Author's Note: This is final chapter of something I thought was going to be a quick little one-shot. I would like to thank all of you who read this rapidly written silliness and reviewed. It was amazing to get your responses and suggestions—you guys are wonderful! I had a lot of fun with this and hope the last chapter doesn't disappoint. And if it does, I'm open to constructive criticism.

It had been a stressful week John Watson. His phone rang constantly. Mike Stamford had left a baffling message one night about Sherlock, Eskimos, and geese. Mrs. Hudson kept calling and asking him to please have a word with Sherlock—the poor boy is so innocent, dear. Molly is a darling and I'm sure she's very patient, but I would think he could use a talk, man to man. Anthea had waylaid him on his way to get his haircut and brought him to the Diogenes Club, where he was forced to recount to Mycroft every word Sherlock had ever said about or to Molly Hooper. And Lestrade—Lestrade was cracking. For a detective, his lack of cool was distressing.

"Donovan and Anderson know! I don't know how they know, but they keep joking about him and snickering," Lestrade claimed during one panicked call. "I can't have Sherlock down to the Yard. He'll destroy them."

Even his home life was suffering since Mary found out about his unintended voyeurism—he hadn't even seen anything that bad really, and it was HE who had tried to put a stop to it. Lestrade was the pervert, if anyone was. Mary had given him an earful before she made him tell everything he saw in exact detail. She'd been randomly shaking head at him in disappointment throughout the week, though she was wearing that black bra he liked a lot more.

Due to the Sherlock gossip at Scotland Yard and Lestrade's refusal to bring Sherlock in until this thing had been settled, it had been quiet for the consulting detective and his blogger for the last few days. John wouldn't say he'd been avoiding Sherlock exactly—there really hadn't been any new cases for them to investigate, though Sherlock always had his own research, and it seemed to be occupying him well enough while John hid and Molly worked.

Finally, nearly a week since his confession to Mary, John received an urgent text summoning him to 221B. It turned out that Sherlock needed a propane torch and a packet of sugar, and Mrs. Hudson had already gone out for the day. Feeling as if he were taking the bull by the horns, John purchased Sherlock's requested items and made his way slowly to his old flat, dreading the confrontation. Sherlock would be able to read his guilt the moment he walked in, he knew it. It was in the way he tied his shoes, the buttons on his cuffs, the really obvious and shifty way he couldn't look him in the eye…

So it was some surprise to John when Sherlock didn't even look up when John arrived, merely gestured for the doctor to put the supplies on the table as he continued his research at the microscope. After several tense minutes, at least on John's part, watching silently as Sherlock fiddled with knobs and slides, he spoke up.

"Everybody knows," John said flatly.

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the microscope. He did not answer.

"I said, Sherlock, that everybody knows." John spoke more insistently, "It's no use hiding."

Sherlock reached up to adjust a knob, but still did not look at John. "Everybody knows what, John? Honestly, it's far too early to be cryptic, and it really doesn't suit you. It's more annoying than mysterious," he drawled, boredom oozing out of his pores.

John rubbed a hand over his chin, looked to the ceiling for support, and began again. "We all know about you and Molly."

Sherlock's hand paused on the knob of the microscope. His mouth opened ever so slightly before he closed it again. He tucked his chin into his chest but did not raise his head.

"What about Molly and me?" Sherlock busied himself changing the slide, carefully uncaring.

"You're together." Sherlock looked up at him then with widened eyes and a composed blank face, "Together-together, to quote Mike Stamford. The secret is out." John grinned, just a little smug. This was going better than he thought. He congratulated himself on speaking first before Sherlock could deduce his prurient behavior and go on the offensive.

"Ah, that. I didn't realize it was a secret." Sherlock turned back to his slides.

"Oh, no you don't. You don't get to pretend that it's not a big deal," protested John. "I can't believe you wouldn't tell us." Sherlock blinked at John, the slides ignored for the moment.

"I didn't realize that not proclaiming my…" he foundered a moment, searching for the word, "affiliation with Molly Hooper was considered bad form. Perhaps I should call Kitty Reilly and arrange an interview. Or would Lestrade like to hold a press conference, instead?"

"Affiliation? Is that what we're calling it? How romantic," John muttered. "Fact: Mike Stamford saw you grab Molly's bum and saw her kiss you at St. Barts."

Sherlock's head reared back at this, but he kept his features calm.

"Fact: Mrs. Hudson has been mysteriously finding girl pants in your wash. Unless you have a lifestyle change to tell us about…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fact: Lestrade and I saw you snogging Molly's face off, and —" John paused, maybe he shouldn't mention that piece of evidence.

Sherlock frowned and leaned into John's face—"When would you see that? Where did you see that?"

John swallowed and stepped back a pace, "no where, nothing—it's just-" Sherlock knit his brows and a storm was brewing in his eyes. God, he'd already had Mary give him hell for two days over that one—he didn't need Sherlock going after him. "Maybe you should learn how to bloody Skype properly, that's all—right?"

Sherlock's pale cheeks were flushed, "What have you seen?"

"Nothing! Nothing really—look, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I want to know why you've kept it a secret. Are you ashamed of her? Because if so, she deserves better than that." Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Ashamed? Ashamed of what? She's a highly respected medical professional, clever and loyal and brave…she saved my life, John. She saved yours." Sherlock rebuked his friend.

"But that's not why, is it? It's not just a pat on the head for doing you a favor?" John was adamant that Sherlock was going to answer the question, but the man seemed genuinely confused.

"I'm not following you, John. Sentiment, I will admit, is not my area, but I'm well aware of what I'm doing. If you recall, I recently had to fake my own death to prevent the people considered my friends, just friends mind you, from being murdered in cold blood. Forgive me if I am hesitant to announce to the world at large that Molly Hooper is my-" he hesitated.

"Girlfriend?" John supplied helpfully. Sherlock's nose wrinkled.

"Lover? Old Lady?" Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Significant other?" Sherlock shook his head in a so-so kind of way. That one wasn't so bad apparently.

"Okay—significant other, or whatever you want to call Molly—the point is, you have a relationship that you haven't even told ME about."

John was angry, but more than that, his feelings were hurt. Not including John in the faked suicide was hard enough to deal with, but now Sherlock was even hiding the little things—though if he were fair, it wasn't such a little thing for Sherlock Holmes to be involved, truly, realistically involved in a day to day relationship with a woman, especially when John considered that his one previous "relationship" consisted of playing weird, obsessive mind games with a woman hired by his enemy. John could understand why he wasn't told, but it still hurt, dammit.

Sherlock looked at John fixedly for a moment, considering his words. John waited.

"I am so sorry that I forgot to mention that I was going steady while we were painting our nails the other night. Perhaps I can tell you all about it during our next spa date," sneered Sherlock.

"Ah, sarcasm. Lovely." John's mouth compressed in a tight line and he shook his head in disbelief. "You really beggar belief, you know that? Knowing that we all care about you so—"

"I don't tell you everything. Why should I tell you everything? Did you tell me when you started dating Mary?" Sherlock burst out in frustration.

"You were DEAD" shouted John. "Or not, as the case may be, but I told you when you came back."

"Did it need to be said, John?" Sherlock appeared distressed, "You saw, you observed, you correctly deduced. Why did I have say anything? Was that a bit not good?"

"It's a more than a bit not good, Sherlock." John started to explain patiently. Maybe he'd been too hard on him. "Because it matters. Because it makes a statement—tells us that you are serious. That you do really care and that this isn't some game you are playing with her!" Sherlock shook his head slowly.

The doctor continued, "Look, I know she doesn't quite fit your image, yeah? Adler suited you more that way, I know, dangerous, sexy—"

"You don't think Molly is sexy?" Sherlock broke in suddenly, a challenge in his voice.

John swallowed nervously. Speaking of danger.

John's memory flashed to the black lace bra, and said a bit too eagerly, "No, yeah! She is…sexy, I mean." A quick picture of Mary's disappointed face came to mind and he tamped those thoughts down quickly.

Sherlock scowled, suspicious, but John soldiered on, "Look, all I'm saying is while it may be just an experiment to you, Molly really loves you and I can't let you go on without you knowing what you're doing to her."

Sherlock's voice was icy, "And what am I doing to Molly, John?"

"I just mean that you can't use her to—to experiment with emotion, Sherlock. She's better than that."

"Dear Lord, what you must think of me, " Sherlock mused aloud. "I am not using Molly for experimentation. If I were inclined to such experiments, The Woman would have been a far better partner for that. But I'm not, and I haven't. If I wanted The Woman, I could have had her. I could have her still. She's not dead." He waved his hand dismissively, bored with the idea of it all. Old history. Mystery solved.

"She's not de-. Of course she's not." John turned away for a moment, hand to his mouth. "Does anyone stay dead anymore? But okay, no, not dead."

"But I don't want her." Sherlock tucked his chin in again, suddenly shy, "I want Molly." He was like a little boy confessing his first crush.

"You could have an erotic, wicked woman who would play games with you, lead you on the perilous chases you love so much—and you don't want her why?" John pressed Sherlock—he wanted to know the truth. He couldn't let Sherlock lead Molly on, not after all that she'd done for him, for them all.

Sherlock stared at him coldly, "I think you just answered your own question. Am I such a narcissist that I have to fall in love with someone like myself, with the very worst of me? No mystery there."

John stared a Sherlock for a beat, nodding slowly. Sherlock again busied himself with his microscope. John stilled, replaying Sherlock's words in his head.

"Wait. Did you say fall in love? Have you fallen in love with Molly?" John asked suddenly.

Silence.

"Sherlock?" John bent down to catch his friend's eye, "I know you heard me." Sherlock lifted his gaze, as John asked again, "Are you in love with Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock considered the work top for a moment and then looked up again. He stared off into the living room as if the cow skull on the wall might have an answer for him before turning back to John. His mouth opened, and he took a deep breath. "I-," he began, and swallowed, before looking pleadingly at John.

John considered his friend's bashful face, the tremor of the lips. Reflecting back on the last time Sherlock tried to discuss his feelings, the "fly in the ointment," at the inn during the Hound case, John decided not to push. It really wasn't Sherlock's area—though it looked like he was giving it his best effort.

"It's okay, mate. You don't have to say it to me." He stared sternly at Sherlock for a moment, holding his gaze. There was something of the soldier he had been in his tone when he asked, "But have you said it to her?"

Sherlock hesitated, before he gave a short, firm nod, his mouth set in a determined line. He swallowed again, hard.

John's face broke out into a grin, "Then that's all that matters, eh?" Sherlock looked down at his work top again, and John reached out to clap him gently on the shoulder. John stood for a moment, rather proud of this machine of a man. The tin man did have a heart.

Sherlock rather nervously busied himself with his slides, and a sudden roguish grin spread across John's face.

"So, how is it?" he leaned over and asked in a conspirator's whisper.

Sherlock straightened up, startled. "How is what?" he asked. His voice was slightly higher pitched than usual.

"You know—how is it? How's the sex? Is she good?" John's tongue peeked out and touched his bottom lip and a rakish gleam in his eyes.

Sherlock looked like John had grown an extra head. "You must be mad if you think I would discuss that with you." The imposing consulting detective, the hero of the Reichenbach, was blushing.

"Ah, c'mon. Lady in the morgue, tiger in the bedroom? " He lightly punched Sherlock's rigid shoulder, "Just between us blokes, eh? Was it worth the wait?"

Sherlock's inner conflict furrowed his brow once more—he WAS a showoff after all.

But he was a gentleman first, at least for Molly. "Everything is satisfactory, thank you," he replied primly, bending over his notepad to make a note about…something. He couldn't remember what. He didn't want John to know that, so he bent his head and wrote very carefully, "Buy milk," avoiding John's leer.

And then there were footsteps on the stairs. A quick little knock on the door sounded before it was pushed open slowly. Molly poked her head around the side.

"Knock-Knock!" She held aloft a red biohazard bag, "I brought you a present!" Sherlock stood up suddenly from his stool and shot John a warning glance.

Molly broke into a bright smile when she saw John, "Oh! Hello! I haven't seen you in days. How is Mary?"

John grinned at Molly and glanced back at Sherlock who looked as if he'd sat on a tack.

"Oh, Mary is fine, fine. It's lovely to see you, Molly," he leaned in to give her a peck on the cheek. She gave an impish smile to Sherlock and handed him the bag. "It's Mr. Lassiter's kidney," she said brightly, "I saved it just for you! Some poor student will probably have to find a new research topic, but all for a good cause, I hope?" Sherlock took the bag from her and gave a brief, genuine smile.

"So, what are you boys up to?" she chirped, "Any new murders or sordid betrayals to get to the bottom of?" She unbuttoned her coat.

"Oh, nothing important," he turned to help Molly off with her jacket. "I hear you helped solve that arsenic poisoning from last week? Thanks for filling in for me. You know how it is, I have to give Mary at least one night of undivided attention or she won't let me play with Sherlock anymore." Molly chuckled as John hung up her coat and grabbed his own.

Molly was nodding her head, "Yes, I thought that was an interesting case, though fairly straightforward. Sherlock solved it in no time. He said it was barely a five," she glanced toward the man busily unwrapping his "gift" in the kitchen.

"Four," Sherlock corrected her without looking up.

"Yes, well," Molly continued, "it looked like someone had poisoned his last meal—meatballs and a cannoli." John blinked at this bit of information. Sherlock was ignoring them both as he moved his microscope out of the way, readying the kitchen counter for an impromptu dissection.

"Wait—" John asked, looking from Molly to Sherlock and back again, "didn't you eat at Angelo's after that case was solved?"

"Yes, we did!" laughed Molly, "How did you know?"

"Sherlock is a creature of habit, and that's where we often end up," lied John quickly, "but seriously, you went out for Italian after finding a poisoned cannoli in the stomach of a dead man."

Molly laughed again, "It does sound strange when you put it that way" she hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged her shoulders, " but you'd be surprised how often my meals are influenced by what I find during autopsies—

"Molly," broke in Sherlock with a heavy sigh, "maybe you shouldn't share the fact that cutting up dead people makes you hungry."

"Oh! No, guess not," she flashed an apologetic grin at John, biting her lip, "but gosh, just last week, I was doing the postmortem on a fellow whose last meal was a tikka masala. I can't tell you how much a was longing for a curry the whole day—"

"Molly—" warned Sherlock, he rummaged in the kitchen drawer before pulling out a fork and spearing Mr. Lassiter's kidney from the red bag, transporting it to the specimen dish waiting on the table.

"Right, sorry!" she watched Sherlock's process with a critical eye for a second before turning back to John, "Sorry."

John shook his head, "No, no, quite all right. I am a doctor, and speaking of which, I need to dash. Promised Stamford I'd meet up with him today. I have a bit news I need to share with him," Sherlock did look up at this with narrowed eyes.

John turned to Molly again, "We'll have to have you over—both of you-for dinner next week. We'll have curry! That all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grunted and focused on his kidney again.

"Well, I'm off. Talk to you soon, Sherlock."

"Mmm." The dark haired man was pulling on a pair of gloves. Molly stood uncertainly—she felt the undercurrent but wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

John was seized with a wicked thought as he leaned in to give Molly a hug goodbye. He held her tightly for a moment, feeling the unmistakable burn of Sherlock's glare on his back. John pressed his face into her hair.

"Don't wear him out too much, eh?" he murmured lecherously into her ear.

Molly stiffened in his arms and he withdrew to see her startled face. "I'm sorry, what?" she stammered, twisting her hands together.

John winked at her and slipped on his jacket. Molly's cheeks flushed and she glanced quickly at Sherlock who was glowering at John over his dissection. His nostrils flared.

"I said, don't keep him up too late—we do have crimes to solve. Ta, Lover-boy!"

He gave another lascivious wink to Sherlock, and as he passed her on his way out, John gave Molly's delightful little backside a playful smack and hurried to close the door behind him. Mary would forgive him. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Behind the closed door, he heard Sherlock positively erupt, "For God's sake!"

John ran down the stairs as fast as could upon hearing the door to 221B wrenched open and the thunder of designer shoes on the landing, following right behind him. John just made it to the first floor when the familiar baritone bellowed furiously after him, "and you wonder why we didn't TELL anyone!"