AN: I wanted to finish this story before episode 3 came out, because obviously large portions of this will be canonballed, but it didn't end up happening. So I'm starting it anyway. The story begins about where episode 1 does, but was written after episode 2 aired.

o.o.o

He gives it a try, when he comes back from the dead.

It's logical that he would do so, really, when one thinks about it. His years with John have made him accustomed to companionship—just how accustomed he wasn't aware until he spent two years abroad dismantling Moriarty's network and found himself . . . not lonely, because he's Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't like thinking of himself as someone who gets lonely, so perhaps the word is nostalgic. Yes, that's it. He found himself thinking back fondly on the days of having someone there with him to share his triumphs, to laugh at his jokes and make him laugh in return, someone to bear witness to his genius. So when he returns to London and to real life, it's logical that he would attempt to recreate those days when he'd been so happy to have someone around.

And it's logical that he would have chosen Molly. John's out of the picture for now, still angry with him for the deception, and Mrs. Hudson would be useless and Gary Lestrade has his own crimes to solve. And Molly, he thinks, could turn out to be useful in a pinch; she doesn't have the instincts and physicality of John or the incisive brilliance of Mycroft or even Lestrade's sometimes-useful police authority, but she's proven herself reliable and trustworthy—see how she kept his secret for two years—and after John she's the smartest ordinary person he knows. And it certainly helps that for some inexplicable reason she harbors romantic regard for him and, if past experiences are anything to go off of, will drop everything to help him if he asks.

So he summons her to Baker Street, and asks if she will help him solve crimes. She agrees, surprised, and takes off her coat and gloves, and that's when their crime-fighting partnership almost stops before it starts because the first thing he notices is the diamond ring on her fourth finger—moderately expensive, indicating a financially stable but not hugely wealthy fiance; wasn't wearing it at St. Bart's earlier, indicating she takes it off at work to keep it safe or because it's irritating to have on under latex gloves—and he hesitates, just for a moment. But she already said yes; clearly she thinks the fact that she's moved on romantically doesn't mean they can't spend time together. So he ignores the ring and carries on with his work.

And for one satisfactory day it's even better than he hoped. She brings no deductions or thoughts to the table that he wasn't capable of himself, but from the few observations she does make he can tell she has the potential to contribute. She is appropriately awed and impressed by his deductions and appalled at the criminals and bad behavior they uncover. There is even a moment, at the train enthusiast's flat, where they glance at each other, amused at the man's obsession, and something sparks through the air between them—a flash of mutual camaraderie and mirth and understanding, something he's only ever experienced with John—and he realizes that he could connect with this woman, perhaps become real genuine friends and not just work associates.

But he's not so caught up in himself as to fail to notice that Molly has been slowly growing quieter, the usual brightness of her expression dimming with the late afternoon light. He's not surprised at all when she stops him on the stairs to ask what today has been about.

He lies, or at least he tells only half the truth: "Saying thank you," as though this has simply been a favor he's doing her, not an effort on his part to not be alone. She doesn't believe it, he can see; she doesn't believe that he'd do something just to say thank you. But it's true, he does owe her an enormous debt, and he feels it's important that she know he's grateful. "Moriarty slipped up," he tells her. "He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

But instead of looking gratified as he speaks, she looks more and more stricken, and he stops. There's a room in his mind palace where he files away bits of insight and advice and observations about human behavior, and this data—which gives him reminders in a voice that sometimes sounds like his mother, and other times like John—is telling him that she doesn't want to hear this right now and because of that he can't pressure her into helping him anymore.

So he stops trying to be human and simply speaks the observed truth, as he does best: "But you can't do this again, can you?"

She is tearful and apologetic and awkward, and he briefly wonders how much of her previous attraction to him still remains, but she is obviously determined to be happy with her fiance. And as she talks about this new man, the one who's not from work, he feels a now-familiar pang of that same emotion he felt those two years away from London. Nostalgia, he'd decided it was, and he thinks that makes sense in this situation as well. This is the end of an era, in a way; the era of sweet Molly Hooper always there to help in the morgue, always willing and eager and slightly blinded by her feelings, always falling in love with the exact wrong man (the humor has never been lost on him that of all the ways he and Moriarty were alike, this is one of the most unexpected, that Molly Hooper fell in love with them both). They've had an odd sort of bond between them—not the one she would have liked, but a very real one all the same—and now that's ending. He's losing her the way he lost John (maybe if he'd never died then his best friend wouldn't have met a woman and his devoted admirer wouldn't have met a man) and the thought sobers him more than he would have expected.

And that's what causes him to lean down and press a kiss to her cheek (the voice in his head declares that will be an acceptable and appropriate gesture) and then he hurries away through the drifting snow. That was altogether too emotional a scene; he's been downright mawkish on more than one occasion in the last few days and he doesn't like it and it's going to stop. He can't have John and he can't have Molly and there's no one else he cares to have assist him, so from this point on he will carry on alone.

o.o.o

In the end he reconciles with John and therefore no longer needs a replacement for him, and Molly Hooper doesn't cross his mind again until one day in his flat he finds himself face to face with his double. Oh, they're not identical, but the important similarities are there; in build, in hairstyle, in fashion sense, this man could have been Sherlock's brother—if Sherlock had been blessed with a normal, blokey-type brother rather than a dangerously brilliant government puppet-master with even less use for human emotion than Sherlock has. The man's body language and proximity to Molly make it quite clear who he is, and Sherlock forces himself not to react as he leaves the room.

So Molly Hooper is not as moved on as she would like to believe, if she's engaged to his twin (though it's clear she doesn't consciously recognize the similarities or she'd be more embarrassed to introduce him to the people who know Sherlock). Sherlock has to admit he finds this revelation rather gratifying. While he'd certainly never wanted her affections, it had flattered his vanity to know that he had them, and the knowledge that she had pulled him off that pedestal and replaced him with someone ordinary had annoyed him a bit; not to mention, he'd been expecting a rather more dramatic choice in partner from the woman who'd already fallen in love with two brilliant sociopaths. But Tom is not an ordinary choice at all—he's an ordinary man, but not an ordinary choice.

John's seen it too. "Did you . . ."

"Not saying a word," Sherlock says. No sense alienating his morgue contact even more than her upcoming marriage inevitably will. And anyway she's so happy, and he's ruined her happiness often enough. He'll let her have this one.

But as he walks down the stairs, he can't help but feel pleased with himself for leaving such an indelible mark on Molly Hooper.

o.o.o

If he thought that was the last he'd see of Tom, he was dead wrong, because somehow over the next few months Molly and Tom become part of Sherlock's social group, much more than Molly ever was before—not a constant fixture, but he sees them once or twice a month. Perhaps it's because Mary, who has no family, collects friends like a shelter collects stray cats, and she has collected Molly. The two women talk about wedding planning nonstop when they're together, leafing through the piles of bridal magazines Sherlock now keeps in his flat, and only someone who's paying attention would notice that while Mary talks in concrete details and plans, Molly's plans are always a bit more in the abstract. It's clear Molly Hooper is in no rush to wed.

The two women clearly enjoy talking to each other, but he finds he prefers when they pull themselves away from their talk of florists and dresses and join the others, as both women are significantly better conversationalists than Tom. Sherlock has quickly come to deeply admire and respect Mary, which is a lucky thing because he couldn't be so tranquil about losing John to anyone less worthy. Molly's rise in his estimation is much slower but still steady—perhaps because he sees her far less often than he does Mary—and while he still doesn't consider her as close a friend as John or Mary or even Grayson Lestrade, he values her company far more than he does her tedious fiance's.

Tom, for his part, is as insipid as Sherlock expected; not an unintelligent man, all things considered, but not one who thinks deeply. His contributions to the conversation, which are blessedly few, clearly paint a picture of a man who is complacent, a man who is perfectly happy to simply go to work every day and the pub on the weekends, a man who has never considered how much more there is in the world than what he sees in front of his face. Not necessarily bad qualities, if a person wants a sedate and unremarkable life, but they aren't the qualities he'd have thought would please a woman who had worked, in her own small way, to fight back the dark. To use a phrase Moriarty had once accused Sherlock with, Molly is on the side of the angels. Tom, by stark contrast, keeps his feet firmly planted on the earth.

o.o.o

Being in a relationship has changed Molly Hooper, Sherlock decides a few months later; it's made her more confident, at least in his company. He supposes that now that she's not worried about trying to make him like her, she's more willing to speak her mind around him. Although maybe it's actually that she grew as a person in the two years he was dead.

Whatever the reason, it's changing their relationship dynamic, and he doesn't like it. Where once he had the upper hand in every conversation—at least enough that he could always get what he wanted from her—they're now on more even footing because Molly has started standing up to him; she now wins about half of their conversations. (He knows that most people don't consider a conversation a battle to be won or lost, but then most people are not the world's only consulting detective.)

She even goes on the offensive sometimes and is surprisingly capable of putting him on his back foot when she wants to. Not many people can get the better of him, and he both admires and is irritated by this new development in her. Of course, in his defense, she cheats; she uses his lack of comfort with social and romantic interactions against him. (Of course, in her defense, he's the one who started the cheating, by employing insincere compliments to manipulate her feelings for him.)

Case in point: when he asks for her help in calculating the exact amount of alcohol he and John can drink on their stag do. He could do it himself, certainly, but it'd be a lot of calculations and he's got other things he would rather be doing. The Molly he first met down in that morgue would have meekly agreed to do it. The Molly he came to know over the next few years would have gotten flustered and shy but happily taken the assignment. But this Molly simply looks at him. "Are you saying I'm a drunk?"

"No, no," he responds immediately, and is surprised to find himself somewhat flustered; he never meant to insult her, although to be honest he's not actually sure whether she's joking or genuinely offended at the idea. How is she doing this? How is she suddenly the one with the backbone and he's suddenly the tongue-tied one? Maybe it's got to do with the fact that while the old Sherlock would have had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary to get what he needed from the old Molly, the new Sherlock and the new Molly have been through too much together for him to hurt her anymore. She helped him fake his death even though it meant she wouldn't see him anymore, and she kept his secret for two years, and that kind of dedication and loyalty can't be brushed aside.

Or maybe it's got to do with the fact that there's something about the way she looks today that is . . . somehow pleasing.

He's on edge, he's unsettled, and he instinctively tries to get the conversation back under his control. "You look—" he begins, before he realizes what he's doing. He's trying to flatter her again, which is a tactic he doesn't want to resort to and anyway who knows if it would even work anymore because she still intends to marry that idiot. So he finishes lamely, "—well," and now she's got a knowing look on her face, as if she knows how disconcerted he is.

"I am," she smiles.

He makes another attempt at controlling the conversation. "How's . . . Tom?" he asks uncertainly, as though the most important person in her life is a matter of such insignificance to him that he cannot even remember the man's name (Tom Kane, 32, marketer, alternate rock enthusiast and weekend footballer, one pet dog with mild behavioral problems).

"Not a sociopath," she says.

"Still?" he asks, approvingly, and it's another moment of camaraderie, a shared joke and memory.

But only briefly. "And we're having quite a lot of sex," she adds brightly.

And he concedes the fight; he is not getting the upper hand back in this conversation. Defeated, he simply pulls out the folder of information, hoping she'll help him even without his coercion.

And she does, of course, because she's Molly Hooper, and even when Sherlock isn't tricking her into doing things for him, Molly Hooper is nice. He wonders, sometimes, if he could have still gotten her help for all those years if he'd avoided the manipulation and just become her friend.

o.o.o

It would surprise no one who knows Sherlock to find out that he doesn't care for weddings: too many people, too much taffeta, too much alcohol, too many lonely guests on the prowl, and too much sentimentality. Even the promise of fine music, good food and the opportunity to dance usually isn't enough to tempt him. But for John and Mary, the two people he loves most in the world, it is a sacrifice he is willing to make.

Not to mention they've put the responsibility of best man on his shoulders, and he may not like or understand all his duties but he is not going to let this wedding fall apart on his watch.

And it's not nearly as bad as expected, not at first. John and Mary are happy and grateful and the food is excellent and the speech goes well. And the maid of honor seems to take a lot of his quirks in stride, which is surprising and gratifying and although he's not necessarily interested in pursuing that, not even as a friendship, he's pleased to learn that he doesn't always make a terrible impression on strangers. And then of course there's the attempted murder, which isn't the sort of thing one should be happy to have at a wedding, but it certainly makes the day more fun.

It's not until he accidentally informs Mary she's pregnant that his mood starts to dampen. He's happy for them to have a child; that's what people tend to do when they reach a certain stage in life, and he knows they both want it. But when he jokes about how this baby will displace him as the child in their lives, it suddenly occurs to him that what he's saying is absolutely true. And the fears he's been trying to ignore for six months creep up on him and he knows that for all that John insists this won't change anything, it will, and he's going to be left alone and he doesn't know if he can go back to that and he feels lonely already, and suddenly for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes finds himself so desperate for companionship that he sets out with the intention of flirting with a girl.

The maid of honor would be the first choice, as she's kind and possibly interested and not part of his real life so it won't make things awkward if his attempt goes wrong, but he sees she's taken his advice and started dancing with a man he pointed out earlier (curse his observational skills). And there's no one else; the only other unmarried woman he even knows—besides Mrs. Hudson and that is not an option—is Molly, and although he actually considers it for a moment, he quickly remembers that she is engaged.

And it feels strangely like a rejection, seeing her stand there with another man, like he had asked her to dance and she'd said no. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't usually feel hurt, and it makes him irrationally angry, and for a brief surprising moment he hates Tom and he's angry with Molly. Why is she engaged to him? Come on, meat dagger? The man is a moron and Molly knows it; it was clear as could be on her face when she hissed at him to sit down. And that's what really irritates him about that relationship. How could you possibly be with someone whose intelligence you don't respect?

And that's it, he's done with this wedding. He's done his part: he's been friendly, he gave a speech, he stopped the major from being killed. Nowhere in the rules of wedding etiquette does it say the best man has to stand around feeling like he's the only alien on the planet.

Molly glances back at him as he starts to walk away but he doesn't care. He's gone.

o.o.o

He doesn't see anyone except clients, not even Mrs. Hudson, until John and Mary are back from their honeymoon. The only social contact he does have is a text from that bridesmaid, who cheerfully informs him that she has started seeing that man from the wedding. The news unexpectedly makes Sherlock smile for a moment. But only for a moment.

The day after the Watsons are set to return, John appears in the doorway of the flat. "Get your coat," he says without preamble.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and lowers the bow from his violin. "Why?"

"I came by to see if you wanted to get dinner with Mary and me, but Mrs. Hudson says you haven't left the flat in a week and half so I'm no longer giving you a choice. Get your coat."

And Sherlock rolls his eyes but the tiniest hint of a smile finds its way onto his face, and John smiles back, and Sherlock gets his coat.

He regrets it, though, when they enter the restaurant and he sees that Mary isn't the only other attendee: there's George Lestrade (fine), Molly Hooper (acceptable) and that idiot Tom (not acceptable, not by a long shot). The only thing that keeps him from expressing or at least visibly showing his annoyance is Mary's smile, which serves the dual purpose of making him happier and reminding him to be on his best behavior. So he smiles at Mary (genuine smile) and Lestrade and Molly (genuine smile) and Tom (less genuine smile), and he sits down between John and Tom and prepares himself for a long evening.

But the evening is pleasant, for the most part; they talk about John and Mary's travels and about the wedding and about the baby, and Tom says very little because he is busily murmuring things quietly to Molly. Sherlock finds himself strangely fascinated watching both her face and Mary's when their partners talk to them. Mary's expression is warm and open, and while he can't read everything there he definitely gets the gist and it says she's quite happy. Molly's, by contrast, becomes curiously unreadable. Sherlock doesn't have to be a detective to see that something is wrong there.

"I want loads of kids," says Tom in one of the few statements he addresses to the whole table. "Lots of little Mollys and Toms running around." Lestrade catches Sherlock's eye across the table and grimaces; Sherlock isn't sure if that's meant to comment on the ridiculous mawkishness of that statement or on the ridiculousness of happy couples in general, but it doesn't matter, as he agrees with both sentiments. What he's really interested in, though, is Molly's reaction; she becomes quite still, and her eyes dart to John and Mary, and then to Lestrade, and then down to the table. Tom glances to her, and then his shoulders move in a heavy breath, like a sigh.

Sherlock watches this all with one eyebrow raised.

o.o.o

Two mornings later finds John and Sherlock at the morgue, waiting for a cause of death finding from Molly.

"Heart attack," she informs them as she approaches where they stand. "No foul play, sorry."

Sherlock's brow furrows. There must have been foul play—remember the state of the man's car— and he is so caught up in his thoughts that he barely notices John has pulled out his wallet and extended a business card to Molly. "Mary wanted me to give you this," he's saying. "It's that seamstress she was mentioning the other night."

But Sherlock's not so distracted that he doesn't notice Molly's hesitation as she reaches out to take the card. John watches her, glances at Sherlock, then clears his throat. "How are things going with the wedding planning, anyway?"

"Slowly," she says, after a hesitation, and her smile looks different than normal, somehow.

That appears to be some kind of signal to John, who hesitates, then steps in close and speaks in a softer tone. "Are you two . . . all right?"

"Fine," she replies, and no one is convinced. Then she sighs a little. "It's just . . . ever since your wedding, Tom's been pushing for us to set a date, and it's getting to be a bit much. His hint at dinner the other night wasn't exactly subtle."

This makes absolutely no sense to Sherlock and he speaks without thinking. "It's not unreasonable for him to want to set a wedding date. Why call yourselves engaged if you don't intend to wed soon?"

Molly looks over at him, frowning, but before she can speak he adds, "And if you do intend to have 'lots of little Mollys and Toms' then you'll need to start soon; your childbearing years are ticking by quickly."

Molly and John fix him with identical stares of disbelief and irritation.

"What?" he asks, and he knows he's said something wrong and he hates feeling so wrong-footed and it makes him defensive. "I simply stated a fact. And for reasons I cannot begin to understand, you have agreed to marry that man, so marry him. Or if you've finally realized what a moron he is, break off your engagement and quit ruining my evenings by bringing him 'round my flat."

Molly stares, her mouth open a little in surprise, then shakes her head and leaves the room. John glares at him.

"What?" Sherlock repeats.

"Do you ever think before you speak?" John says. "Go after her and apologize."

"Apologize?" Sherlock says incredulously. "For what? It needed to be said."

John points a finger toward the door. "Go after her," he repeats, "and apologize."

And there are few things Sherlock wants to do less, but he recognizes that tone from John and he knows his friend will needle him about this for days if he doesn't, so with a long-suffering sigh and a dark look at John, he heads out the door to find Molly.

It doesn't take long; she's standing at the end of the hallway, her back to him.

"Molly," he says when he's in earshot, "I shouldn't have said that. It's not necessarily true anyway; you have at least ten good childbearing years ahead of you—"

"Sherlock," she chokes out, something between a laugh and a sob, "shut up." When she turns to face him there are tears glittering unshed in her eyes, and he sighs inwardly. Crying women make him uncomfortable. Crying men do as well, come to think of it.

"Molly," he says, softer and lower because there's something about Molly that sometimes brings out a side of him that few other people see, "don't cry because of what I said. It doesn't accomplish anything and anyway you know perfectly well I'm the last person you should listen to about affairs of the heart."

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her middle. "No," she says, "you were right. I've been putting off setting a date because . . . I'm not sure I want to marry him anymore."

Well, that makes a great deal of sense. "Was it because of the meat dagger?"

Molly laughs shakily. "No," she says. "Yes. It's everything. It's . . . shouldn't a bride look forward to her wedding day?"

"I believe that is customary," Sherlock agrees.

She looks at the ground. "I wanted this to work so badly," she admits. "Tom is a good man. Just . . . not one I want to spend my life with." She sinks onto a nearby bench with a sigh. "I think I just wanted so badly to be married."

"I never saw the point myself," he says, sitting carefully near her. "It limits your freedom and places someone in your life that you owe something to. Someone you're responsible for. Not to mention the statistics of people who are killed or abused by domestic partners—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," she repeats, but she's laughing as she leans her head back against the wall. "That's the problem with you; you focus on the bad. But it's not just about that. It's about . . ." She turns to face him. "You know, it's having someone there instead of going home to a cold empty flat at night. It's someone to talk to and help with the dishes, and they're there for you when you're sad and you're there for them. It's waking up next to someone you love. Have you ever done that, Sherlock?"

Honestly? No. But luckily she doesn't seem to expect an answer (she probably already knows it, really). "It's nice. You probably wouldn't like it because it would mean letting someone into your personal space. But it's really nice. And marriage is two people saying to each other 'I love you so much that I'm going to promise to do all of these things for the rest of our lives.' How does that not sound nice?"

To be perfectly honest, parts of it do sound nice. But he knows quite well that no one in this world would make that promise to him; he'd end up doing something to push them away first. But Molly isn't waiting for his thoughts on her view of marriage; she's leaning back against the wall with a sigh and closing her eyes. "Maybe I'm overreacting." She winces. "And how would I ever tell him?"

And he would really love for this conversation to be over—if she's decided that something should be done, she should just do it, and anyway he is really out of his comfort zone with comforting a woman who is contemplating breaking off an engagement—so he decides to muster up one last reassurance. "As I said, I am the last person you should trust on affairs of the heart," he says. "But it seems to me that if you don't want to marry him, the kindest thing to do is tell him soon and quickly. It is not fair to you or to him to keep the engagement up any longer. And it would be even less fair to go forward with the wedding because you don't want to ruffle any feathers." He stands to go.

She lifts her arms to place the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Sherlock," she says.

"Yes?" he replies when she doesn't go on.

"Nothing."

o.o.o