The world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant man with an international reputation, was standing in a kitchen with his hands in a sink full of dirty dishes because he could not think of a single acceptable excuse for not doing so.

"Molly, these plates will only get dirty again! Have you considered the use of disposable dinnerware and plastic utensils?"

Dr. Molly Hooper looked at him with a bit of disdain. "Don't you want to save the planet, Sherlock?"

"I would be more than happy to save the planet, Molly, were it to ever ask for my assistance. And it didn't involve soaking my extremities in disgustingly greasy dishwater which…"

"Just keep working. We're almost finished."

"You could live on takeaway, as I do, Molly. Ear right out of the container, no fuss, no mess…"

"You only do that because you're too lazy to cook, and couldn't find a clean plate in that kitchen of yours to save your life! Since John moved out…"

"Which brings me back to my original proposition, Dr. Hooper. Have you considered any further my suggestion that you move to Baker Street?"

"I am not moving over there simply to babysit you. And, in the words of Mrs. Hudson. 'I'm not your housekeeper'!"

"Molly, I wasn't suggesting that you would be a housekeeper, although, if you were to keep things tidy I wouldn't complain too much. Mrs. Hudson gets so frustrated at times…"

Molly was drying the dishes as the tall man with the lovely eyes washed them, stealing glances at him occasionally as he bent over her kitchen sink. Sherlock had been nagging her to move in with him for weeks now, and had this been a couple of years earlier she would have jumped at the chance. She had been absolutely infatuated with the infuriating man, and the thought of seeing him in his natural environment, shirtless, or perhaps only with a towel on his way out of the shower, would have caused tingles of pleasure to traverse up and down her spine. But that was then, and this was now. And now she had come to realize how much she truly loved him, and to be so close, yet so distant, may, in fact, kill her. A pleasant way to go, no doubt, but death nonetheless!

The detective was now beginning to recite his usual catalog of reasons why he thought it would be a good idea.

"Baker Street is closer to Bart's, Molly. Think of your commute. It's only three miles. On a pleasant day you could even walk, or bike, it."

"I know, but…"

"You wouldn't have to pay rent on this place. It must cost a pretty penny, as it is a so-called two bedroom flat, although that spare room is more of a spare closet…"

"It's big enough for my mother, Sherlock. I can't help it if you have trouble fitting your ego in there!"

"Touche, Molly. But you know I'm right. And it would be so much more convenient. When John worked with me all the time, it was much better to have him close at hand, to bounce ideas off…"

"You still call John all the time, Sherlock. He works cases with you. You use your mobile…"

"Not the same! It helps to have someone close…"

"Besides, Sherlock, I couldn't stand the mess! The experiments in the kitchen. Organs in the fridge…"

"Next you'll be complaining about my skull!"

'Don't be ridiculous. The cow skull is a bit whimsical," Molly said with a smile, and Sherlock Holmes winced at being referred to as "whimsical". The pathologist continued, "And I've grown quite attached to the skull on the mantle…"

"Billy would be very happy to hear you say that. I fancy he was quite the ladies' man in a more fleshy incarnation, Molly. So what's the problem?"

Molly Hooper put down her dish towel and looked him right in the eye. "Sherlock, are you going to continue to ask until I say 'yes'?"

"That was my plan, yes."

So Molly continued to look at him seriously, every inner voice screaming at her, "No!", while a soft whisper coming from her heart said something different.

"Alright, Sherlock."

"Really, Molly? You won't regret this, I promise." But some part of her already was, as the detective continued, "I shall make all the arrangements. You just pack. I'll take care of the move, and…"

"Sherlock, I can't just pick up and leave, you know. I have a lease!"

"As I said, I shall take care of everything, Molly. Start packing!" Sherlock then leaned in to kiss hs pathologist on the forehead. Molly's heart, as usual, skipped a beat when he did so. They had come to spend quite a lot of time together lately, watching crap telly, sharing meals, working cases together when John was not available due to family commitments. But could she really handle living with the object of her unrequited affections without allowing it to break her heart? It appears she was about to find out.

Barely five days later, Molly was packed and ready to go. Most of her furniture, inexpensive and well-worn, had been earmarked for disposal or donation. Her clothing and personal effects had been packaged up in marked boxes. Her grandmother's armoire was to be taken to her new living quarters, along with her father's desk. Some other items were to be stored in Mrs. Hudson's basement. Molly had planned to supervise the move over the coming weekend, and was quite surprised when Sherlock texted her to hurry home on Thursday evening. Home to Baker Street, it seemed! She immediately called him, despite the fact that she knew he hated speaking on his mobile.

"Sherlock, what in blazes do you mean it's all taken care of?"

"I had some of my homeless network help out, Molly. You're all moved out of your flat, and into mine, um, ours. I've unpacked for you, too. You father's desk is in the sitting room, the armoire in the bedroom…"

"Sherlock, the building manager…"

"Has already signed off on the condition of your former flat, Dr. Hooper. A cheque is forthcoming!"

When the cab pulled up in front of 221B, Molly dashed inside, excited to see her new home. She opened the door to the flat without knocking, as it was now her flat, too. No Sherlock. Ah, he's probably upstairs in John's old room, now to be hers. Molly took the additional flight of stairs quickly, and opened the bedroom door.

But it wasn't a bedroom at all! There was a fridge, possibly the one from the kitchen downstairs, a work table with a microscope and various utensils, the small sink, which had been in the room previously, was fitted with new faucets, and sprayers, and tubing. The was a microwave, and even a small centrifuge. What the bloody hell was going on?

"Sherlock?!"

"Ah, Molly, that was quick. I hadn't expected you for a while yet…"

"What is all this?"

The detective looked confused. "Surely you can tell, Dr. Hooper. It's our new lab. You did say you would rather that there be no experiments in the kitchen. This way, no humans, at least, will mistake eyeballs, or toes, or other various organs for comestibles. However, I will not be responsible for Toby, who has been sniffing around in here all day!"

"Sherlock…"

"Speaking of the kitchen, I think you will approve of the changes, I have purchased a new fridge, one which dispenses ice and water on demand. And a new microwave, as cleaning the old one proved rather difficult, and I was not entirely sure what sort of detritus was lurking in…"

But Sherlock found himself talking to the open doorway as Molly had turned and quickly descended the stairs to the sitting room of the flat. Sherlock followed closely on her heels. Molly turned around to take in the changes. Her father's desk did, indeed, occupy a space in the room, not far from Sherlock's. She could see the changes in the kitchen, also.

"I even cooked us a meal earlier. All it needs is to be heated up…"

"Sherlock, where am I supposed to sleep?"

The man looked definitely confused by her question. "What do you mean? In the bedroom, of course." And Molly was off down the hallway toward the room in question. When she entered, she found the room rearranged to accommodate her grandmother's rather large armoire. The bed was now covered in her favorite coverlet, with her flowery throw pillows scattered all around.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked rather hesitantly.

"Sherlock, was it your intention that we share a bedroom? And a bed?"

"I would have thought that was rather obvious, Dr. Hooper. I have been badgering you to move in with me for weeks now…"

"Sherlock, you gave no indication! We've never even kissed…"

"I kiss you all the time, Molly!"

"On the forehead! Or the cheek! That hardly counts, you git!"

"Of course it does! Well, it counts to me, anyway! And what, exactly, did you think I meant when I asked you to move in with me? "

"Sherlock, people just don't move in together without dating, without, you know, uh, …"

"Dating, Molly? Don't you think we know each other well enough after seven years? And sex? People used to marry all the time without living together before that, or having sex! Don't you think we'd be compatible? I find you very attractive, and I know that you…"

"I love you, you bloody idiot! And how will I feel when this arrangement, or experiment, or whatever it is you have in mind comes to an end? It'll break my heart! It'll hurt so much…"

Tears had now begun to fall, and Sherlock was looking desolate. "Molly, I thought you'd be happy. I thought this would make you happy! And if this 'experiment', as you call it, were to end, it would be you doing the ending, I assure you! I don't want to break your heart. I've never wanted to break your heart!" He reached for the tiny woman, and pulled her close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her. "But, maybe you should consider how it's breaking mine hearing you say things like that," he whispered quietly in her ear.

Molly heard his words, and reached her arms around his waist. Her sniffling was slowing, as she spoke, "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm a doctor. I know how to fix it." Then she stood on her toes to bring her lips close to his, and give him his first treatment.

When the couple broke for air, Molly spoke first, "Did you mention something about a meal, Sherlock. I'm actually a bit hungry."

"Molly, my love, I think you will find that the taste of my cooking improves the hungrier you are. Perhaps we could stay in here for a while and work up an appetite?"

Several hours later, Molly discovered that Sherlock Holmes could, indeed, be wrong on rare occasions. For nothing, not even a very strong appetite, indicated by the constant growling of an empty stomach, and an urgent need to replenish calories burned up by some strenuous, though very pleasant activities, could do anything to improve the taste of Sherlock's cooking.