For as long as Molly had known Sherlock, the crazy, genius detective had always been unnecessarily rude to her. There wasn't a meeting between them that didn't consist of him saying something cruel to her, and she was never quite sure why she continued to fall for him.
Or, actually, she did know. He was brilliant. He was eccentric. He was devastatingly handsome. And as mean as he was to her, at least she was in his sights. At least she wasn't ignored like the rest of the public, and at least she was one of the few people that he came to when he needed something. She knew it was pathetic, but she couldn't help but feel proud that she had done something to gain even the littlest bit of attention from the man.
That pride had only slightly diminished upon meeting John Watson, who, though a very good doctor in his own rights, still lacked the extent of scientific mind that she and Sherlock shared. Yet, despite his mostly average intelligent, and average way of looking, and by far average way of posturing himself before the public, he was the one to not only gain Sherlock's attention, but to again his admiration.
There was a part of her that wanted to be jealous of the army doctor (and she was to a point), but truth be told, he was too easy to like. It wasn't even just that he was considerate and wore his heart on his sleeves. A lot about what Molly liked about him was the effect he had on Sherlock.
In the years that she had known Sherlock and had him coming down into her lab to do experiments or have her assist in cases, only John Watson could manage to make the detective take into account the impact his words and attitude had on others. Since appearing in the his life, Sherlock had been more...human...more understanding. And certainly more emotional.
Like now, with both of them in her lab trying to figure out the latest clue from the kidnapping. John had been sent in the back room to do his own observations while Sherlock worked beside her. He wore a serious expression, dead set on solving the mystery in front of him, but there was something more about him that he couldn't mask.
"You're a bit like my dad," she commented while he tried to ignore her for his experiment. "He's dead." She winced at the implication of her comparison. "Oh, sorry."
"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."
She wanted to be mad at him for the way he was speaking to her, the way he had been speaking to her since arriving at the hospital, and she was to some extent, but she couldn't get over that something in his gaze. There was a sadness that enveloped him, so deep and profound that she almost couldn't believe what she was seeing, and she found there was no way she could use her frustration and anger against him.
"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."
"Molly…"
"You look sad. When he can't see you." Almost as if he couldn't keep himself from doing so, he glanced toward John, and suddenly there was more than just sadness there. There was concern and a sense of nearing loss. "Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."
"You can see." His voice was low, his heart spliced open.
She frowned with a depressing sigh. "I don't count."
Because she knew, in Sherlock's world, that while there were plenty of people that there were in fact his friends, there was only one that truly, deeply counted: Dr. John Watson.