A/N: First time writing either a Sherlock story or a Doctor Who story. So, I went with something simple, and because there aren't enough Wholock stories where Molly's the companion. No beta, a little disjointed and not as descriptive as I'd like, but I wanted to post this before the idea ran off as ideas tend to do in my mind. No spoilers that I noticed. Might add follow-up chapters later.

Mad Men

Sometimes Molly isn't completely sure why she still likes him, why she keeps letting him get to her. She remembers most days, but every now and then, when he'll say something terrible to her, something cruel, something somehow completely true, she'll begin to question why she continues to cling to hope.

If she were to ask her mother, the woman would sigh and shake her head and tell Molly that it's because she's an eternal optimist, and quite mad for it. If she were to have asked daddy while he was still alive, he'd smile and ruffle her hair and tell her that it's because she's a wonderful girl who sees the best in people.

Of course, both things are fairly true, but they don't really completely explain why she keeps letting him raise her hopes and then crush them again and again like waves rising and falling, like a bad joke that people can't stop telling, like graphing the sine of x, and oh good lord, why would anyone want someone as boring as her anyway?

Whenever she's had a particularly disappointing day with Sherlock, she does the same thing: she makes herself a good cup of tea, she puts on a sad movie, and she spends a couple hours crying. She hates herself for crying, and she hates him for making her cry. Then she climbs into bed and Toby curls up with her, and she cries a little bit more and falls asleep.

Then she dreams.

Molly didn't dream much before she met Sherlock, but these days she dreams for nights in a row every time he graces her with his presence. It can be difficult to say why, since Sherlock is never in her dreams, oh no, Molly's dreams never have disappointment like that. She doesn't dream of ordinary things like the people in her life or the death that she works with every day or men or cats or silly ordinary fears.

What Molly Hooper dreams of is fantastic, incredible, unbelievable, and quite nearly indescribable. She dreams of wondrous beings, of skies that burn bright with three suns and skies that freeze with dead suns. She dreams of peaceful people with two heads and frightening monsters with claws everywhere, of trees that can giggle and whisper secrets in her ears and trees that can't even sway in a cooling breeze. In Molly's dreams are great lives and great wars, mountains that sing and metals that have never seen a periodic table, beaches burnt black, volcanoes of blue lava, foods beyond exotic, mauve alerts, dancing houses, creatures of stone. In Molly's dreams are beautiful, impossible things, all given to her by a beautiful, mad, impossible man.

When Molly wakes up, she smiles sadly and remembers why she clings to Sherlock. It's a bit of a silly reason, he's not really her mad, impossible man. In fact, he's hardly anything like her impossible man. Because Sherlock never actually smiles at her, while her mad man was all smiles and cheerful fun. Because it isn't Molly with whom Sherlock is always running from danger. Because Sherlock has his doctor, and it isn't Molly, and Molly's doctor is long gone.

But he is still a mad, impossible man, and Molly thinks that's why Sherlock makes her dream. Because Sherlock does smile a sad, small smile, he does run, he does keep a companion, and ultimately, he does defeat the bad guys in ways that are blindingly brilliant and maybe not always good.

Because in Molly's mind, one mad man is better than none, even if Sherlock doesn't have an impossible blue box.