All the Things We Thought We Knew

by 16magnolias

John, among others, thought that Molly was the last person Sherlock would ever think of. Sherlock thought that Molly was over him. Molly thought that she never had, or would have, any effect on the heart of Sherlock Holmes. In the end, they were all wrong. Spoilers for season 4. T for language and mature themes. Drama and friendship to angst and romance. Sherlolly, in the end.

9. The Road Less Traveled

Chapter 9: The Road Less Traveled

"Well, we all do silly things."

-Molly Hooper, "A Scandal in Belgravia"

---

"Where's Molly?"

"…"

"Sherlock?"

"She went home."

"Huh - home?!…Did you…what did you tell her?"

"I said that I meant it. She…told me not to say it. That she knows, but it's…not the same. So…we're…friends." He steeples his hands beneath his chin and glares at the faux gas fire in the fireplace.

"Mmm." John rubs the back of his neck. "You're…friends."

"Yep. Friends." He draws the word out particularly slowly.

"…you…look…are you…"

"I am fine, John. She said 'unless'."

Later that day, after Rosie is in bed and Sherlock is deep in his mind palace in the lounge below, John sits on the end of his bed. Sherlock had not elaborated on what he meant by any of his cryptic conversation, and John is left shaking his head in confusion at just how Sherlock managed to wind up on the one path John was certain was unavailable to him.

Losing Molly for good? Sure.

Having a go at a relationship with her? A possibility.

Ending up with things just like they were before, as if the whole Sherrinford phone call had never happened?

John hadn't thought it likely, not in a million years.

And needing some sort of release at the ludicrousness of it all - he can't help but laugh a little, and the sound is joined with laughter he's only heard in his mind since the aquarium incident.

He looks up, and there is Mary, leaning against the dresser and laughing softly with him, shaking her head fondly.

He stops and smiles tiredly at her, expression saddening just a bit - welcoming her memory, even if her presence is a bit…strong, in his mind, still. He supposes he'll have to start seeing a new therapist, now – but that can wait.

Mary smiles affectionately at him, and chuckles again.

"It is a right mess, isn't it? He's like the eighth wonder of the world, sometimes."

"More like a train wreck," he mumbles – knowing she's not really there – but needing to respond to her, just the same.

Mary shakes her head knowingly. "Of course, only Sherlock Holmes could manage to be friend-zoned by a woman who actually is in love with him."

---

Sherlock has over-analyzed his next encounter with her. Of course he has. He wonders just how much space one should be given in a situation like this, and estimates that two and a half days, precisely, is enough time for her to right herself after her harrowing experience, given their conversation. He shouldn't take her up on her offer to stay the night (he wants to), because that seems pushy, even to him. And though he wants more – he still needs time to process just exactly what that entails. He loves her – he wants more than friendship – but how far is he willing to go, exactly? And if he's not willing to go all the way – he will not pursue her. Because she deserves someone who can give her exactly what she wants, and exactly what she deserves. He will either become that man – or let her find someone who is. (Preferably someone who doesn't offer 'meat dagger' as a viable option for a murder weapon.)

So – for their first post-discussion encounter, a familiar place, neutral, not intimate – and work fits that criteria the best. Loads of valid reasons (excuses) for coming to see her there. Bart's. Two and half days later.

Molly, however, is not the only person he is concerned about. She is the easiest one to think about, perhaps because he actually wants to see her - the most painful bit over, with her. But there is still Mycroft to see, and John to observe, and Mrs. Hudson to check up on, and…Eurus.

The day after the conversation with Molly, he and John check on Mrs. Hudson, and begin sifting through the wreckage at Baker Street. Somehow, there is already a note tacked to Mrs. Hudson's interior door with an estimate for a time frame to repair the damage at Baker Street (six weeks, maximum) and an estimate for the cost (already paid in full).

And thus, he ends up visiting Mycroft.

---

Not in the mood for tea at the Diogenes, then? – SH

Working from home today. –MH

Sherlock frowns at the quick reply from his brother.

Home is one place where Mycroft rarely works, if he can help it. (Admittedly, he can't often help it, being the British Government.) Still, home is meant to be for the good brandy and silk slippers and downy duvets. Home is for film noir and bonsai sculpting and reading The Art of War in plush leather chairs.

If he is working from home by choice, he would rather not put on his public face of politeness and diplomacy. And if he'd rather not do that – then Sherrinford affected him more deeply than his speedy response to sweeping Molly's flat, securing all paperwork and testimonies from the Sherrinford incident, and seeing to Baker Street would suggest.

And Sherlock realizes, already knocking at his brother's door – that his brother is a bloody hypocrite. Allowances can be made for the length of time it takes him to reach this conclusion, due to the earth-shaking realizations he's had the past few days, himself.

Mycroft Holmes, purveyor of logic and reason, ridiculer of sentiment and emotion and attachment, scorner of all matters of the heart – it turns out that he has a heart stronger and more loyal than perhaps the lot of them all.

He made arrangements to keep his insane sister alive and comfortable, protecting the masses and his family in the process.

He did his best to shield his brother from more trauma, from experiencing the heartache of loss any more than he already had – and for what? What benefit would Mycroft gain from hiding the past from his brother? It certainly created plenty of trouble for him. Lie upon lie, constantly on the lookout for triggers and memories resurfacing, drug problems that made his little brother more difficult to predict and impossible to control –

No, Sherlock realizes. He'd hidden the past from Sherlock because Sherlock's pain caused him pain. He didn't want to see his little brother hurt again – because it would hurt him. Empathy and compassion were two of the main (misguided) driving forces in Mycroft's life. Wasn't his whole role with his 'minor' position in the British Government to keep the balance in the good, as a whole? To decide who should be allowed to die, that the greater balance of lives would remain safe? He'd hardened himself from emotion for the benefit of others.

He's made mistakes, to be certain. Huge mistakes. Nearly unforgivable mistakes.

But Sherlock also realizes that Mycroft has tried, for so long, to bear the burden of their sister's condition alone. He visited her, spoke with her, tried to prevent her from hurting herself and others – he gave her gifts, for the love of –

-And then Mycroft is opening the door. He has not shaven since Sherrinford, but he is recently showered. Absent of his usual waistcoat and jacket, his plain button-down and slacks look almost like lounge wear.

"You're a bloody hypocrite, you know that?" Sherlock announces, but there is no anger and no accusation in his voice.

Mycroft sighs and steps aside. "Come in."

Sherlock brushes past him, taking in every bit of his brother's appearance and that of his home, more intent now on understanding his brother's motives and the reasoning behind them.

Holding it together, recovering, shaken but – he's been through – similar recoveries, after Eurus, before – nothing so traumatic as the past weekend, but -

"Well then," Mycroft says drily as Sherlock follows him into the study, where papers are stacked neatly beside his laptop, and three phones are aligned neatly below the stapler. "We'd best get my lecture over with. I'm sure to endure much worse from Mummy and Father tomorrow. Possibly for months. Years, even."

He pours them both a brandy, despite it being relatively early in the afternoon, and Sherlock takes it in surprise. "You're telling…Mummy?"

"I'm thinking all the past tickets to musicals will not even the balance of years of lying and deceit, mmm?" Mycroft's voice is edged with sarcasm, but his eyes have a sadness to them that makes Sherlock sit in the chair across from his brother's desk.

"You're telling our parents," he repeats, and he curses himself for not even considering the implications the past weekend's events would have on their parents. "Why?"

Mycroft's hand had been forced, in regard to telling Sherlock – but their parents hadn't been a part of Eurus's game at all. Was that it? Was he going to prevent her from using them in the future?

He gazes into his brandy, swirling it about in his glass, and something inside him shivers slightly at the thought of Eurus devising any more games for them to play in the future.

"Tell me why I'm a hypocrite," Mycroft responds, resigned.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and begins slowly. "You've told me for years that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You've done your best to keep me from forming attachments with…people. And yet – you – you've put yourself through hell for the sake of maintaining a – a relationship with our sister-"

"-merely to track her abilities and interests, though you can see how that backfired-"

"-you risked your job and reputation to keep me alive, with Moriarty – and by extension – John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg-"

"-I was righting a wrong, brother mine. It was my miscalculation that led to him-"

"-never mind the Magnusson cockup. And you tried your best to manipulate me into killing you instead of John!" Sherlock stands, pressing his hands onto the desk his brother is finding refuge behind. "You swept Molly's flat and increased her security less than twenty-four hours after you were rescued from Sherrinford. You ensured that all statements of affected parties – myself, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the Yarders – you've made sure all records are taken care of so that no one has to be pulled in for more questioning. You've already taken care of securing repairs to Baker Street, and paid them in full. Those are not the actions of someone who doesn't have an attachment to people! And if that's a defect, then you're as defective as the lot of us!"

Mycroft holds his brother's gaze for a moment, face unreadable. One of his phones buzzes, and he directs his scrutiny to the message on the screen, texting a reply before placing it neatly back in its place.

He takes a sip of brandy, relishing the movement of it in his glass, before setting it down on a coaster and once again meeting's Sherlock's demanding gaze.

Mycroft Holmes presses his lips into a thin line, and responds softly. "Are you quite done?"

Sherlock glares at him and returns to his seat. "As I said before, you're a hypocrite."

"I was only trying to protect you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to call him on his utter bull, but Mycroft continues without prompting.

"I told you that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, Sherlock. I just didn't tell you that I've been on the losing side for far too long myself." He swallows, and looks primly down at the papers in front of him, shifting one that is out of place so that it fits with the others. "I wanted one of us to have a chance at escaping our past."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, mouth still open, before snapping it shut and straightening from his accusatory stance. He blinks, perplexed at his brother's revelation.

...Because if anything were to happen to you, it would break my heart…

...I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside of me. I don't imagine it's much of a target but…why don't we try for that?...

Subdued, he sits back in the chair and returns to swirling his drink in his hand. He takes a sip, brows drawn together in concentration.

"I'm tired," Mycroft states after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. "Is that my cue to leave?"

Mycroft's lips twitch up at one corner. "That's my reasoning behind telling our parents, Sherlock. I'm tired of lying, and I'm tired of trying to keep everyone safe and…content. Perhaps it's a weak man's answer, but it's the truth - I've failed miserably, and it's time I admit that."

Sherlock watches him for a moment, a slight wrinkle in his forehead as he contemplates his brother's newfound vulnerability.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft smirks. "Don't expect any more personal revelations until one of us is on our death bed. As it is, I've already surpassed my quota for the next two decades."

Sherlock's face relaxes at that, and he snorts. "Well, I'll be sure to save a good one for you then, as you're three times as likely to go before me."

"Mmm, four times, if you're factoring in Mummy's reaction," Mycroft mutters half-heartedly.

Sherlock downs the rest of his drink, and hesitates before setting the glass gently on the nearby end table. He sighs as he stands, shoving his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff.

"Well, then." He clears his throat. "Meet you at your office tomorrow, then? Mmm...9:00? You're thinking it best to get it over with early."

Mycroft looks up at him, carefully concealed surprise leaking into his expression. "Why would you want to come?"

Sherlock shrugs, and walks to the study door. He grips the handle, and staring at it, responds. "You haven't failed…miserably. Your self-assessments are usually much more accurate than that. I'd say you've even marginally succeeded at keeping the general public safe…and, though it may have been an unintended side effect…" he looks up at his brother, and gives him a wink and a charismatic grin. "I do forgive you for outsmarting me for the past thirty-odd years. Consider that admission an achievement, if you must. So. Nine?" He looks at his brother expectantly.

Mycroft nods in agreement. "Nine," he confirms quietly.

As his brother lets the door shut loudly behind him, the stress lines that have marred Mycroft's forehead for years begin to relax in relief.

---

Sherlock stares at the ground, his own ears ringing with the scorn and betrayal in his parents' voices. It is not directed toward him, but it's almost as painful as if it were.

"Then you should've done better," his mother replies to a comment of Mycroft's, and Sherlock is reminded of where he and his brother get their often-acidic tone.

"He did his best," Sherlock interrupts quietly, darting a gaze to his brother, who is looking more defeated by the moment (though to an outsider, he would look merely exasperated – Sherlock recognizes the look in his brother's eyes, as it's one he's seen in the mirror too often, as of late.)

"Then he's very limited." Their mother's tone is disparaging at best, and it is obvious what opinion she holds of her eldest son, at the moment.

Mycroft looks to his brother, a quick plea and thanks for support rolled into one glance, and when their parents ask to see her, they are not surprised.

They'd discussed this, before their parents arrived. They'd both recognized that their parents would want to see Eurus. This was also when Mycroft revealed that Eurus had not spoken since being arrested at Musgrave, and that she was for the most part entirely indifferent to attention from staff at Sherrinford.

When his mother asks Sherlock what they should do now, he glances up, and receives a small nod from Mycroft. He'd explained about his promise to Eurus – that he would try to visit her – and Mycroft agreed that he could, but warned him about her unresponsiveness.

"Now?" Sherlock says quietly. "Now, you wait."

"Wait?!" His mother screeches, on the verge of hysterics. "I haven't seen my daughter in – in thirty years and you-"

"You. Will. Wait." He says firmly, and steps toward her. "I will visit and attempt to communicate with her."

"How? How, if she's as 'unresponsive' as-"

"Music."

"Music?" His mother sniffs uncertainly.

"She…loved playing the violin, before. Perhaps…" he trails off thoughtfully. "Mycroft and I agree that it would be best-"

"-and you trust his judgment, after everything?" She responds scathingly, shooting her eldest a disapproving glare.

"I do," Sherlock responds, voice quiet but sure. He straightens just a bit, and his mother steps back, thrown off by the unwavering tone of his voice.

"Not in all things," he amends, giving his brother a tight look – "but in this – yes."

His mother opens and shuts her mouth for a moment, and then looks pensively at her shoes for a full two minutes.

"Well." She sighs forcefully and exchanges a glance with her husband, before turning to address Sherlock again. "Well, then. I suppose…we'll wait." Her tone is flat but accepting.

Their parents gather their things and move to the door to leave. "However," she adds, her husband's hand on the small of her back, "I will not wait patiently. I do not expect to have to wait another ten years before I see my daughter again."

---

She isn't flying, anymore. Neither is she falling, or crash-landing.

She's not really…anything.

It's all foggy. Cloudy?

There are sounds and shadows and maybe they are people – or maybe they're just her imagination, again.

If anything…she is lost.

---

It ends up being a solid three days since their conversation at John's before Sherlock sees Molly again, but all things considered, he can't complain.

He's come to check on all the forensic evidence left from his sister's case – the murders of the therapist and the neighbor – and to make sure there's nothing that anyone missed – nothing that was left as a message for him. He's going to be certain that the game is over, and that there is nothing left to be played.

When he arrives, he can hear her muffled voice through the steel doors, and that's unusual. Tilting his head in concentration, he steps to the small windows in the doors, and his eyes crinkle in amusement as he observes the scene within.

Molly is standing beside an intern, next to a body open on the slab. They're apparently about done, because the intern has started sewing up the corpse, and Molly has a look on her face that is screaming 'I'm just barely keeping it together.' Her lips are pressed together in grim concentration, and her eyes have glazed over a bit. Her right cheek twitches a bit from the effort of biting her tongue, and it's apparent why, after a quick observation of her intern.

The young man beside her is probably ten years her junior, with flawless skin, a strong jawline, and a head of perfectly trimmed, coifed blonde hair. His clothes – what Sherlock can see of them, underneath the lab coat and protective gear – are designer, perfectly pressed. His body language conveys confidence in buckets, however –

Molly winces as the intern swears a bit under his breath, and then chuckles. "Oops, got a bit too much skin there – not that you care, do you, old bean?" His voice, muffled somewhat through the door, trails off as he falls back into an easy concentration, but his stitching is as shoddy as Sherlock has ever seen – it looks like a half-blind, well-intentioned nan has tried to stitch up a favorite lovey - and if the rest of the autopsy went as well as the stitching-up, Sherlock can only imagine what Molly's had to bear witness to today.

She gives her intern a withering glance. "No," she agrees loudly, and her tone is cool and clipped. "No, Mr. Turner - the 'old bean' - does not much care about an imperfect Y-stitch, nor does he care about a nicked internal organ, here or there, or that you dropped some of his stomach matter on the floor. However, his family and the mortician will certainly care about his appearance, and the officers at New Scotland Yard, as well as our department head, will have something to say if your carelessness leads to a botched murder investigation!" Her voice rises in pitch and loudness, and her nails dig into her arms, crossed across her chest.

"Mmm, lucky this obviously wasn't a murder then, eh?" The intern is still concentrating on finishing his stitches, and brushes off Molly's concern as though it's nothing more than an irritating gnat.

Molly frowns at him. "You have to treat every body as if they're a possible murder victim, until the Yard clears it as unsuspicious – and even then, I take care to look for anything they might have missed, like-"

Sherlock frowns as well, as the intern actually has the nerve to laugh out loud at her lecture. "Something they might've missed? We're not detectives, Doctor Hooper. We're -"

"-done here," Sherlock interrupts, pushing the doors open, and giving the young man a judgmental look before pulling out his phone and sending a quick text. The intern raises his eyebrows in surprise, but still seems quite unperturbed. "You're obviously not cut out for this line of work, Mr. Schmidt. We've got plenty of sniveling idiots in this hospital already, no need to add to the overabundance."

He smiles unconvincingly at the man and darts a glance at Molly's face, and is pleased to see it's relaxed a fraction. She bites her lip, looking between the two men, her expression waffling between amusement and discomfort.

Mr. Schmidt sets his tools down carefully (probably the only thing he's done carefully all day), and turns to face his heckler. "And who are you? I don't see an ID badge, and you're not dressed for the morgue. Scrubs, sir, are required." He still seems more amused then put off.

"Not if you're Sherlock Holmes," Molly mumbles, raising her eyebrows at the man in question, and composes her face into open nonchalance as she begins collecting the tools to sterilize.

The intern nods in cool recognition at the name. "Ah, the blogger detective. I remember reading about you."

"Consulting detective. John's the blogger. I don't have time for rewriting facts as insipid fantasy adventures, and I certainly don't have time to correct your shoddy workmanship, as well as the Yard's."

"Bit over-confident, isn't he?" Mr. Schmidt chuckles a bit and gives a knowing look to Molly, who shakes her head at him and smiles shrewdly.

"Not a fan, then, Mr. Schmidt?" She asks sweetly.

Sherlock gives her a quick look, and her smile only widens.

"A fan of uneducated bullies who charm and intimidate their way into solving puzzles because they've nothing better to do but shoot up drugs? Mmm…no." His answer is dripping with cheerful condescension.

Sherlock's face darkens for a moment – he usually pays no mind to his detractors, but this man – whom he may have to see regularly - is ridiculous – but then Molly's talking again.

"Well, Mr. Schmidt. Perhaps you should let him deduce you, then. It might impress you – change your opinion of him."

Mr. Schmidt, who has up until now let Molly do all the dirty work in cleaning up, makes a show of wiping down the countertops and wheeling Mr. Turner back into the cooler. He washes up, a smirk playing on his face, and shrugs coolly. "I'm sure it won't, but go ahead, Mr. Holmes – do your worst. Or your best. Though I'm sure they're the same thing."

He turns to face the detective, crossing his arms and leaning against a clean table, the picture of unimpressed.

Sherlock looks behind him at Molly who is now leaning, herself, against the coolers. He raises an eyebrow, a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty etched on his face – and she smiles at him.

It's a little thing – a smirk, and a tilt of her chin toward the man who's back is toward her – but she is conveying both her approval and confidence in Sherlock. Just before he looks back at the pompous arse before him, she mouths two words, shaking her head just slightly – no mercy.

For some reason, her encouragement floods him with a warmth he hasn't felt in ages – and he has to press his lips into a fine line to keep from smiling at her in return.

Instead, he focuses the rush of chemicals released by her on deducing the man before him, and it isn't long before a smile is creeping onto his face for entirely different reasons.

Fine, fine – good – not excellent – nothing terribly exciting, simply run-of-the-mill secrets - but still – good. If he plays it right, enough to keep the man from setting foot in Bart's again.

He steps back and presses his fingers to his lips, taking in all the data he can from the man before him. He keeps finding them - the man's secrets exposed before him like eggs hidden on Easter –concealed, but still barely visible, if you know where to look.

After a moment, a chuckle escapes him and he gives a nod in Molly's direction, who is waiting with an open, expectant, all too innocent look on her face.

He quickly schools his expression into something more sober, and blinks, giving Mr. Schmidt one last once-over before tearing the man to shreds.

The man in question sighs, and makes a show of looking at the Rolex on his wrist. "Anytime, Mr. Holmes. That is – if you even have any 'dark and mysterious' secrets you can tell me."

Sherlock chuckles again, and his eyes narrow at the man. "Oh, I have plenty, Mr. Jeremiah Fitzwilliam Schmidt. Second son of a wealthy father, obvious in your choice of clothing and accessories, and in your educated accent, as well as the fact that you somehow made it through a medical program long enough to become an intern at St. Bartholomew's in London. What makes it a bit more interesting, though, is your choice of profession. Now, why would you, the wealthy son of a – mmm, real estate magnate?"

He pauses for a moment, and Jeremiah nods his head in confirmation, a bored look on his face. "All information easily found on Google, Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock plows forth, unhindered by the man's façade and motivated by the chance not only to lay this complete tit out to dry, but also by the chance to show off for Molly. "Yes, yes of course – as I was saying, it could be because your mother died when you were young, and sparked an interest in death, could it not? It could be because you want to ease the suffering of those who have lost loved ones – give them answers, closure, comfort – and that's certainly what you tell people, is it not? I yearn for the opportunity to provide for others what was given our family at my mother's tragic death-"

Here, Jeremiah Schmidt frowns, and shifts his body weight, just a bit. "That resume was supposed to be closed - private-"

"-but that's a bold-faced lie, isn't it Jeremiah?" Sherlock continues, rubbing his hands together briskly. (The bit about the yearning was an educated prediction based on Schmidt's upbringing, place of education, and simpering attitude with Molly, earlier – but it fires Sherlock up that he got it so close the man actually thought he'd read his resume.) "Because it's not about closure or kindness or even the excitement of solving mysteries – made evident by your dismissal of the importance of pathologists in criminal investigations in your comment to Doctor Hooper, moments ago. No – your motivation is two-fold. First of all – your father."

Schmidt rolls his eyes, but Sherlock plows forward, a smile curving upward on his lips. "Probably makes a public show of how proud his is of you, mmm? Choosing a life of public service, paying for your education in support, so on and so on, boring boring…but he's not supportive at all, is he? You specifically chose this career because you, sir, are a bastard."

Schmidt straightens and glares at Holmes, suspicion suddenly creeping into his expression.

"Not just in the colloquial term – because that certainly applies as well - but also in regard to the original definition – an illegitimate child."

A dangerous smile creeps onto Sherlock's face as his detractor's face turns stony. "Ridiculous-" he bites sharply, but Sherlock cuts him off yet again.

"No, no – it's terribly true. And the thing is, though your mother died when you were young – late teens, I presume? – it's when she died that your father discovered the truth, isn't it? You'd already known – she'd told you, once you were old enough to keep a secret, especially one that benefitted you. But your father found out. Putting someone's affairs in order can always reveal such interesting secrets." He shakes his head, but here he pauses – stealing a glance at Molly – and she's straightened, eyes wide, obviously not expecting such a revelation. Perhaps she's regretting her no mercy stance – and so, he tones it down, just a bit – for her sake.

Sherlock sighs, fixing the man with a solemn, searching gaze. When he speaks next, his speech is so rapid-fire the man across from him narrows his eyes in concentration to keep up with what Sherlock is saying. "And how, exactly, did this revelation lead to your choice of a career in pathology? While I admit this requires some inductive reasoning as well as deductive – the logic is clear enough. Your mother knew, of course, that you were not her husband's child. Thus she was always 'playing favorite's' – not because she did not love her first son, but because she knew that if and when your father found out the truth, there would certainly be favoritism shown by him to his eldest, true son. She coddled and hovered, attempting to smooth over any indiscretions or unfavorable circumstances at school and in society, to make you more appealing to your father. However, this obviously backfired, as she enabled you to become a wealthy, entitled prick who expects to have everything come easily to him in life, and who attempts (and usually succeeds, I'll give you credit there) to charm his way out of any consequences he may face for his actions. I'm sure were I to research school records, I would find nothing official – but there would be plenty of rumors and gossip surrounding your spotless records. Perhaps sympathy would lie fully on your side in this family matter, had you not cheated and lied and schemed right along with your mother."

He takes a breath, and continues, ignoring the burning hatred in Jeremiah Schmidt's eyes. "And so, when the truth was revealed, your father gave you two choices: step up, learn the company trade in your elder brother's footsteps, forever just beneath him - and forgo your pandering, trouble-making ways – or be cut off from the family fortune. You chose, obviously, the latter, and your father's parting gift was to pay for your schooling so that you would at least have a means to provide for yourself. Now, faced with the dilemma of running out of funds, you had to choose a lucrative career that would pay an acceptable sum with the least amount of effort. I'm sure, somewhere in that ridiculously misguided brain of yours, you thought that doctors make large amounts of money, but were faced with years and years of schooling. Still, for whatever reason, you chose the medical field – perhaps because they're looked favorably on by society, or perhaps because you wanted to stick it to daddy with a bigger bill? – and you decided that pathology would be your area of specialization. Which brings us to your second motivator in choosing pathology. Your patients are already dead, aren't they? Not much harm you can do there. If you fudge a bit of data here, do some sloppy stitching there – who would notice? Who would care? You're used to charming and cheating your way through life – med school was a challenge, but you made it this far, didn't you? You thought, Mr. Schmidt, that you could make an easy life for yourself, getting a doctor's pay on the minimum amount of knowledge gleaned from your classes and your charm alone. You thought wrong."

He looks up from the man's frame to meet his eyes, and Jeremiah Schmidt's face is contorted in dignified rage. Before the man gets a chance to speak, however, Sherlock delivers the final blow.

"You will never make a living here, Mr. Schmidt. You cannot schmooze your way into the highest-paying, top research hospital in London without at least passable skills. You'll be lucky to find a job as an assistant in some morgue in Scarborough."

The man in questions straightens himself to his full height at that, all traces of boredom and skepticism gone. "I don't know how you did that, Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain – hair cut, nails, the folds in the suit, how he's wearing his safety equipment, where he keeps his mobile phone, shoes, lack of calluses on the fingers – etcetera, etcetera – but the man is apparently not actually interested in how.

"-and I don't really care how – though I suspect it involves spies and blackmail and unfounded gossip – but I can assure you that such slander and harassment will not be tolerated. The board of directors and human resources will both be receiving a personal visit from myself today, and I doubt you'll be allowed back on the premises once I'm through with my complaints-"

Sherlock snorts at that, clearly amused at Schmidt's lack of knowledge about Sherlock Holmes and His Relationship with Bart's Hospital.

"-and furthermore, I'm aware I still have some skills to perfect, but I'm an intern, Mr. Holmes – I can hardly expect to be at, say, Doctor Hooper's level when she's got years more experience than I. I think you'll find that her report indicates that I do possess 'passable skills', and more than that – a natural talent for sympathizing with the dead." He sniffs, his tone ringing more confident with every word. "Wouldn't you say, Doctor Hooper?" He looks at her expectantly.

Molly shoots Sherlock a look before smiling, somewhat nervously and just a tad apologetically, to Jeremiah Schmidt. "Actually, Mr. Schmidt – unfortunately - I wouldn't say that." She gives him a sympathetic gaze. "I am sorry about your mum. And your dad. That – that must have been really hard to go through."

His expression falls from one of self-righteous expectation to one of stormy disbelief. "You believe this – this tosser?"

"I do," she responds evenly, avoiding looking at Sherlock. "He's usually right, in these sorts of things. I'll be asking Stamford to take a closer look at your transcripts and the board to make a few calls to your old professors. If he's wrong, you've nothing to worry about. But – he is usually right."

Jeremiah's face tightens slightly in anger. "I bought you coffee," he hisses.

Molly raises her eyebrows in disbelief and crosses her arms, pressing her lips into a tight line. "Coffee that was appreciated, but that I did not expect nor ask for. And if you think I can be bought for a cup of coffee from the canteen, you-" she laughs softly "-you are very wrong, Mr. Schmidt."

He narrows his eyes at the two of them. "You'll be sorry. The both of you. I'm going to the board right now." He makes his way to the door, turning to give them both one last haughty look.

Sherlock raises his hand and makes a shooing motion. "Go on, then. Off with you." He gives the man an insincere smile.

The intern's chest heaves in indignation and he pivots on the spot, banging both doors open. "You'll never be allowed back, Mr. Holmes. This is…preposterous…"

They can still hear his indignation as he makes his way to the elevator and the doors to the morgue clang closed.

Both Molly and Sherlock sigh, and they stand awkwardly for a moment, avoiding each other's gaze.

"Well, then, thanks for-"

"I was hoping to see…the bodies-"

They start and stop simultaneously, and Molly grimaces.

Sherlock is quick to clarify. "I wanted to wrap up my sister's case as quickly as possible."

Molly nods. "Of course, right."

As she wheels out the two bodies, her lips do a funny sort of quiver, and Sherlock is not sure if she's repressing tears or amusement, until she speaks. "How long do you think they'll listen to him?" She asks thoughtfully.

Sherlock grunts as he begins his inspection. "Only until they feel he's fully expressed himself. And then they'll explain that their hands are tied and I'm an 'invaluable resource' and that he's welcome to look for work elsewhere."

"Do you think it will come to that?" Molly asks, and she sounds almost hopeful.

"Without a doubt. He seemed undeniably insistent that it was 'me or him', and was confident they'd pick him."

"He's in for a rude awakening, mmm?"

"Mmm. And if, for some ungodly reason, they don't show him the door, I've texted Mycroft to…reassign Mr. Schmidt to another location."

Molly's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Was – that the text you sent as you walked in?"

"I'd heard enough," he states simply, and falls into silence as he examines the bodies.

She stands to the side as Sherlock looks them over. To his great relief, there does not seem to be any additional puzzles or messages hidden in their murders – they were a means to an end.

It only takes him twenty minutes to reach his conclusion, and washes his hands as Molly returns the bodies to their drawers and marks them as fully processed.

"I assume you'd like to see the evidence we have in the lab, as well?" She asks quietly.

He has been all business since he arrived – Schmidt providing a welcome diversion, their common and instant (on Sherlock's part) dislike of the man easily facilitating a reunion that had every possibility of being awkward and uncomfortable.

He stares at her for a moment, taking in her appearance and body language, little signs alerting him to her levels of stress and fatigue and comfort. (Stress levels have decreased since Schmidt has left, probably for good, and though she is tired, it is not entirely from lack of sleep – she's nearing the end of a long shift.) He's not sure if he's pleased or concerned that she seems to be calm and content – still recovering from their ordeal, but relatively untroubled by his presence.

"Yes. Would…would-" he begins, and then stops for a moment, completely unsure of where his brain and mouth were going with that.

She shifts slightly on her feet in expectation and then moves to gather her things, used to his strange way of stopping in the middle of a thought and thinking things through.

"Would you - like some decent coffee?" He allows the words to move past his lips slowly and thoughtfully, as if considering for the first time that she might enjoy having some – and that he might enjoy having it with her.

She tilts her head for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and then gives him a small smile. "I would, actually." She glances at the clock above the cabinets. "I've only got an hour before my shift ends, so I'll take my paperwork to the lab and get your evidence samples prepped while you get the coffee? 2 creams,-"

"-2 sugars, yes, I – know." He finishes for her, surprised at his deflating ego as she brushes past him with a relieved 'thank you'.

Well, damn.

---

It's an unspoken agreement between the two of them that he brings her coffee from now on, and it's always perfectly made, at the perfect temperature, and somehow – even when they're just moving from one part of the hospital to another, even when it should be impossible – it's from the nice shop across the street (never from the canteen). He doesn't explain and she doesn't ask. She just accepts this shift in their relationship as evidence that he is making an effort to rebuild her trust and their friendship, and it becomes her new normal. Perhaps, if it continues for as long as she always made it for him (which was years), she'll offer to make it for him again.

She never stops noticing the little things he does that show he cares (the things she always noticed in the first place – holding doors, holding his tongue – and apparently unleashing it, in the case of Schmidt – when necessary). But she notices that now – now, he seems to notice it, too. She catches the small furrow of his brow as he silently takes her messenger bag when she is laden with other work things, to walk her from the lab to her office. She notices that he pauses before asking if she needs to eat when they've been working odd hours for a while. He is hesitant but consistent, and she tries not to let how endearing he is open the door she soundly shut after their conversation at John's.

He didn't argue with her, after all.

And it takes some adjusting, but eventually, all those little things begin strengthening their friendship, as opposed to her longing. It's still there, but it's being fed less and less, and she's impatiently hoping it will die completely one day in the future.

She's feeling particularly strong and hopeful in this regard on a day near the end of October, nearly a month after the Sherrinford incident, when her work in the lab is interrupted by the familiar dramatic bang of the steel door.

What's a bit less familiar is John's yelling.

"-a bloody stubborn idiot – that's what you are." He's finishing up, his face red as he strides in after Sherlock. For all the venom in his voice, however, his expression is more one of irritation and concern than actual anger.

The idiot in question pauses a few meters from her, one hand wrapped in a blood-stained scarf, held firmly and gently with the other hand.

Molly blinks between the two of them, quickly abandoning her microscope to offer her assistance. "What happened?"

"I need to see the lab results from the Huntington case. If who we just encountered was who I think it was, the Yard – as usual – has the wrong suspect in custody, and time is of the essence in making the correct arrest."

He's only gotten the first sentence out of his mouth when she turns on her heel and crosses to the counter, where papers are filed neatly in three bins. She rifles through one of them until she finds what she's looking for. When she turns around, he's standing behind her, and she nearly bumps into his chest. He holds his poorly bandaged hand out in expectation, but she pulls the file closer and reads it aloud, giving him a look over the top of it.

"Huntington – results from the tissue biopsy indicate normal levels of everything except…bilirubin. Elevated. Almost like liver failure, but – not actually from liver failure."

"Mmm," Sherlock steps back and nods. "And the soil samples?"

She looks back down at the file. "An unusual sample. Matched soil used in both Kew Gardens and a family owned business in Orpington."

A familiar smirk crosses his lips and he moves to pull his phone out of his pocket, presumably to text Lestrade the news, and winces as he remembers he is unable to text at the moment.

"John?" He asks expectantly, shaking his hip and gesturing with his injured hand, indicating that John should remove the mobile from his pocket and text the information for him.

"Hand first," John responds firmly, holding out one of his own hands in anticipation.

"Hmm, no - I'd really rather you not," Sherlock casually. "You can text, and Molly will fix my hand." He hesitates just a moment, and then looks at her. "Won't you?"

Molly is about to ask what exactly it is he needs and why John isn't the better option, in this case – but John beats her to it.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Well I'm not joking."

"I am entirely capable of-"

"I want Molly to do it. She's better."

Sherlock's matter of fact tone makes both John and Molly turn to him in surprise.

"Sherlock, I'm not really-" she begins –

"Better? I'm an experienced field doctor, Sherlock!"

"She also happens to be a doctor."

"She's a pathologist!" John darts a sheepish gaze at her, and amends quickly – "A top notch pathologist, but -"

"-Still a doctor." Sherlock's eyes narrow at John's protest.

"Yes, but she works on dead people, Sherlock."

"And you are used to working on soldiers in the field, where completing the job quickly and safely trumps all else. Because of the fact that she is preparing her patients to look their best for their families, her stitching is neater and more precise than yours. Less scarring."

John throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine! Fine. Next time you're injured on the job, I'll wait until you pass out from blood loss before convincing you to seek medical treatment."

Sherlock sniffs slightly. "Don't take it so personally, John. If we weren't so close to Bart's, I'd have let you take care of it. But you're an army doctor - an excellent one at that – you're more focused on getting things patched up practically, rather than perfectly. Molly's perfect."

There is silence for a split second, before he catches and corrects himself.

"Her work. Molly's work is perfect." He amends, the tips of his ears barely tinged pink, hidden beneath his wild hair.

John eyeballs him, hard. "No argument there, but you're still a bloody stubborn fool. Walking ten blocks, dripping all over London – blood everywhere-" he's gesturing again, but his voice has dropped into gruff admonition, and trails off in an irritated huff. "Right, then. He's all yours, Molly, sorry to interrupt you. I'm getting coffee."

"Black, two sugars!" Sherlock calls after him as he walks away.

John responds good-naturedly with his middle finger as the door swings shut behind him.

Sherlock turns to the pathologist, clearing his throat slightly. She's already retrieved her medical kit – the one she's kept on hand for years for situations just like this – a smile tugging at her lips just as she's tugging on new gloves.

"All right, then – sit down," she nods to the stool he's standing beside, and he readily complies.

She begins to delicately unwrap the scarf around his hand, making a slight click with her tongue as she sees the extent of the blood. "Nicked a vein, there, mmm? D'you want to keep this, or-?" She gestures to the scarf she's holding, now – one of his favorite blue ones, saturated and blotched and beyond ruined now.

He sighs. "No. Hazardous waste, I suppose."

She nods and deposits it into the proper bin, then gently takes his hand in hers, flexing his palm gently. He winces slightly, and her eyes move carefully from his face to the hand before her. "Painful, and a bit deep – but not so bad as John made it seem, then."

"No, I think he was put off I wouldn't let him fix it."

"There is still some glass here, though. Was it – a beer bottle?" She frowns at the green, curved glass.

"Wine, actually."

"Oh," she says, using tweezers to pry out the few pieces imbedded in his flesh. She sets them carefully on a clean petri dish, knowing he'll want to examine them later under a microscope, and proceeds to disinfect his hand.

Sherlock hisses through his teeth as she hits the deepest gash, and she glances up at him again, only slightly sympathetic. "What happened, then?"

"Suspect was very convincing in playing a drunk. I had to prove he wasn't actually drunk. He was aiming for my face. Luckily, I have fast reflexes."

She pauses to prepare her glue and stitching, but he doesn't go into further detail. Strange, because he usually thrives on revealing all the details of a case in dramatic glory. "So-"

She looks back up before beginning the work of mending up his hand (feeling a bit pressured, now to do it perfectly), and her question catches in her throat. He is watching her work, eyes dark and intense and – there's something in his expression that throws her off.

He quickly looks away, and she shakes it off before any coherent conclusion about it actually forms in her thoughts. "- so this is related to the Huntington case, then?" She asks evenly, just a bit frustrated at the familiar THUD-thud of her heart at his gaze.

He clears his throat again, and then confirms and begins his usual logical retelling of the case and his deductions as she finishes her work of patching him up. He wraps up his version of events as she wraps a sterile gauze around his hand, and she gives him a small smile as she stands to clean up her equipment. She pulls her gloves off and Sherlock is about to stand, a thank-you on his lips, when something catches her eye and she frowns.

"Wait a moment." She turns toward him and closes the gap between them, carefully picking her tweezers back up placing one hand on the side of his head to keep him still.

He freezes at her touch, and she takes the next five minutes to pluck a few stray pieces of glass out of his hair. His eyes flutter closed at the contact. When she's confident she's gotten them all, she gently shakes her fingers through his hair, double checking - and then smooths back a lock from his forehead and dabs a small, shallow scrape gently with disinfectant.

It is all very clinical and professional – but Sherlock finds himself suddenly unable to breathe – because she's there – right there – her hands are in his hair and it's heavenly – and when he opens his eyes, it is at the exact moment she is leaning forward slightly to disinfect the scrape just near his hairline and – and her chest is right in front of his nose.

The tinge on his ears is a good deal more red than pink, now, and he swallows and holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut – but that does no good, either, because the image of her unbuttoning her blouse on an ambulance ride to Smith's hospital is playing front and center in his mind.

He can feel her stepping back and moving away, and his eyes open, blinking rapidly.

"-should be just fine. Change the dressing twice a day for a few days, or more often if it gets wet or dirty – have John take a look at it in three or four days just to be safe. And I mean actually let him look. Sherlock?" She asks, and she suddenly looks concerned.

"Mmm?" He asks distractedly, trying his darnedest to focus on what she was saying – and forcing himself to look her in the eye.

"Are you – okay?" She's cleaned her things, now, and is washing her hands, frowning at him.

"No. Yes. I – it's fine." He nods and stands, and steps toward her, flexing his bandaged hand slightly. "Perfect, actually." He gives her a small smile. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and tilts her head, still frowning at his odd behavior. "You're welcome."

John enters then with three coffees, and he hands one to Molly and one to Sherlock. An amused expression keeps flickering across his face, and Sherlock can tell he'd waited at the door for a minute before entering.

Molly barely thanks John for the coffee before Sherlock cuts her off.

"Yes, thank you, time to go John." He stands and is out the door before John's finished telling Molly that it was no problem.

They give each other the 'that's Sherlock for you' shrug – and he offers his thanks and apologies before following his friend out the door.

---

"Well?" John asks, later that evening, after Rosie is in bed.

"Well what?"

"You really do like her, don't you?"

Sherlock blinks at him. "Well, I admit I do hold a certain affection for her, even if she insists on drooling on my last good shirt." He looks down in distaste at the drool marks Rosamund left on his shirt when she got fussy as John was taking a shower.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not talking about Rosie." He pauses a moment, and a small smile crosses his face. "But she likes you – so I'm glad the feeling is mutual, then."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sits back on John's couch, flicking the ends of the latest newspaper to get it to stand straighter.

"No, no – don't hide behind that paper. I was talking about Molly."

The paper becomes surprisingly still, and John tries again. "It wasn't – it wasn't just fear of losing her, then. It wasn't – just deep – affection, or appreciation. You really do like her, don't you?"

Behind the paper, Sherlock sighs. "Of course I like her, John. I'd have hardly worked with her for this long if I didn't appreciate her company."

"No – I mean-" John frowns and pauses, then takes a breath and pushes on. "You're – you think she's - pretty."

Sherlock lowers the paper somewhat, and his face is hard to read over the print. John can tell, however, that he is not amused.

"Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models. Based on this information alone, I think we can safely agree that my concept of 'beauty' must be woefully inadequate."

John smirks at that – because his words are stone, but the corner of Sherlock's mouth is twitching and he won't exactly meet John's eyes.

"I think she's an attractive woman," John states casually. "I'm pretty sure Greg does, too. And it's not just the way she looks, is it?" He asks thoughtfully. "She's damn good at what she does, and that's pretty attractive itself. She's also good with Rosie, and is generally just a nice person to have a visit with, you know?"

The paper drops entirely at that, and Sherlock stares at him with a look of blank horror on his face.

"I mean, you don't have to worry about us," John continues innocently. "We'd never – well – I just mean – it's okay to admit it, you know. That she's – attractive. You're not the only one to think so."

Sherlock turns slightly, staring into the fire, and John sighs. He knows that look – the sinking into the Mind Palace look – and he gives up trying to get anywhere with Sherlock in the discussing relationships matter that night.

---

That night is the first night he dreams of her.

Sherlock bolts upright, sweating heavily and clutching the sheets tangled around him in his fists, his injured hand throbbing. His heart beats wildly in his chest and it takes him a moment to quiet his mind and calm his breathing.

Short breathy sighs – the gentle brush of fingertips on skin – soft lips and dark eyes –

He lets out a short bark of frustration as the last of the dream fades from his mind, and rubs a hand across his face, trying to scrub the images free. He carefully straightens and flexes the injured hand, grateful (and unsurprised) that the stitches have held quite nicely.

It won't do any good to lust after a woman he may never have – one he clearly wants now, but one that deserves much more than simply what he feels like giving now.

Still, he finds himself sitting upright on John's guest bed for what feels like hours, unable to completely banish the images and actions associated with the dream from his memory. It is a problem he is unaccustomed to having. The last time he was this physically attracted to a woman was with Irene, but she was easy enough to resist because she, too, was more interested in mind games at the time.

With Molly, it isn't a game. He needs to get it right.

He flops back down onto the bed, and lies there, squeezing his eyes shut, trying desperately to think of anything but her.

"Bloody hell." He says aloud to no one in particular.

---

Lost.

Yes.

That is the best word to describe it. Her. What she is.

She was wrong.

She is lost.

And it…sometimes, it is terrifying.

Sometimes, it is lonely (though that feeling is nothing new).

And sometimes – it just is. She just exists, alone, in the quiet, with nothing but untrustworthy memories and fog and shadows to keep her company.

She's aware that time is passing. Part of her feels like an eternity has already passed – lifetimes and lifetimes since she last saw her brother, all grown up and choosing to feel again.

(It's at times when she thinks of him that her expression changes – sometimes stormy, sometimes a small, eerie smile that gives the staff at Sherrinford goosebumps - but it is only when she thinks of him that there is any indication that she thinks at all.)

And yet – part of her – that logical, computer-like part of her brain – is aware that it's been mere weeks. That changing the guard and staff takes time. That sorting out legal and emotional repercussions takes time. That he said he would try - and that trying is not promising.

It's that part of her – inconceivably – that logical part of her – that twinges with a small spark of hope every time her internal clock changes from 11:59 p.m. to 12:00 a.m.

Because maybe - maybe today is the day he will try.

Maybe today is the day he will succeed in visiting – in reaching her.

It's a strange reboot for the girl who was once so vindictive, and so filled with hatred and jealousy – to suddenly be waiting patiently in the dark for him to come.

And then – one day, precisely one hour, forty-three minutes and sixteen seconds after the staff have cleared away a nearly untouched lunch tray – the doors to her cell open.

She does not smile – not yet – because though she hopes – it could be the other one, yet. Or another doctor. Mycroft will be angry if the staff disobeys him again, and the doctor visits won't last long. She doesn't feel much like talking, anyway.

And then she hears him. She can tell it's him – and that he's brought a case – his instrument – he's still waiting for his newest wardrobe to arrive after she destroyed the last one, because the clothes he's wearing are old – and he says nothing.

She does not move, and he begins to play.

For the two hours he is there – everything gets just a bit warmer, a bit lighter. She cannot move, cannot react except to soak it in, in awe.

And when he leaves – the light lingers, for just a little while.

---

Six weeks pass surprisingly fast, and over their course, normal routines are built on top of the skeletons of old ones as much as Baker Street is returned to normal by building on the remains of what was there, before.

In some ways, things are surprisingly the same. Within a week's time of moving back into his own home, Sherlock is staying up far too late (no baby to disturb) and solving cases by tacking string and paper all over their freshly wallpapered walls (to Mrs. Hudson's lament.) He gets sarcastic and argumentative, shoots at the walls when he is bored, and carries out experiments of questionable character.

John, though he stays at the home he and Mary shared the majority of the time, keeps a travel cot and spare necessities for both him and Rosie in his old room upstairs, just in case. He still gets angry at Sherlock's ability to predict his every move, and accompanies him on cases, and nags him until the great detective deigns to pay his electric bill.

Mrs. Hudson titters incessantly about her boys and affectionately reminds them time and time again the she is not their housekeepers, all the while boiling tea and bringing up biscuits 'just this once'.

Lestrade comes by with cases that alternately thrill Sherlock or cause him to roll his eyes in massive disappointment.

And yet – for all the routines and relationships that go on as they had before, there are an equal number of changes.

Mycroft does not come round nearly as often as before – but that is mainly because he and Sherlock visit Sherrinford at least every other week, now. (Mycroft stays in the observation room while Sherlock plays for Eurus. Even the British Government himself has to admit that he is simultaneously shocked and impressed with her improvement.) The exchanges between both brothers – while still competitive – are much more civil.

And then…there's Molly.

---

"John," Sherlock says casually, sitting on top of the dumpster to keep their key witness in place. The young man bangs angrily on the lid, nearly throwing him off. Sherlock places his hands on either side to steady himself, and he thumps on the lid in return. "Really," he sniffs, exasperated. "If you'd cooperated in the first place, we'd be sitting in front of the coffee shop across the street. It's just an office dumpster. Not much food and nothing medically dangerous. Mostly papers. Soft and pleasant, as far as dumpsters go. You should be grateful."

The young man's angry shouts are muffled by the hammering on the lid again, and Sherlock redirects his attention to John, who is finishing up a call to let Greg know where to pick up their key witness (and possible accomplice) to their latest case.

"John," Sherlock continues as John places his mobile in his pocket. "How did you know Mary was…how did you know you were 'in love' with her?" He makes a face and air quotes 'in love', as though the concept is still distasteful.

John blinks incredulously from the shaking dumpster to the man sitting atop it. "Really? You want to talk about this now?"

Sherlock's brows draw together slightly. "Why? Not good?"

John shakes his head. "Well, I…no. I guess it's fine, yeah." He rubs the back of his neck, and peers up uncertainly at Sherlock. "I guess – I was attracted to her. Physically. Thought she was gorgeous. Wanted to kiss her. You know."

Sherlock stares at him intently, the banging on the dumpster lid having petered off momentarily.

John sighs, and then continues. "I never…I never minded her company. That'd probably be a big one for you. I mean – I always looked forward to seeing her, and even when I was right pissed at the rest of the world – including you – I…I liked being with her. Except for the…well, the shooting…thing – but anyways, what I'm talking about is – for you – when everyone else irritates you or bores you – she doesn't."

"When something bad happened, I wanted to share it with her. When something good happened – I wanted to share it with her. She was the first person I thought of when…well, when anything happened, really. I thought – "I've got to tell Mary", yeah?"" He smiles sadly. "And I wanted to make her happy. Making her feel happy – making her laugh, knowing I made her smile – it was better than…anything. I just – felt good around her, no matter what."

He looks up, and Sherlock is staring at him intently. "Until-" he begins –

"Until she shot you, yeah," John agrees, shaking his head. "But-"

"What th'ell is wrong wif you blokes?!" The man in the dumpster is at it again, and Greg pulls up to the alley in his police car – and their conversation is not resumed again for another week.

---

She catches him acting strangely roughly once a week, now.

He's recovered quite nicely from the Sherrinford incident, as has she.

There are still times when things get a bit awkward, but for the most part – no more awkward than they ever were before.

His overly careful interactions with her the first month after the incident have bled into a new normal for the both of them – a seemingly alternate reality where he brings her coffee and says please and thank you like a civilized human being, more often than not. He's texted her a few times, requesting a look at a particular victim or lab result, and he took her up on her offer to come visit for a few hours one evening, before Baker Street was finished, when Rosie was cutting an apparently vicious tooth. It was nice. He brought takeaway and they talked and played Scrabble (their version, in which they use the letters from three different games on one board and any word known to man is an option), and then he spent time on his phone while she watched Downton Abbey.

She's not quite there, yet – but she can see, somewhere on the horizon, a time when she'll feel that the phone call may have been a good thing. A beneficial thing.

The thing is – she thinks her strengthening friendship with him is fanning the flames of her burnt-out heart, and it's causing her to read too much into things that don't mean anything.

She catches him looking at her, sometimes, the way he was looking at her when she stitched up his hand – it's part mournful and part…hungry. But she thinks it must be her imagination, because he always looks away, and when he looks back, there is nothing but keen intelligence and a slight affection in his expression. Still – it makes her wonder.

Sometimes he opens his mouth as though he's going to say something, and it's almost as though he actively bites his tongue. She confronts him about it, once – and he pretends he doesn't know what she's talking about.

"You were going to say something to me," she insists.

He hesitates, mouth twitching in the corner. "No, I wasn't."

And as her concerned expression focuses inward, he frowns and corrects himself. "Well, I was. But then – I forgot. What I was going to say."

It's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard him say, and they both know it.

"You…forgot?" She draws the words out slowly, disbelieving.

He stares at her for a moment, and then swallows. "Yes. I forgot."

And he's lying to her, for some reason – but it's awkward enough as it is, and she reasons that perhaps he's just belatedly developing his internal filter. Maybe, she thinks, he's finally realizing when things he's about to say are a bit Not Good and he's stopping himself from saying them, at least to his friends. It's a logical enough analysis, and she accepts it without any more discussion – but still, she wonders.

But the strangeness continues. Not enough for her to confront him again – but there are little things – things that she inadvertently stores away in her memory – hints that he is changing – that he has changed toward her, somehow.

One day, after he has stayed with her to work on some samples as she finished her shift, he hails her a cab before he heads home. A book falls out of her bag as she climbs in, and before she can even reach for it, he is handing it to her. Her fingers brush his palm as she takes it with a "thank-you", and packs it away, distracted for a moment. When she looks back up, he is staring at her again, and his hand is still hovering in the air, just inside the cab door.

Her brows draw together, and his fingers twitch before he curls them into a fist that he lets fall to his side as he steps back. It's almost like he was – restraining himself – and she wonders.

About two weeks after Baker Street has been refurbished – about mid-November – she offers to cook a 'housewarming' dinner for him and John and Rosie (and Mrs. Hudson, too, if she'd like). Sherlock is viewing samples from a case under a microscope at the opposite end of the table that she is working at, finishing cataloging her own samples from a run-of-the-mill death.

"After all," she jokes brightly, "the kitchen will probably only be fit for human meal preparation for another two weeks, and then we'll have to blow it up again and start all over."

There is a sudden silence and stillness from Sherlock at the end of the counter, and Molly blanches. "Sorry-" she begins, berating herself – too soon, too soon – or maybe not too soon, it's just that this is one of those things it's NEVER appropriate to joke about –

But then he's…laughing. His shoulders shake for a moment, and he pushes his bench back from the countertop and he's laughing. The sight of him makes a smile bloom on her face – the first genuine, spontaneous smile she's had in a long while – and he looks over to her and meets her eye.

The laughing trails off, and his face turns somber – but there is still a warmth in his eyes as he swallows and looks down for a moment, regrouping. When he looks back up at her, he nods. "I think," he begins, and looks away again. "I think John and Rosie would – I think we'd all like that. Thank you."

She smiles. "Great. So…mmm…does Friday work, then? I'll come by after my shift ends at 5 and we'll have dinner around 6:30?"

Sherlock is staring at her strangely again, but she's becoming more and more used to it. He blinks and gives one sharp nod in affirmation. "That works. Thank you." He looks back down at his samples, and she thinks that is that.

It takes her about twenty minutes to finish her work, and when she's done cleaning up, she pauses at the end of the bench, where Sherlock is still staring intently at his samples.

"Um, I have to go, okay? Are you staying for a bit, then, to finish up?" She asks.

He answers with one jerk of the head, and she's almost to the door when he brushes past her, flinging his jacket on, in a rush.

"You were wrong," he mutters to himself, and he's shaking his head.

"What?" She asks, confused. "Who was wrong?"

"You were. I was. We were both wrong." He answers roughly.

"Wrong about what?" She runs through their current cases in her head, but can't seem to think of anything they'd been wrong about. The cases this week were all pretty standard.

He doesn't answer, and he soon disappears from her view.

"Wrong about what?" She asks the empty hallway.

And then she sighs as she realizes his samples are still sitting on the table in the empty lab.

Bugger.

---

She was wrong.

She was so, so wrong.

He loves her as so much more than a friend.

She was wrong, but he was – even more so.

He's been seeing that it Technicolor for the past several weeks.

John's words about being in love echo in his head, and simply confirm the depth of his feelings.

He can no longer deny that he is physically attracted to her, in a way that is fierce and desperate and new to him. He wants to touch her - caress her – hold her – kiss her. He wants all of her.

He never minds her company. He's purposefully visited her when bored and irritable, just for the sake of seeing if she irritated him further. She didn't.

He prefers her company. He wants her company. He wants to share meals with her, and discuss work and cases, and play ridiculous versions of mundane games, and experiment.

She has always seen him, even when he didn't want her to. Now, he wants her to.

She is dearest and closest to his heart, in a way that John never was, though Sherlock loved him, as well. He is hesitant to tell her, though, because the last time those words were said, they were like a wet blanket that nearly smothered her love for him, and he could not bare it if it happened again.

Besides - how can he tell her, when he can't guarantee that he will always, always feel this way?

---

The half hour Sherlock spends with her alone - before John comes over after picking Rosie up from daycare after his shift – is easy. Just being with Molly, like this, is easier, now. He is watching her hover over a pan, a sauce fraught with vegetables simmering inside, pasta boiling on another burner. She'd brought all the food pre-prepped, so all she had to do was throw it on the stove, and she'd shoo'd him away from helping.

He's content to watch her, sitting back against the dining room chair, eyes flicking between his phone and her back - steam from the meal making the tendrils of hair at the back of her neck and sides of her face curl, just a bit. He felt just a twinge of regret at hearing John swing the door open, arms full of Rosie and her things.

"Smells amazing in here!" John says enthusiastically, and Sherlock hums in agreement. Molly snorts. "No – really -" he insists. "I can't tell you how many times I've come over here and it's smelled of burning hair or flesh or who-knows-what, and this, I think – is the best it's ever smelled."

Molly smiles to herself, and her eyes are bright and her cheeks are rosy and she is obviously very happy.

"You enjoy it, then? Cooking?" John asks with a smile as he gets Rosie settled in her high chair.

Molly pushes a strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her hand, placing the finishing touches on the garlic bread before placing it in the oven. "I do. I really do."

Sherlock leans back, and his face is relaxed, the closest it gets to happy without actively smiling. "It makes you feel close to your mother." The observation is soft and…approving.

John's head turns sharply, surprised at both the observation and the tone in which it is given. He worries, for a moment, that Molly will be offended, or reminded of painful memories, but her lips turn up at the corners as she checks on the pasta and sauce on the stove. "It does."

She wipes her hands on a clean towel, and turns so that she leans against the counters in front of the sink. "My mum was a great cook. I started learning from her when I was really young – maybe three or four? She let me help mix and dump in ingredients she'd measured. And as I grew, it was something she and I did together a lot. My other siblings weren't as interested." She wrinkles her nose at a memory, and then continues. "After she died, I kept cooking. She wrote notes in the margins and I felt like it was something I could still do with her. And it was something uncontaminated by Meghan. My sister," she explains at John's slight look of confusion. "It was pure mum. I still like it. I've got most of her recipes memorized, now, but I still have her cookbooks at home. I like to read through them, and through her notes, when I miss her, sometimes. It's a nice memory of her."

John nods, swallowing wordlessly. His expression is suddenly pinched, and is quiet until Molly serves the meal, and – no longer distracted by cooking – she notices the change in his demeanor.

"I'm – I'm sorry-" she falters, but he dismisses her concern with a sharp nod.

"No – no. It's – I just – haven't thought about – how Rosie-" he clears his throat, and the friends take a few silent bites of the food.

"I'm a bit rubbish at cooking," he says quietly, after a moment. "I mean – I made do, before Mary, but – Mary-" he blinks and frowns, and his thumb rubs circles on the side of the table. "Bread – she was best with bread. You know…"

"She was," Molly says softly, and John darts a glance at her face. "Her sourdough was amazing. And she made me a lemon pound cake, once. It was delicious."

He nods, and sighs. "D'you think-" He frowns, and tries again, meeting Molly's patient gaze. "D'you think, when she's old enough…you might help me teach her, to make bread, like -" he presses his knuckles into the tabletop – " –like her mum?"

Molly smiles. "Of course. I'd be honored. Though, I'm sure I'll never come close to her sourdough. Bread is tricky. But we'll learn together."

John nods, and places a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. "Thank you, Molly. We are – so lucky to have you." His voice sounds a bit strangled, and Molly quickly leans over and gives him a short embrace and a peck on the cheek.

"I'm lucky to have you," she says brightly. "All of you. Aren't I, Rosie?" She turns her attention to the nearly one-year-old girl in the highchair, and tickles her toes. "I'm so lucky to have this Baker Street family, huh?"

There's something in the way she places the emphasis on Baker Street, and Sherlock frowns. He participates marginally in the rest of the dinner conversation – enough to seem like normal, preoccupied Sherlock – distracted by a case or experiment or what have you.

After dinner, Sherlock 'helps' John clean up (still lost in thought, so that all he really does is pass John the pasta bowl or wipe crumbs off the table), and Molly entertains Rosie in the living room.

They visit for a short while, Sherlock absentmindedly picking at his violin strings as Molly and John discuss Rosie's development, Hank and Nina's most recent comments about her napping habits, work, and the latest films coming out at the cinema. It's all friendly and mundane and something that would have, in the past, caused Sherlock to jump to his feet in frustration and loudly complain about boredom.

As it is, it provides a sort of warm white noise – a soft, welcome murmuring of voices that his mind recognizes and trusts so completely they can be shifted to the background of his thoughts, like his own breathing.

His mind is still stuck on Molly's family.

John leaves with Rosie about an hour after dinner is finished, and as Sherlock's brows are still furrowed slightly in concentration, Molly quietly prepares to leave as well.

He notices her by the door in his peripheral vision and shakes himself into the present.

"Molly," he stands, smoothing his button-up and moving to the door, reaching out to hold her bags as she dons her coat and hat. She tugs her hair out of the collar of her coat and turns to take her things back, smiling up at him.

"Thanks, Sherlock. It was a nice visit. Rosie's grown so much, though I suppose babies do that, don't they?"

"Mmm." He blinks for a moment, and clears his throat. "We are lucky. We are incredibly fortunate to have you. All of us." It's said as an add-on - as if just now, he's realized he agrees with John's earlier assessment and is casually confirming it.

But he looks a bit sad as he says it, and Molly's smile shrinks, though it also becomes warmer and more genuine.

"Are you happy, Molly?" He asks quietly, and the question surprises her.

She leans back just a bit, lips pursed as she contemplates the question. After a few seconds, her smile grows again, and she looks her friend in the eye. "I am. You know, Sherlock, I really am. Things – everything is getting better, now isn't it? Better than it was before -" she catches herself – "before, even. I am happy. I'm – getting better every day." She looks at him curiously.

He swallows and nods in response, his face relaxed somewhat, and she is tempted to throw her arm around him and give him a peck on the cheek, like she had with John, earlier.

But there's still something there, in her heart that holds her back - because she doesn't want it growing out of control, again.

And so she rests a hand on his forearm and squeezes it affectionately. "Good night, Sherlock." She says softly, and opens the door, closing it behind her.

He lets out a long sigh, staring at the closed door before him.

"I'm...not," he whispers.

---

"What made you stay?" Sherlock asks John, as their torches illuminate dust particles hanging thickly in the air of the old theater. They make their way backstage, stepping over old ropes and sandbags and rusted levers, heading towards a room with a crooked door labeled "PROPS N COST M ", several gilded letters worn away from time and actors leaning against the door.

"Wha – here?" John asks, taking a moment to swipe cobwebs away from his face, frowning. "Well, I wasn't keen on waiting on the street. Not exactly the nicest part of town to be loitering on a Saturday night. I've got a meeting with Hank and Nina tomorrow and I'd rather not go in looking like I took part in a cock fight."

"No," Sherlock says, his voice dropping to a mildly irritated warning tone. "What made you stay with Mary, after she shot me?" When the door will not open with a jiggle of the handle, he shoulders it soundly three times before it gives way, groaning in protest and leaving a cloud of dust that obscures their vision momentarily.

The two men step inside, clearing their throats of dust.

"Don't act like I'm an idiot, not keeping up with the conversation. Two minutes ago, the last words out of our mouths were, and I quote:" He flip open his notepad, squinting at his chicken scratch shorthand in the dim light of his torch. "You: 'Yes, brilliant! So simple – so very simple, John. They've made us out to be the dummies.' Me: 'If you're expecting a laugh for that joke, it wasn't very inspired. I think I made a similar one several hours ago and told me 'not to make jokes, John'. You: 'The code, John. It's carved into the doll.'" John flips his notepad shut and tucks it into his pocket. "And then, you remained totally silent for the twenty minute ride here. So don't act like I'm an idiot for not following your leap from 'a code carved into a ventriloquist doll' to 'why I didn't leave my wife when I learned she'd shot my best friend and lied about her past'!"

"Hmm," Sherlock grunts, carefully making his way through the old room. He tilts his head and squints for a moment, rewinding his train of thought. "Solved the case on the way over – just need confirmation. Texted Lestrade the address, as we may have company within the next half hour as well, if we can't find the…thing…" his voice trails off as the beams of light from their torches illuminate the surprisingly organized costume and props room. Someone has been here recently. Even John can see that this room lacks the disarray found in the rest of the abandoned theater, and that there is a distinct lack of dust on the majority of the props neatly lined on the shelves.

All of which are dummies.

Some are quite old, jaws gone crooked from lack of use and deterioration, limbs splayed at awkward angles, eyes hanging on by threads – some missing entirely.

Some are new – clearly made of plastic as opposed to wood, shiny, with wide red mouths and barred teeth and polyester costumes.

Some are in between, older and yet much more well cared for than their neighbors. A few might even be called 'pretty'.

And in piles around the room, mounds and mounds of spare parts – arms and legs and heads, in various conditions.

Both men swallow at the unnerving sight. "Creepy," John whispers, as if expecting them all to turn their heads in unison.

Sherlock shakes it off quickly. "Mmm. Would be 'creepier' if they were real human body parts. Let's be glad this criminal is obsessed with ventriloquist dolls." He immediately begins peering into the doll's faces, looking for their client's original dummy, that was stolen and replaced with a look-alike. "So," he continues impatiently, motioning for John to begin looking, as well – "what made you stay?"

John sighs, shaking his head. "Hope when you finally work up the nerve to talk to Molly about love you don't do it in the middle of a hostage situation or while investigating hazardous waste in the lab," he mumbles.

"What?" Sherlock asks sharply, and John clears his throat, moving his torch across the doll's faces as well. Some are incredibly life-like.

"Nothing," John sighs. After a moment, he continues gruffly. "I stayed because, even though I felt…betrayed, and hurt, and…angry – I loved her. Even after that – I still loved her."

The two men work in silence for a moment, and John thinks that perhaps Sherlock won't be asking for clarification this time.

Until –

"There's a difference, then. Between – being in love, and… love." His voice is neutral and scientific.

He's going to drive me insane. John shivers as his torch brightens the face of a particularly hideous dummy.

He startles at the flash of blonde near his shoulder.

You already are, a bit, you have to admit, love. Mary chastises him gently, a mischievous smile on her lips. Go on, then – tell him the difference. Let's see how you do, darling.

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and waving her away, letting the circle of light move from the shelves to his feet. After thinking for a moment, he begins gruffly.

"There is a difference. That feeling – the near-obsession, infatuation, heady high of being 'in love' – that isn't what real love is. It can start it off – but feelings fade, and feelings lie. Those feelings cycle through. Real love isn't just a feeling, though it can feel good, too. Real love is committing to care about a person, in your thoughts and words and actions, even when you don't feel like it – even when those feelings aren't there right at that moment. Real love is sacrifice and hard work and choice – choosing to value another person's well-being and happiness as highly, and even more highly, than your own."

He hears Sherlock make a soft 'aha' noise, and thinks he's either had an epiphany about love, or he's found the dummy.

He's found the dummy.

Well, you did your best. I thought it was a lovely explanation, Mary consoles John. Also – get ready for a bit of a scare, darling.

She vanishes, and John frowns in confusion – and as Sherlock rounds the corner of the shelves to present his prize to John – the entire line of dummies just to the right of John's shoulder move their heads to look at Sherlock. Their eyebrows drop, making their expressions angry, and their mouths open in unison – a single hissing noise escaping their lips.

"Put him back," their mouths move angrily. "Not yours. Not yours!"

Both Sherlock and John take two large steps backward, crashing into the shelf opposite.

It's a bit too much for the old metal work to take, and it starts off a domino effect – crashing one shelf into another, until the five behind the two men rest in a heap, and all the dolls with them.

The line of dolls across from them click their jaws angrily. "Nooooo!"

And then they go slack.

"Move, John!" Sherlock shouts, shoving his friend out of the way, just as a shadowy figure drops onto him.

It takes a wild-eyed, nearly hyperventilating John a full ten seconds to realize that the shadowy figure is, in fact, not some sort of dummy-demon intent on possessing his friend – but a man dressed in black, who'd been manipulating the full line of dummies and using his talents from a make-shift catwalk just above the shelf with the talking dolls.

It takes a full ten minutes to pull them apart, and another ten for Lestrade to arrive.

It only takes five minutes for Sherlock to rapid-fire explain that there are, in fact, two separate criminals in this investigation – the insane dummy-thief with his collection of pilfered ventriloquist dolls, and the original owner of the doll – a mobster who utilized the code carved into the wooden body of his doll to torment his ex-wife.

It takes a full week to write the blog post, and another week to edit it.

---

By the time John has posted the Tale of Two Dummies, Sherlock knows what he has to do.

Real love is committing to care about a person, in your thoughts and words and actions, even when you don't feel like it – even when those feelings aren't there right at that moment. Real love is sacrifice and hard work and choice – choosing to value another person's wellbeing and happiness as highly, and even more highly, than your own.

He's going to test himself and his love, and he knows how to do it.

---

His hair is redder than Molly's.

Sherlock wonders which of her siblings her sister's hair favors. He, personally, prefers Molly's – her long dark hair with warm red undertones.

His hair is redder than Molly's, and though Sherlock can't make out his eye colour from this far away, he can tell they're watery and red, from the way he keeps blinking and rubbing at his nose.

He's got a hoody pulled over his head, that shock of red hair a stark contrast to the dingy once-black, now-gray fabric around it. His hands are shoved into the front pocket, and it's not enough to keep him from shivering in the late November air.

He paces in front of the house, hesitation playing as he steps toward the door, and then turns away from it. He shrugs his shoulders a few times, shakes his head, and then turns back to the door.

Sherlock knows this dance. It's one he's done a few times, himself. For the first time, he is the one intervening.

"I'd pass on this one, if I were you," he drawls slowly, stepping out of the shadow of the stoop.

Michael Hooper startles and steps backward, his face turning immediately from one of defeat and relief to one of defensive anger. "Who the hell are you?"

"No one," Sherlock responds. "And I won't stop you. Go in, if you want. I know what it feels like. I've been there. Here. To this very house, actually," he sighs, turning on his heel and looking up at the doorway, his shoulder a meter or so from Michael's.

"So…why 'd you pass on this one, then?" Michael asks warily. "Their stuff laced with something? Deal go bad?"

"No," Sherlock responds, voice even. "My brother found me here, and it was never quite as…satisfying, afterward." He drawls out the last two words.

Michael scoffs. "So, you want me to avoid this place because it holds 'bad memories' for you? Yeah, oh-" He gives the man beside him exaggerated side-eye.

"No," Sherlock says, and he is struggling to maintain a neutral tone. "I think you should avoid this place because it holds bad memories for you."

Michael steps away from the tall detective and rubs his nose, sniffing suspiciously. "Says who?"

Sherlock turns to face Molly's brother. "It's obvious. Your hesitancy to enter isn't just because you've been clean for the past…six months. This was were it happened, isn't it?"

Michael frowns. "Where what happened?" He shifts from foot to foot, shivering, rubbing his hands anxiously on his pants.

Sherlock peers at him for a moment. "You saw a friend die. Perhaps even held his hand as he went. I'm not sure if it was an overdose or murder, but you witnessed it, and it drove you to sobriety. But it's hard, isn't it? To stay off the sauce when the majority of your friends and connections are either addicts or dealers. To stay clean for so long, you must've had someone detoxing with you. Someone holding you accountable. Friend? Lover? Doesn't matter. They're gone now – whether through an argument or a more permanent end, they're gone. And you're craving a fix, but you've been pacing up and down in front of this house for the past forty minutes, wondering if it's worth it – if any of it was worth it, to begin with. You want distraction."

Michael's hands still, and he stuffs them once again into his hoody pocket. He glances down at the ground, and then up at the man across from him, giving him a hard look. "Who are you?"

His eyes are brown - and so very much like Molly's. Even red-rimmed and watery, he can see the connection; the relation.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."

Michael snorts. "The detective? I thought you were made up." He peers at him again, and the searching in his gaze is also very much like his sister's. He's perceptive.

"Made up?" Sherlock asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah, you know – like the 'Queen's forbidden lover' or something. The Enquirer isn't exactly reliable coverage, you know? Or…at least…exaggerated. Some of those stories are pretty ridiculous."

Sherlock steps back, blinking. He's had people doubt his abilities before, and he's met people who haven't heard of him, sure – but he's never had someone doubt his existence. That's new.

Michael lets out a frustrated huff of air. "But…I guess you're real. I mean – you're here. And you…you knew a lot. 'Bout me. How'd you know all that?" He gives Sherlock another skeptical glare, but there's curiosity there as well.

Sherlock rocks back on his heels. "Mmm, had your every move followed for the past…year?" He lies.

He's not sure why he lied, but he doesn't have time to think about it long.

"No." Michael shakes his head, disagreeing. "Why the hell would you have a random druggie followed? I don't know you. You don't know me. There is no reason you could possibly give that would have me believe you'd have me followed for a year. Even an undercover copper would've made contact by now – and I'm not even a dealer, just a user."

He leans forward a bit. "But you do know what's happened to me. How'd you know that? Research? But how'd you research me before you found me? Why me?"

Sherlock tilts his head marginally, face neutral. "Come have a coffee. I'll tell you."

Michael shakes his head. "Why d'you want me away from this house so badly?" He shrugs away.

Sherlock turns, once again shoulder to shoulder with the man, looking up at the entrance.

"I don't." He says flatly. "Not particularly. But…I'm trying something new. Personal growth."

The addict glances at him from the corner of his eye. "What, helping me's some sort of 'Good Samaritan' pat on the back for you?"

Sherlock presses his lips together. "Yes. And no."

The two men stare at the door for another moment or two, and then Sherlock turns away. "Your choice. Free meal, and an explanation to satisfy your curiosity and distract you, at least for a day. Drugs will always be there tomorrow, if you still want them."

Michael stares at the detective's retreating back for several long seconds, and then looks back to the house again. After a moment, he shrugs, and then jogs to catch up with the strange man in the black coat.

---

"Mmm," Michael grunts, nodding in encouragement as Sherlock continues his explanation – which was pretty much what he'd predicted in the first place – research.

The detective had connections – other addicts and homeless network, friends and favors in a wide variety of flavors. He'd simply asked around, found Michael, and then asked around some more to piece together the man's whereabouts the past year. A few clever but simple deductions led him to meet the man today.

"Yeah, all right," Michael says, waving off the last deduction. He leans forward, forearms on the booth of the small hole-in-the-wall they'd stopped in for sandwiches and coffee. He fiddles with the paper from the sugar packets, and narrows his eyes at the level-headed man across from him. "But why me? Of all the addicts in London – why me?"

For the first time since they'd left the drug house, Sherlock sighs and looks away. He presses his lips together in thin line, and clears his throat before meeting Michael's gaze again.

"I know your sister."

Michael sits back immediately, eyebrows raised, and shakes his head. He shifts to exit the booth. "Whew, then, mate. Thanks for the meal, I'll-"

"Molly," Sherlock clarifies. "She works at the hospital I frequent with the Yard."

Michaels stops his hasty retreat, drumming his fingers impatiently at the end of the table. "Yeah, I know. Bart's, is it?"

Sherlock nods. "I've seen pictures of you in her flat." He swallows quickly, because the next part is a lie – but he's not about to tell the truth to the man across from him. "She's told me a little about you, and I deduced the rest. That's how I chose you."

Michael looks down at his scruffy shoes for a moment, thinking. "She's still got pictures of me? In her flat?"

"Yes. She…misses you. But - " Sherlock is hasty to add – "she didn't ask for this. She has nothing to do with this. This is about me. If you ever decide to see her again – and I wouldn't, not without being clean for another six months, yet – I'd prefer if you didn't mention me."

"Mmm." Michael nods in acknowledgment, but neither agrees nor disagrees.

After a few more moments of silence, he stands, stretching his neck and shoulders. "So – what now? You found me, talked to me, and what? Kept me from drugs for the day and that's your good deed, is it?"

Sherlock stands, tossing some bills on the table. "Not entirely. If you're interested in work, I've got plenty of connections. All are free from the temptation of drugs, but require no drug tests, and there are no questions asked. I'm owed a few favors. If it's distraction you're after, I can help you there. It wouldn't be boring." He smirks.

He hands Michael a card, with a number written in blue ink. "Think about it, and call if you're interested."

Michael stares at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands. "And if I'm not?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I'll find someone else."

"Mmm."

Sherlock leaves, and Michael stands by the stained Formica tabletop. Before he goes, he tosses his hood over his head and shoves the card in his pocket.

---

He comes regularly.

Twice a month, at least – sometimes three or even four times.

She knows the Other Brother comes, too – but he at least stays away, where she can't see him.

The first two times he comes, it's all she can do to sit and listen – muscles tense and back perfectly straight – afraid to move, lest she chase the light away.

The next two times – as he plays, she moves – very slightly – little by little, until she is facing the glass, instead of the wall. Her eyes are still closed. She's afraid to look.

The next time – she looks. After he's been playing for a while, after the light has permeated the fog of Lost-ness, she sneaks a look at him. His eyes are on her, and she squeezes them shut quickly again, her face a placid mask.

Inside, though – inside – her heart is beating rapidly, and the small upturn of his lips as her eyes met his is engrained into her memory.

And so the next time, she forces herself to watch him.

And he's…he's happy. Still sad – but happy, too. Happy she's looking.

He's encouraging and insistent and she drinks him in like a shriveled plant in the hot sun.

By the time snow starts to fall in December, she will stand and face him for the entirety of his concert.

The light lingers longer, now.

---

Christmas at Baker Street is a curious affair. The weather seems to know a lavish outpouring of holiday cheer is somehow inappropriate, and so flurries fall but never stick – resulting in gray slush that matches the gray skies overhead. It is the first Christmas for Rosie, and the first Christmas without Mary. It is the first Christmas in years that no-one asks Sherlock to host a party, and if he's being honest – he misses it, just a little.

Not the ridiculous music or decorations or even the food, of course.

But he misses Mary, and witnessing all of his friends in the same room.

John does host a small get-together, and Molly helps decorate and cook.

They make lemon bread and sourdough in honor of Mary, though it's not nearly as good as hers, and dozens and dozens of sugary treats and fattening hors d'oeuvres.

Sherlock does not exchange gifts with Molly then, opting to watch his friends heap pile upon pile of presents upon his goddaughter.

The day after Boxing Day, he meets Molly in the lab, and slides a small, brown, unwrapped box toward her.

She blinks in surprise, and then looks up at him, a small disbelieving smile on her face. "Is this – is this a Christmas gift? For me?"

He clasps his hands together behind his back. "Well, it's poorly wrapped-"

"-it's not wrapped at all, actually-"

"-but it is a gift. For you."

He can feel his heartbeat crescendo as Molly opens it, and he hates himself a little bit for it – but he holds his breath.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "A key."

"Mmm. For Baker Street. You don't have one. You borrow Hudder's, when the occasion arises. But – I wanted you to have your own. You're…always welcome," he adds gruffly.

"Oh! Thank you."

To his surprise, she grasps the key in her hand and dashes to the attached office where they file the lab work – and returns a moment later with her key ring and a small box (wrapped carefully in shiny blue and silver paper) that she hands to him.

"For you," she explains unnecessarily, and begins to fumble with her key ring, fingers slipping in her effort to add his key to her collection.

He watches her for a moment, the wave of relief that she both appreciated and liked his present outweighing his need to open hers, immediately. He looks down at his prettily wrapped box, and slides a finger under the wrapping, pulling it carefully apart.

Inside is a new blue scarf (an exact replica of the one he'd ruined a few months ago), and a pocket stash of steri-strips –

"For emergencies," Molly explains, having successfully added the Baker Street key to the lanyard with her flat and mailbox key and her lab and morgue keys. "Now you'll have a way to keep yourself from ruining more scarves, until you can make it back to Bart's."

He swallows. Their gifts are practical and yet he aches strangely inside, and he thanks her quietly.

Molly returns her lanyard to its place in the office, and then returns to the lab. "Now," she continues – "did you want to see-"

- and she stops short, because Sherlock is no where to be found.

She's left wondering, the rest of the day, if he really came to the lab for the sole purpose of exchanging gifts with her.

---

Time passes quickly after Christmas, each month marked with new cases and new research and new milestones for Rosie – and, if she's honest – new milestones in her friendship with both Sherlock and John. Mary's death and the Sherrinford trauma shifted the balance of power in their small circle – and she's left, for the first time, feeling like an equal with the two men. She's no longer a lifeguard waiting on the sidelines. She's a member of the team, now – and she's enjoying it.

Molly stands outside her door after covering the second half of Bonnie's shift for the second time that week (a late-April stomach bug making its rounds), and combs through her bag, searching for her keys. Her messenger bag is stuffed full of reports to organize for her most recent research paper, and the keys she'd carefully set on top of the pile had shifted and fallen to the bottom on her ride home. She can hear Toby mewling on the other side of the door, and she is so focused on retrieving her keys that she doesn't hear him, the first time.

But she recognizes his voice.

"Because really, Molls, losing your keys was a problem when you were ten, I'd have thought you'd outgrow it by now-"

Her head snaps up in shock, her hands freezing in place inside her bag.

Her shock must show on her face, because her brother stops talking, a nervous, cautious smile blooming on his own. He's wearing khakis and a polo with some sort of logo over the pocket, and he's clean-shaven. His dark red hair is long, nearly covering his ears - but neat – and his brown eyes are clear and serious.

He is clean, and by all appearances, has been for several months, at least.

"Hi," he tries again, pulling a hand out of his pocket to give a half-hearted wave.

"Michael!" She gasps, and drops everything she was carrying on the ground. Lip balm rolls out and away, and her keys jangle from somewhere still deep inside the bag, but she doesn't notice.

She throws her arms around him and he grins, picking her up and swinging her around, returning her embrace.

He puts her down after a moment and keeps one hand on her shoulder to steady her, a goofy smile still spread over his face.

She pushes her hair behind her ears and smiles back at him, though she's trying not to grin too obnoxiously. She's still got a lot of questions, after all.

He puts his hands back in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "So…" he says, giving her a little smirk. "What's new? It's been awhile."

She raises an eyebrow at him, shaking her head. "Do you want to come in?" She asks.

He swallows as a loud mewl sounds from the other side of the door. "Um…I don't know. Do I?"

She rolls her eyes and bends to pick up her things, finally successful at finding her keys. She turns triumphantly to her brother, and gives him a warm look. "…Yeah. I think you do."

---

Two days later, John is busy cleaning an unfortunate poo explosion. (Rosie was happily sitting there when she'd made a complete mess of her outfit, herself, and her poor father's favorite chair.) Rosie is freshly cleaned and dressed, and Mrs. Hudson is sitting on the couch, attempting to distract her from 'assisting' her father and making the mess worse. Sherlock stands beside the fireplace, walking back and forth before it, stopping every once in a while to make a note on the sheet music he is working on for his sister.

He pauses, listening, and turns to the door just as Molly floats through it, a barely suppressed smile on her face. John hears and straightens from his repulsive task, turning just in time to see a positively radiant Molly greet everyone in the room with a sunshine smile.

"He's back," she announces quietly, thought it doesn't take away from her joyful appearance.

John wrinkles his nose as he bags up the last of the soiled washcloths, thankful that the majority of the waste was on a blanket of Rosie's, and not on the chair itself. "Who's back, then?" He asks, glancing between the rubbish bag's ties and Molly. He can't help the small smile tugging at his own lips, her happiness is so tangible.

"Michael. My brother." She clasps her hands and looks around the room, catching Sherlock's neutral smile and John's growing one, as well as Mrs. Hudson's surprised look, as she sits back a bit on the couch.

"You have a brother?" She asks, confused.

"Yes. He's – he's an addict. Was an addict. He…I hadn't heard from him in years. But he came back a few days ago. He's been clean for a year, has a job, has – he has a girlfriend-" she giggles, and John's fully smile breaks through. Molly crosses the room the sit in front of Rosie, tousling her god-daughter's curls and good-naturedly receiving the slobbery kiss bestowed on her as she continues relaying the tale of the Prodigal Brother's return.

He only half-hears her explanation of how her brother decided to go cold turkey after witnessing the death of a friend, then found a job through generous stranger and met an amazing woman named – Adri – something – Molly's words turn to a dull hum in the background, however, as he glances across the room to his friend.

Sherlock is staring at Molly, and his face is – well. John has never seen an expression so tender and warm on his the great detective's face in all the years he's known him. He looks younger, somehow – and it's an expression so genuine and emotional and unlike Sherlock that John looks away after just a few seconds. His own expression has changed to one of shock; his eyebrows puckered together in the middle and his mouth open, just a hair.

Just as quickly, his eyes narrow, and he peers back to his friend.

Sherlock's face has changed to one of impersonal contentment, a barely-there, neutral smile in place of what was there only moments ago. He catches John's eye and raises his eyebrow a fraction, as though questioning John's concerned, disbelieving gaze.

Bloody hell, Mary intones good-naturedly just behind his right ear. It was him, wasn't it?

John blinks for a moment as his late wife sighs in his ear, saying something about how the great git must have listened to all those answers you gave him - shaking his head and schooling his features into a pleasant mask, trying to mimic Sherlock's.

Well done, love, she whispers lovingly. Well done.

And when he finally refocuses on what is going on around him, Sherlock has moved to his chair, plucking his violin distractedly while listening to Molly field questions from Mrs. Hudson. All the while, Molly is trying in vain to keep Rosie from sticking her chubby baby – nearing – a – toddler fingers in her mouth.

And John Watson smiles crookedly at his daughter, peripherally aware of everyone else in the room – and he can't help but agree.

For everything that's happened, they've all done pretty damn well.

But Sherlock Holmes still has a bit of explaining to do.

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A/N: Sorry again! We spent the summer having a sort of technology hiatus and it was lovely - but I hope you enjoyed the latest (and longest ever) chapter. Pregnancy brain is real, so please forgive any spelling/grammar mistakes - and feel free to PM me if anything is terribly distracting.

Two more chapters to go! And two and half months until our second baby girl arrives! Oh, the countdown is on!

Thank you, thank you for all of your lovely reviews. I am so, so happy that you are enjoying my little daydream about what happened after Season 4.

Until next time, then!