A/N: A little plot bunny that turned into a story. Cross-posted at AO3. I hope you enjoy!

John Watson stood at the stoop of 221 Baker Street, watching Sherlock Holmes stumble out of a police car, followed by a young constable who appeared to have been tasked to make sure the detective didn't fall flat on his face. The constable hurried to Sherlock's side, taking his arm over the shoulder to keep him from slipping onto the pavement, and half-carried him towards John.

Sherlock looked at him gratefully. "Thank you," he slurred. "I'm sure your girlfriend'll stop cheating on you, once she finds out you're going to propose."

John took this as a sign to take over, supporting his friend's weight over his own shoulder. He barely got out a "Cheers" before the officer walked back to the car briskly, taking his phone out of his pocket, with a distressed look on his face.

Greg Lestrade emerged from the parked car, careful to close the door behind him, and nodded at John.

"So what happened this time?" John inquired, struggling to keep Sherlock balanced on his feet. Sherlock was oblivious to John's plight and gave the officer in the car, who was deep in conversation on his phone, an enthusiastic wave then fell uncharacteristically silent.

Lestrade sighed. "He's been making lots of friends, that," nodding towards Sherlock.

"I thought he was on a case with you."

"Oh, he was. He figured out we were looking for a chemist who was stealing drugs from the W.H.O. We got to the flat, gave the suspect a chase, but the suspect turns around and injects this one with a syringe," Lestrade illustrated, his pointer finger raised, indicating his own neck.

"Jesus, is he going to be okay?"

"Oh yeah," he nodded. "Apparently it was a small dose of sodium thiopental––'truth serum.' Paramedics looked him over, said he should be back to normal in thirty-six hours, give or take. He might suffer from disorientation, headaches, nausea. Nothing worse than a hangover."

"I guess I better call Molly to help watch him. Mrs. H is in Brighton with her sister this weekend, and I've got an actual baby to look after at home later."

"Molly?" Sherlock, rousing from his stupor, perked up at the mention of her name, saying brightly, almost beaming, "I know a Molly. Mine's called Molly Hooper," dragging out the vowels of her surname.

"Yeah, erm," Lestrade began, with a look halfway between guilt and amusement. "I've been trying to get him to divulge some government secrets and the like, but all he's managed to do is deduce people wrong and piss them off." Unapologetically, he took out his smartphone from his coat pocket, and snapped a picture of Sherlock, who grinned widely for the camera. Containing his glee rather well, he shrugged and said, "One more for the road," before taking his leave and driving away.

"Well," John said, adopting a voice he usually reserved for his daughter. "I suppose we should be getting you upstairs. Can you do stairs right now?"

Sherlock looked at him, genuinely offended by the question. "'Course I can. I've been doing stairs since I was two."

"Oh-kay, here we go then," pandered John, as they crossed 221's threshold together and closed the door behind them.

As they climbed the familiar steps to Sherlock's apartment, John texted Molly and informed her of the situation, ending his text in a favour to watch their friend. She responded in the affirmative by the time John helped Sherlock to the couch.

"John, I've got a bit of a headache. Can I have some medicine please?" Sherlock pleaded, the crook of his elbow draped over his eyes.

"No, sorry, mate," John responded, remembering his medical training. "All you've got in is paracetamol, and it can interact poorly with the drug that's already in your system." He looked at Sherlock with pity and relented, his mobile already in hand as he spoke, "Why don't I ask Molly if she can bring some aspirin?"

"Molly!" Sherlock sat up straight, then wrapped his arms around a small crimson pillow with an embroidered bee on it, and sat back down the couch. "I love her. I love Molly Hooper," he pronounced faithfully.

"Yes, I know," John said with a little sadness hedged in his voice, for he knew Sherlock didn't need truth serum to extract these particular feelings from him.

It had been two months since the Sherrinford incident, when the two essentially declared their love for one another, and John had yet to see them start something resembling a relationship. In fact, things seemed strange between them; it was nothing but awkward silences in between forced conversations whenever he and Sherlock were at Bart's.

"She's so––she's so––her eyes, and her skin, and her hair..." Sherlock continued.

"Yep, she's got all those things."

Well, John thought. He might as well make himself useful while they waited for Molly to arrive. He wandered around the flat, meaning to do some picking up after Sherlock, what with Mrs. Hudson not being around to "not" tidy-up as usual.

He entered the kitchen and was surprised to find it in a state of relative cleanliness. Sherlock's usual labyrinthian setup of flasks and Bunsen burners were put away, and the refrigerator was actually stocked with milk that was well within its expiry date. A teacup and two mugs––a plain one, and one with a cartoon cat on it––were resting on the drying rack.

Sherlock called from the living room, apparently intent on reciting a very unpoetic blazon of Molly's qualities to whomever would listen. "And she smells marvelous, too, like lavender and formaldehyde."

"I bet she does," John replied, entering the sitting area and setting a rubbish bin next to Sherlock. A new pair of Turkish slippers caught John's eye from underneath the sofa. He frowned in disapproval (Oh, he's in for it later, John promised) at the thought of Sherlock upgrading his hiding place for his cigarettes, rather than discarding of the habit altogether.

"She's so clever, much cleverer than me," Sherlock continued.

"I absolutely agree with you."

He aimed to tidy up the coffee table next, but found it also devoid of the usual minutiae of old newspapers, ticket stubs, file folders, and the occasional blunt weapon. Instead, a stack of medical journals sat neatly under a Margaret Atwood novel. John shrugged, more than a little relieved not to have encountered something ghastly or putrid in his decision to play housekeeper for a bit.

"John, I think I might be sick."

"I put the bin right next to you."

"I miss Molly," said Sherlock forlornly. He rolled his entire body over, and with a wistful voice that trailed to a volume that John had to strain to hear, he added before losing consciousness, "I like being the little spoon."

John nearly burst out laughing. At that moment, the only thing he was more sorry about, other than his friend being poorly, was that no one else heard what he did. Right on the spot, he could think of no fewer than seven different ways to make fun of Sherlock, once he'd made a full recovery, of course.

But then it all came together for him: the cat mug, the novel and medical journals, the Turkish slippers––in a woman's size––the tension at Bart's…

Above Sherlock's soft snores, John heard the front door creak open and Molly's voice floated upstairs, "Hello?" John gave Sherlock one last glance, chuckled to himself, and put his jacket on.

As he made his way down, he smiled inwardly, imagining what Mary would have said if she were with him. He pictured the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, a vindication of all the times she surreptitiously elbowed him in the ribs whenever the four of them spent time together, in her contrivance to see Sherlock and Molly matched.

At the bottom of the stairs, Molly had just hung her coat up on one of the pegs.

"So…" from the bottom step, he teased. "Little spoon, huh?"

The look on her face––eyes wide and mouth open––and the subtle blush on her cheeks confirmed it. Then she smiled, almost bashfully, and nodded.

John took her head between his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Not that it means anything, but I approve."

Molly laughed softly, "It does. And thank you."

They finally did it, he thought, locking the black lacquered door behind him. They found their way to each other. He smiled to himself, shaking his head a little, as he slipped his hands inside his pockets and walked to the nearest Tube station for home.

But actually, truth be told, he wasn't surprised.

end

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