AN: I've been busy moving cities, so my big stories have been temporarily lost in the shuffle. That being said, I've put together a little something for fun.

I've always loved the idea (my own little conspiracy theory) that Molly Hooper is actually a genius. Not just a "smarter-than-Sherlock" type of genius, but a smarter-than-Mycroft level of savant. A lot of the play between Sherlock and Mycroft has to do with the fact that Mycroft, the smarter of the two, seems to also be the more socially adjusted one. I always wondered what that would mean for Molly, who is by all accounts the most 'normal' of the cast.

This fic is a little musing on that premise. I think I will always adore 'normal' Molly from the show, but I couldn't help but explore this idea a little further.

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock nor am I making a profit from this work.

"You're just like him, aren't you?"

It was a quiet afternoon at the Watson residence; at least, it was until Mary decided she couldn't quite let the topic go unnoticed any longer.

"Sorry?"

Mary watched as Molly blink owlishly in the face of her comment, her accusation. Cup paused half way between lap and mouth, there was only a split-second pause before it was lowered, lips quirking into an embarrassed grin.

"Who am I like?"

The query was followed by an awkward laugh, a self-conscious tug on her jumper. Molly was forever trying to fade into the background. A white coat at work, Mary could understand, but even now Molly seemed determined to avoid attention. There was no missing the fact that her jumper matched the paper of the Watson's living room. Molly had even worn yellow to the Watsons' wedding when the venue itself had been decorated in the same sunny shade.

It seemed so strangely convenient now, the visual cues.

Molly was shy, but Mary was beginning to suspect there was a deeper reason to it.

"You," Mary leaned forward and smiled as she refilled the younger woman's cup, "You're the top of the pack aren't you? Smarter than them…than Sherlock and his clever brother."

It's a thought that's been percolating in the back of Mary's mind since the first time she had been introduced to the mousy pathologist.

As someone who knew all about hiding in plain sight it had figured that like would recognize like.

Molly didn't seem to share her insight.

"Me?"

Pointing to herself, Molly made an absurd noise in the back of her throat, "I wish I were cleverer. But even I don't think I can aspire to be like Sherlock."

Mary laughed, "I don't think anyone aspires to be like Sherlock. But he is smart."

She gave her companion a pointed glance, at which point she was rewarded with a nod in agreement.

"But there are different kinds of clever, aren't there?" It was a leading question; one Mary hoped Molly would expand on if given the chance. Even if she was as intelligent as Mary suspected it didn't mean she was foolhardy in her responses either.

Glancing down at her cup, Molly set it on the table with a mournful sigh, "You mean like Irene Adler? She was clever."

Mary had read her husband's blog, had also pumped Sherlock for information about all the cases that John had artfully sidestepped. Irene Adler had come the closest to challenging Sherlock and his brother. Jim Moriarty had been credited with a portion of her success, but the fact remained that she had nearly done what others couldn't begin to imagine.

But there was one crucial difference between Irene Adler and Molly Hooper.

"She was a performer. She thrived on attention."

And this time, Molly did step into her carefully laid trap.

"Well you know what they say." Molly shrugged, "That's the problem with geniuses; they all need an audience. They need the attention."

Mary smiled. If Sherlock needed the attention of the common man, what did it say about Molly that the only audience she craved was a genius of considerable ability? It wasn't just for romance either. The last man who had really given her attention had been said-genius' sworn enemy.

Had Jim Moriarty seen into the depths in those bright eyes, past that innocent façade?

It was an intriguing thought. But then, Molly acted so very normal.

Mary had to admit that her suspicions about Molly could just as well be the result of a mind too long dedicated to looking for conspiracies.

"You're not a performer, Molly?"

With Sherlock it was easy to see when he was trying to act normal. Mary herself had seen herself how much effort it took for him to act like the rest of them, to have the same considerations, social awareness.

His brother seemed to be the better adjusted one, but given that he was hardly around anyone Mary had chalked that up to his own brand of effort.

"A performer?" Molly smiled shyly, "I'm nothing special."

Molly seemed to willingly and successfully integrate herself into the everyday. A casual observer would never have considered her odd, and even a studied eye would be hard pressed to note any glaring differences.

If she was correct, Mary couldn't begin to image the level of control and mental ability that went into masking an intellect of such significance. She seemed capable of swimming with intellectual sharks and coming away from the experience completely unscathed. John had nearly been burned alive for his friendship with Sherlock, and Mary herself had been blackmailed.

Mary watched Molly putter around the kitchen, "They all passed within inches of you so how did they miss it?"

It was possible she would never have her answer. But as they spend the afternoon together Mary enjoyed the company regardless.

And perhaps it wasn't so much that like recognized like, perhaps it was that Mary had found a friend in a most unexpected place.

Stranger things had happened after all.

Molly smiled several hours later, "I'm glad we did this Mary, I think I should be going. Wouldn't want to overdo it, right?"

"Hmm?"

"Resting. You and the baby?" Molly gestured to Mary's gravid belly, well on its way through the eighth month.

"Oh, this." Mary chuckled, "It'll be two more weeks before we've got to worry."

Molly wrung her hands, "If you say so. Still, I think I'd best go. Do you mind if I use the loo before I go?"

Mary gestured towards the hallway, "By all means."

Five minutes later, having bid Molly goodbye, Mary found herself alone and free to immerse in her thoughts. Resting in her sitting room, curled up beneath a warm quilt, her questions seemed to swell like an ocean wave. It was always hard to parse through a conversation objectively when she was so very interested in its outcome.

It was a professional failing that had cost her the life she had left behind.

Questions swelling, battering against the inside of her mind, they were interrupted by a crash of reality as the seat beneath her went suddenly very damp.

Her water had broken. Two weeks early.

"Oh my goodness."

There was a rush of panic followed quickly by the tense drive to get things done. Swiftly getting to her feet, Mary retrieved the cordless and dialed for John. Walking into their bedroom while she listened to the phone ring, she retrieved the bag they had prepared and set it beside the entryway.

Busy signal.

Glancing at it in disappointment, Mary debated calling Sherlock before deciding a text would have to do. She had other calls to make, an ambulance to request.

But no sooner had she gotten off the phone when her front door opened and John strode in, his face lined with concern. Behind him was a team of emergency personnel.

Mary didn't have to glance at her watch to know less than a minute had passed since she had contacted emergency services. Sherlock had said the average response to such a call would have taken at least seven minutes.

Someone else had called John and this ambulance.

It could only have been one person.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she looked up from her watch to where John and the Emergency crew were walking through the door.

"Like recognizes like."

You're just like him, aren't you?

Mary had spent an hour questioning the young woman and not once had she received an answer.

Laughing softly, Mary shook her head. "Well played Molly Hooper."