This was, when I first came up with the concept of the story, going to be a one shot. But I've always really loved the idea of it slotting in somewhere. This is finally a little more light hearted and continues the nearing unsubtle hints that there may well be love in John and Molly's future :)

Early update, because the last chapter was short and this is stupendously much longer.

Molly had taken the Friday-night shifts in the lab, as after so much of her life being filled with death, the lab shift reduced her contact with corpses to a minimum, for a pathologist; John had taken to also escaping their now shared flat of a Friday evening, it was his early finish from the clinic, and being alone was still difficult. Even the company of strangers was better than the company of himself and a new embarrassing tendency to watch Molly's Disney VHSs, a loneliness that was only accentuated by Toby's constant need for attention.

So every Friday night, Molly was safely tucked away, amidst piles of paper work and blood cultures, in the lab, whilst John was somewhat drowning his sorrows in a pub equidistant from Molly's flat and St Bart's. Never wanting to be too far from her presence but not wanting to look to creepy, following the woman to work, for a reason he was still not quite sure.

As it happened this pub was also frequented by Scotland Yard's almost-ex-but-saved-by-some-key-evidence-DI Lestrade.

In the almost two months John had been living with Molly his limited excursions, excluding a funeral and the occasional evenings out with Molly and Meena (Molly's-perfectly-nice-and-attractive-but-John-hoped-she-wasn't-trying-to-set-him-up-with-as-he-was-coming-to-realise-something-about-a-certain-pathologist-(wait am I?)-friend), had made his interactions with Greg Lestrade minimal and awkward. Greg blamed himself in some small part for the fall, and even John had blamed Greg for his part due to his doubt in Sherlock, that was until the evidence had come to light, and Molly had rationally talked him out of his accusations in a heated debate about Greg's appearance at Sherlock's funeral. So when Greg walked into John's now regular pub, five weeks after the funeral John almost felt unsure if he were ready to continue and reconstruct this broken friendship, with a man he had only just forgiven for his part in his best friend's suicide.

"Hey… John? Is that you? God, it's been a while… too long in fact." Well, he's spotted me, there's no going back. Oh God, this is like bumping into an ex. John rubbed the back of his neck.

"Hi, Greg. Yeah, yeah it has. Still five weeks doesn't feel so long in some respects."

Of course Greg knew exactly what John was hinting at, and Greg believed himself ready for this conversation, ready to console and restart a friendship that although currently ignored and forgotten needed to be reignited for the sake of the two parties involved. That brilliant, but aggravating, man shuffling or more accurately jumping from his mortal coil should be no reason for two mates to be avoiding the other's painful glances.

"I'll get this round in, umm… we need to talk, have done for a while. And there's no time like the present, eh?"

John had enough alcohol in his system by this point in the late evening, even without Greg buying him another half, that he found making light of the situation would ease the tension, at least for a few moments.

"Jesus, Greg. Are you breaking up with me? I can change; whoever she is… she's not me. You said you loved me." With the tone in his voice on the sarcastic side, it put the friends slightly more at ease.

Silence had enveloped the pair of men, in the corner booth until at least half of the two fresh drinks were drained. This conversation was harder to get into than to have, in any case, obviously the two men had this thought simultaneously.

"I'm sorry, for what I did. I never thought he was a fraud, the Yard pay me, even when it is to arrest a mate." "I'm sorry, for not saying a word to you for five weeks, even blaming you in the smallest amount for his jump, you must have been grieving too and I was being pig-headed."

The chorus of their simultaneous speech, although drowned out by the general cacophony of pub white noise, the flow of their words was heard on both sides, so they laughed and slap-on-the-back-hugged, a symbol of each other's forgiveness and renewed friendship. They no longer needed to have this conversation, it was had, over with, simple, done.

"So, now I guess we're mates again… How's the wife?" John knew it was a sensitive topic, but current events had passed him by and no other small talk was at his fingertips.

"Finally ex-wife, finally out of my flat, and finally out of my life."

"If there weren't so many 'finally's in that sentence, I'd say that I'm sorry. But you seem to be relived… Sh – S – uh – That git wasn't right was he? About the P.E. teacher?" The man's name still difficult to force from his tongue.

"Almost. Thankfully she had some 'higher' standards. He was an English professor, a highly acclaimed one at that. Not as handsome as me, but not in a cross-fire at weekends or coming home at ungodly hours or not for days on end. Difficult to get back in the dating game though, there are few single gorgeous women milling around the Yard, and I barely escape that place these days."

This brought a soft chuckle to John's lips. "And the one time you do, you bump into me, in a dark musky pub, with probably far less single gorgeous woman milling around."

He was right of course; this may have been his local. But unless he suddenly had eyes for Brenda (the 60 year old landlady) behind the bar, he wasn't going to be in luck. "Yeah, well I've got larger and a mate. I'm not complaining."

"Hah. Yeah."

Naturally that's when a curious thought sprung on Greg. The last woman he'd seen John in a relationship with, had walked out on him because of various Sherlock related escapades and his being called out at all hours to do Sherlock's bidding; and although Sherlock's death and John's loss was not recent, he had expected the one man who had caused the cold detective to show glimpses of warm humanity to be in a much worse state than the man in front of him appeared. It can't be Harry's influence she's still attending AA meetings and trying to work things through with Clara, wrapped up in her own little world. There must be someone; there must be a 'lady' in his life. Still got a few deductive skills up my sleeve.

"So, how's your love life Johnny Boy?" The small amount of intoxication on the Detective's part made this easier to speak, but the question still seemed awkward on his lips.

"Not really existent if you must know." He felt tense. John hadn't really thought beyond the friendships he'd gained after the fallout, he hadn't let his conscious mind slip into the faint shouting of his subconscious, the faint shouting of a name. And dammit, why do I have to realise this now, why do I have to realise this at all?

"Oh, come on John. There's got to be someone, you don't get that look it your eye for nobody, especially at the mention of 'love life'. C'mon that secret smile's not so secret. I want a name." Greg was fully aware he sounded like a gossiping teenage girl, but there was always room in a cooper's dreary life for gossip, especially something that seemed to be cheering up a mate who he would have assumed to be beyond hope.

"It's no one, honestly Greg, nothing. Well Molly Hooper's could never be no one." Did I just say that? John hadn't expected any name to slip from his lips, he was keeping up the façade perfectly even keeping it from himself, but it seemed the presence of Greg and six pints caused it to slip. It was like his heart was telling Greg the information before it'd informed his own thoughts. "We're just mates, she was there for me when there wasn't anyone else, strong for me, strong for herself. She even has me staying round hers, as if we protect each other from the world. Anyway she wouldn't take a look at this broken man twice."

Greg looked stunned this was certainly new information. All of it. "Molly Hooper? Bart's resident 'what's a lovely girl like you working in a place like this?' pathologist?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. Since – it – I've made a new home in her spare room. She is so much more than I ever realised she could be. So much more behind that Sherlock induced bashfulness."

A small smirk found it's way to the intoxicated lips of the Detective Inspector. "Ha. It all makes sense now. Every time I've visited the morgue for reports, whenever I bump into her. She get's it, 'that look', the secret smile if anyone mentions your name, I always assumed it was pity or a mask to hide the grief, or both – no offense mate – how could I have missed it… John, that's brilliant."

John heaved a sigh that held a fresh weight that had been waiting to drop. "It would be slightly more brilliant if I wasn't just her friend. I'm pretty sure she's trying to set me up with her best friend Meena, who, lovely as she is, it just isn't right. I'm reliant on stolen glances" that I didn't even realise I was stealing "and that warm feeling I get if she falls asleep on my shoulder on a ratty clothes Doctor Who days."

"I'm going to stop you there. If you are having 'ratty clothes Doctor Who day's' with this girl, in fact any form of 'staying in day' with her now, you are sure as hell going to marry her one day." It was quite a bold statement, but the slightest flash of hope crossed John's eyes and Greg knew something more than the man himself. It was how he'd fallen madly in love with his ex-wife after all, and how she'd fallen for the professor.

John chuckled lightly. "Whatever you say, Greg. She couldn't even remember my name a year ago. Anyway, she's all brilliant and I'm all broken."

"And who, may I ask, is helping you no longer be broken?"

John's tone was soon resigned and thoughtful, he wasn't sure whether it was the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream or that Greg was making a genuinely good point, maybe it was both; but the urge to ask Molly out was near overwhelming. It's definitely the six pints.

"Molly." He almost whispered.

"See! Just as I said, she'll marry you and you'll be happy. If not, I'm lonely and she's single, sweet and very pretty." That'll get him.

"No. You bloody well don't. Do you really want our friendship to be skating on such thin ice so very soon after we reconciled?"

After a hand gesture of mock surrender from Greg, the conversation turned to that of the stereotypical 'blokes in a pub' drawl. The game. Rants about the ex-missus. Politics. Surprising himself, the occasional slip up on John's part of the many qualities of Molly Hooper, ever more so as he became more inebriated. Finally the conversation slurred and slowed and the distant noises of a pub in full swing turned to the clatter of glasses being cleared and heavy doors closing for the final times that night.

Awoken from his daze by the clank of glass, as their empties no longer littered the table, Greg spoke. "You know I never stopped believing in him, no matter how irritable, or um… irritating he could be, he was a mate, no matter whether he denied it. I wanna show you something, it's silly really…" he trailed off as he prized his wallet from his crumpled suit jacket, a feat that increased in difficulty as he decreased in sobriety. From his wallet, where the pictures of kids or past loves were usually hidden, he pulled out a folded A4 poster, unfolding the item and smoothing it to the tarnished wooden surface, he took as much care as his current sate would allow.

Upon said A4 sheet was a picture of Sherlock Holmes, looking as somber as his natural state and thankfully excluding that 'ear hat' he had so deeply despised. Across his eyes was a bright yellow paint smudge, reminiscent of the graffiti from the case that had lead to John's ASBO, it was contrasting to the black and white portrayal of Sherlock, and within the smudge letters that contained a roughish charm spelt out 'I Believe In Sherlock Holmes.' Although John had spotted the so-called campaign across the city, on the dank walls of underpasses or on the walls of 221b when he had ventured back for clothes, that Greg had one such poster in his wallet brought a tear to his eye that neither man acknowledged.

"You want to know that best bit, the person who made this, started the campaign…"

"Who?" John interrupted, anticipation lacing his voice.

"Sally Donavon."

"Hah… But she, him… Freak?" John had somewhat lost his eloquence somewhere between the sixth beer and the second whiskey.

"I know. Then again, I suppose he never told you; those two used to be friends, well Sherlock's version, where his snide remarks weren't so snide, and even when she gave as good as she got they could laugh about it sometimes, they shared cases and she even persuaded him to venture out to one of the Yard's Christmas do's. Then the second she became involved with Anderson, he lost any ounce of respect for her, not so much because he was a married man, as much as, he is a monumental idiot. So his snide remarks regained a grandeur he only supplied to those he disliked and to her he became 'The Freak'. No real love lost there, but it was a great shame to see an amicable work relationship with a Holmes brother dissipate." He took a breath, remembering the story, Sherlock Holmes before John Watson was strange, unfamiliar territory. "You know the moment Sally found out, something snapped, she dumped Anderson's sorry arse, fought to keep me at my position in the force and started all this…" He gestured toward the poster he held so dear, although replicas littered the streets, this was the first copy. It was sobering.

"Wow. I never knew, if only he did manage to keep another friend, maybe he wouldn't have…"

"Probably not, mate."

Greg patted John comfortingly on the shoulder as they began to leave, hit by the crisp night air and the need to put on a jacket. As Greg wandered to the taxi rank, with a new found appreciation for John's strength and the strength of mixing drinks at his age, he wondered how he had missed that a certain Sargent Donavon was a gorgeous single woman who milled around the Yard, and there was no harm in asking her out for coffee, he was certainly going to need one come his shift.

John stumbled the short walk home, no longer wallowing in self pity and with the fleeting thoughts of a certain pathologist he would ignore this inevitable hangover for, as they both awoke form long nights to a companionable breakfast and childish Saturday afternoon TV.

To another lovely guest: I'm so happy you loved it. Of course I'm going to keep writing.