A/N: OK, so this little story was inspired by an anonymous review I received for the story "Monkey Business" under my Sherlollipops catch-all. Now, keep in mind the title of the catch-all and the fact that "Monkey Business" was the SEVENTH story I'd posted when I received the review. The reviewer (again, note they remained anonymous), offered up this little gem: "This story could never happen because Molly is an insipid prig and Sherlock is most likely gay." Seriously, that was the review. I'm still chuckling over it, wondering what would possess someone with that opinion to even GLANCE at a posting called Sherlollipops in the first place, let alone apparently read all the way to the last story posted before deciding they had to post that particular review! Ah well. At least it inspired a story. An angsty three or four parter, of which this is the first. Enjoy! And if you don't, well, at least I'm warning you up front THIS IS A SHERLOLLY STORY FEATURING SHERLOCK AND MOLLY BECOMING ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED. Read no further if you don't like that kind of thing. :)

Part 1: Mean Girls

Department Christmas parties, Molly Hooper decided with a sigh, were among the most dreary occasions imaginable. Well, she thought as she looked around at the happy couples dancing together, the tables full of people laughing and chatting as she waited in line to refill her wineglass, maybe it wasn't all that dreary. Not for them, anyway, the lucky ones who were here with husbands and wives and dates and boyfriends...

Molly Hooper, she silently scolded herself as she shuffled forward a few steps as the line moved, you stop that right this instant! You're here with good friends who are happy to be with you! Just because John and Mary are a couple and you and Sherlock aren't doesn't mean you have to spend the evening feeling sorry for yourself!

And why was she? She'd long since given up any romantic hopes for Sherlock to want her as anything more than a friend, and told herself every day how lucky she was to have that much of him. She was in a very exclusive club, membership limited to his landlady, DI Lestrade, John Watson, and to a certain extent John's girlfriend, Mary Morstan, whom she had been lucky enough to call friend long before John and Mary had ever set eyes on one another.

It gave her a warm feeling to know that she'd been the catalyst to bring those two lonely souls together, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling sad for herself. "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," she muttered as the line moved again.

"Problem, Molly?"

She jumped at the sound of the familiar baritone coming from just behind her, then turned to glare at Sherlock, who simply smirked down at her. God, he looked so perfect, dressed in a bespoke suit as always, hair and cheekbones and eyes...Stop it! she snapped at her inner teenager, the one that never would stop mooning over him. "N-no," she said aloud, giving Sherlock her widest, brightest smile. "Just...talking to myself." She forced a laugh. "Gets a bit boring, standing in a queue, even if there is a nice drinkie waiting at the end for me!"

She winced inwardly. God, she sounded like a complete idiot, but that was nothing new. At least post-Fall Sherlock was decent enough to simply roll his eyes and not immediately pounce with a cutting comment.

He'd been back nearly three months now, and the gossip and sensational headlines had finally died down. Well, for the most part. She herself was still privy to several attempts a week to try and pry some "insiders information" about Sherlock out of her, but it was down from several a day so that was an improvement. She wished she could just plow on and ignore the fuss the way Sherlock did, but no one did anything quite the way he did, certainly not boring old Molly Hooper.

"Molly, I do wish you'd stop doing that." Sherlock's irritated voice brought her back to the present with a jolt; what was he talking about now? Before she could ask, he continued: "Worrying about what others think of you is pointless; they'll think what they like regardless of the facts, I've told you that more than once. I do wish you'd at least make an effort to believe me."

She blushed and looked down at her shoes – plain black flats, since heels made her feel as if she were walking on stilts and about to fall over, no matter how low or high. "Oh, well, sorry, Sherlock," she finally said. "Not everyone can be as indifferent as you."

Oh, God, why had she said that in such a waspish tone? Who knew what he'd make out of that response? Stuttering out an excuse that she needed to use the ladies, she rushed away, all thoughts of refreshing her drink forgotten in the embarrassment of the moment. Why oh why couldn't she manage to talk to Sherlock like she did everyone else – without stuttering or making a complete ass of herself? Would he read her disappointment into being nothing more than his friend into those words? Had she accidentally given away her feelings, feelings she'd tried so hard to bury, to keep him from knowing about?

Well, that was a lost cause, she already knew that; Sherlock might not have caught onto her feelings for him until a certain Christmas three years gone, but he'd certainly understood after the fact. And she'd tried to soldier on, to gain perspective, to appreciate the friendship that was all he'd ever be able to feel for her, and look where all that effort landed her: exactly nowhere. Right back where she started.

She reached the ladies; finding the room empty, she splashed some cold water on her face, careful not to ruin the little makeup she was wearing in honor of the festive occasion, patted herself dry and made her way to the farthest stall in order to relieve herself, since she was here anyway and in no mood to rush back out again.

Of course the door wouldn't fully close, but she was already there and it would stay shut if she pushed her foot against it, so she shrugged and sat, wondering how she could avoid Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

It really shouldn't be that hard; he was only there because John had asked him to come, their first social outing since Sherlock's return and John's engagement; another chance for Mary and Sherlock to get to know one another – or at least, for Sherlock to start to become used to the idea that this girlfriend wasn't going anywhere any time soon. At least she was well able to stand up to Sherlock's needling; Molly knew he had a grudging respect for Mary based on that ability alone, and the fact that she'd kept John from completely falling apart while he thought his best friend was dead had not gone unnoticed, either.

Molly finished and flushed and prepared to exit the stall when of course her shoe got wedged under the full-length door, and of course it took her a second of hopping about to free it and get it back on her foot. The door had swung inward just a bit, effectively enclosing her in a triangle between it and the wall when she heard the main door to the ladies open.

She was about to leave, to just pull the door to the stall open and wash up when she heard her own name and found herself frozen in place.

"Why on Earth is he here with Molly Hooper? D'you think she's blackmailing him?"

That was Veronica Richards, a nurse Molly knew only casually. A tall, thin blonde with huge blue eyes and a figure that every straight male in the hospital lusted after. With a reputation as bitch on wheels, although Molly only rarely interacted with her.

"Who, Miss Mouse?" The second voice was full of scorn, and Molly knew it far too well. Shirene Mortimer, another pathologist. The two of them had started at St. Bart's together and had never really gotten on, mainly because the tall, well-built brunette was a lazy, bitchy whiner who took far too many smoke breaks and did her best to fob her work off onto others, Molly included. She'd only gotten worse since Molly's recent promotion to a senior position that the other woman clearly thought she herself deserved. Molly suspected her of being the one to start the rumor that Molly had only gotten the job because she was sleeping with Mike Stamford, a rumor the man himself had sternly quashed when it came to his attention.

"Don't be ridiculous," Shirene was saying to Veronica. From the sounds of it the two women were freshening their makeup in front of the mirrors. Molly remained frozen, unable to decide if she should just wait for them to leave or open the door and get the confrontation over with when Shirene added maliciously: "You can tell it's not a double date, no matter what fantasy Mousy's got in that stupid little head of hers. He couldn't look more bored if he tried. He's probably just here because John invited him." There was a definite smirk in her voice as she added: "What would he ever see in her?"

"Well, he does like to work with her more than any of the other pathologists," Veronica put in, with a hint of malice in her own syrupy sweet tones. It sounded like she was giving Shirene a bit of a jab there, in spite of supposedly being her friend. But Molly knew why it would hurt: Shirene had never made any secret of the fact that she would bed Sherlock in a heartbeat if he ever gave her more than the time of the day.

"Yeah, work with being the operative words," Shirene shot back. "Not do anything else with."

"Maybe if she put some RHP in his coffee she could get him to shag her in the supply cupboard," Veronica added with a nasty laugh. "Be about the only way she'd ever get into his pants."

"Oh, please," Shirene scoffed. "She's an insipid prig and he's most likely gay, so I really don't see that happening!"

She couldn't move. She could barely breathe. How could people be so cruel? Why hadn't she just come out of the stall as soon as she heard them talking, let them pretend they were "just joking" or (more likely) just smirk at her until she left? But no, she'd stayed and then she'd listened and oh God how was she going to face them without giving away the fact that she'd heard every awful word?

She couldn't leave now, even after hearing them finish up and leave, the loud sound of the music and merriment from the room beyond marking their exit before fading into a dull roar once again. She was shaking in a combination of humiliation and rage; was that what people really thought of her, of Sherlock?

That thought gave her pause. She'd never believed the rumors and innuendo about Sherlock and John's relationship; John was too clearly a lady's man for it to be believable. Besides, true or not, it wasn't anyone's business, not even hers...although she had to admit she'd wondered herself at times if that was the direction Sherlock's interests lay. Until that same horrid Christmas, of course, when he'd identified that woman – Irene Adler, she'd learned her name to be – by not her face. Even knowing how he'd originally seen her naked, thanks to John's blog, hadn't completely explained how Sherlock could have memorized her in such detail that one look was all it took for him to know her...

She gulped back a sudden sob; where had that come from? Why was she letting those two bitches get to her like this?

"Because they didn't say anything you weren't already thinking, Molly Hooper," she whispered to herself. She sank to her haunches, buried her face in her hands and wept.