Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

A LITTLE FRIENDLY ADVICE

The message arrives in her inbox six months to the day after Sherrinford.

As soon as she sees the sender Molly stops. Stares. She bites her lip and tells herself that Mary's email has simply been hacked, that's why she's getting a message from a dead woman's account.

Deep down, however, Molly knows that that's not true.

For she doubts- knowing what she does now- that John's wife would be lax enough to leave behind an easily-hacked email address. As Sherlock had pointed out once (while deeply upset and drunk), Mary had been a former super-assassin with a terrifying skill-set: Basic IT would have been second nature to her.

And that being the case, Molly tells herself, it's highly likely that the message in her inbox is real. Given that she's Rosie's godmother, she should probably open the email and see what it says.

It's the least she can do.

Quickly, decisively, Molly clicks on the email before she can change her mind, or stop to wonder why this is making her feel so unsettled. To her surprise, when the mail opens up there's a link inside which she clicks on, one which takes her directly to Mary's cloud account and into an mp4 file.

She bites nervously at her lip as she waits for the file to load.

A request for a password to view the file appears, and after a moment's thought she types in Rosie.

This password is correct.

A box opens onscreen and Mary's face appears, her blue eyes warm and smiling. Her face is slightly haggard from lack of sleep. She speaks quietly, as if afraid she'll be overheard, and after a moment Molly realises why: Sherlock is flopped on his back on a roll-out camp bed behind her, John beside him and snoring. The room they're in looks sparse, vaguely Moroccan. Cars can be heard thundering in the distance, though the view of the windows shows it's either late night or very early morning

Wherever they are, Molly thinks, it doesn't look comfortable at all.

Mary looks from the two men back to the screen of, presumably, her phone and grins. Winks. It takes Molly a moment to realise that it's because Sherlock has now rolled onto his front, kicking off his blankets and presenting the room with an absolutely gorgeous view of his arse.

"Nice sight, isn't it?" the Mary on the screen says, and for a moment she seems so real and immediate that Molly almost answers her. Only at the last minute does she remember that this is a recording, that Mary is now dead. As always, the thought provokes a great swell of sadness, both at the loss of her friend and at the pain that loss is causing those left behind. Such musings are drowned out though, for in that quick, clever way she always had, the Mary onscreen smiles. Leans in as if imparting some great secret.

"I don't have much time, Mols," she says, "And I don't know whether this is the best way to do this. If I get out of this AGRA business in one piece then I'll talk to you face to face, but I'm not entirely certain that'll be an option after tonight-

So I thought I had better do this now."

As if in emphasis, John gives a particularly loud snore and Sherlock- apparently unprompted- kicks him soundly in his sleep, causing the smaller man to grunt and then let out a string of muffled swear-words.

Mary stifles a snort of laughter-"And to think," she mutters under her breath, "people say I have only one child,"- before turning back to the phone.

"Molly," she says, her voice low, "I want you to look at the man behind me. Not my wonderful hubbie, but the tall, gangly, brilliant toddler who's currently showing off his arse to the world. The one you've been chasing for all these years.

John says that you have a crush on that toddler, but we both know it's more than that, don't we?" Again she winks."Of course we do."

And her smile widens, her eyes turning kinder. Older. More knowing.

Though she knows she can't see her, Molly nevertheless nods along, trying not to let herself register how tight he throat feels at the sight.

"Well, here's the thing," Mary says, "I've been watching you two for a while, and I think... I think that toddler might have a thing about you too.

In fact, I' m almost certain of it."

Molly lets out a disbelieving snort, clapping her hand over her mouth before remembering that this feed isn't live and she isn't going to wake anyone if she makes noise. Again John snores behind Mary, again a sleeping Sherlock kicks him in retaliation, and this time both Mary and Molly smile, joined in amusement though they are separated by all these months.

Molly feels a sharp jolt of kinship with her friend at the thought and tears prick her eyes.

"Now I'm not claiming it will be easy," Mary's saying, "And I'm not suggesting you put up with everything he does- We both know he can be a complete and utter git, and that's on his good days.

"But Molly, if there's any way you can manage hanging in there, do it. Hang in for him. Hold on, for him. I know he doesn't know his arse from his elbow when it comes to women, and I know he'll probably cock things up more times than even Mycroft could count, but he does care about you, I promise he does."

Mary's tone is intense. Certain.

"I think he might even love you," she says softly.

Molly doesn't know what to say to that.

"And soon, very soon, he's going to need all the love he can get," Mary continues. Her voice is getting louder. Quicker. "Soon, he's going to need us all to stand with him. John I can trust to survive but Sherlock? Sherlock's fragile, in his own way. He's vulnerable, though he'd never have the cop-on to admit it. He needs you- And deep down he knows it. I know it. We all bloody know it-".

Sherlock snorts in his sleep, tossing slightly and Mary shakes her head. Her expression becomes slightly harried. Molly feels a twist of pain in her chest at the sight.

She knows her friend is slipping away from her and there's not a thing she can do.

"Time's up," Mary mutters, "but I s'pose that's all I had to say anyway. Good luck with him Molly, and when the time comes-" Just for a moment her composure cracks and Molly sees it. The pain. The certain knowledge that she is running out of time.

And then, as quickly as it was there it's gone, and Mary is her old, cocksure self again.

Her grin is wise. World-weary and knowing.

The glint in her eyes is oh so bright.

"Take care of our boys, Molly Hooper," she says, and then the screen clicks off, leaving the young pathologist sitting in her pyjamas, in her flat, feeling like a building has been dropped on her-

Mary can't have meant all that, she tells herself, but deep down she knows her friend did.

Sherlock can't feel all that, she tells herself, but something inside her whispers that maybe he does.

She stares at the screen, replays the message. In fact she replays it so many times that she thinks she'll soon know it by heart...

Two weeks later, after a case spent chasing through Edinburgh together and then a night spent in with a bottle of wine, Molly will finally chance her arm and try to kiss the toddler in question.

He will prove quite amenable to her attempt, though his own will be much more... ambitious. Lengthy. Passionate.

Soon he and Molly will be enjoying themselves thoroughly, their efforts the beginning of a what will become a lifelong romance...

Molly never tells Sherlock how much he owes to his old friend's intervention, but she suspects that he deduced it long ago.

Why ever else would he agree to call their first little girl Mary too?