Thanks again for the reviews! I love love love them! Not much going on for me this weekend, so I'm writing a lot.

Also, just so you know – I'm enjoying the calm before the storm. The next few weeks will be crazy busy for me – book fairs, parent-teacher conferences, field trips, both mine and my husband's birthdays, a surprise party for my husband's aunt, Easter, etc., etc., so although I'll be trying to post at least 1 chapter/week as always, there may be a little bit larger gap between posts than is normal. At least until life slows down again. (To paraphrase the Bible, there is a time for everything under the sun – a time for writing, barricaded in a warm home against the wind and snow, and a time for working one's tail off as soon as spring arrives.) :)

Chapter 22, In Which Love is Just Okay

Molly sat very straight at the table, hands nervously twisting the napkin in her lap. She kept wiping the palm that wasn't encased in plaster on her slacks, and casting sideways glances at Sherlock, who sat to her left. Although Sherlock seemed extremely irritated, she couldn't help but smile at the elderly couple across the table.

His parents seemed extraordinarily kind, and – well – normal. She had the feeling she would feel completely at ease in their presence, if it weren't for the dark energy emanating from Sherlock. She could almost physically taste his discomfort and impatience, and it made her nervous.

"Yes, Dr. Hooper. We're his parents." Violet gave her another once-over, and Molly was reminded of Sherlock's 'deduction' face, but for some reason – the smile his mother gave put her at ease. She was not worried about being dissected and judged, with his parents – not like she was when she first met Sherlock, or how she still felt, with Mycroft.

Mycroft!

"Then…Mikey is - Mycroft?" She suppressed a little smile at the thought.

"Yes, dear, but he does hate it shortened," Violet sighed. "Just like Sherlock."

"Yes," the older gentleman – Siger, Molly reminded herself – chuckled amiably. "Always says that that's the name we gave him, the least we can do is use it properly."

Molly smiled again. "That – does sound like him."

Violet beamed at her. "So, you've met him?"

Sherlock groaned, and the back of his head hit the back of the chair he was sitting in with a thunk.

He was ignored by everyone in the room.

"Well…just a few times," Molly admitted. "And never for long."

"Yes…brilliant, just like his mother – both boys are," Siger sighed fondly. "And here I am, a useless boob in a family of brains." But his expression showed he didn't mind at all. He was quite proud of his family.

Molly laughed once, softly. "I know how that feels," she mumbled.

Sherlock glanced sharply at her, frowning, but the look was lost as his mother jumped in. "Oh, but he's told us you're very intelligent! You'd have to be, in your profession? At the morgue, if I'm not mistaken? You know, I've never gotten the chance to thank you for saving my son's life. I've come to learn you were key to his survival, then."

Molly blushed furiously, surprised. She'd never imagined that Sherlock would have parents like this, or that he'd have ever mentioned her to them. It all felt very surreal. "No, no – I mean, it was my pleasure. I mean, I – I'd do it again, in a heartbeat. Not that I want to have to do it again," she rushed to explain, "Just that I-"

"Nonsense, dear. Don't underestimate yourself! Earning a designation as 'very intelligent' from Sherlock is-"

"Quite intelligent. I believe I said she was quite intelligent," Sherlock corrected tersely. He was clearly embarrassed by this discussion, and it was making him even more snappish than usual.

The room was quiet for a moment, but before his mother could reprimand him, Molly broke in. "Oh – well, 'quite' is not 'very', so I am satisfied." Her expression was one of half-smile, half-grimace when her little quote was met with silence.

Sherlock looked at her sharply - the literary reference was lost on him.

It was not lost on Violet, however. "Oh, you're an Austen fan? Wonderful! We'll have so much to talk about at dinner tonight."

"Dinner?" Molly squeaked.

"Tonight?" Sherlock growled simultaneously.

"Yes," Violet answered firmly. "Dinner. Tonight."

And the warm, kind way his parents were looking at her made Molly forget herself for a moment. She smiled hesitantly at them. "Well, that sounds very -"

Sherlock glowered and coughed, catching her eye, and he shook his head once, sharply.

"Um…not…um. Well." Her face fell in consternation and she stared at the ground, attempting to think of an excuse, and failing miserably. She pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows, and looked innocently across the room at Sherlock, who closed his eyes in frustration and rubbed his forehead vigorously with his fingers.

In the end, it had not mattered that both Sherlock and Molly protested that they'd already gotten take-away (true), or that Molly had to work in the morning (true), or that Sherlock needed to work on a case (lie).

Violet insisted that the last time they were in town, they'd not spent more than an hour visiting with Sherlock, and that he owed them a meal and a nice visit together, and that there wasn't enough Thai for four, and that of course Molly had to come with them, because she wanted to know more about the lovely intelligent woman who had saved her son's life.

And so Molly found herself tucked in the back of a cab between Sherlock and Siger Holmes – and the latter's self-deprecating humor and kind eyes put her at ease, while Violet sat in the front and asked her the generic polite questions about her life and career.

Molly had to smile at that – Sherlock's mother did know him quite well. If they'd been allowed to take a separate cab themselves, she was sure Sherlock would have dropped her off at her flat before going to the restaurant. If he went to the restaurant at all.

Oh yes - Violet Holmes was a clever one.

Sherlock sat in tense silence as his mother rambled on about Mycroft's latest invitation to London, and how she was planning on planting peonies next to the roses and cucumbers next to the tomatoes and other boring, mundane things.

Very, very carefully, he slid his mobile out of his coat pocket and opened a text to John.

Nando's. Come if convenient. Require assistance. –SH

John held his little girl, rocking her gently to sleep. She'd been fed, changed, and now he was attempting to get her to sleep. He'd almost succeeded, when –

A text notification blared on his mobile. He'd turned the volume up earlier, on his way home from work while talking with Mary. He must have forgotten to turn it down.

He'd pay for that mistake for the rest of the night.

The text was long forgotten in the midst of Madeline's screams and his hushed, hasty whispers for her to shhh.

And now Molly and Sherlock sat next to each other at a table at Nando's, Molly fidgeting awkwardly with her napkin and darting concerned glances toward Sherlock as she did her best to cheerfully uphold her end of the conversation.

Molly was always hypersensitive to other's emotions, which was why she was so constantly timid herself. She could always sense, with intense acuity, the emotions others in the room where experiencing, and her deep compassion led her to feel an almost painful empathy for them. Being a very thoughtful person, she always wanted to put others at ease – unfortunately, she usually managed that by inadvertently drawing attention to her own awkwardness. When the emotions in the room were balanced, she found herself at ease, and a fairly charming conversationalist, but when there was a large difference, the sharp juxtaposition often left her feeling tense and nervous.

The difference in emotion between Sherlock and his parents was very great, indeed.

She felt very much like a rabbit, quivering in expectation of some great danger to come out of the scene at the table around her.

Before the soup arrived, Sherlock sent another text surreptitiously beneath the table, rapid-fire, to John.

Nando's. Require assistance. If inconvenient, come anyways. –SH

He stiffened his jaw and refused to make eye contact with anyone at the table. Even Molly.

He couldn't exactly say why he hated the idea of Molly and his parents together, but he hated it. (Probably had something to do with the fact that he knew they would adore her, and would presumably pressure him to label his relationship with her. He. Was. Not. Ready. For. That.) And he knew who was responsible for their little visit just as he was arriving home with Molly.

Mycroft would pay for this.

John was pacing the flat with Madeline in his arms, singing, teasing, bouncing – doing everything he possibly could to calm her while Mary rested, when the next text came in.

He still hadn't turned the phone down, and his jaw tensed with frustration at his own stupidity when it dinged loudly again. Hoisting Madeline in one arm, he used his free hand to quickly mute his mobile. He didn't even bother to see who was texting him – he was just desperate to get her to sleep.

They were finished with their soups, waiting for the main course to arrive, when conversation turned from the usual mundane pleasantries to more personal matters.

"Sherlock! Molly is a lovely young woman. Why on earth didn't you invite her for Christmas dinner? You invited John and Mary. Seems like saving your life would at least merit an invitation to Christmas dinner. Perhaps Easter - " Violet smiled conspiratorially at Molly, who returned it with an awkward, lopsided smile of her own.

"Oh – it's all right," Molly said quickly – apologetically, noting Sherlock tense at the invitation. "I almost always spend it with my mum. Not that I wouldn't enjoy spending it with you," she hastened to add, "I just mean – well,"

"Considering the way the day ended, I should think you'd be glad I didn't invite her." Sherlock cut her off curtly, watching her carefully out of the corner of his eye before turning a blank face to his parents.

Both parents frowned seriously at that, and Siger took the moment to add to the conversation. "Young man, don't think for a moment you've gotten away with that punch-bowl poisoning. Your mother and I-"

Sherlock's face froze as he recognized his mistake.

"Your prahgh?!" Molly sputtered, and began to choke on the sip of water she'd been taking.

Sherlock pressed his lips together firmly and waited for Molly to regain her composure after her coughing fit before handing her his napkin to mop up the water now spewed across the table.

Siger, who sat across from her, was delicately wiping his spectacles with his own napkin.

"Oh – sorry, sorry," Molly blushed, and finished cleaning up the table. "I'm sorry – really – but – punch-bowl poisoning?" And she turned to give Sherlock the most incredulous look her face could muster, and returned to twisting the now-wet napkin in her lap with a ferocity that made him fear for the stability of the thread-count in it.

He recoiled involuntarily, just a bit. He'd never, in the past months, regretted the punch-bowl incident – not once. He'd also never planned on telling Molly about it. Stupid slip of the tongue. He'd pay for his own sarcasm, now.

He swore vehemently in his mind that Mycroft would most definitely pay for this evening.

"Poisoning is a highly inaccurate term," he said, shooting a dark glance towards his father. "You were drugged with a mild sedative carefully brewed to put you to sleep for a mere hour, so that John and I-"

"You - you say drugged like it's –a - a better alternative to poisoning - " Molly's voice was low with disbelief.

Sherlock's voice was calm but his expression was tense as he tried to explain. "Poisoning implies harm. No one was in any way harmed, and no one was ever in any danger. And John did not know about it until it was already done. Everything was carefully measured – we even made sure Mary's cup-"

"Mary's cup?! You drugged - a pregnant woman." Molly's own jaw tensed and the pitch of her voice rose steeply as she turned her body fully towards Sherlock, eyes wide, searching for an explanation, knowing she was not going to receive a good one.

Sherlock's heart stung, just a bit, at her look – it was so like the look she gave him after the drug test – he focused on the candle on the table, and tapped his left heel on the ground, frustrated. "Technically, Billy Wiggins created - "

"Billy - the junkie?"

"He is a highly skilled chemist! I trained him myself, in the making of that particular solvent, and oversaw his work, and everyone was – and is – perfectly…perfectly…safe…hmm." Sherlock's voice trailed off as he glanced at Molly and noticed she had turned back away from him, and that she was frowning, thin-lipped, staring hard at the plate set in front of her by the waiter.

The table was quiet as the food appeared, Violet shooting worried looks at her husband, Siger shrugging sheepishly at his wife, Sherlock watching Molly in his peripheral vision as she stiffly brought her fork to her lips and chewed mechanically.

Beneath the table, Sherlock sent another text.

John. Help. Nando's. –SH

Please. –SH

If John arrived in time, perhaps Sherlock could use him as an excuse to leave, and leave John to do damage control. He was so much better at these…social things.

Molly closed her eyes as she chewed. The food smelled delicious, and probably tasted delicious, too – but she could be eating sawdust at the moment, for all she cared. Of course she could believe that Sherlock would drug his own parents and a pregnant woman – of course – of course –

"It was for a case." Sherlock said quietly.

Molly only opened her eyes in response. She was thinking. "What case?" She asked quietly, after another bite of food. She didn't trust herself with long sentences, just now, and she'd rather not start stuttering again.

"Magnusson," he said simply.

She closed her eyes, again. Relapse. Faking an engagement. Breaking and entering. Getting shot. Drugging his parents and Mary. Killing a man. Getting exiled. "You really made a mess of that one, didn't you." It was a statement, not a question.

Sherlock's lips twitched as he continued to watch her from the corner of his eye, refusing to make eye contact with his parents.

"Why – ehem. Why did you drug them?" Her voice was flat, which made him nervous – it wouldn't just be the lab he lost access to, if this was her breaking point – it would be her, and for some reason, that was decidedly not okay, to him - but at least she was still speaking to him.

"Well, I needed Mycroft's laptop to gain access to Appledore – Magnusson's home of 'dirty little secrets'. I could not extract the laptop without…inducing slumber, on his part. And my parents and Mary – I could not have them chasing after us. It was for their own protection. You know how dangerous Magnusson was, Molly. He would have twisted and blackmailed and ruined countless lives to get to Mycroft – I had to trick him into thinking he'd won." And he finished his explanation of the case with very little of the enthusiasm he usually displayed when talking about his own prowess.

"Okay." She said after a moment of silence when he'd finished.

"Okay?" He paused for a moment and looked at her, confused.

"Okay, as in – I understand what you did. Not 'okay' as in 'I approve'." She clarified slowly, still not looking at him.

"Okay." He said slowly, taking in her expression. Her shocked anger was fading, but it was replaced with – disappointment. Sadness. "I'm…sorry I…disappointed you." The words were said with great difficulty, although a hint of sarcasm could still be found in them.

At that, Violet and Siger looked at each other, surprise etched on their faces.

"But not sorry you did it?" Molly asked, her voice small.

"Well…no," Sherlock said, contemplating. "It was for the greater good. Magnusson-"

"Was evil. Yes." Silence, as she chewed for another moment, then placed her fork beside her plate. "But what you did was wrong, too, Sherlock," she said softly.

He frowned at his own food, which remained untouched. He felt…empty. Irritated with his parents, and even Molly, yes, angry at himself for alluding to the disaster that was Christmas (he never had much luck with the holiday), yes, and furious with Mycroft, even more so – but for the most part, he felt…empty. As if some other Sherlock was feeling those emotions in some other reality.

"Would you rather I'd let Magnusson continue blackmailing innocent people? Or allowed Mary or my parents to become embroiled in his web of malice and slander? Would you have preferred Mary to chase after us, endangering herself and the baby? Or-"

"Enough, Sherlock," his father said quietly, looking between Sherlock and Molly. "Enough." Sherlock looked at his father, and swallowed silently, and scowled at his plate.

Violet called the waiter and quietly asked for the check. As they waited in uncomfortable silence for the check to arrive, Molly folded her napkin carefully, giving her hands something to do.

After several minutes of reflection, her expression of intense concentration softened somewhat, and she asked him carefully, lowly - "You drugged them because you cared about them?"

Sherlock looked at her and then back down at the table, face expressionless except for a tug at the corner of his mouth.

Her lips twitched, but she still refused to smile. This was serious business. "That's. Hmm. That's – that's a really crap way to show people you care about them, Sherlock."

He looked at her and offered her a small smile. "I'm – aware of that. Now."

"You should probably apologize, actually." She continued, pushing the remainder of her food around on her plate with her fork.

"I already have."

"Not - not to me. I mean – you should probably apologize to the people you drugged." Still no smile, but her lips were twitching pleasantly at the corners.

Sherlock frowned. "Hmm. Well-"

And their strange conversation was interrupted as John, Mary, and Madeline – asleep, in a little papoose close to her mother's breast, protectively shielded by Mary - rushed through the doors, scanning the small restaurant for signs of Sherlock in distress.

Mary found them first. When she saw the four of them sitting at the table, she closed her eyes, and looked very much like she was struggling not to laugh or cry – either one was equally likely, at the moment. Nevertheless, she managed to keep her husband in check by grabbing his arm and nodding to the table where Violet, Siger, Molly, and Sherlock sat.

When John saw them, his eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed in anger. "Sher-!" He began to yell, but Mary tugged on his arm and glared at him, cutting off his rage.

"Shh!" She hissed, quickly checking Madeline for signs of arousal. She sighed, relieved when the baby only snuggled closer to her bosom and made a small gurgling noise.

John quickly strode over to the table, followed by Mary, glaring daggers at his best friend. He nodded quickly to the other guests at the table, and then turned on the detective. "Sherlock," he hissed with clenched teeth, pressing his knuckles into the table. "What the hell was this about?"

"You're late." Sherlock said flatly.

The vein in John's neck bulged dangerously as he tried very hard to calm himself. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and waved it in front of Sherlock's nose. "Require assistance at Nando's, you said. Need help. Please., you said. Please! We thought – we thought you were in danger - "

"Then why on earth would you bring Madeline?" Sherlock returned the glare John gave him.

"We – well, we - "

"We're running on five hours of sleep, Sherlock," Mary interrupted quietly. Both she and John were whispering angrily, and it would have been funny, if they weren't both deadly accurate shots. "Probably wasn't the best idea, no, but it was Nando's – how much danger could you be in here? And I wouldn't have come in, but when we got here – everything looked fine, and - "

"-and you assumed Madeline would be safe? I have to say you were extremely lucky this time around - "

"-and if you ever want there to be another time when we come to save your sorry hide when you cry wolf, you'll apologize this instant for dragging us out of our home at this hour."

Sherlock scoffed. "It's not even nine o'clock, yet."

The tendons in John's arms tensed, and he very well may have punched Sherlock out if Violet hadn't interrupted.

"How interesting! We were just talking about apologies, weren't we, Molly?"

And Molly blushed and glanced nervously at the growing group around the table, and then back at her lap, where she was refolding her napkin.

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, and gritted his teeth. "I…apologize for drugging you all at Christmastime in order to save your lives and take down Magnusson, one of the greatest blackmailers in English history!" He hissed.

At that, John looked between Sherlock and Mary, and Molly and Sherlock's parents, confusion and disbelief playing across his face.

Violet beamed. "Apology accepted, dear. But it's never to happen again."

"Yes. Never." His father added. "But apology accepted." He winked at Molly, who blushed again and quickly returned her gaze to her now thrice-refolded napkin.

"Hmph." Mary grunted, shifting the weight of Madeline in her papoose. She was clearly amused by the interactions at the table. "Well. Apology accepted."

Fifteen minutes later, after his parents had spent the appropriate amount of time cooing over Baby Madeline, Sherlock found himself waiting for a cab for Molly after sending John and Mary and his parents home. He'd insisted on waiting with her. He wanted to watch her – observe – make sure he hadn't…ruined anything.

Not that he'd care if he did ruin it. Or, at least – he tried to convince himself that he wouldn't care.

She was sitting on a bench, massaging her temples with her good hand, sighing repeatedly. Sherlock sat stiffly beside her, face unreadable, thinking the evening through, and contemplating the appropriate retaliation Mycroft would face for this intrusion on his privacy.

And because it would be too painful if he arrived at the lab tomorrow to find the doors locked – he'd rather know, now - he said, timidly – "Molly?"

She sighed. "Yes?"

"I'll…bring the eyeballs tomorrow. To the lab."

She smiled, half-heartedly to herself. "Okay."

Sherlock paused, watching her. "Okay – as in – you understand, or okay, as in – you approve?"

She smiled at him, then. "Okay, as in – I approve. About the eyeballs."

His shoulders relaxed with relief, and his confidence returned in full measure at the absence if his parents and the knowledge of Molly's...well, he hadn't really needed her forgiveness, because he hadn't drugged her - but...still. He...found himself wanting to be...better, around her. Smarter, faster, wittier, cleverer - and, perhaps, better at...relationships, too. "So." He smirked to himself. "Apparently, I'll have to scratch drugging people to prevent their involvement in dangerous situations off the list of ways to show I care."

She snorted, and quickly rearranged her features into something more serious. "Yeah. And Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

She kept her face straight as the cab arrived at the curb. "Don't make jokes. That one was horribly morbid."

He returned her reluctant grin as she waved good-bye.

Well, friends - I have to admit that wasn't exactly what I had planned when I started writing, but I'm kind of happy with the way it turned out.

Please let me know your thoughts. :)