Sometimes you laugh and sing

Molly was dreading that night. It was Saturday, which meant she and Tom would be going to the pub. They always went to the pub. Always the same one. They ordered the same thing, each drank three pints, and he'd ask the bartender what the score on the game was, but never took his eyes off her when at the table. He was a perfect gentleman, loving and attentive. But they never went anywhere else. The week would drift by, one day blending into the next, each day the same routine. Lately she'd felt an awful sinking feeling in her gut that this was what her life was. Work each day, come home, they took turns making dinner, walked the dog and watched two hours of television before bed. Pub on Saturday, and dinner with his family on Sunday. It was the life she'd often thought about when she was younger, the life everyone wanted and dreamt of. It did appeal to her, domesticity, but now she was living it, and she wasn't so sure if it suited her. She was a pathologist; she worked with dead people and sometimes ran around London chasing murderers with Sherlock Holmes for pities sake. Tom's family, lovely as they were, simply didn't know why she wanted to keep the job she did. They suggested different types of work, work that wasn't 'so depressing'.

"It's not depressing," she'd insist. She loved her work.

"Why not go back to college, complete your degree in medicine and be a doctor?" Tom asked.

"I am a doctor," Molly said with a laugh, and then sobered, seeing he was serious. "I am a doctor," she repeated. "It says so on my bloody diploma! I'm not a surgeon, and frankly I don't want to be." Somehow, her being a pathologist didn't cut it with his family. Work, as exciting as it was for her, did not suit them, so she stopped talking to him about it. She told her stories to John and Sherlock and Mary, who all giggled or leaned in with interest at the particularly fascinating autopsies.

Closing the filing cabinet, Molly paused, thinking then of John and his fiancée. She didn't think she'd ever see a couple more perfectly suited than John and Mary. Sherlock approved of her, which seemed to be the biggest accomplishment. Mrs. Hudson could never cease in her boasting of the woman who nabbed Doctor Watson. Mary Morstan, soon to be Watson, was quick-witted, clever, beautiful, and balanced out John and Sherlock the way Molly wished she could. She couldn't help but be a little jealous of Mary, at least at first. After all, Sherlock seemed to adore Mary, even after she shot him! Molly was enough of an adult to wish she were in Mary's shoes at least once, not when it came to dating John, of course. Of course having a boyfriend wouldn't have hurt either, at least one that wasn't so impossibly…ordinary.

"Your boyfriend Tom. He seems a bit…dull for you." Mary said to her the following Monday, having asking what she and Tom had gotten up to over the weekend.
"Oh…well…he's um…he's very nice, loyal, friendly, caring-"

"So is a Labrador," Mary quipped. "Look…maybe it's not my business, but whenever you two are together, it looks like you're just putting on a show, acting how you think everyone thinks you should act." Molly didn't know whether to be insulted or impressed. Mary had exactly put into words how Molly felt. It was true, Tom wasn't for her. While he was a good man, he wasn't the right man for her. She'd probably known it since she met him, but when you're lonely, and a lovely man starts being nice to you, opening doors and paying for dinners and just generally being sweet, one does overlook things, at least at first. As relationship go, it wasn't a bad one. But Tom was one of those fellows who texted you about ten times a day just to say he loved you. It was nice to know she was cared for, and it would be stupid and cruel to complain about something as silly as that. Tom was stifling, in the kindest sense. If she went to the shops, he went with her, if she went for a jog, so did Tom. If she took a nap, Tom was right next to her, smiling happily as she rested her eyes.

Good God, he was a Labrador.

"Cripes I'm an idiot," Molly groaned, putting her head on her desk. Mary laughed.

"No you're not! He is a nice man, Molly, and if he makes you happy, then don't listen to me, tell me to piss off and shut up. I'm nosy is all. I notice when people aren't themselves, and you're definitely not yourself when you're with him. It's not fair to yourself if you can't be who you are with the person you might spend the rest of your life with." Mary smiled at her then. "I'm only bringing it up because you've seemed so unhappy lately," she paused. "I want us to be friends, good friends. I don't want you to feel like I pushed you out or that I'm trying to take your place as Sherlock's friend."

"I'd have to be in to be pushed out," Molly replied, Mary frowned. "But I would like us to be friends, I'm not hurt, honestly, I think I'm more relieved, someone else had to say it I think."

"You know John and I will support you, whatever you do," Mary said.

"Mary!" John called, the women both looked up, seeing the doctor at the end of the hallway. "Lestrade says if we don't escort Sherlock from the hospital he'll do it himself, straight to the Yard."

"Coming," Mary rolled her eyes, smiling at Molly. "Call me if you want to talk later, we'll go for drinks."

That afternoon, after her shift, Molly went to Tom's and did what felt right for the first time since she'd agreed to marry him. She gave him back the engagement ring. For his part, he was very good about it and accepted it without a lot of fuss and tears, though Molly did feel as if she'd just kicked a puppy, seeing his expression.

"Sure I can't say anything to change your mind?" he asked and she shook her head.

"No, Tom, you deserve someone who can appreciate you for who you are, the same as I deserve."

"I do-" he began to insist, but she shook her head.

"No, you don't," she smiled understandingly. "You don't, and- and that's okay, really," slowly, he nodded. "You're a lovely man, Tom, and you'll make someone very, very happy, I'm sure. Thank you, for everything," she even pressed his cheek.

"Take care," he said and she returned it.

She waited until she was around the block before she started skipping, grinning from ear to ear. She'd never felt such a weight off her shoulders. The sinking feeling was gone! She was alone, yes, but she was happy. She pulled out her phone, texting Mary.

Drinks tonight? -MollyH

You broke up with him? -MaryM

Yes I did. – MollyH

So…can I cheer or is this more of a drown-our-sorrows night? –MaryM

No, it's a good thing. I'll text Anthea; we can get in some pretty swank places with her pull. –MollyH

Is she that girl Sherlock's brother is keen on? –MaryM

I don't know as he's keen on anyone, but yes, I suppose so. –MollyH

That night, Mary and Anthea took Molly out for a night on the town and didn't come home until three AM. Anthea dropped them off at 221b, (having acquired the car and chauffer from Mycroft) and Mary, still ripping drunk, piggy-backed Molly up the stairs.

"Oh my God, what did you do to her?" John asked, stifling a laugh. Sherlock was frowning and pacing, as he had not been told where they were going. Molly, having been deposited on the sofa lolled her head around to look at the doctor.

"I lived," she said.

"Didn't throw up once," Mary patted her harder than necessary. "Good on you, didn't chunder the thunder down under once," they both burst out laughing. Mary kicked her shoes off, catching each one mid-air before throwing them over her shoulder.

"What on earth were you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Celebrating!" Mary said. Somehow, she'd managed to hold onto the bottle of champagne from the car.

"Celebrating what?" Sherlock queried. "Your hen party isn't for another two weeks."

"Molly's broke up with Tom," Mary said.

"Hurrah!" Molly threw up her hands.

"You what?" John and Sherlock both stared.

"Did you want to?"

"Course I did," Molly snorted. "He's a Labrador-" Mary began to giggle as Molly toppled over, laughing. "I am a doctor, and a pathologist, and I am definitely not a Labrador." She got to her feet, swaying. "You're not a Labrador, Sherlock," she patted his cheek, kissing the air in front of him. She then stumbled down the hall, declaring she would take a bath. John ran after her before she cracked her head on the tub, leaving a stunned Sherlock and a still giggling Mary.

John and Sherlock never did get a straight answer as to why Tom was forever referred to as a Labrador.