Chapter 1

Once Moriarty's latest threat was dispatched with, life had turned back to a semblance of normal. Well, what was considered "normal" to Molly Hooper these days. If someone had told her that Mary Watson would ask her to be Josephine's—or Josie as she's lovingly called—godmother, she would have been confused as she'd hardly known the woman. She would have scratched her head if someone suggested that John Watson considered her a trusted colleague, especially after how suspicious he'd been once he'd learned of her part in faking Sherlock's death.

If someone had told her even a mere year ago that Sherlock Holmes would consider her the other best friend, she would have laughed at their faces. Sure, she helped him fake his death, but best friend was something she would have considered preposterous.

Still, that was her new reality. A lot had happened since Moriarty's face plastered itself across London and the dynamic duo that was Sherlock and John grew to include Mary—who had, at the time, been all of 8 months pregnant!—and eventually, even the unassuming Molly Hooper.

They've definitely been through a lot, they survived, and now were closer than ever.

It was why, on a rare day off, Molly Hooper was in her gym attire—faded yoga pants, tank top and trainers—at 221B Baker Street, listening intently as Mary, similarly dressed, was demonstrating various ways to perform a defensive throw. Before Molly could comprehend, John was suddenly on the floor.

"—and like that, he's flat on his arse and away we go!" Mary said cheerfully. Her tone pitched up near the end as she glanced across the living room to where Josephine was giggling in her baby bouncer. The new mother wiggled her fingers at her baby.

"Thanks, hon," John drawled from the ground.

"Now you try it," Mary said, her voice still cheerful as she waved toward John who was now brushing himself off and on his feet.

"Why does it always have to be me?" John groused. "Why aren't you girls trying to throw his majesty over?"

The man in question was in the kitchen, looking through a microscope, and unlike everyone else wearing comfortable workout clothes, was clad in dark blue dress shirt, fitted trousers and leather oxfords.

"Your height is amenable for practice while Molly learns the basics," Sherlock said without looking up from the microscope.

"Or maybe you're scarred lil' Molls will have you flat on your back faster than you can deduce," Mary countered. The way Mary said it, eye brow cocked and lips twitching, she meant to have the double entendre.

Mary had no qualms with her blatant matchmaking, gleefully teasing them both about hooking up. Both Sherlock and Molly would just ignore her—Sherlock, due to tedium; Molly, for her own sanity. After all this time, Molly was happy simply to be called a friend. Her romantic aspirations for Sherlock had sailed a long time ago; sure she adored him, but she no longer harboured any delusions about having him as an actual partner.

"Hardly. The fact that Molly harbours no sexual attraction to your husband whatsoever allows her to focus on the movements," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Molly hadn't blushed at Mary's harmless teasing, but at Sherlock's dry words, her face suffused with colour.

No, definitely not an actual partner.

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock," John muttered.

"Don't flatter yourself," Molly burst out.

At that, Sherlock finally lifted his head from the microscope and raised both brows, arrogant disbelief on his infuriatingly handsome face. Mary and John coughed politely to the side. Molly felt like she was going to burst into flames from embarrassment, knowing exactly what all three were thinking but she crossed her arms across her chest, stubbornly.

"I mean, it's been ages since…" Molly stopped, composed herself. He was just doing this to rile her up out of boredom. She looked at Sherlock, hoping she looked nonchalant. "You're like a brother to me now. The taller, better dressed version of John."

"Hey!" John exclaimed.

Mary patted her husband's shoulder comfortingly. "A doctor's salary isn't really conducive to a shopping spree at Saville Row."

Sherlock rolled his eyes while standing, his movements slow like he was bestowing them a huge honour with finally breaking away from observing mould cultures.

His face was impassive as he regarded Molly. "Fine, let's demonstrate how you can escape someone taller and physically stronger."

Molly swallowed, repeating a mantra in her head—like a brother, like a brother—as Sherlock began to un-button the cuffs on his shirt so he could push them up his forearms. Ugh. Why did he have such perfect arms? She'd always had a weakness for taut limbs…

Before she knew it, Sherlock pressed himself lightly against her back, his presence, let alone his height, making her feel suddenly and completely breathless. With his left hand he grasped her left bicep, and with the right, her shoulder—

Molly knew she had to act before she let him intimidate her, so she shifted and pressed herself back so she could grasp as much of his right arm as possible to complete the throw movement—

—but Sherlock had tensed the moment she'd moved and without warning pulled her body back with him as he purposely fell to the ground, his arms taut against her torso, then he flipped, quickly straddling her hips.

Molly stared dazedly up at him, unsure exactly how they ended up in this position.

"Well, all right, that's our cue to leave," Mary chirped. John already had Josie in his arms, bouncing her gently as he rolled his eyes at the display in front him.

Sherlock's face was unreadable as he looked at Molly for a beat longer than necessary, before scrambling up. He didn't even offer a hand to help her get off the ground!

Mary pursed her lips in disapproval as she helped her friend up from the floor.

"No need to be so rude and dramatic, Sherlock." She turned to Molly, who was trying her very best to brush herself off and lower her heart rate.

"Throws require some element of surprise and leverage," Sherlock said evenly, as he adjusted his shirt briefly, regarding Molly like a wayward pupil. "I could have been possible to throw, if you had either of those elements. However, if you were being attacked by someone with experience in combat, they would have defensive maneuvers ingrained."

"I should kick you in the crown jewels," Molly muttered darkly, annoyed. To her surprise, Sherlock smiled.

"Precisely. With your height disadvantage, the best course of action would be to try to disable me quickly using my the most vulnerable physical spots," Sherlock responded.

He grasped her hand, shaped it into a fist and proceeded to explain, leading her fist to his throat. Her hand tingled as his fingers dropped down to her wrist.

"A punch or elbow to the throat, depending whether the attack is from the front or behind would be effective." He spread her fingers, and Molly was feeling a bit lightheaded at how much physical contact he was demonstrating. He ran her fingers lightly against the column of his throat.

Dear god.

His expression hadn't changed, but she began to wonder if he was doing all of this to contradict her earlier outburst.

If so, he was doing an excellent job, her traitorous body teased.

He spoke rapidly, enthusiastically, pressing her fingers firmly against Adam's apple: "Or depending on how desperate you are, you could claw and draw blood. It would also be a good way to gather DNA samples."

He finally dropped her hand, and she could see the corner of his lips tug upward to a smile, like he had proven some sort of silent point.

Damn the man.

"Or a swift, hard knee to the groin, followed by a left or right hook also works," John added, looking wry at the display in front of him. The slight wink Mary sent her way told Molly that the undercurrent Sherlock's demonstration had not been missed.

"Well, go on," Mary lifted her chin as a way to point to Sherlock. "Practice makes perfect. Try again."

"I'll let you throw me this time," Sherlock said, as if he were bestowing her the greatest kindness versus stating what he was supposed to do in the first place. Soon, Molly found herself again in the same position as before, and she hated, absolutely hated how her heart sped up yet again. There must be something she could take, she thought wildly, to prevent such a physical reaction.

Still, she'd had years to master ignoring her feelings so she steeled herself, as she recounted the steps John and Mary had explained to her before. If she focused on that, she could ignore the fact that he was wearing a very pleasant misting of cologne—something expensive, something extremely subtle but there nonetheless—or that instead of his left hand at her bicep, he'd placed it against her hip, holding her form firmly against his.

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath… and nothing. The man was an immovable object as she tried to heave him over just like Mary and John had demonstrated earlier. Her face flushed and this time, it was through exertion.

"Love, you're trying to throw him down, not lift him through sheer force," Mary explained with a chuckle. "He's a skinny one, that, but he's still got pounds on you."

"All right, don't go strain a muscle," Sherlock drawled as he lifted the hand from her hip and began to pat her back comfortingly, indicating she should cease her movements. "Take a moment. Pause. Get back into the original position and see how it feels."

His voice was firm but surprisingly kind.

"What's different with this position when you're confronted with someone taller versus someone closer to your height?" Sherlock went on.

"It…um…" Her thoughts hiccuped as she processed the fact that he was no longer teasing her, but actually trying to help. "I… need to compensate. To… get them back closer to my level."

"Excellent, so?" Sherlock prodded.

"So…" Molly trailed off, her brow furrowing in concentration as she put herself back into the original starting position, but this time instead of trying to heave him over her, she'd stepped back a bit further so that the back of her foot touched the inside part of his leg, and instead of lifting straight up, she twisted more to the side—

—and found that she was staring down at amused, clear blue eyes.

"I told you she was a natural," Mary said, nudging her husband in the ribs. "It's always the quiet ones."

A rush of pride filled Molly and she couldn't help but release a happy squeal. Laughter rang around her. With adrenaline pounding in her ears, aided by the fact she was technically still on top of Sherlock, Molly enthusiastically pressed her lips against his.

It only took a moment for Molly to realize she'd committed an incredible faux pas. Their lips had literally only brushed for a second—but firmly, securely—before she'd jumped back from him as if he'd been an unattended frayed wire; he might as well have been for the jolt she felt from the tip of her head down to her toes.

She couldn't look at him, at anyone, as a shocked silence fell in the room.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Molly repeated, completely and utterly mortified. She began to pace, looking for a way to bolt, but Mary and John were blocking the exit, and behind her Sherlock had begun to get up.

"We're friends, Molly, it's fine," Sherlock said, his voice calm unlike the swirling mess of emotions she was feeling.

"Yes, of course," Molly said quietly, again tapping into the deep well of experience she had of swallowing her feelings when Sherlock was concerned. She even managed a small smile and shrug, but couldn't meet his eyes. "This is silly."

The room fell quiet again. Molly wished the ground would swallow her whole.

"Well, I think that's enough learning for today," Mary said, her tone chipper. Bless her for trying to end this torturous silence. "Josie is getting a bit finicky here, we best be heading home."

"Oh, uh…Right, right," John said, already gathering the baby's items that were scattered around the room.

"I better call a cab," Molly said, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze as she tried to find her purse. No sign of her purse, but her phone was lying by the table lamp. Just as she grasped it to make the call—

"No," Sherlock said, his tone sharp enough to cause all three of them to pause their movements. He flashed them all an irritated glare. "I meant, yes, call a cab for John and Mary, but Molly, we need to have a discussion."

Not really in the mood to be alone with Sherlock, and trying desperately to sweep what just happened as a moment of temporary insanity, Molly said, "Sherlock, it's fine. It's just that I've never wrestled with a man before! I mean… I was just a little too excited with throwing you to the ground… um, er… I mean…"

Stop talking, Molly, just stop talking, she told herself. Though Mary busied herself with her baby, Molly could tell she was having a hard time suppressing her mirth. Gee, thanks for the support, Mary, Molly thought to herself wryly.

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently in the air, cutting her off. "What are you going on about? I need you to help verify my findings. Before you all rudely interrupted me, I was in the middle of an experiment."

Molly couldn't fight the embarrassed flush rushing to her face. She was convinced that Sherlock was on a one-man mission to turn her into a tomato. Well, of course, he'd already moved on. Deleted it from his mind palace as inconsequential, unimportant.

Silly Molly Hooper for thinking that a kiss was somewhat a big deal.

"All righty, we're set. John's already called a cab," Mary added. She wagged a finger at them. "You two play nice now."

"Is this going to take a long time?" Molly asked Sherlock, wringing her hands anxiously. "I could take a look at your findings now and then I could hitch a ride with John and Mary—"

The familiar sound of a cab honk interrupted her tirade, and before she knew it, John and Mary were shuffling out of the apartment. Mary paused to kiss her good-bye on the cheek and whispered, "Snog him the moment we're gone."

And if that wasn't enough, she saw John whisper something to Sherlock as well that caused the brilliant detective to blink at him with a confused glance.

Molly could barely stem slapping her forehead. The Watsons were incredibly obvious, and though they were well-meaning, their constant matchmaking was starting to wear thin.

As if he could read her mind, once John and Mary were gone, Sherlock said, "The Watsons should consider a career in comedy."

"Shall I look at your experiment?" Molly said, wanting to already get out of Baker Street as soon as possible. It was one thing to be alone with Sherlock at the morgue; that was her space. But stranded with Sherlock alone in his home made her feel more vulnerable than she liked.

All at once, Sherlock's demeanor brightened as he led her to the kitchen, handing her his notebook of scribbles.

"Is this about the Jenkins case?" Molly asked, as she read through the list of mycotoxins he'd scribbled down, as well as random fruits and food items.

"Yes. The severe asthma attack due to possible increased exposure to mould in his home was the initial thought," Sherlock explained, "But the type of mould sample that you scraped from his body doesn't match the ones from the walls at the scene."

Molly nodded. She had been suspicious over the death herself. "Someone had been feeding him toxins that could have been easily hidden in food."

Sherlock grinned at her widely. The genuine pleasure on his face always gave Molly a jolt of happiness. He was normally closed off, abrupt and cold, but this—this was a rare glimpse of the Sherlock she fell in love with.

"Yes, very good Molly. Would you please take a look at the microscope?"

Please. He hardly used that word, but he'd been incorporating it more and more when they interacted. He still demanded a lot from her, but each request was couched in more niceties than he had in the past, and they sounded genuine versus manipulative.

Molly sat herself down in front of the equipment and took a glance, adjusting to focus on the culture he'd been observing. So absorbed was she that she hadn't realized he was hovering directly above her, one of his arms behind the chair, and the other on the table.

She turned her head to confirm what he must have deduced—the mould culture he looked at was similar, but different from the sample she'd taken at the morgue—but the words died in her throat as she realized how close they actually were. That if she lifted her chin an inch, the gap would close between them—

The not-so-subtle throat-clearing followed by a brow lift, caused Molly to startle and flush to the tips of her toes.

Ugh. At this rate, red would be her natural state.

His lips twitched as he straightened to his full height and said calmly, "So?"

"Er, yes," Molly said, scrambling to grab the remnants of her dignity. She was getting a little annoyed, since he clearly was enjoying her behavior. She tried to keep her voice even as she, too, stood. "It's as you suspect. These aren't the same cultures from the walls."

He inclined his head, that infuriatingly amused smile still dancing on his lips. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper."

"You know, you don't have to look so smug," Molly burst out.

Sherlock, completely used to far worse accusations and outbursts, simply shrugged and smiled more widely. Oh, she wanted to slap his face so badly… But since he hadn't committed a crime—behaving like an arse didn't count—Molly couldn't really justify it.

"It's not kind to play with my feelings that way. Earlier, too, with… with the demonstration, just so you could stroke your ego," Molly said, deciding to just have it out with him. He was behaving atrociously and using her emotions as a plaything!

At that, he angled a wry glance. "Does it look like I have a self esteem problem? Lying is unbecoming. There's no point in lying to me of all people, Molly Hooper, you should know that."

Molly rubbed her temples. He truly didn't get it. "Have you heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy, Sherlock? At any rate, this isn't what friends do to each other. It… it hurts me."

Sherlock had the grace to look mildly chagrined. "Oh."

Molly sighed deeply, waving her hand wearily. "I know you don't mean to. Hurt me, I mean. You're… trying to be funny… or whatever. But it really isn't funny to me. It just reminds me that…"

She glanced at him, as he regarded her with furrowed brows. She shook her head, and began to glance around the room trying to remember where she placed her purse. "I have to go."

Sherlock said nothing as she left the kitchen to search for her bag. Suddenly, Sherlock grasped her elbow.

"Wait. I'm sorry, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said quietly.

And suddenly, it was Christmas all over again.

"Yeah, well, it's fine," Molly said, capitulating easily. She hated awkwardness and tension. She couldn't really be angry with him for too long. "I know you're just teasing, but it would be… nice if you kept it at a minimum. And maybe not in front of John and Mary?" Molly added. "It just adds fuel to the fire with those two."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said dryly. "The boredom of marriage must be finally setting in."

"Something like that," Molly said lightly, her eye finally spying her purse which had somehow gotten shoved into a nook by Sherlock's couch.

As she headed to the seat, she found Sherlock following absurdly close.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly snapped, sounding way more irritated than she actually was. His proximity was making her nervous since he normally kept a respectable distance.

"We're… all right?"

Molly couldn't help but release a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. He could be such a child at times, both due to his brattiness and also his naiveté. She squeezed his arm lightly and smiled.

"We're all right. I'm just a mite sensitive. I haven't had a date in a while, so‚" Molly said, chuckling self-deprecatingly. Feeling the need to also embarrass him, since she had been the afternoon's teasing target, she added quite boisterously, "I probably just need a good shag."

Instead of getting flustered, Sherlock's expression turned thoughtful. "Hm."

Now what on earth did that mean? Molly wondered. Sherlock was the real mystery! Deciding that she might (purposely or by accident) be soundly insulted again, Molly decided it was time to make her exit. "Well, purse acquired. Thanks for the self defense lesson—"

Molly thought she might as well have bene talking to a wall, as Sherlock had that unfocused faraway look that said she'd already been soundly dismissed in favor of his mind palace.

She tried not to think about his odd reaction to her declaring need for sex as she silently left Baker Street, completely oblivious to Sherlock following her movements from the window.