Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Written because, like everyone else, I'm totally bummed about the loss of Mary. BUT though I think John behaved like an arsehole, I think his behaviour was very human. Guilt and projection are terrible motivators. I also think- because I'm a born pessimist- that things will get worse before they get better, and that the worseness will look something like this…

Title comes from the Patrick Kavanagh poem, "On Raglan Road."

WHEN THE ANGEL WOOS THE CLAY

It starts small.

A brush against her hand here. A touch to the small of her back there. When she looks at John he's never looking at her, and at first Molly puts it down to mere oversight. A desire, however unconscious, for human contact, a reaching out for someone who will never reach back now. He's lost his wife, she reminds herself, he's abandoned his best friend- John's having a hard time of it and he has a child to raise.

So Molly, being Molly, says nothing.

But though she holds her peace, things begin to escalate. There are smiles now. Jokes. Compliments. Once or twice he mutters something about how Sherlock didn't know what he had when he had her, how someone so sweet and reliable as her should have her pick of men. His actions make her feel uncomfortable- complicit, somehow- but she tells herself to ignore her gut instinct. She tells herself that John adored Mary and that he couldn't possibly be thinking about doing… that, with her. She tells herself that grief works in funny ways and she's not in a position to judge John Watson-

Besides, Rosie needs someone who isn't torn to shreds by grief and she knows that Mary would have wanted that person to be her. Her, and possibly Sherlock.

As always when she thinks about the consulting detective, her heart gives a painful lurch which she tries to ignore, but she could no more ignore her feelings for him than she could her own heartbeat.

Instead she must settle for trying to focus on the future, since the present seems an impenetrable knot of loss and hurt.

Rosie's walking by the time John's attentions graduate to physical touch. There are hugs. An arm through hers when they walk together. He buttons her into her coat as she leaves and if he notices how uncomfortable it makes her, he gives no sign. They have a glass of wine together after she babysits, he brings her home take-away if he's going to be late. They talk about their days, about their patients, about anything, in fact, so long as it doesn't involve Sherlock or Mary…

And then one night, after a full glass of wine and a take-away, John leans over and kisses Molly.

It is not the kiss of a man who's looking for someone to hold hands with.

It's not the kiss of a man who's recently lost his wife.

It's seven months to the day, Molly thinks dazedly, since they put Mary in the ground and all her body can seem to react with is a chorus of no, no, no, no, NO!

She doesn't want to do this.

She pushes him politely away, gets to her feet. He follows her into the hall as she grabs her coat, saying it's not a big deal, saying he misread the situation. Saying she's over-reacting and could she please come back inside? What he doesn't say is sorry and when she points that out he give a bark of laughter, says that she wouldn't demand an apology from Sherlock. Says that if it had been Sherlock doing the snogging then her she'd be on her back and half way out of her dress by now. She'd be, what's the word? Oh yeah, gagging for it. He knows she's been gagging for it.

The phrase makes her physically flinch. It makes her hands clench into fists.

She sees the regret on his face the moment he says it. She sees the pain too and something else- Guilt, she thinks, a trace element which dissolves within mere seconds. It leaves her wondering what else he's feeling so guilty for. But when he still doesn't apologise, trying to take her hand instead, she jerks it away, dodging out of the house and onto the street-

She can hear the baby crying as John slams the door behind her.

She hails a taxi and sits in the back seat, crying, and all she can think is how awful she feels because she kissed her friend Mary's husband.

She makes her way back into he city centre and somehow she finds herself at Baker Street, somehow she finds herself sitting in Speedy's and texting Mrs. Hudson, asking can she come down and see her?

She doesn't feel like there's anyone else she can call.

The door opens five minutes after the text is sent and in walks Sherlock. He looks… hesitant. He looks sad. He looks more tired than she's seen him since the night of his Fall and he's moving with a sort of tentative skittishness.

"Molly..?" he asks quietly, "Molly, are you..?" He rakes a hand through his hair. "Mrs. Hudson said I should come down: do you want me to go?"

She shakes her head, not really able to speak, and he comes in. Asks the barista for a pot of tea before helping himself to two cups from the top of the espresso machine and sliding into the booth beside her. He just looks at her and she can't help it, the tears come. The ones she's been bottling up. The ones for Mary, the ones for her friendship with Sherlock. The ones for John's friendship with Sherlock. The ones for a little girl who'll grow up never knowing her mother and all she was. All she could have been. It's just so bloody unfair…

After a moment Sherlock awkwardly wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls him to her. He rocks her. Hushes her. Tells her it'll be alright. He even apologises for keeping his distance- "I didn't know what to do, and I didn't have you or John or Mary to ask-" and despite herself she smiles. Hushes him and tells him it's alright. She knows him, she says. She cares about him. That hasn't changed and it never will.

Eventually he brings her upstairs to Baker Street and lets her sleep on his battered old couch.

She refuses his offer of John's old bed and he doesn't ask why.

The Game is played.

The Game is won.

But there are losses.

She sees him in the hospital, in the aftermath. He's standing by Sherlock's bedside, Rosie in a papoose against his chest.

Flecks of blood are still speckled in his hair; His arm's in a sling but other than that he looks alright.

When he notices her he flinches and she thinks he'll leave but he doesn't. No, he squares his shoulders and walks up to her. Smiles at her uncertainly, and for a moment he's that man she knew again. That man who was married to her friend Mary.

"I was an arsehole," he says quietly. "To everyone, but you got the brunt of it. I just… " He sighs. Shakes his head. "I wanted her back," he says softly. "I wanted to fix things. I wanted to stop feeling like such a bastard, so I acted like one instead."

He snorts. "Not the best plan,that- But I am sorry."

And he holds his hand out.

Rosamund gives a little cry as if seconding his words and he smiles. It's older. Sadder.

Molly suspects there's a secret behind it.

She nods to him, shaking his hand lightly before walking around him. She settles herself beside Sherlock. Reaches out and kisses his forehead, stroking the hair away from his face. His long fingers curl in hers, and he opens his eyes. Smiles dazedly at her as he always does when they wake together. His eyes go to her wedding band and he presses a kiss to it, then her wrist.

"Hello, Molly," he says and his voice is a rasp. There's bruising on his throat from Smith's blade.

As he does so she can feel John's eyes boring into her back but when she looks at him he's calm. Collected.

"Be smarter than I was, Sherlock," he tells them both- And with that he's gone to feed Rosie and check on Greg's status.

Someone will have to ring Sherlock's parents too, now that Mycroft's gone.

Molly knows this might be a new beginning but she's not ready to ponder that yet. She's not ready to decide how she feels about John Watson and everything that happened between them.

So she smiles down at her husband and holds his hand in hers.