Molly
John noticed right away that something was upsetting her. He could tell that something was off.
Usually, when he and Sherlock were in the mortuary or the lab, Molly was at least somewhat talkative. Even if it was normally to Sherlock, she would at least be speaking. But she wasn't today. Neither of them were, although it wasn't out of the ordinary for his flatmate.
While Sherlock flounced around from table, to morgue, to microscope, Molly sat silently at a computer, typing away. She didn't so much as look up even as Sherlock entered the room loudly and exited it just the same.
John glanced up occasionally at her, observing as she moved a stray strand of hair from her face. He closed the file that he was flipping through and slid off the table edge he'd been sitting on. He crossed the room slowly.
He placed a gentle hand on her back, his stomach shifting at the look on her face. She was pale; lips chapped, hair haphazardly thrown into a bun. Her fingernails were bitten down close to nothing and she had light spots on her cheeks. She smiled weakly at him and asked if he needed anything. He frowned.
Her smile was forced – even John could see it. He leaned against the table she sat at. Her smiled wavered.
"What's happened?" John asked. No prelude, no small talk, no way for her to sidestep it without lying directly.
She bit her lip glancing back at the computer screen. John read through it quickly. Flat listings.
"Saw the notice when I got home last night," she explained, wringing her hands in her lap. "Pasted to my doorway. I have to be out before the end of the week." John stayed silent, placing his hand on her back again as she spoke.
"I don't have anywhere to go, John," she said, and he could practically envision himself in her place; a situation he'd found himself in more than once. "My cousins aren't in country and I can't afford to leave."
John smiled down at her, and she seemed confused. "It's a good thing we've got room at our flat, then."
Molly gawped.
"I'm so sorry that I can't let you stay in 221C, dear; believe me, I would I were able," Miss Hudson fawned, helping Molly carry one of her small bags of personal belongings. She only had two, and most of it was only her clothing. Somehow that didn't surprise John.
Molly looked flustered and unsure of what to do. John grinned as he watched her scramble for an answer, climbing up the stairs with Miss Hudson not far behind.
"No, no, it's entirely fine!" she exclaimed. "I'm thankful that all of you are letting me stay here while I get my things sorted. That's more than I could ask for," she threw out, glancing at a chuckling John as she was enveloped in a tight hug. He listened to the fading sound of Miss Hudson bustling about the kitchen and chatting to Molly. She'd certainly taken quite the liking to her.
John leaned against the wall, smile still on his face. "Are you sure you're alright with this?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged noncommittally.
"So long as she's quiet," he noted, before bounding upstairs as well.
And Molly lived up to be exactly that. She was always quiet; dressing and leaving for work without so much as letting the kettle finish boiling. She kept all evidence of her in the sitting room out of sight. Hell, if John wasn't awake so much of the time, he doubted he'd even see her at all.
She refused to take his bed, no matter how much he insisted. Often, she just lay comfortably on the sofa, doing research or scrolling through more flat listings using Sherlock's laptop – which he, surprisingly, allowed. Other times, at late hours, she would sit there, blanket spread over her, reading glasses on, hair down, focus intense. She enjoyed assisting Sherlock with his experiments when he asked, and even, sometimes, when he didn't.
Both he and Sherlock were given a new perspective of her.
She fit in well.
John had been wide awake, flipping through a book in his room early in the morning – it couldn't have been much past three. He'd crept quietly down the stairs, thinking that maybe some tea could calm his nerves.
He didn't expect to see the soft glow of the lamp in the sitting room, nor did he expect to see Molly leaning over from her seat on the sofa, face in her hands.
He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, and she looked up at him, her eyes almost resigned; watery, but cheeks still dry. He took a seat next to her and was glad when she leaned into him, not bothering to rub her encroaching tears from her face. He snaked his arms around her shoulders, letting her take the comfort she needed. The comfort she deserved.
John stared at the doorway, watching as Sherlock pushed himself away from it. Neither of them needed to speak. Sherlock sauntered slowly back to his own room, before Molly could even notice he was there.
Yes, she fit in well, indeed.