AN: Have you ever forgotten you'd started a story? Like, genuinely completely forgotten? Because now I have. Sorry to anyone who was put out by the incredibly long wait, if any such people are out there. However, I have chapters 3 and 4 completed and chapter 5 half done (and there will be only the five chapters), so I hope to have this story all wrapped up by the end of next week, as penance for this last break being so long.

o.o.o

None of them see Molly or Tom for three weeks after that. Mary becomes quite worried when Molly responds to all of her messages with brief, vague texts and finally corners Sherlock about it. "You figure things out," she says. "So figure this one out."

He doesn't have to figure it out; he already knows. But this feels like a private affair, and if Molly wanted Mary to know she would have told her. So he tells her simply, "I believe she is working through some personal matters." Mary just scowls.

Sherlock, for one, is thrilled not to have Tom at his flat and his meals any longer, but he finds himself wishing Tom's absence didn't mean Molly's absence too. He's grown accustomed to having her around, to seeing her outside of his detective work, and it's strange to have that absence in his life. Not to mention that she's been taking time off from the morgue so if he needs to see a body, he has to get Grant Lestrade to use his police authority to strong-arm the dour-faced people who have replaced her.

Finally, one night in late June, Mary and John appear at Baker Street with news. Sherlock pours Mary a glass of the apple juice he keeps in the fridge for her now that she's not drinking alcohol, and she accepts it gratefully and sinks down onto the couch (stiff movement that indicates lower back pain, normal in second trimester). "It's what we expected," she informs him. "Molly's broken things off with Tom."

Sherlock nods, and Mary darts a glance over at John, who's sitting in his old chair and looking surprised. "You already knew," he guesses, and Sherlock nods again.

Mary and John exchange another glance, and Mary asks, something strangely bright in her tone, "Why did you know about Molly's relationship status before we did?"

"That day at the morgue when I made her angry—you remember, John—she told me Tom had been pressing her to set a date for their marriage and it had made her realize she did not want to marry him."

"Oh," says Mary, sounding disappointed, which makes no sense.

"Well," says John. "Poor Molly."

"Not at all," says Sherlock. "He was a tiresome man and she deserves someone better."

Mary is smiling again. "Yes, Sherlock," she says. "She does."

o.o.o

He doesn't see Molly again for another week. The thought occurs to him that perhaps he should call her up, or at least text; messages of concern and support are, he believes, generally desirable at times like this. But he can't begin to imagine what he would say, so he remains silent.

But a case takes him to her morgue and there she is, the first time he's seen her in a month, and to his surprise he is pleased to see her, even eager—something he usually only feels about John and sometimes Mary. Knowing she's only recently ended her engagement, he tries to sound kind and considerate. "Molly Hooper," he says, smiling. "How have you been?"

She looks up and smiles at him tiredly. "Hello, Sherlock. The beheading victim, I assume?"

And as she starts rifling through her paperwork, he steps closer; he's not sure what to say, but he wants her to know he's aware of what she's been through. "Was it as bad as you feared?"

And she stops looking at her papers and looks up at him, and a ghost of a smile crosses her face. "No," she says. "Yes. But it was the right thing to do. He'll see that someday."

He nods, sympathetic. "So, back to your cat and your . . . romance novels? Isn't that what single women your age do?"

"Sherlock," she says sternly, but she's smiling, "Stop talking."

o.o.o

He was right, it is different having John and Mary married. Not bad different; it just means that they all have to make an effort to see each other, which is very different from the days of old when his best friend was living in the next room over, or even pre-wedding days when John and Mary were at Baker Street every other day to talk about the wedding arrangements. Now he sees them only if they come to his flat or invite him to theirs, and when they invite him to restaurants (no more pubs, the smell is starting to turn Mary's stomach and anyway she gets bored sitting there watching everyone else drink), and when John spends some of his available evenings and Saturdays solving crimes with Sherlock.

Mary has begun inviting Molly to dinner on a fairly regular basis. "She's all alone now," she points out. "She needs company. Take it from someone who's been alone before, it's not easy."

A thoughtful quietness falls over the conversation, and Sherlock knows John's thinking the same thing he is when his old flatmate says, "I don't think either of us would argue with you on that, darling."

So Sherlock begins seeing Molly socially on a regular basis. Sometimes Garrett Lestrade comes along but sometimes he doesn't, and Sherlock is uncomfortably aware that these latter times resemble a double date: John and Mary, and him and Molly. But Molly doesn't seem to be fawning over him like he thought she might start doing again; based on some of her dry answers to Mary's questions, she doesn't seem to be in a rush to get involved with anyone any time soon, and based on how comfortable she now seems around him, he's fairly sure she no longer harbors any romantic feelings for him. Instead she becomes a friend, someone he can have good conversations with when Mary and John get caught up discussing the date of the next OB/GYN appointment.

Sherlock even once spends an evening with Molly and Lestrade without the Watsons, who are at a birthing class. (Sherlock would have preferred to be at the class with them, but the instructor banned him from returning after his first time attending, when he spent the entire evening arguing with her over whether her breathing techniques were in keeping with the latest medical research; the woman didn't understand that Sherlock was not trying to be rude, he was just concerned about the welfare of the unborn Watson child.)

(He gets the feeling that Mary understands, though; he gets the feeling that she knows he worries about this baby like it's his daughter because he will likely never have a child of his own, and it's an interesting thing to experience at least once.)

And it's an enjoyable evening, for the most part; they go to a pub—Lestrade's choice—because for once Mary isn't with them and they proceed to get fairly drunk. Lestrade goes slow; he tells them that after everything he's seen in his police work, he prefers to never let himself get too far gone. And Sherlock is hesitant at first, because he dislikes the way alcohol interferes with his ability to think; he really only drank at the stag do for John's sake. But Molly is off and running while he's still politely sipping at his first drink, and it's not long before he realizes she can drink him under the table. His competitive side kicks in and refuses to let him be outdrunk, and it's not long before he's gotten quite messy, quite disoriented and quite happy (he may be hesitant to start drinking, but once he starts he often finds himself diving into the experience wholeheartedly).

Molly's holding her liquor better than he is but she's still a bit gone herself, enough to make her loosen up quite a bit. She's smiling and carefree and he finds it an excellent change from how quiet and withdrawn she's been lately. It's too bad she's been so down since Tom, he thinks through the haze in his brain, because she's quite pretty when she smiles. In fact, when he can get his eyes to focus properly, he thinks she looks downright beautiful right now—not the glinting, alluring, dangerous beauty of the Woman, but like . . . a meadow. Like a warm blanket. Can a warm blanket be beautiful? He's not sure; his thought processes have slowed to a shocking crawl.

And now that he's noticed her he can't unnotice her, and when she turns away from him to answer a text, he finds himself transfixed by her hair, which is hanging down long and smooth and shiny. He gazes at it for a long time, and then an overwhelming urge to see what it feels like overtakes him, and he finds himself lifting a hand to reach out and touch it. Before he can get there, though, she finishes her text and turns around, and he drops his arm and pretends to be looking at something else. She doesn't notice that anything happened.

But someone noticed, because when Sherlock looks over at Lestrade, he sees the man is watching him and Molly with his eyebrows raised, as though he finds something about them very interesting.

o.o.o

It's in late August that Sherlock's fears about having John married are finally confirmed: that month marks the first time that Sherlock needs John to assist him on a case and John's unavailable because of his wife.

"I can't do it," he tells Glen Lestrade over the phone. "John is on holiday with Mary, and I can't do something this big without an assistant."

"Just do it alone, Sherlock," Lestrade sighs. "It's not that hard. Or—" And suddenly he pauses, and when he speaks again his tone has changed. "Or ask Molly Hooper."

Sherlock stiffens, memories of the last time he asked Molly Hooper to be his assistant flashing through his head. "I don't think that's wise," he says. "The last time I had her help with my crime-solving, it ended with the understanding that she was no longer interested in assisting me."

"Well, " says Lestrade, "You were probably a jerk to her back then, but you're been much less of a jerk lately. Anyway, it's her day off. She'd probably enjoy the excitement."

"I'm not going to ask her," Sherlock insists.

"Look," says Lestrade, "if I find you an assistant, will you be there?"

And Sherlock pretends to consider, but honestly, with the improbable facts of the case—the murders happening in plain sight in a park, the victims missing a liver, of all things—there was never a chance he was going to say no.

However, there was also never a chance that he was going to work with Molly Hooper again, and yet here she is when he reaches the park, waiting for him patiently. She's done something with her hair or her makeup—he doesn't know but it looks quite nice. But that's not the point; the point is that they agreed she would never have to do this again, and now here she is, and Lestrade is going to get an earful the next time Sherlock sees him. "Did Lestrade make you come here?" he asks.

She nods.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you didn't want to do this again—"

"Sherlock," she says, "it's fine. That was a long time ago, and I was still worked up that day about you coming back from the dead, and also you kept calling me John which wasn't good for my self-esteem—"

"Sorry," he repeats.

"—but this is fine. I think you've got my name down now. And it's an interesting case, right?" She smiles at him, and he hesitates, and then he finds himself smiling back—not his usual polite obligatory smile, but a real genuine smile. And Holmes and Hooper set out to solve a crime.

It's a bit like last time; she mostly agrees with him and says a few Ah's and Wow's and takes notes that he will never need because he remembers every detail. But she also makes a few genuine contributions, including diagnosing the cause of the discolored skin around victim's arm, and she provides some useful information about the prescription medication in the man's jacket pocket, and between the two of them they have the case wrapped up by early evening.

"Sherlock," she asks as they walk to the nearest large street to grab taxis, "was it all right, having me there? I know I'm not John and I worry I'm going to mess something up—"

"I didn't want you to be John," he says. "You were perfect; you fulfilled every duty I could have asked of you." He hesitates, but the setting sun is putting a rosy glow around everything and somehow he feels connected to the world around him, and connected to her, in a way that normally doesn't happen to him. "I don't often tell you this, Molly, but I trust you, and there are very few people I can say that of in this world. I didn't mean to force this on you, but I can think of few people I would rather have assist me."

She stops walking, a shy smile spreading over her face. "Thank you," she says quietly. "And if you ever need an assistant again . . ."

He smiles back and the strangest feeling steals over him, one that makes him want to do something bizarre and rash, like putting a hand on her shoulder. But he knows perfectly well that touching is not something he enjoys, so he simply finishes the walk, hails her a cab, and sends her home before starting for home himself.

o.o.o

"Wait," says Molly, cutting through the silence, "where is your shop?"

And Sherlock barely hears the client's answer because his brain is whirring. Of course, brilliant, she's exactly right!

"Because maybe this club you've joined—" Molly goes on.

"—is a ruse to get you out of your shop in the afternoons," Sherlock finishes. "And since no one's going to rob a stationery store—"

"—then it must be the location, not the store, that's important." She pushes on, sounding excited. "And if this club has suddenly all shut down and disappeared—"

"—then they've gotten what they needed from having you out of your shop!" he says. He and Molly look at each other, triumphant, and he's never admired her as much as he does at this moment.

They rush to the man's stationery shop in time to catch the shop assistant and her accomplice before they try to rob the jewelry store next door, having spent the last month casing it in the afternoons while the shop owner attended his fake new club. And when everything's been sorted out, Sherlock and Molly sit in a nearby diner with sandwiches and chips in front of them, and Molly is glowing with her triumph.

"I'm very impressed," he tells her sincerely. "You cracked the case and prevented the robbery."

"You would have solved it three seconds later if I hadn't been there," she smiles, but she looks pleased.

"Nonetheless," he says graciously, "you did solve it."

She is thoughtful a moment. "Sherlock," she asks, "why do you keep inviting me 'round to do this with you? I'm not complaining," she adds quickly. A smile crosses her lips. "It's sort of exciting. But you keep saying you need help and I don't think I've done anything helpful."

"Well," he says reasonably, "I need someone to fill in when John is at work—"

"Yes," she says, "but I don't think you need John, either. Is it just that you like having someone around to see you being clever?" She pauses, then laughs. "Or is that your way of making us spend time with you?"

It's meant as a joke, he's fairly sure, but it's so uncomfortably close to questions he's asked himself a time or two that he freezes. Molly's eyes widen. "I'm so sorry! That came off so rude."

"It's all right," he says stiffly, and then his pride makes him add, "But would it be such a bad thing if I use my daily caseload to provide a pastime when I spend time with acquaintances?"

And she hesitates, and then something warm enters her expression, and to his surprise she reaches one hand across the table. For a moment he thinks she's going to place it on his hand, but instead she taps her fingers against the folds of extra fabric in the cuffs of his sleeve, pinning that sleeve between her hand and the table; he assumes it's a way for her to avoid making him uncomfortable by touching him. "Sherlock," she says, "John is your friend, and so am I. And we will happily spend time with you, even if you don't have any crimes to solve or other 'pastimes' planned."

Someday he'll stop feeling embarrassed about his lack of social experience; today isn't that day. But her advice is very much welcome. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says softly. And then, feeling that the conversation has gotten a little too personal, he clears his throat. "Now, tell me about that autopsy you did yesterday on the man from Kent. I've never gotten to personally examine Creutzfeldt-Jakob–damaged brain tissue."

Molly smiles and obliges, and their discussion lasts for another half-hour. But a few times he gets distracted from it, because he finds himself glancing at her hands and thinking that about one thing, she had been wrong: he thinks that he maybe wouldn't have minded if she'd touched him.

o.o.o

"I'm taking your advice," he says two weeks later as he strides into the morgue. "Dinner at La Balancelle on Saturday. I'm inviting people for social gatherings without crimes involved." He pauses. "Well, I say people—just John and Mary and you, and I think Gordon's bringing a date."

Molly looks pleased. "Who's Gordon?" she asks.

He blinks at her. "He's an inspector. Gray hair. You see him all the time, I know you know him."

"Greg?" she asks, but his phone is ringing and he puts up one finger to tell her to hold that thought while he answers.

It's John, and his voice is strangely choked.

"What is it?" Molly asks when he hangs up, and when he turns to face her she must see something in his face that frightens her because she repeats her question, more frantically.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says stiffly, looking down at his phone. "Car accident."

In moments they're tucked away in the backseat of a cab, him and Molly, and he can't remember why she's there but he supposes she must have volunteered—must have insisted, if he knows her. It should concern him that he can't recall that but he's distracted thinking about the fact that for the first time in years (since Baskerville), he is afraid. "She listed John as her emergency contact while I was . . . away. He's at the hospital with her now." He's normally better than this at dealing with a crisis, but Mrs. Hudson has become a weakness for him.

Molly bites her lip, her hands clenched tightly together. "But she's still alive?" she confirms.

He nods but can find no more words to say. He has complained about her, he has ignored her, he has never appreciated her, but at the end of the day Mrs. Hudson has been his mother in all but name for years now. Sad that it took a car accident for him to realize that. He has a curious sensation, like he's floating in water, like he might float right out of the cab, and he wishes suddenly that Molly would touch him and remind him that he's still on the ground. She doesn't, of course, because he's Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't like to be touched and she's Molly Hooper and she doesn't love him anymore. But he still wishes it.

John meets them at the hospital and he looks even more stressed than Sherlock feels. "She's currently stable but still in critical condition," he tells them. "She hasn't woken up yet." He sighs. "I haven't been able to get hold of Mary," he explains. "She lost her phone last week and she's out with a friend whose number I don't have and I didn't even have time to leave a note at the flat or go to the restaurant and tell her because I had to get here for Mrs. Hudson—"

"Go find her," Molly says. "We're here now, we can hold down the fort until you get back."

When John is gone, Sherlock talks a nurse into letting him see Mrs. Hudson, but as they were told, she is still unconscious, lying very still amidst white sheets and bandages. He knows perfectly well how old she is, but it's never struck him until now—just how frail she is, how small. It makes him slightly sick to his stomach, seeing her there, and his hands shake, and he escapes back out to the tranquility of the waiting room, where Molly waits.

"How is she?"

"Unconscious." He hesitates, then sighs. "Battered."

She stands. "Come sit down," she says softly, and when he doesn't move she tugs on his coat sleeve to draw him over to the comfortable chairs. He goes willingly; it's nice to feel her touch on his arm, real and solid when everything else feels surreal. When they sit, though, she releases his sleeve, and he wants her hand back immediately. He doesn't know how to go about getting her to touch him again, though.

And normally he'd never admit to not knowing what to do here, but this is a unique set of circumstances, and, eyes fixed embarrassedly on the floor, he speaks. "If I were . . . normal, what would you . . ." he says, then starts over. "I know you know I don't like being touched, but right now I . . ."

He can't finish, but it turns out he doesn't have to, because Molly immediately scoots over and begins rubbing one hand comfortingly over his shoulders and his back, while her other hand goes to his upper arm. He relaxes into it and sighs, sinking down to rest his elbows on his knees. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says quietly. "You're far kinder to me than I deserve."

That's how Mary and John find them an hour later, but he's too tranquil to be embarrassed, so he ignores the overly emotive smiles Mary shoots him as she sinks down to wait as well. That woman is always excited about something odd.

o.o.o

Mrs. Hudson comes home after eight days in the hospital. In those eight days, Sherlock, still wary after Moriarty, runs himself ragged trying to figure out if the accident was more than it seems (as far as he can tell, no, just a terrible cab driver and a lot of bad luck); Mary, in the meantime, gets rather ill, sending her and John on a panicked round of tests and exams (turns out to be nothing but a stomach bug). So in the end it's Molly who suggests that it would be nice if someone had dinner ready for Mrs. Hudson on her first day home, and shows up that afternoon with an armful of groceries.

Sherlock stays up in his flat at first, but curiosity soon gets the better of him and he wanders downstairs, where his helpful comments to Molly (who, as it turns out, is a terrible cook) soon get him assigned to making mashed potatoes with Molly's exasperated "Since you think you can do a better job than me!" ringing in his ears. And it's pleasant, as it turns out. Normally when he cooks, which is not often, he deliberately picks the most difficult recipes so the complexity of it can challenge his ever-whirring brain. Molly, who doesn't have the same unquiet mind, has picked much easier dishes, but she is such good company that the boredom never sets in. Talking to her isn't a new experience—she's now assisting him with cases nearly every week—but they're normally busy with murders and mysteries, and this is the first time he's talked to her outside a case, uninterrupted and alone, for such a long period of time. They talk of anatomy and autopsies, diseases and death, but it turns out she's also interested in history and classical music and politics. She's sharp enough that she can hold up a conversation with him on even the topics she knows little about, and the conversation never flags.

The Watsons arrive with Mrs. Hudson soon after the meal is done cooking, and the meal that follows goes off splendidly. Sherlock largely sits back and lets the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade do the talking; it's been a difficult week and as much as he tries to pretend he's invincible, the truth is that he's tired. Not to mention he doesn't know what to say; the conversation is of a much more sentimental nature than is normal for their little group, and he has nothing to contribute to that.

It's not that he isn't aware of how relieved he is to have Mrs. Hudson whole and hale back at Baker Street; the dread and the regret of that terrible night at the hospital are firmly branded into his memory. And it's not that he isn't strangely content to sit around the table in the candlelight with five of the people who matter to him the most (if he didn't hate the idea of making his personal peace of mind dependent on other people, he'd admit that right now he's actually quite happy). It's just that he doesn't know what to do about these emotions he can't—and perhaps doesn't want to—suppress.

What does one say to their long-suffering landlady after a car accident? He kissed her on the cheek and said "Welcome home" when she arrived, and that completely exhausted his supply of social niceties. He doesn't know where Lestrade keeps pulling platitudes from; he's not sure he could smile endlessly at her like John and Molly are doing; he doesn't understand how Mary knows that squeezing Mrs. Hudson's hand will be accepted and not considered off-putting. He can fake the actions of a caring relationship, but he doesn't know how to go through them sincerely; until John, he had never successfully cultivated a friendship with anyone, and even his relationship with John is the result of a number of accidents and of John's endless patience. So he is content to sit back and observe, and the pleasantness of being with these people is enough to distract him from the fact that from a purely objective point of view, it's a bit of a boring meal.

"I'll wash up," says Molly, rising to her feet.

"You sit back down," says Mary firmly. "You cooked, we clean."

"Mary, you're seven months pregnant," says Molly reasonably.

"True," says Mary, looking over at her husband.

John stands quickly. "I believe that was a hint that I ought to volunteer to help. Come on, Greg, give me a hand with these."

The Watsons and Lestrade disappear into the kitchen, and Molly follows after them, insisting that she's not going to make a pregnant woman clean up after her. Only Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson remain around the table, and Mrs. Hudson is smiling at him. "John told me you've been looking into my accident."

"As far as I can tell, it was truly just an accident."

"But it was kind of you to look, Sherlock. Underneath all that . . . detective-ing—" she gestures vaguely at him— "you have a good heart."

The smallest smile crosses his face, and then he finds himself reaching out and gripping her hand, copying Mary's move from earlier. "I know I must be a difficult tenant," he says sincerely, and he blames the soft glow of the candlelight and the way it isolates them from the group in the kitchen for the sentimentality of his declaration, "but I do very much appreciate having you as a landlady, and I'm glad you're home and safe."

She squeezes his hand back. "Sherlock," she says, and he can tell from the tone of her voice she's getting teary.

"Don't think too well of me," he says, half joking and half serious. "I'm sure I'll be back to being a terror in the morning."

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. "You've changed," she says, removing her hand from his to point at him emphatically. "In a good way. And yes, you're still a bit of a terror. But you're not the same ill-tempered hermit I first met. You care about people, and you've got people who care about you. Never forget that, Sherlock."

He glances over at the kitchen, where he can see Molly and Lestrade laughing at something John said while Mary smiles in the background. "I know," he says quietly.

"I still can't believe you planned a welcome home dinner for me," Mrs. Hudson adds. "Never thought I'd live to see the day you were that thoughtful."

"You haven't yet," he admits. "This was all Molly's idea."

"Ah," she says, and glances back at the kitchen. "What a wonderful girl." She pats Sherlock's hand, and again Sherlock wonders how people can be so confident about physical contact. "I'm glad you've been spending more time with her. She's lovely. And she's a good influence on you, if she got you to help cook today." Her gaze drifts back to the kitchen. "I like her."

And Sherlock follows her gaze to the kitchen door, where he can see Molly deep in conversation with Mary. Her smile is warm, her eyes are bright, and Sherlock replies, "So do I."

o.o.o

AN: For those of you keeping score at home, the case Molly solved is from a Sherlock Holmes short story called The Adventure of the Red-Headed League.