Molly giggled uncontrollably as she slammed her shot glass down on the wooden bar, the whiskey pleasantly burning the back of her throat.

"Five!" She shouted triumphantly over the blaring music in the dimly lit bar. "Top that!" She added to the blonde woman on the bar stool next to her when the look on Mary's face was hesitant at best. Mary frowned at the petite pathologist over her own shot, held in midair, then gulped it down quickly, making a face and plunking the glass down next to Molly's.

"Maybe we should slow down!" She said loudly, slurring her words slightly. Molly fell into another fit of giggles as she nodded her assent.

She was a happy drunk, which was the main reason she had begged for Mary to join her for a girl's night out. Lately, she hadn't been her normal, cheerful self.

Correction, she hadn't been her normal, cheerful self when she was alone. Around everyone else, she smiled happily, as if she hadn't a care in the world. Especially around her fiancee, Tom, who apparently couldn't read her very well because he hadn't noticed anything amiss.

The source of her unhappiness, and small bit of guilt, was none other than her longtime crush on Sherlock Holmes, who had recently returned from the dead and taken up residence in Baker Street once again. Molly knew the whole time, of course, that he wasn't really dead, a fact which irritated John Watson to no end, though, fortunately for Molly, most of his ire was reserved for Sherlock.

While Sherlock was gone those two years, Molly tried to move on. She began lying to herself that she was over her unrequited love for the arrogant git. The longer he was away, the easier it became to say to herself that she was ready to move on and forget about Mr. Perfect Cheekbones. Oh those cheekbones. She knew, deep down, that she would never really get over him but she also knew that even when, or if, he did return, Sherlock would continue to treat her as he always had. The thought of him showing up and passionately declaring his love for Molly was absurd. He didn't do sentiment.

That is how Molly found herself allowing a friend to set her up on a date.

Tom was nice and quiet and thoughtful. Nothing like Sherlock.

He was tall, with dark hair and pale skin, with a perchance for wearing nice clothes and long coats. Just like Sherlock.

Before she could doubt herself, Molly said yes to a second date with Tom. Then another. And another. And before long, they were in a relationship. He was sweet and attentive to her. He was only slightly grossed out by her job. He tolerated Toby.

Molly valiantly attempted to convince herself that Tom was the perfect man for her. He probably was.

Unfortunately, Tom wasn't the man Molly dreamt about at night. Tom didn't make her blush and stutter when he looked at her. He didn't turn her into a hot, wet mess with his voice. He wasn't who she thought about late at night with her hands between her legs and it wasn't his name she said when she reached her peak. And that made Molly very guilty indeed. It wasn't that Tom was bad in bed. He just didn't have the effect on her that Sherlock had. The sad fact was that Molly got more turned on by Sherlock simply entering the room and saying her name than by anything Tom had ever done to her.

Molly had pushed all these thoughts to the back of her mind though because Tom was there and he wanted her. Sherlock never would. So when Tom proposed, looking adorably nervous, Molly accepted with hardly a moment's hesitation.

Then, the git came back.

And every supressed desire Molly had for him came rushing forward.

She should be blissfully happy with her fiancee. Instead, she was once again daydreaming about an unattainable, arrogant arse. She tried very hard to ignore his presence back at the morgue but the moment he summoned her to Baker Street, she rushed over, against her better judgement, giddy with the thought that he wanted her around. Of course, as she discovered, it was only to replace John, who still wasn't speaking to Sherlock, but she still felt a bit of pride that he chose her.

They spent the day interviewing potential cases until Detective Inspector Lestrade called and asked Sherlock to take a look at a scene that had the Yard baffled. Sherlock was brilliant as usual and even allowed Molly to examine the skeleton without showing any indication of impatience with her. If she didn't know any better, Molly would have called that Sherlock's version of a date.

Then, as they left, there was "the talk." That is what Molly labeled it in her head. She could only describe his behavior as odd. Not that he wasn't a bit odd usually, but it almost seemed as if his little speech was Sherlock trying to convince himself to let Molly go. Which was absolutely ridiculous, Molly chided herself, because he had never shown any interest in her to begin with. His statement, "The one person he thought didn't matter at all to me, was the one person who mattered the most," bewildered her, as did the gentle kiss he pressed to her cheek before quickly striding off down the street.

All these thoughts drove Molly to plead with Mary to accompany her to the bar and she now found herself pushing away her miserable state of mind in favor of getting absolutely pissed.

"Another!" She demanded happily of the bartender as he paused in front of the ladies.

"Sure thing, luv." He replied and winked at her cheekily. Molly felt her cheeks heat with a blush.

"Oh no!" Mary interrupted before he could walk away to get the shots. "No more shots for you. Two waters, please." The man glanced from face to face, Mary's determined and Molly's resigned. She nodded meekly and soon they each had a tall, cold glass of ice water in front of them. Molly took a sip then smiled devilishly as a thought occurred to her. She fumbled for her clutch a drew out her mobile, grinning mischievously at the blonde before pulling up her messages. She selected the top one without looking and began to type.

"I think our men could use a good tease before we leave here for the night, don't you?" She winked at Mary who smiled knowingly and pulled out her own phone.

This turn of events agreed with Mary quite well, as it meant that John would probably get impatient and come looking for her so she wouldn't have to admit to needing him to come retrieve her drunken self. She shot off a suggestive message and returned her attention to Molly whose brow was furrowed in concentration as she peered drunkenly at the tiny keyboard of her own phone.

Molly sent off her message and plopped her phone down on the counter, took a large swig of the water and ordered a couple pints. She was determined to forget about Sherlock at least for one night and shag her sweet, if boring, fiancee silly. Like the ghastly American song playing in the background, it was going to be a good night.