupboard, sniffed it, and filled it with water. "Still. Drink this. Proper hydration will prevent premature contractions."

She reached for the glass, smiled, and sipped at it. "Sherlock, have you been reading up on pregnancy?"

"No!" A brief staring contest ensued. "Not my area."

"Fibbing, Sherlock!"

Fine," he said through gritted teeth, "I've read three e-books on the subject. I had an hour on the train to Ipswich with nothing better to do."

Mary said nothing, giving him an expectant smile.

"Also the book by your toilet. And one bi-weekly email service, but that's it! I know John is a doctor, but he could be blinded by his proximity to the subject matter and miss something important related to your health or that of your offspring. Happy?"

"Radiantly!" She set down her water on a side table and beamed at him. "Sometimes you still surprise me."

He sat down in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. "I'm merely attempting to keep my settee free of amniotic fluid. Don't mention it. Really, don't. I've a reputation to maintain."

She mimed zipping her lips with a smirk. "At least you know I'm good with secrets. But speaking of being blinded by proximity-"

"Oh, here we go!" He tipped his head back and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"I hear Molly Hooper is having a baby. Isn't that wonderful news, Sherlock?"

"I suppose John thinks that I'm mooning over Molly Hooper? Good lord!"

"No, John thinks you react badly whenever any of the people you care about make big life changes that take their attention away from you."

Sherlock lifted his head from the back of his chair and tilted it, considering. There could be merit to that. He had been a bit concerned when John had gotten married and become an expectant father. Good, he could play all this off as narcissism.

It was better this way. His little crush was embarrassing at this point; Molly had moved on.

Mary's next words cut off his musing. "I think you're mooning over Molly Hooper."

"What? Don't be… You're moon… You're… the size of a moon, Mary!" He sprang to his feet and turned to look out the window. After a brief yet intense internal debate, he sighed. "That was not convincing, was it?"

"It certainly convinced me of something. Did something happen between you and Molly, Sherlock? Is the baby-"

"Not mine. Nothing to do with me. Timing's wrong."

"So there's timing?" She sounded far too pleased.

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is that she is happy."

"Oh my God. You love her, you actually do."

He pursed his lips. "Now let me be very clear: I don't love Molly Hooper. I just miss her when she's not around, I think about her constantly, and sometimes I fantasize about what she would look like in one of my shirts - my God, did you dose my coffee?" Once he'd started talking, it had been almost impossible to stop. Sometimes he hated Mary's uncanny ability to make him honest.

She grinned at him. "You might be interested to know then that she isn't with the baby's father. She told John all about it the other day in the morgue, but I'm willing to bet you'd crawled into your mind palace to have a freak out by then. Someone stressed her out a few months back by getting high and then shot-"

"To be fair, you played a part in that as well, Mrs. Watson."

She ignored him and continued, "So she took a holiday to Italy. I remember her talking about the trip when she got back and showing off her pictures. He was her tour guide - a holiday fling. I did some digging online and found a picture of him amidst all the countryside and pictures of food - very cute if you go in for the tall, dark and handsome sort."

"Molly barely uses social media. I hardly think she would go bragging about a holiday fling to all and sundry."

"Of course she didn't. I found his picture on the tour company website. The Italian countryside really is beautiful. Maybe John and I should go there for a bit when the baby's old enough. I've been there before of course, but that was for work and it's never the same."

"Too busy running from the law?"

"No need to run if you don't get caught. You and John could both use a brush-up in that area. You know that ASBO for the spray paint case still shows up on his record when he applies for jobs. Anyway, it sounds like Molly is quite firm in her intent not to contact Mr. Handsome about the baby. She's going to be a lonely single mother, full of hormones and nowhere to direct them. If you really just want her to be happy, Sherlock… well, think about it. You could make her happy."

"I very much doubt that."

"I don't. Not for a moment." Her gaze was steady, and he looked away from the intensity of it. "You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. Better than you give yourself credit for. I could've…" she cut off abruptly as her voice broke. "I could have killed you a few months ago."

"Your shot was precise. It's hardly your fault that the anesthesiologist was unaware I was speedballing when he set my dosage."

"Believe it or not, some risks are actually unacceptable. I almost took you out of the world, and that's a debt I have to repay."

"And how exactly do you plan to accomplish that?"

"Simple. I'm going to help you go out and actually live it."

oOo

Mary Watson closed the door to 221 Baker Street closed behind her, already texting her husband.

ANY LUCK GETTING MOLLY TO COME OVER FOR DINNER?

NO. IT'S WEIRD TOO. I THOUGHT FOR SURE SHE'D WANT TO GET TOGETHER AND TALK BABIES, BUT SHE'S BEEN DODGING ME ALL WEEK.

IT IS WEIRD. AND HOPEFULLY SUSPICIOUS. INITIATE PLAN B. ;-)

...YOU SCARE ME SOMETIMES, YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT?!