Sherlock was using the lab he always thought of as Molly's, as he often did, to use a microscope for one of his cases.

Molly was in there too, at another microscope. He could hear her humming, which was a little irritating. She was always so happy.

He considered telling her to be quiet, as he was trying to work, but decided against it. He was the guest in the lab, not her.

He glanced over at her. In recent months, she had changed somewhat. He remembered the exact day things had changed too. It was when she had come into the lab with her side ponytail and talked about her "office romance". She had introduced Sherlock to the man who had turned out to be his greatest nemesis, James Moriarty. Even though that particular little dalliance had not worked out, Molly seemed more confident now.

He supposed it was because she had finally got over her silly crush on himself. He had to admit, it had been rather amusing to know she liked him, to be able to manipulate her, just a little. He distinctly recalled the time he had come up behind her in the canteen, intent on getting her to allow him to see two dead bodies for the one case. A little flattery of her new hairstyle, which she had parted to one side, and a friendly smile, had been enough for him to gain access to those bodies even though the paperwork on them had already been completed. She had bent the rules just for him, and it had felt good. He didn't feel too bad about it either. He had absolutely been telling the truth when he had told her the side part suited her better. She had looked rather attractive, not that he was in the least affected by physical beauty. Intelligence was much more important than physical assets.

Yes, if he was actually interested in a romantic relationship, Sherlock supposed Molly would be as good a candidate as any. She was aesthetically pleasing to the eye, in a rather unassuming way, but it was her superior intelligence that resonated with him, and they worked well together. Her wardrobe left much to be desired, although he did find that little cherry cardigan to be rather endearing. Was she aware of the sexual connotation of wearing cherries? It was unlikely at her age that she was actually a virgin, as he was. For him, it was by choice and disinterest in sharing himself intimately with a woman. But she was over thirty and, from what he had observed, very few people remained celibate for that length of time if they were unmarried. Of course, that was none of his business, but it was an intriguing thought, nonetheless.

In stark contrast to his perception of Molly, there was that other woman he had met recently, Irene Adler. Now, there was a woman who exuded sexuality with every pore. Small wonder, given her profession as a dominatrix. It had been rather discombobulating to see the woman completely naked upon their first meeting. He'd never set his eyes on a naked woman before, at least not one who was not a corpse. It was disturbing and had knocked him off-balance.

But Irene's whole outward appearance was due to artifice - painted lips, nails, perfectly applied eye makeup. Even her hair had been elaborately curled, something that would have taken a considerable amount of time, unlike Molly's usual hair regimen of pulling her hair into a practical ponytail or quick braid.

He supposed a lot of men would be turned on by Irene, but he was definitely not one of them. He supposed it was the whole idea of putting on a false façade that he did not care for. He did not pretend to be someone he was not. If people didn't like him, that was fine. He didn't set out to make friends by playing games. Perhaps that was why he and Molly got along well. She didn't try to be someone she was not either.

Sherlock suddenly realised he had been staring into the microscope for five minutes, not paying attention to his task, lost in reflection and comparison of two different women instead.

Focus, he told himself, even as he became aware of the door to the lab opening, and that Molly had ceased her humming.

The voice of an American came from the direction of the door, and Sherlock looked up. "Hey, Molly. Thought I'd find you here. Did you forget about our lunch date in the canteen?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open slightly. The man was almost his doppelgänger. He looked to be the same height, hair colour black as well, but styled differently. Who the hell was he? Sherlock had never laid eyes on him before. And what was this about a lunch date? Since when had Molly been seeing someone new?

Molly's voice was a little flustered when she responded, and Sherlock saw colour bloom in her cheeks. "Oh, I'm sorry, Stephen. I did lose track of time. Is it one already?" She glanced at her watch as she spoke. "Oh gosh, it's one-fifteen."

The stranger smiled easily. "No problem. Do you still want to go eat lunch with me?" His gaze met Sherlock's, and Molly obviously saw the curiosity in his eyes.

"Oh, yes, of course." She looked at Sherlock then. "Sherlock, this is Doctor Stephen Strange. He just started working at the hospital a couple weeks ago. He's a neurosurgeon." She looked over at the other man. "Stephen, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective, and he comes in here often to do work on his cases."

"Consulting detective, actually," put in Sherlock, feeling a little annoyed that Molly had downplayed his profession, when she had made a special note of the fact that this doctor fellow was a neurosurgeon. "I am the best at what I do."

The Strange guy, funny name that, thought Sherlock, gave him a cursory glance. "I'm the best at what I do too. Ready, Molly?"

"Let me just get my handbag. I'll be right back." She walked past the doctor, leaving the two men alone, sizing one another up.

Sherlock looked at the man again. He had a casual air of arrogance about him, as if the world owed him something.

"So, you're a detective then. Do detectives here always come to hospitals to use their microscopes?" The man's voice was friendly, but Sherlock detected a note of censure beneath, and he stiffened his posture.

"As I said, I am a consulting detective. I have permission to use this lab whenever required for my investigations. I am the one Scotland Yard comes to when they have a problem they can't solve, which is almost all of the time."

Strange folded his arms. "I see." He didn't seem impressed.

Molly returned and said brightly, "I'm back. Ready to go?"

The doctor smiled. "Sure am, sugar." With a parting possible smirk at Sherlock, and a cheery wave from Molly, Sherlock found himself alone in the lab once again.

Sugar? Who was this man to sweet talk Molly that way? Sherlock didn't know exactly why, but he did not like that man at all. And if he hurt Molly, there would be hell to pay. Sherlock would not permit anyone to treat his pathologist with disrespect.

Hmmm, he thought. It is time for lunch. Of course, he didn't eat lunch when he was in the middle of an investigation. Digesting slowed him down, but he could certainly use a break, and what better location than the canteen? He could get something to drink and quietly observe Molly and that Strange fellow from a distance.

He walked slowly to the canteen. He wanted to make sure Molly and Strange had a chance to get their food and find a place to sit.

Upon entering the canteen, he scanned the crowd of lunch-goers and spotted the couple almost immediately, sitting at a side table. For privacy, maybe?

He walked over to a vending machine and purchased a bottle of water. Then, he found an empty table where he could see both Molly and her companion, but they would have to twist their heads in order to see him.

He watched as they ate and chatted away. At one point, Strange put his hand over Molly's where it rested on the table, and she tilted her head, as if contemplating a question he asked. Sherlock's own hands clenched involuntarily as she responded with something that made Strange smile. Was he asking her out on an official date, perhaps?

He continued sipping his water slowly, broodingly, until Molly and her companion rose and returned their trays, then exited the canteen together.

Sherlock stayed a little longer, finished his drink and tossed it in a recycling rubbish bin on his way out, then returned to the lab.

Molly was there, and she looked up from her microscope as he entered. "Oh, Sherlock, I thought you must have left for the day."

He rolled his eyes and indicated the petri dish with soil he had been analysing, next to the microscope he had been using. "Not much of a detective, are you? I'd hardly have left this here if I had finished." He slid into his seat.

She sat up straight and crossed her arms. "I'm a pathologist. I deduce causes of death and analyse tissue samples from corpses to aid in that. I don't go looking around a lab for clues as to whether a person is still working or not."

Sherlock felt a little guilty about his comment. She was right; she was a pathologist, and a damned good one as well. But saying sorry wasn't in his nature, so instead he said, "You're right. I should not have said that. As you can see, I still have some work to do."

She nodded. "I'll let you get on with it, then."

They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock could stand it no longer. He was used to them chatting about this or that. He loved to complain about the various things John did that annoyed him, and she always lent a sympathetic ear, although she was not afraid to call him out on something she thought was inappropriate. That was something that had changed too with Molly over the past several months. It had been her custom to stammer around him, to blush and always seem a little flustered and thrilled at his attention. Now, she was more casual about things.

"So," he asked, trying to keep his tone light, "how was your lunch date with the American doctor?"

"Neurosurgeon," she corrected. "It was good. He has had a fabulous career in America, has done some amazingly complicated surgeries. He told me he noticed a bullet in a man's head had caused the onset of a central nervous system shutdown, which made the man appear brain dead. They were about to take the man off to harvest his organs, when Stephen pointed out the bullet and how the alloy leaching into the cerebral fluid was the cause of the shutdown. He extracted the bullet freehand. There was not time to use image guidance, and the man lived. Isn't that amazing?"

"Sounds more like something you'd see in a film, rather than real life," said Sherlock, rather dryly. He didn't care for the enthusiasm in Molly's voice. She had used to be enthusiastic about his own powers of observation and deduction, much like John still was at times.

Her brows drew together. "You don't think he was telling the truth?"

"I didn't say that. But perhaps he was embellishing a little to impress you."

"Seriously, Sherlock, you just can't stand for there to be people out there who are clever like you. Besides, I've known you on occasion to show off your own observational skills."

Sherlock felt himself flush. "That's different. I don't do that to impress. I just say out loud what I am thinking, and sometimes my brain runs away with me. I don't boast about previous cases."

"John writes about them in his blog," Molly pointed out.

"His choice, not mine."

She shrugged dismissively. "Whatever. You're entitled to your opinion of Stephen, I'm entitled to mine."

Sherlock grunted and returned to looking into his own microscope. He was irritated that Molly had defended the doctor. Why couldn't she understand he was only trying to save her the trouble of a broken heart?

They didn't speak again, and Sherlock finally finished his soil analysis that provided the clues he had been looking for.

He left the lab without saying goodbye, still feeling rather piqued with Molly.

A week passed before Sherlock saw Molly again.

He entered the mortuary where Molly was just finishing the post-mortem on a murder victim he was investigating. This was nothing unusual. She was usually the person who was assigned to those types of post-mortems, because Mike knew Sherlock did not trust the work of any other pathologist at the hospital. Every time he did his own investigation of a corpse, he always noticed something else that had been missed unless it was Molly who had done the post-mortem. She was thorough and able to answer any questions he might have.

This occasion was no exception. After she had answered his questions about the corpse, Sherlock ventured to ask, "So, how are things going with you and that doctor?"

Molly looked at him as she removed her gloves. "Fine. Just yesterday he conducted two successful brain tumour surgeries." She looked at her watch. "In fact, if I don't hurry, I'm going to be late for lunch with him again."

Sherlock was not liking the direction in which this relationship was heading. Another lunch date? Had they been meeting every day for lunch? He forced himself to keep his tone neutral, however. "Well, enjoy your lunch. I need to get back to the Yard."

He watched her exit the mortuary, wondering why he felt so deflated. It wasn't like him at all.

A couple days passed, and Sherlock decided he needed to use the lab again. He probably could have availed himself of his scientific instruments at home, but he told himself the lab was better equipped. He definitely wasn't using it as an excuse to see Molly and find out how things were going with her and her new beau.

He walked into the lab to see Molly was not alone. She was talking with Stephen Strange, who apparently had nothing better to do than wander about the hospital rather than do his own job.

His eyes narrowed as Strange put a hand on Molly's shoulder, then bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll see you after work. Is seven still good for you?"

She smiled a smile Sherlock had always thought had been reserved for him, a sweet, dimpled one, and he felt a sense of irritation about it. "That's fine. It will be nice to go out and relax after a long week."

Strange straightened and turned, seeing Sherlock. "Oh, hello again. Holmes, isn't it?" he said pleasantly. Dammit. Why does the man look so much like me?

Sherlock merely gave a short nod. He did not miss the other man's slightly smug smile as he passed him.

"Hello, Sherlock. Twice in one week? You must be busy with your cases," said Molly as she sat at her microscope and adjusted a slide beneath it.

Sherlock walked behind her to use the microscope he had claimed as his own. "The lighting is better here than at Baker Street, so it's preferable when I have a pressing case." He didn't tell Molly that there was not really any urgency to what he was doing. He was merely confirming some results he had seen on his home microscope.

They continued quietly for a few minutes. Sherlock could feel this awkward silence stretching between them as it had done the previous week. Could she sense it too? Why was this happening now? This distance between him and Molly was not at all a pleasant feeling. He lifted his head and looked over at Molly. Adopting a casual tone, he remarked, "So, evening plans with Strange. Off to anywhere special?"

She lifted her own head to look at him, and he noticed how attractive her hair looked. It was parted again in the way he had commented on that time in the canteen. "Just The Fox. It's been a long week."

She didn't offer any further conversation. Usually they would end up chatting about one of his recent cases, or she would talk about an interesting post-mortem, but not today. It was infuriating, really.

After a half hour of silence, Sherlock gave up trying to concentrate on what he was doing. All he could do was think about Molly and that doctor. He had kissed her on the cheek. Sherlock had known Molly for over a year, and he had never done anything so forward. This bloke hardly knew her, and he was already kissing her cheek? What else were they doing behind closed doors?

Sherlock stood, gathered his things and swept out of the lab without saying another word. Molly didn't even look up from what she was doing. She hadn't even bothered to say goodbye, and that was a first.

Sherlock arrived home in a black mood, which John, who was reading a newspaper in his chair, noticed. Probably the way Sherlock kicked off his shoes and stomped to his chair, then folded his legs beneath himself. The frown on his face might also have been an indicator.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock? You look like you lost your best friend. But then, you don't have friends, besides me, do you? Or so you like to tell me."

"Shut up, John." Sherlock made a spur-of-the-moment decision. "I'm going to go out this evening. I have an errand to run."

John raised an eyebrow. "Errand? What sort of errand? Do you want me to come with you? Is it for a case?"

"It's not for a case. It's personal."

John frowned slightly. "Well, if you don't want to share, that's fine."

And Sherlock couldn't keep his annoyance in any longer. "It's Molly. She's going out with some blasted American doctor, and I don't like it. He's not good enough for her."

John's brows drew together. "Why do you care who Molly is seeing? I think it's jolly good she's moving on after that last disaster with Moriarty."

Sherlock ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I can't help it, John. I feel protective of her. She's not very good with relationships. She might get hurt. This guy is arrogant. He's undoubtedly a player."

"Hmmm, sounds like someone I know, except the player bit."

Sherlock glared. "I should have kept my mouth shut."

John merely shrugged, used to Sherlock's moods. "So, does this errand have something to do with Molly?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, contemplating. It might be good to invite John along, just in case Molly or her suitor saw him. "Fancy a drink at The Fox, tonight? Around seven?"

"You don't drink."

"Oh, for God's sake, John. I didn't mean we were actually going to drink. I want to keep an eye on Molly. Make sure this Strange guy is keeping his hands to himself."

John quirked an eyebrow. "He might be strange to you, but if Molly is going out with him, he's obviously not strange to her."

Sherlock let out a groan of irritation. "Not strange, Strange!"

John looked at him uncomprehendingly. "There's a difference?"

"His name is Stephen Strange."

John gaped. "Do you mean that American neurosurgeon Mary has been raving about? She said all the other nurses at Bart's are talking about him. Apparently, he's quite the charmer with that accent of his. She even said he looks a lot like you. Maybe that's part of the attraction for Molly, seeing as you never displayed any interest in her when she had that crush on you."

Sherlock stood and paced the room. Mary was John's latest in a string of girlfriends, and for once, he quite liked his friend's choice. There was something about her. She was definitely more intelligent than she let on.

He stopped pacing. "You know, why don't you bring Mary along? That way, if Molly happens to see us, you can pretend you are out on a date with her and invited me to tag along. What do you say?"

"Well, we already made plans, but I'll see if she's okay with changing them. I have to say, Sherlock, this sounds a lot to me like you are jealous."

Sherlock folded his arms. "I am not jealous. That would imply I have a romantic interest in Molly, which I do not. I'm just trying to look out for her, like a big brother would." Even as he said the words, he had a niggling feeling he wasn't being quite honest with himself. He pushed the unwelcome thought away. You don't do relationships. You're married to your work, remember? he reasoned to himself silently.

"Alright, mate. No need to get your knickers in a twist. I'll give Mary a call."

One successful phone call later, and things were arranged. Mary, who had her own car, would pick them up at seven. That way, they would arrive at The Fox after Molly did.

They arrived at the pub, and Sherlock immediately looked around, finally spotting Molly and her date at a table close to a pool table and dart board.

Sherlock located a table some distance away, where he could still see Molly and Strange. "Drink, Sherlock?" asked John, after getting Mary's order for a glass of wine.

"Beer, I guess," said Sherlock. "I don't care what kind."

While John was off getting drinks, Mary, who was an astute woman, asked, "so, what's really going on here, Sherlock? Why did you want to spy on Molly and her new man?"

He cast a quick glance over at the other couple, who had their heads quite close together as they talked. "I am not spying on her. As I told John, I feel a sense of protectiveness towards Molly. I don't want her to get hurt."

Mary turned her head in their direction, than looked at Sherlock. "They seem pretty cosy, and I think that bothers you. Admit it to yourself, Sherlock. John told me she had a crush on you at one point, but you weren't interested. I think you're interested now. The thought of losing her to another man bothers you. Even if he was the nicest guy in the world, you wouldn't like it."

Sherlock folded his arms. "Romantic entanglements-"

"Would complete you as a human being," she finished for him.

"I wouldn't know," said Sherlock, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge her possibly accurate assessment.

John returned with the drinks.

Sherlock sipped his beer slowly, glancing over occasionally, well, more than occasionally, at the other couple, while John and Mary chatted away quite happily, ignoring him.

He watched as Molly and Strange rose to play a game of darts. "They're playing darts now," he hissed, and John and Mary both gave him a look.

"So what?" asked John.

"Does that mean they are friends or more than friends?"

John shrugged. "Not a clue. This is your covert mission, Sherlock. You're the detective. Watch their body language."

"I will." Sherlock raised his beer glass to his lips and took another sip, then crouched a bit lower in his chair so he could still see Molly and her date, but it would be hard to see him. Fortunately, his area of the pub was not as brightly lit as that near the area with the pool tables and dart boards.

He scowled as he watched them play darts, Strange patting Molly's shoulder encouragingly every now and then. And then he scowled even more when he watched the man say something to Molly, lean down and kiss her on the lips for one, two, three, he counted silently, seconds, right in front of everybody. "He's kissing her!" he growled, then noticed John and Mary were doing the same. "Knock it off. You're supposed to be my wing man - and woman. I didn't ask you to come along so you can have a snogging session in front of me."

Mary had the grace to blush a little, while John merely folded his arms. "What did you expect? Did you think we were going to just sit and watch Molly as well?"

"Of course," said Sherlock promptly. "You're supposed to be advising me. You are the ones with relationship experience."

John looked over in Molly's direction. "Well, I don't see them doing anything in particular right now. In fact, he's helping her on with her jacket, so I guess they are leaving."

Sherlock's heart began to thump painfully. "He kissed her, John. In public, no less. If they're leaving, does that mean he's going to her place? Are they sleeping together?"

Mary responded with, "Sherlock, it isn't your business if they are, is it? Not unless you have a vested interest in having Molly for yourself."

Sherlock felt his vision darken as he watched Strange sling an arm around Molly. He said nothing until they exited, thankfully not looking in his direction. Couldn't she feel his eyes boring into her back, though?

For some reason, the thought of Molly kissing Strange, of sleeping with Strange, was like a lead weight in his stomach. That was when it hit him, and it was an epiphany. It hurt him, more than words could say, to think of Molly being with any man besides himself. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled as he admitted, "Oh God, Mary, you're right. I want her, I want Molly Hooper for myself."

John's voice was shocked. "What did you say? The man who says he doesn't have a heart has finally found it?"

"Don't tease him, John," said Mary sternly. "Sherlock's obviously hurting. Have a little compassion. How would you like it if I, the woman you are in love with, went off with someone else?"

Sherlock heard and registered her words in the back of his mind. Was he in love with Molly? Was that what this jealousy was all about? Was that why it hurt so much to think of her and Strange being together, of being lovers?

"Sorry, Sherlock," came John's voice, and he lifted his head.

"You can call me a damned fool, John, a moron, even. Strange is a lucky man."

Mary looked thoughtful. "You know, Sherlock. It is possible that she has only moved on because she gave up on you. I have an idea on a way you could find out for sure."

Sherlock gave her a slightly hopeful look. "Tell me."

Author's note: Well now, what does Mary have in mind? Any guesses?

So, this little story has been in the works in my mind for months. I knew when I wanted the dream to occur, as the result of my real Sherlock and Molly watching Doctor Strange on Disney Plus in England. So, when the appropriate timeline for it happened, off I went to get the story done. I hope it does not feel rushed. It is only a little 2 chapter fic. I know there have been some Sherlock/Doctor Strange crossovers, but I'm not sure if anyone has tackled the theme of Sherlock dealing with the pre-Doctor Strange character, when he is still a neurosurgeon, so I hope you are enjoying this little tale.

As always, it would really help to receive some encouragement in the form of follows, favourites and feedback, so tap your fingers on those buttons and spread some virtual kindness as we all try to avoid spreading the virus.