Chapter Two

It had been easy to settle Rosie to sleep – too much excitement for a six-month old to handle. John had to concede that their daughter was an easy baby, if such a thing existed, and she seemed to thrive in company. He wondered how long he should wait before suggesting they might have another one.

When he entered the bedroom, Mary was already in bed, propped up and reading her book. She put down the novel and patted the bed beside her, although he didn't need inviting. The day had been exhausting but…perhaps not too exhausting. John slid under the covers beside her and scooted over to take her in his arms. Mary's fingers curled around his neck as he kissed her. Yes, definitely not too exhausted.

"Maybe he needs help," Mary said suddenly.

John conceded that the blood-flow to his brain wasn't especially strong at that moment, but still, what was she talking about?

"Sherlock," she continued. "With Molly."

Were they really going to talk about this now?

"Maybe you should talk to him."

Apparently, they were going to talk about this now. John rolled back onto his own pillow.

"This is not a good idea, Mary," he said. "For so many reasons."

"Such as?"

"Such as this thing is all in your head," he replied, realising it came out a little harsher than he intended. "Yes, Molly Hooper used to have a crush on Sherlock, but she's over that now – hardly surprising, given the way he used to treat her. And yes, I believe that Sherlock cares about Molly and these days he wouldn't deliberately hurt her, but there's no more to it than that. And this is Sherlock we're talking about – even if he did decide to pursue some kind of romantic relationship, I just think that Molly…she's too…"

"Too what, John?" Mary asked.

In the gloom, he could still feel her eyes piercing his forehead.

"I hope you weren't going to say 'too ordinary'," she continued.

Immediately, he felt guilty – that was exactly the word he'd been fumbling for.

"Because if there's one person you can't describe as ordinary, John, it's Molly Hooper," Mary continued. "She's one of the most brilliant women I've ever met, certainly the most brilliant I've had the pleasure of calling my friend. She's smart, tough, perceptive, strong – and she has a big heart."

"Yes, which could very easily get broken," John put in, remembering all too well the horrible awkwardness of those early interactions in the lab, not to mention the ill-fated Christmas party, back when he was still seeing Janette.

"As I said, John, she's tough," Mary said. "And she gets him. More than you or I, Molly Hooper really gets Sherlock Holmes. She knows what he's capable of, the good as well as the bad. She can keep him in line like nobody else. And he's different with her, you've seen it. He lets his guard down because he feels safe with her; he trusts her with his secrets, he listens to her, he values her opinion, he wants her to like him. How many people can you say that about?"

"So they're friends," John said, pushing back. "Good friends. He's damn lucky to have her, I'll admit that, and for Sherlock to even be capable of maintaining such a friendship is no small feat. But I always thought…I don't know…the only woman I thought might be different was Irene Adler."

"The Woman?" Mary said. She sounded as though she was scoffing at him. "From 'A Scandal in Belgravia'?"

"Yeah. You didn't see them together – he was…intrigued…unsettled by her." He wasn't the only one, John thought, with fleeting guilt. "She still texts him, you know."

"I thought she was dead?"

"Well, I'm starting to doubt whether anyone I've previously thought to be dead actually is," John replied. "She's in hiding, I think. He claims he doesn't text her back."

Mary snorted.

"So, Irene Adler. A violent dominatrix in exile due to her links to the criminal underworld – that's who you think would make Sherlock happy?"

"This is Sherlock we're talking about - murders make him happy, impossibly complicated unsolved crimes make him happy. Why would his choice of woman be any different – if, if he was even interested?"

"Because the heart wants what it wants, John!" Mary said, propping herself up on one elbow. "And Sherlock's wants Molly."

John couldn't believe they were spending their evening discussing this. Between the two of them, he had thought he was the romantic one, but his wife was really going to town on this.

"He would break her heart," he said, firmly. "I love Sherlock, you know I do, but he isn't capable of putting someone else first. He would let her down, abandon her the second an interesting case appeared. There'd be no hearts and flowers, no weekend walks in the countryside, no nights snuggled on the sofa watching crap telly."

"Then I don't think you know Molly as well as you think you do," Mary retorted. "She could have had all that, she had a taste of it with Tom. Why do you think they broke up?"

John wasn't sure whether this was rhetorical. He tried to think back to the brief, slightly awkward conversation with Molly all those months ago, when he'd felt he should commiserate her on the end of her engagement.

"She said something about it fizzling out," he said, feeling very vague on the details.

"Because once Sherlock was back on the scene, she realised that Tom – lovely thought he was - was a poor substitute," Mary said. "And I think she realised she didn't want what she thought she wanted."

"Which was?"

"Normal. She didn't want normal."

"But hang on" – now John was propped on his elbow, too, facing her – "A second ago you suggested Sherlock wants Molly and not Irene because he wants normal – but now you're saying that Molly doesn't want normal."

He was too bloody tired for this conversation.

"I think they meet in the middle," Mary replied, simply. "That's why it works."

With his vision limited in the darkened room, John could almost hear the cogs turning in his wife's mind. Just lately, it had felt as though a calm had settled over their lives; they had dealt with Mary's revelations about her past, they had welcomed their beautiful daughter into the world, and even Sherlock seemed more stable, fortified – he believed – by his wife's friendship. So why did Mary insist on trying to poke the hornet's nest?

"Will you talk to him?" she asked.

"I'm not going to talk to him, no."

"But if he asks you for advice, will you talk to him?"

"Yes, but that's not going to happen. I am not going to push Sherlock towards Molly Hooper because it's a very bad idea, and it wouldn't be fair to either of them. Not to Sherlock because I don't think he's ready for that, and not to Molly because I still don't believe he has that kind of interest in her. Now, are we going to shut up about this now and have sex before our daughter wakes up again?"

He heard Mary giggle, and then felt the mattress shift as she edged her way back over to him, wrapping her arm around his waist. He found his wife's lovely face in the darkness and took it in his hands, kissing her and simultaneously shifting so that his body was flush with hers. He closed his eyes, starting to lose himself. And then –

"You may think you're right about this, but you're wrong on one thing."

"Why are you talking again?" he groaned.

"Sherlock Holmes loves snuggles."

"Please don't tell me you know that from any practical experience."

She laughed again.

"Not me, no – Molly. Did you know he stayed with her a few times when he was supposed to be dead?"

He told her he did. Although he had scarcely seen Molly during the two years Sherlock was absent, it still smarted to know that she knew and never said anything.

"And a few times since," Mary added. "They've shared a bed."

"Shared a bed?!"

"Not shagged or anything – not according to Molly – but shared a bed."

"Oh, so a bit like us, you mean?" John sighed.

"But he likes to snuggle, apparently. Molly told me she would wake up to find him wrapped around her, holding her. How sweet is that? But don't say anything to Sherlock. I got the impression Molly was confiding in me."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of discussing Sherlock's snuggling habits with him," John reassured her.

He had to admit that, with this new information, it was possible to see how Mary was coming to certain conclusions about their friends. But it was too far-fetched, too much of a leap out of character for Sherlock, who willingly ran towards danger, lived for the adrenaline of the chase, revelled in intellectual combat. He would never allow himself to be distracted by a relationship, to give himself wholly to another human being, to show that necessary vulnerability – which was why Irene Adler was perfect for him.