"Have you agreed to let him move back into 221B, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked, passing the serving bowl of chicken tikka masala to her friend, then pushing the basmati rice along her way, too.

"Tchk. No, dear. Still can't decide if I want him up there, to tell you the truth. All the bother and the mess and the odd hours, and the gloomy violin music, and the manky dead things in the fridge and around the place, and gunshots—before sunup even, and the class of people he brings in…I swear, I might as well be living with my husband, and that's a fact. It was one thing before all this, but now?" She clucked again, eyed the chicken tikka masala with some severity, then decided to add one more dollop of sauce to her plate. "When I think of poor John... I swear. Well-it doesn't bear thinking about, now does it? Sherlock should be ashamed of himself, but…"

"But he's Sherlock," Molly agreed, resigned. "You're not angry with me, too, are you?"

"Oh, gracious, don't be silly. As if! Good heavens, you were trying to save his life…and it's not like he was good enough to tell you he was well and everything was going a treat, is it?" She shot a sharp look across the table. "Is it? He didn't go sending you reassuring text messages, now, did he?"

"Not me. Mycroft, maybe. Not me." She fought not to sigh.

Mrs. Hudson did it for her—an aggravated, huffy, "oh-that-man" sort of sigh. "I thought not. Save his life and he still can't be bothered to say he got off the boat safely in Paris, can he?"

Molly gave a crooked grin, and prodded her own bengan bartha with a piece of naan. "He's…Sherlock."

"Yes. Well. He can be Sherlock, but I may just tell him to go be Sherlock in someone else's upstairs flat."

"You'll break his heart, you know."

"Heart! What heart? Heartless as a young alley cat, he is."

"Now, that's not fair," Molly argued, ladling raita onto another piece of naan. She slorped a mouthful, and almost lost a drizzle down her chin and onto her best jersey. She caught it with one finger and licked it neatly off. She could see Sherlock's face in her memory. Oddly, it was the night she still thought of as one of the worst in her life: the Christmas party he'd been so awful. But he'd apologized, and it was the first time she'd ever seen remorse in his eyes, or shame. Or, for that matter, seen him spontaneously apologize without it obviously being a ploy…at least, obvious to those who knew him. She frowned at her clean-ish damp-ish finger. "He's got a heart. He…just doesn't use it often. But if you turn him away it will break."

"I'd been thinking of offering it to John and Mary—you know. After. A place to start out, you know?"

Molly shook her head. "You know better, Mrs. H. They're going to want someplace that's their own, not Sherlock's. And you know to John 221B will always be Sherlock's."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," the older woman agreed, peevishly. "But it just feels wrong, him coming back after what he put all of us through. I mean, dying would be bad enough. Being killed would be bad enough. But— jumping like that! And making John watch!"

"I think Moriarty forced a lot of that," Molly said, apologetically.

"Not all of it."

"No. But, then, Sherlock had to make it stick. John and you and Greg Lestrade weren't going to be safe unless Moriarty's people thought Sherlock was dead. Believed it. Really, really believed it."

"Oh, stop making excuses for him, Molly. You always do. It's…it's indecent, that's what it is. The way he can count on you no matter how horrible he gets!" She looked outright angry, now.

"But I don't," Molly said. "Or…not any more, I don't." She suddenly laughed, and grinned in cat-in-the-cream amusement at Mrs. Hudson. "I hung up on him the other night. Well—turned off the phone so he couldn't text me anymore. And without him saying a single awful thing to me. Just because he was being annoying and Sherlocky and thinking I had to pay attention to him because…I don't know. Because he was bored and wanted someone to talk to."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide. "You never did!"

"Did!"

"You're serious?"

"Yes. I am." She said it like a little girl who'd won a spell-off, with the same radiant satisfaction. "It was the night before my interview with Dr. Vanda, about going into the forensics program over at Queen Mary's. Sherlock texted me, and was all 'pay attention to me' without actually saying that. And I'd just seen John and Mary for lunch that day, and between seeing John – I swear, he's lost a full stone this month – and talking to Mary in the loo – I wasn't feeling very sorry for him when he started whining that all of you were mad at him. More like smacking him, if you want to know. And when I pointed out he kind of should have expected it, and that he should have known how much he hurt you all, he got huffy and asked what I'd done with the 'real' Molly Hooper. And then when I said I was going to bed, he wanted to set up a lunch with me the next day. And when I said I was busy, he wanted to know why—like I couldn't possibly be too busy to have lunch with him. And when I said I had an interview for med school he just…I mean... Okay, all he really said was 'what?' But…"

"But he's Sherlock, and we all know what he sounded like…that voice like you just said you could fly to Mars in a ballet tutu. So—?"

"So I told him I was turning the phone off, and I told him good night. And I turned the phone off. And you know what?" Her eyes were shining with joy,

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, as fascinated as a gossiping schoolgirl herself.

"I slept just fine. And I went to the interview, and I felt smart. And competent. And…I'm not sure if I'd let Sherlock keep me awake I'd have felt that way. He's—he… he can be like running face-first into a harvesting machine. He can cut my ego to ribbons."

"That's our Sherlock, Lord love him."

"That last night, before he was gone, it was…wonderful and horrible and terrifying, and the first time I ever felt like I mattered. And I did well, Mrs. H. I really, really did well. It wasn't all him, you know. Not all the thinking, and not all the making it work. I did well. And then he was gone. And for months and months I felt wonderful, and capable, and like Molly Hooper, who counted. Who he could trust. And then he came back, and he texted me. And I was so happy to hear from him. And…and he was nice, too. Except...except when he wasn't. When he told me to try not to be stupid. And then he was so stupid himself, about John and you and Greg. And…I don't know. I'm just glad I went to that interview knowing I was strong enough to turn off the phone and go to sleep, instead of sitting there trying to be perfect for him and letting him make me feel…little."

They were both silent a moment. The moment…stretched.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Hush, dear, I'm thinking. Be a good girl and order me a cuppa-the nice kind...you know, with cardamom-and a some rice pudding, will you?"

Molly flagged a waiter, and ordered two teas and two rice puddings, and waited while her friend pondered, seeking answers in the bowl of a spoon. The tea came, and Mrs. Hudson sugared it, added milk. She took a deep sip, sighed in contentment, then looked across the table.

"I think, dear, you're very smart. Smarter than you think you are…and much smarter than Sherlock thinks, at least on a bad day. He's got to take his own knocks—and you have to take care of yourself, and sleep, and get ready for medical school. But…let him know it went well. Just a little text. No more. Don't offer to chat. Just…let him know."

Molly looked at her, trying to fathom what she was up to. "You're sure?"

Mrs. Hudson gave a sharp, explosive laugh, and slapped the table playfully. "Don't be silly! He's Sherlock. Who knows what goes on in that twisty little mind? I just think it might be good for both of you for this to be the new normal. Right? You're Molly, and you hang up on him when he's being annoying, and you go to interviews for medical school—and you text him to let him know it went well. And it's all normal. Right?"

Molly considered. "It would be an awfully nice kind of normal."

"Yes. It would."

Molly sipped at her own tea, sweet and cloudy with milk. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"What, lovie?"

"I…don't know if I'm in love with him anymore."

"You weren't in love with him before, ducks," Mrs. Hudson said, ruefully. "You were sick-as-a-dog mad for him. But you weren't in love."

"Then what am I now?"

"You're Molly Hooper, dear. And you've got a chance to learn how you feel about him, now. Not many of us ever get that second chance—not with the ones who make our heads spin and our stomach sick and our hands shake. You're lucky."

"What if I don't love him? I mean, what if I don't love-love him? I don't know who I am, if I don't. I've been mad for him so long. It would be like getting a new identity."

"Then you're probably luckier still. First, you could use a new identity besides being that poor, mad-for-him girl—a whole new case full of identity! Second, I don't know if he can fall in love back. And whether he can or can't, either way, loving him wouldn't be a weekend holiday to the Lake Country. Just friends might be best. But even if you're unlucky, and it's love, this time around you don't have to let him make you feel…little. Because you are not little, Molly Hooper! No, no, you let me get the check. You may be a starving medical student, soon. Save your money."

The two women gathered their things, pulled on their coats, and headed out into the streets promising to do lunch again in a week or so.

Molly returned to the lab and was kept busy for the next few hours with a whole series of blood chemistries that had to be run. Only at three did she have time to stop for a cup of tea and a moment to think. She pulled her phone out, laid it on the smooth steel of her desk, and pondered. She sipped her tea. She pulled the phone close, pulled up Sherlock's name, and typed gingerly, with one finger.

Thought I'd let you know. Been to two interviews this week. Looks good. Next year I may be a forensics student at Cameron, at Queen Mary.

She drank more tea, staring, wondering. He didn't answer. She sighed, pulled out her Kindle, read a bit of a new Regency. When her tea was gone he still hadn't replied. She slipped the phone in her pocket, washed her cup, and went back out to run more blood chem. At the end of the day she closed up, picked up a sandwich on her way home, and curled up in front of the TV with Toby, her cat.

She was half-way through an episode of Dr. Who when the phone vibrated.

Forensics? SH

That's the plan, she typed back.

At Cameron?

I've applied several places. Mostly in London. St. Barts, of course.

Well, well, well. Molly Hooper! Who knew? How were your UKCATs?

Top tenth percentile.

Very good. I only made top twentieth.

I didn't know you applied to med school.

I didn't. I only thought I might. My life took a detour right about then.

Should I ask?

There was no answer at first. Then…

I'd rather you didn't. I wasn't at my brilliant best. I'd gotten bored. I'm not good when I'm bored.

She looked at the text, and wondered—no, suspected—that "chemicals" and policemen and Mycroft cleaning up some nasty little details might be hiding behind the simple words.

No, you're not. You're bad when you're bored, aren't you?

Quite.

Maybe that should be next on your to-deduce list: how not to be bored.

That's not exactly something you can deduce.

Don't play "mother," she told herself. I agree it's probably harder for some people than others.

She could almost see him pout.

I need challenges.

Build your own challenges. But I'm not going to lecture you. It's your life. You'll tell me if you need help. Meanwhile—I've mainly been looking at forensics and pathology, but I'm not sure that's where I want to end up. What do you think?

The message again failed to come for the longest time.

I think that you should do whatever interests you, Molly Hooper, because talent and brains and courage are not an issue.

She nearly dropped the phone—and she did jump enough to rate an evil glare from Toby, whose nap she had interrupted. She wrapped her arms around herself and forced herself to think. At last, she whispered, "The new normal," and simply typed,

Thanks. I'm beginning to think so, myself.