Mary Morstan Watson was a very perceptive individual. Some might call it women's intuition, but that seemed a bit old-fashioned, didn't it? Call it what you will, it was part of the reason she got on so well with Sherlock Holmes. He had the same kind of perception times a billion, but he respected it in others, even if it were present in a lesser degree.

So, she had an idea something was up between Sherlock and Molly long before she actually saw anything definitive. Mary first met Molly when Sherlock was still officially "dead." During one of his many stories about Sherlock, John had mentioned that the gentle pathologist had had an unrequited crush on his difficult friend. Not long after this bit of information had been shared, they ran into her outside of St. Bart's—John was showing Mary where Sherlock had "died"—slowly coming to terms with it, slowly letting Mary help him heal from his sorrow. It was an emotional moment made even more so with the appearance of Molly on her way home, large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, head down. John called her over and introduced her to Mary. They stood together looking blankly at the spot where Sherlock had supposedly breathed his last. John's eyes were wet, and tears were trickling down Molly's nose.

"God, it's still so hard without him, isn't it Molly?" he mourned quietly. Molly's mouth twisted, and she gave a strangled little hiccough that sounded suspiciously like a sob as she nodded. Oddly, Mary didn't reach out to comfort John, but it was Molly to whom she extended her arms—a stranger to her. She hugged her warmly for a long moment before Molly gave a short, sharp laugh—a strange, bitter sound and pulled away, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

She gave Mary a weak smile, "It's good John has you. I'm so glad he's not alone." John looked up at Molly then. He took her hand and pulled her to him for a bone crushing embrace. He looked over Molly's shoulder to the blond woman watching over them.

"No, I couldn't have gotten along without my Mary," he said gruffly. He took Molly by the shoulders and looked into her face, "And how about you? How are you holding up?"

"Oh fine, fine! Work keeps me busy—It's a steady business. People are dying everyda-" she stopped herself suddenly, gave that strange, bitter laugh again, and waved her hand as if to erase what she just said. She fixed a smile on her face, took Mary's hand and said, "I'm so glad to have met you Mary. I hope I'll see you both again sometime soon?"

Looking into Molly's watery eyes, Mary was quick to recognize that Molly had had far more than a crush on the man, and that she was still grieving very strongly over Sherlock's absence. Mary had wondered at the time at the freshness of Molly's grief. Even John had begun to accept the loss. Molly was like an open wound. Looking back, the woman was probably terrified that Sherlock was going to show up in her morgue, well and truly dead. She wasn't grieving his actual death, she was grieving a thousand potential deaths imagined in her mind.

"That poor woman," Mary had murmured to John as they watch Molly trudge down the street.


Some months later, Sherlock made his dramatic return. Mary planned a wedding. Got married. She didn't have much time or inclination to think about Sherlock Holmes and his connection to Molly Hooper. She had her own very happy life to think of for a while, but not long after she and John had returned from their honeymoon, she ran into Molly and Sherlock quite unexpectedly. Mary was stocking up on groceries—the fridge was empty since they had returned from their trip, and she, for one, couldn't live on love and take-away alone—though John seemed content to try.

She spotted Molly and Sherlock standing in the middle of the cereal aisle—Molly looked exasperated and Sherlock was petulant.

"I can't help it—" she was saying, "the course of antibiotics takes a full ten days, and the side effects—"

"I know! I know—" his distinctive voice carried down the aisle.

Mary waved broadly pushing her cart up to the pair. Sherlock looked startled and randomly grabbed a bright box of a fruit flavored cereal and threw it into Molly's basket.

"Oh! Hello, Mary" Molly smiled nervously, shuffling her feet in their laced up oxfords. As Mary drew near, Sherlock hurriedly added a box of instant oatmeal to the basket in Molly's arms. The brown haired woman moved the basket away slightly, adding in an undertone to the glowering man next her, "Don't. I still need to buy cat food. There won't be room-"

"Fancy seeing the two of you here!" laughed Mary. "Is there a breakfast bandit on the loose?" Mary came forward to kiss Molly's cheek.

"How was your honeymoon?" smiled Molly. Sherlock sighed and looked into the distance. He seemed suddenly intrigued by a display of olive oil.

"It was a dream. We'll have everyone over to show you the pictures. We even have souvenir for Sherlock, but you don't get it young man until you apologize to Molly." Mary suddenly found herself staring into a very intense pair of blue eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked simply. He didn't roll his eyes or snort. Few people were afforded this courtesy. Mary understood the honor being given to her.

"Don't try to act like you didn't follow Molly into the shops to pester her with your experiments. I'm sure she works hard enough for you while she's on the clock." She wagged a finger at Sherlock who looked blank for a moment and glanced at Molly. Molly shook her head slightly with a confused smile, "I don't—"

Mary hesitated for a moment, "Oh! I just heard you mention antibiotics. I thought maybe it was for a case, or something?"

A brief silence, and Molly and Sherlock both spoke simultaneously, "Oh, no! I'm just—"

"Yes—" interrupted Sherlock impatiently, "yes. A case. Molly is insisting that certain methods are not reliable, while I feel that an experimental approach would be beneficial."

A flash of irritation crossed Molly's gentle features, and her mouth tensed, "I am not keen to take responsibility for your experiments. I think we both know who would end up suffering the consequences." Her voice, as always, was controlled, but her eyes flashed a challenge at him. He glanced at Mary and looked down at Molly again. There was a moment of silence as they faced each other in a combative stance. Mary noted with amusement that while Molly was petite, she seemed more than a match for the tall, daunting man staring her down.

He rolled his eyes scornfully, "I resent your implication." Molly's nose wrinkled as she pursed her lips. Sherlock's face softened. "That's not true," he persisted, almost gentle.

"Isn't it?" Molly asked. She blinked her big brown eyes rapidly for a moment. She'd suddenly lost her fierceness. She looked at the basket full of oatmeal and cereal and back up again.

"No," his voice had fallen into petulance again, his bottom lip was stuck out, but he was looking at her with something—soft in his gaze.

"Right, okay—"Molly seemed flustered. They seemed to have forgotten about Mary, standing there watching the verbal volley. It was better than a tennis match, but it was also a wee bit awkward. She really didn't know either of them that well yet. And to watch them argue in the middle of the grocery store…well, it felt a little bit like spying on a lover's quarrel. But that couldn't be right, could it? Molly may be in love, but John had explained Sherlock's predilections or lack thereof. Married to his work. Briefly distracted by a dominatrix. Standing amid the prepackaged cereals, wearing a green plaid blouse and navy blue trousers, Molly looked about as far from a femme fatale as you could get. Still…Mary gathered her thoughts and spoke up.

"Hey, it's late and honestly, I'm starving, and I know John is hungry. I'll be seeing you around, okay?" Molly and Sherlock turned to her again. "Bye Sherlock," he nodded at Mary, "I'm sure you'll be seeing John tomorrow? Maybe he can lend a hand with whatever you're working on."

And expression ran across Sherlock's face. It was hard to pinpoint it exactly: amusement, rage, disgust, amusement again. "Yes, well…Welcome back, Mary." Molly flashed a small smile and waved.

Mary smiled uncertainly and waved goodbye. "See you, Molly!"

What in the world had that been about? She was pushing her cart to the next aisle when she heard a familiar set of voices rise up again—

"So, with the understanding that I AM responsible, let's put those back—"

"I'm not having this argument again, Sherlock." Molly's voice responded firmly. "We are using them or you don't get to experiment at all."

"OH, come ON!"

Mary was jetlagged and hungry, and it was all too bizarre to ferret out at this point. John was waiting for her at home. Maybe he could shed some light.


Two months later, on a cold Thursday evening, Mary threw open the door to the new flat she shared with John. He ran to take the warm brown paper bags from her arms as she took off her coat and hat and stomped her feet to get the circulation going again.

"It is FREEZING!" she announced dramatically, "You'd better kiss me quick and say you love me. Not every wife would walk through a night like this to get you your favorite Italian meal." Dropping the bags to the floor, John wrapped his arms around her and gave her a warm kiss.

"It was on your way home from work, your drama queen." He caressed her cheek gently, "Besides, I gave up a night of high adventure with Sherlock Holmes, the one and only resurrected consulting detective."

"Yes, such a sacrifice to sit on your duff in front of the telly instead of running through the ice streets of London, chasing bad guys," retorted Mary as they moved to the kitchen to place bags on the counter. John was bustling about, taking down plates, finding the corkscrew when Mary spoke up with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"John?" Mary asked innocently as she efficiently unpacked the takeaway meals.

"Yes, love," he answered absently, opening the bottle of wine. He was focused on the task.

"Why did I see Sherlock and Molly Hooper holding hands and staring deeply into each other's eyes over a plate of meatballs at Angelo's?" she dropped her little bomb of information. It had the desired effect.

The corkscrew slipped and tumbled to the table with the clatter.

"Wh-what's that?" John sputtered.

"Hmm," said Mary suspiciously, "What do you know about Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper holding hands at Angelo's? It looked like it could be a date, except Molly was wearing a knit cap with a pom-pom, not really date night attire, you know, and Sherlock was sneezing a lot and drinking a mug of tea. There was a candle though, and the hand holding. Romantic-ish."

John's mouth dropped open, "Did they see you? Did you say anything to them?"

"No, I mean I was just picking up our order, and they were talking really intently, leaned in, you know? Sherlock was smiling—not smirking. Not sneering. Smiling like he was happy. He may have even grinned. I didn't want to interrupt. There was a case tonight, right?" She removed the foil lid from the food container.

John nodded, as he considered, "He usually eats a big meal after he solves a case. Not too unusual for them to be at Angelo's if Molly was helping him out. Could be happy if the case was a challenge. You sure about the hand holding?"

"Oh, yeah. Sherlock had Molly's hand in his. Their fingers were interlaced—like this, see?" She reached out to link her fingers with John's. "They were in a window seat so I watched them for a little while when I went outside, but it is COLD tonight. I didn't want to linger. Plus, I felt like a pervert." John winced at the word.

"They didn't do anything else interesting though. Molly ate a meatball and Sherlock blew his nose." Mary let go of John's hand and started spooning out the ravioli onto the plates. "Kind of wish I'd ordered the meatballs. They looked good." She faced her husband. "So, talk to me. Sherlock. Molly. Holding hands. Smiling at each other. What's up?"

John looked guilty, "I may know something." He began. How to tell his wife that he'd seen the two do much more than hold hands via video feed? He felt a little dirty.

"Spill! Something IS going on! " Mary wiggled her eyebrows at her husband. "I first suspected it when they argued in the grocery store."

John looked confused a moment, but he rallied and attempted to answer his wife.

"There is—" he began, "The thing is, I don't know exactly what—I mean I do, but not how he really feels abo—" Mary looked at her husband with impatience.

"What is going on!" she cried. "It can't be that complicated, John."

"Have you met Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Uses a gun to answer the doorbell? Fakes his death to save his friends? Yes, it can be." He stopped for a minute, looked to the ceiling to gather his thoughts, and took a deep breath. "So, yeah, there's something going on. I don't know how serious it is, exactly, and Sherlock doesn't know that I know what I know."

Mary stared at him with a grin beginning to take over her face, "So it's secret romance? How positively sick-making! I love it!" She wiggled with excitement.

"So, what do you know?" She leaned in expectantly.

John cleared his throat, "Ah…yes, well. This is the awkward part…"