A/N: The title was inspired by a prompt given to me by sammykatz. The actual prompt fill (for a kick-ass Molly Hooper) is included in my sherlollipops and is called 'Kicking Butt and Taking Names'. I hope you enjoy this one!

Life had punched Molly Hooper in the heart one too many times. Oh, she was never going to give up; she always got back on her feet, dusted herself off and kept going. But some days, like today…some days she just wondered if it was all worth it.

John Watson had brought Sherlock into her lab and asked her to perform a drugs test. Why he bothered she couldn't figure out, since it was clear to her immediately that Sherlock wasn't going to test clean. But she did it anyway, standing as patiently as she could manage outside the bathroom door while Sherlock grumblingly filled the beaker she'd thrust into his hands. There was nothing in there he could use to fake or alter the results, and the brutal pat-down John had given him before closing the door assured that he had nothing on his person either.

And then, afterwards, when she made her (futile) demand that he apologize, what did the great git do? Slapped her emotionally the way she'd slapped him physically, by pointing out the end of her engagement. Oh, she wanted to punch him for that one, but managed to hold onto her temper. As soon as he ran out the door in response to his mobile, an apologetic John, Mary and whoever the other two were in his wake, she meticulously cleaned up, grabbed her belongings, and messaged her supervisor that she was taking a half-day.

"I could have killed him," she informed her overfed cat Toby, who was sat on the toilet, eyeing her suspiciously the way he always did when she took a bath. "I still could, you know. Kill him, I mean. I could even make it look like an accident, or dispose of the body – I know loads of ways to do that."

Toby looked entirely unimpressed and began washing his paws, glancing over at her now and then as if trying to impress upon his human the proper way to get clean. Molly sighed and blew a handful of bubbles toward the end of the tub. "You're right, Toby. I should just let it go. But it's been so long since he had a relapse, I was really hoping never to see him like that again!"

She thought back to the first night she and Sherlock had met, when she was still a medical student (had it really only been six years ago?) and he was brought in by Greg Lestrade to look at the body whose autopsy Molly and a group of other medical students were observing. He'd been pale, skinny, red-eyed and spotty, but he'd immediately pointed out the cause of death, describing each sign in meticulous detail, including a few that Molly herself had initially missed in her own look-over. She'd been impressed; who wouldn't be? Then Sherlock had made some cutting remark to Dr. Sanderson and had been quickly hustled out by Lestrade.

They hadn't exchanged a single word that day, but Molly certainly remembered him when he appeared with Lestrade again about six months later. He'd cleaned up, no longer slouching about in a zip top and sweat pants over scuffed trainers, his wild mop of hair neatly trimmed, eyes clear and alert and skin touchably smooth. Not that she'd touched him, or did more than speak to him; she'd graduated and obtained a position at St. Barts by then and although she'd recognized him, he clearly had no memory of her. Disappointing, but she'd been one of a crowd and he'd been, well, high.

Just like today.

With a sigh Molly unstoppered the drain and stood up, feeling pleasantly languid from the hot soak. She dried herself off while Toby meowed at her, recognizing the signs of his human finally being ready to give him his supper. After throwing on her most comfy pair of pyjamas and rattiest dressing-gown, she slid her feet into her bright pink 'Hello Kitty' slipper-boots and shuffled into the kitchen to feed her increasingly-demanding pet.

"Toby, you know who you remind me of?" she asked as she lowered his dish to the kitchen floor, then stood back to allow him some space to eat. "You remind me of a certain consulting detective I know. If any human was born with a cat's soul, he's it."

Predictably enough, Toby ignored her and continued to devour his meal. Molly sighed again. "Yeah, just like him, you're both good at ignoring me once you have what you want."

She knew that was unfair to both man and cat; Sherlock had told her she counted and that he trusted her, then he'd demonstrated that trust by asking her to help him fake his death almost three years ago. And Toby, of course, would be on her lap while she watched an hour of telly before bed, when he'd follow her into her room and curl up beside her for a few hours.

As she was filling the electric kettle for a cup of tea before thawing out whatever frozen dinner she decided to eat, she heard the buzz of an incoming message on her mobile. She fished it out of her pocket, glancing at the screen to see who it was.

Her heart gave a ridiculous flutter when she saw Sherlock's number appear on her screen. With a great deal of trepidation she swiped the screen and pressed the message icon.

What she saw made her smile.

I don't need John to tell me what an ass I was today. I truly am sorry your engagement's ended. He wasn't nearly good enough for you, but you seemed happy.

She quickly typed in a response.

Thank you. I was happy, just not as happy as I should have been considering I was getting married. Are you going back into rehab? No point in beating around the bush.

Not just yet. There really is an important case on, possibly the most difficult one of my career.

Hmm, at least he hadn't straight out said no. That was encouraging, but she decided to push just a little. Really? More difficult than faking your own death to stop a madman from killing your friends?

Yes.

She stared at the simple one-word answer, feeling an unpleasant jolt go up her spine. What did he mean? How could anyone be worse than Jim Moriarty? Before she could compose either a response or a proper question, her mobile buzzed again.

If I can't shake this off on my own when the case is over, I'll have Mycroft send me off to some discreet hospital in the country. One of those places celebrities go to. You have my word.

I'll hold you to it, she typed.

Thinking the conversation was done, she started to drop her mobile back into her pocket when it buzzed one last time.

Remember, everything I'm doing right now is for the case. Don't forget that, no matter what you might hear after it's over.

Her next few texts went unanswered, and finally she gave up. What the hell had he meant by that? What else had he been doing for this case?

oOo

The answer to that question turned out to be far uglier and more sordid than she could have imagined. She stared aghast at the screaming headlines on the tabloids at the newsstand, hardly able to believe her eyes. There was no way in hell Sherlock had actually slept with that woman, and Molly knew it wasn't just wishful thinking or denial on her part. This had to be what he'd meant when he said everything he was doing was for the case. Although she doubted he'd counted on getting frickin' SHOT.

Putting aside the part of her that ached at the thought of him making love to another woman (especially that one, the one who'd pawed him at John and Mary's wedding before slinking off with some other man at the end of the night), she continued on her way to the hospital. Sherlock had been shot and Molly had been asleep when John called to let her know what had happened. He'd sounded worried half to death and she couldn't blame him, since she felt the same exact way.

Every time she'd visited him so far he'd been sleeping, but that was good because she wasn't sure what she'd say to him. "Hi, Sherlock, can't say I'd recommend getting shot as a way to avoid going into rehab," she muttered to herself as she entered the hospital, rolling her eyes as she did so. Nope, definitely not that; he was right, she really shouldn't make jokes.

As she exited the lift, she caught sight of that woman – Janine – entering one on the other end of the bank. Briefly she considered going after her and giving her a piece of her mind, but two things stopped her: one, Sherlock had probably done something to deserve having his supposed sexual exploits plastered all over the tabs, and two, Janine probably wouldn't have the faintest idea who Molly was.

She satisfied herself with a muttered, "Stupid cow" before continuing on her way to Sherlock's room.

She gave a soft knock before opening the door, hesitating when she saw that he was awake and aware. "Come in Molly, I promise I won't bite."

"Not even seven times a night?" she quipped, stifling a grin at the way he rolled his eyes. Yup, she still had it; her reputation as the worst joke-maker in the world was assured.

"It was all lies," he began, but she stopped him with a hand on his wrist as she settled into the seat next to his hospital bed.

"I know. Don't worry about it. I mean, not that you'd worry, but don't. I know it's not true, just like I know you did something to set her off like that."

He looked surprised, as if not expecting that reaction from her, then smiled. It was a bit on the weak side, but it was genuine. Molly had got very, very good at reading Sherlock's expressions over the years, and she could easily tell the real from the false. "Right then," he said, clearing his throat and glancing briefly down at where her hand still rested on his wrist. "You can see my pulse on the monitor, Molly, no need to check it yourself."

"Maybe I don't trust you not to have rigged it to show better readings just so you can get yourself checked out that much sooner," she replied.

He blinked rapidly before letting his features settle into a pout. "Suit yourself," he said with a small shrug. He winced as soon as he moved, and she tutted her disapproval.

"You'll pull your stitches if you're not careful."

"When have you ever known me to be careful?" he shot back, but his eyes crinkled in amusement and Molly felt herself relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages. Sherlock, she decided, was going to be just fine.

"Never," she admitted, finally pulling her hand away from his. Or at least, she tried to; he reached up and took her wrist, sliding his fingers up until they entwined with hers. "I faked a relationship with Janine just to get into her bosses' office," he said quietly. "That's where I was shot."

"I thought you were shot in the middle left quadrant of your abdomen," Molly quipped uneasily. Why was he telling her this?

"Molly," Sherlock said warningly, and she sighed.

"Yes, I know. Don't make jokes." They sat there in silence for a minute before she spoke again. "So you used her and she found out and that's why she sold her story to the tabs. Was that why she was here, to tell you to piss off?"

"Sort of." Sherlock wasn't looking at her, was instead focused on their joined hands. "But we're good. Who knows, someday I might need a bolthole in Sussex, and now I know just the place. But only if she doesn't get rid of the beehives," he added.

"Sherlock, you were shot and it's connected to the same case that made you decided it would be a good idea to shoot heroin again," Molly said, cutting to the chase. And not just because she wanted to get away from the subject of Janine and her stupid cottage in stupid Sussex. "I know it is, it has to be."

He took his time in answering her, and when he did she was surprised at how raw and vulnerable he suddenly sounded – and how very, very lost he looked. "It's all connected, Molly, and what's worse is that it's come very close to home in a way I never saw coming."

"Want to tell me about it?" she asked quietly.

His fingers tightened around hers then abruptly loosened. "Yes, I do. But I can't. It's not my secret to share. And if I tell you before I tell John, it'll be like Reichenbach all over again."

She nodded her understanding. "Of course. I'd hate for you to have to summon up the B team again when it comes to solving cases." She smiled to show she was joking, but Sherlock's expression had darkened.

"Molly, don't ever call yourself that," he said sharply. "When I said you mattered most, I meant it, and not just because of how you helped me fake my death."

Molly's breath caught in her throat, and she couldn't tear her eyes away from his. There were a million things she wanted to say right now, but the only sound that passed her lips was a tiny, "Oh."

"Oh indeed," Sherlock said wryly. "There you have it. And no, it's not just the morphine talking." His blue-green eyes bored into hers, intense and yet worried at the same time. "Molly, when this case is finally over and done with – and that could be months from now – would you…like to have coffee with me?"

"So you can dazzle me with your brilliance?"

He shook his head. "No. So I can tell you everything. Everything I can't tell you now. Not to make excuses, just to explain. And after that you can decide if there's a second cup of coffee in our future."

She considered his words for a long minute, looking at them from every angle. He had no reason to use her or lie to her; if it was her boss whom he'd been investigating, he'd never have had to pretend to be in love with her just to get access to Dr. Sanderson's office. All he would ever have to do was ask, and he knew that. "All right," she finally said. "But I'm buying."

When he wrinkled his brow in confusion, she smiled and explained. "Because I'm the one who asked you out first, even if you pretended to misunderstand me that day."

It clearly hurt him to laugh, but laugh he did. "Guilty as charged," he said when the wheezing chuckles ended. "But in my defense, at the time I considered myself married to my work."

"And you probably thought you were being kind," Molly couldn't help adding. Not spitefully, but just as a reminder that he'd hurt her in the past – and a not-so-subtle hint that she'd be watching out for that sort of behavior in the future.

"Yes, well, as it turns out your taste in men has been reliably terrible, up to and including myself."

She tilted her head and shrugged, unfazed by his words. "True. But I'm willing to give you a chance anyway."

"Good." There it was, that soft, warm smile she loved so much. The one so seldom seen it might as well have been an endangered species. "So. After the case. It's a date, then?"

She nodded, returning the smile. "It's a date," she agreed. She stood up, seeing the fatigue he was trying so hard to hide. "Get some sleep, Sherlock. Then you really will recover faster." She leaned down and did something she'd never done before: she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, smoothing his dark curls away from his face as she did so.

"Do me a favor?"

She nodded, puzzled and wary as he reached up to catch her hand in his again. "Anything. What do you need?"

He smiled faintly at the familiar phrase, but his expression quickly turned serious. "Don't come to visit me here again. Stay far away from me until this case is over." When she took in a breath to protest, he clutched tighter to her hand, his tension causing the monitors to quicken their beeps. "If anyone asks, just tell them I was an ass, that I said something cruel, whatever you like. I just need you…not to be in a certain someone's sights, for him to dismiss you as a pressure point. Can you do that for me?"

It was a strange request, but hardly the strangest she'd ever received from him. And she did understand; the last thing he needed to do was have one more person to worry about whlist on a case so serious it had caused him to return to drugs. Still, her heart warmed at the thought of him caring enough to want to keep her safe. "Message me now and then so I don't worry?" she countered, the unspoken implication being that if he didn't then she wouldn't agree.

He nodded. "Yes, fine, I'll keep in touch," he said, closing his eyes. "You have my word."

"And you have mine."

She left then, but as the door closed behind her, she thought she heard him murmur, "And you have my heart."

Since he'd always had hers, she thought with a small smile, she supposed it was only fair.