A/N: No, I'm not insane. But I did start posting this on tumblr so I figured I might as well put it up here and on AO3 as well. This will be a short, angsty little story with a happy ending because you know that's how I roll, lol. Someone had put a post on tumblr commenting that if they found out in Series 4 that Molly and Sherlock had been secretly married since uni they would love it, and that...turned into this. I hope you enjoy the ride!

The steady beeps and pings of the machinery were the only sounds in the room besides the soft aspirations of the respirator. Sherlock held his wife's hand – the one with no needles stuck into the soft, pale flesh – in his and gazed unseeingly out the window of her hospital room.

It was the second time he'd seen Molly like this, so fragile and lifeless, the machines doing the work of keeping her alive, while he was left to wonder if she'd ever wake up again. And if she did wake up, who would she be? Would she remember him this time, or forget him as she had the first time?

It didn't make it any better to know that both times she'd ended up like this had been entirely his own fault.

The sound of the door opening behind him was simply catalogued as another noise, as were the quiet footsteps that approached. Not a doctor or a nurse, the soles of the shoes were smooth leather rather than thick rubber, and he knew without turning who it would be even before John spoke.

"How is she doing?"

Sherlock waved toward the chart at the foot of Molly's bed. St. Bart's was modern in many ways but still clung to some old-fashioned habits. Such as physical, paper patient charts to go along with the electronic tablets doctors and nurses were provided with. Of course the families and visitors weren't supposed to touch it; of course this was Sherlock Holmes and the staff were long familiar with his disregard of the rules.

Especially when it came to this particular patient.

Sherlock's eyes remained focused on nothing as John quietly stepped to the foot of the bed and lifted the chart, scanning the latest entries and letting out a quiet sigh when he finished. That quiet sigh spoke volumes to his friend; nothing had changed, Molly was neither regressing nor improving…and there was still no way to know if the head injury had caused any sort of damage to her mind and memories.

There was a squeak and the sound of someone – John – dropping heavily into the chair on the opposite side of the bed, nearer to the window. "Sherlock. Sherlock!"

He blinked and focused his eyes on the other man, but not before dropping his gaze to take in Molly's unconscious form. A spasm of guilt wracked him, and he resolutely looked away. It wasn't the same as last time; it wouldn't turn out the same as last time.

He wouldn't let it.

John was looking at him, waiting patiently for him to respond, and when he did, his voice was a hoarse croak; when had he last spoken? Hours ago, days? Certainly not recently, not when the doctors and nurses had nothing to report, nothing to offer but worthless platitudes and reassurances he didn't need. "Yes, John?"

The older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together as he said quietly, "Wanna tell me about it now?"

Sherlock sighed and lowered his gaze, watching as his thumb stroked the back of Molly's limp hand, over and over again. "Fine," he said after a long minute. He cleared his throat, and John instantly reached for the pitcher of water sat on the window ledge. Sherlock waited until he'd poured the water and passed it over, then drank it down thirstily, feeling a surge of guilt at the knowledge that Molly could only take her nourishment via IV at the present time.

Everything he could do, that she could not, weighed on him now.

But John was his friend, whether he deserved him or not, and he'd made a request.

So Sherlock told him.

New Year's Eve, 1999-2000

"It's ridiculous, the actual millennium doesn't begin until New Year's Day 2001."

The deep baritone caught Molly's attention, not only because it was rather compelling but also because it sounded more than a bit familiar. She and her friend Meena had come out for the massive New Year's celebration, and of all the people to run into in their favorite bar, she hadn't expected it to be the annoying prat from her chemistry class.

She turned to see who he was annoying, faintly relieved that it was his friend – the only one he had, from what she could tell – Victor Trevor. Who simply grinned and took a deep gulp of his lager before slapping Sherlock on the back and laughing. "No one cares, mate. It's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Sherlock demanded, somehow managing to look both haughty and bewildered.

Well. That was certainly a new look on him; could it be there was something the mighty Sherlock Holmes didn't understand? Aside from how to talk to people without annoying them, that is.

She was distracted from her blatant eavesdropping by the unexpected sight of Meena rushing over and throwing her arms around Victor, giving him a resounding kiss. Wait, so that was her mystery boyfriend? Molly was confused; she'd actually thought that he and Sherlock were together, not simply good friends, but apparently that belief was entirely wrong. Interesting.

Even more interesting was her reaction to this discovery; yes, she was happy for Meena, but why was she feeling so relieved at the same time? After all, just because Victor wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend didn't mean he fancied girls after all…

"Oh, fuck!" she exclaimed as realization dawned. She didn't just pay attention to Sherlock because he was an annoying know-it-all; he didn't just get on her last nerve because of his air of aloof superiority…she actually fancied him! How the hell had that happened? Yes, he was gorgeous, with that head of luscious, unruly curls he was constantly having to shake out of his eyes, and those cat-like blue-green eyes with their fascinating flecks of amber, and those lips…

Cursing again, Molly jerked away from the trio, trying to get herself under control, then cursed even louder as she spilled her beer down the front of her dress. Meena was too busy kissing Victor to notice, but apparently Sherlock had seen the whole thing, as he suddenly appeared by Molly's side with a wad of napkins in his hand. "Here," he said abruptly, thrusting them at her.

Molly caught the napkins and stared up at him, too off-balance to say anything. He frowned and peered down at her. "Are you drunk? You can't possibly be drunk, you never drink in excess even for such frivolous occasions as this one; this is your first drink of the night and you've barely had two sips of it. You're not normally clumsy, I've seen you in class and you handle the scientific equipment and glassware with a great deal of assurance. Therefore something else has distracted or disturbed you this evening." His eyes narrowed and he pulled back. "You aren't jealous of your friend and Victor, are you? You're not secretly in love with him or something ridiculous like that?"

Molly stared at him, wide-eyed, and slowly shook her head. Sherlock continued to study her, when his lips curled in a sudden, delighted smile and he reached out and very deliberately took back the napkins and laid them on the bar. "Molly Hooper. I do believe we share more than simply a common passion for science."

"Wh-what do you mean?" she stammered out, and his smile deepened into something darkly seductive as he responded, lowering his mouth to whisper in her ear.

"Oh, Molly, I think you know exactly what I mean."

And so it was that, when midnight eventually came round, Meena Parker and Victor Trevor were busy shagging one another into the mattress in his flat, while Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were doing the same thing to each other in hers.