Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, often described himself to friends and acquaintances as a man who was married to his work. But more and more lately he was beginning to think that, like many men in today's world, he should consider taking a mistress, and the mistress he had in mind was currently elbow deep in the cadaver of a middle aged fat lady.

Dr. Molly Hooper had been "his" pathologist for almost seven years now. She was the only one with whom he would work. Perhaps more importantly, she was the only pathologist who would work with him. It was an extremely fortuitous chance that she was as expert in her field as he was in his. But things had changed after she had helped him to die. When he had been faced with the disaster his life had become, the possible death of virtually everyone he held dear, and his own imminent demise, he had instinctively turned to Molly, and had been surprised, in fact, shocked, that she had no idea how much she counted to him. The only good thing to come out of this revelation had been the fact that if Molly herself had no idea, perhaps Moriarty was also in the dark. This was what saved him. But since his return from the dead, having unraveled the arch-criminal's network after two years, he had been trying, in his socially awkward way, to let the woman in front of him know what she meant to him. So far, he had not succeeded, and it was entirely his fault.

Sherlock Holmes had returned to the land of the living almost two years ago. He had come back to find his pathologist engaged to be married, his best friend Dr. John Watson, about to become the same, and Mrs. Hudson still holding on to his flat, now vacant as John had moved in his his then girlfriend Mary Morstan. He quickly set about working things out. John had been a bit more than upset about the great lie of his death, but after a few well placed blows to Sherlock's nose, and with the encouragement of his now fiancee, had forgiven his friend. It took a while longer to sort out the Molly problem. A few smiles, genuine, some kind words, and the occasional kiss on the cheek, had primed her, and by the time she had stabbed her fiance, Tom, with a fork at John and Mary's wedding, he knew that the engagement was a thing of the past. He had then become sidetracked by some minor problems, such as a return to drug use (for a case, he assured everyone!), a fiancee of his own (same case!), being shot by his best friend's wife, murdering a blackmailer, a four-minute exile, and the faked return of James Moriarty, and so he still had made no progress in his campaign to win over the real Molly Hooper.

Sherlock thinks about her as the "real" Molly Hooper in order to differentiate between her and Mind Palace Molly, who lived in his imaginary domain. Mind Palace Molly had originally inhabited a small room, but that had been significantly expanded over the years. She now wandered the hallways, and haunted virtually every room of his mind palace. His relationship with Mind Palace Molly was far advanced over the Molly of the real world. His smiles were always genuine with her, he laughed easily, and spoke even more easily. Sherlock had discovered that, despite his previous protestations to anyone and everyone, he did, in fact, experience sentiment. He had come to the realization that sentiment was not, in and of itself, a destructive force. It was the way in which one handled it that caused problems. His love for his family and friends had influenced many decisions in his life, and had probably made him a better man. He dealt with his own version of sentimentality internally, with seldom a sign to the outside world. This worked perfectly on Mind Palace Molly, but if he wanted a real relationship with the real Molly, he would have to learn to externalize. And, as enchanting as he found the woman who haunted his mental construction, he couldn't deny that her existence was causing a rising sense of frustration in his real life. One that was requiring a rapidly increasing number of cold showers!

The Molly in his mind palace had moved from room to room, getting into every corner of his life. She had met his parents, who loved her. She had baked fairy cakes for his brother Mycroft, who adored her. Redbeard, his childhood pet, always ran to her, covering her face with sloppy kisses. In his mind, she had already moved into the Baker Street flat, smiling indulgently at the human tissue often stored in the fridge. At first she had slept in John's old room, but that didn't last too long. She was now happily ensconced in Sherlock's bed, which, in the real world, involved even more cold showers.

It was just the previous evening that Mind Palace Molly had sat him down for a serious discussion. "Sherlock, love," she said in a seductive way, "this can't go on forever, you know. I'm getting really tired of your leaving just as things get interesting. I suppose you think you need a cold shower, but if you were to just handle the situation, your water bill could go down significantly!"

"What do you suggest I do, Molly?"

"Have you ever considered just asking, Sherlock?"

"Asking what?"

"For a coffee date? A dinner date? A kiss? A snog? Or even a good shag? Anything, you git! Do you have any idea how long she's...I've been waiting? She's not getting any younger, although I haven't aged much, have I? Thank you for that, by the way."

"No. You look much the same as the first day I saw you. The first day I wanted you. You're lovely."

"Maybe you should consider telling her...er, me that."

"I love you, Molly."

"And that, too, you bloody idiot!"

"You're not supposed to call me names. You're supposed to say you love me, too!" Sherlock was beginning to think that he liked her better before she felt free to castigate him, back when she stuttered and stammered...

"No, you didn't! You like the new version of me. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, you have just confessed to loving the new version of me! Anyway, why state the obvious, Sherlock. You know I've loved you for years. Take care of this, or I'm going on strike!"

"How the bloody hell can you go on strike? You're a figment of my imagination!"

"And there are an awful lot of people out there who would testify to the fact that you're slightly crazy, Sherlock! I wouldn't bet on your not having some kind of psychotic break, you know, resulting in the destruction of certain parts of this fabulous construction of yours."

"You wouldn't dare! You couldn't!"

"No, but you could! Or would! And I'm you, remember. Part of YOUR mind. Oi, I'm becoming so confused, so disoriented. I feel a breakdown coming on…"

"Okay, okay, you win. I'll handle it."

"Thank you, my love," Mind Palace Molly smiled gently as Sherlock drifted back to reality.

So it was that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and desperate man, stood across an autopsy table from Dr. Molly Hooper in the morgue at St. Bart's. He was not really paying attention to the procedure, or her technique, or any of the organs as they were removed from the cadaver. He was studying her eyes, her hair, the lovely curve of her very much not-too-small lips, and the softness of her ponytail as it rested on her left shoulder.

"Sherlock, why are you here? This autopsy is of no interest to you."

"I have a question to ask. A lot of questions, actually."

"Well?"

"Shall I start?

"I suppose so…"

Sherlock started to rattle off a series of queries, without leaving a chance for individual replies.

"Will you have coffee with me? Will you go to dinner with me? Will you kiss me? How do you feel about a good shag? Will you move to Baker Street? …"

"Sherlock, slow down!" Molly was standing across from him with a scalpel in one hand, a left lung in the other, and a stunned look on her face. "What the bloody hell has brought this on? After all these years!"

"You threatened me. Not you, really. Her. Mind Palace Molly. She can be really nice at times, but she does have a bit of a mean streak in her!"

"Sherlock, you're beginning to sound a bit crazy."

"That's her plan, Molly! So, answer me, please. I don't want to make her angry."

"Sherlock, you've always said you had no room for relationships. That you were married to your work." The pathologist spoke cautiously, not wanting to get her hopes up.

"I've decided to get a divorce, Molly!"

She studied his face, searching for the truth of his comment, and evidently finding it in his desperate expression. "You needn't get a divorce, Sherlock. I wouldn't want you to leave your work…"

"But Molly…"

"How about bigamy! You never cared much for abiding by the law."

Sherlock heaved a huge sigh of relief. His life was about to become a lot less complicated, with real Molly and Mind Palace Molly finally being on the same page. He looked across the corpse at the love of his life, still holding a decaying lung, covered up to her elbows in blood, and grinning from ear to lovely shell-like ear. She never looked lovelier!

"Toby and I can move in almost immediately, if that's alright?"

The cat! He had forgotten about the damned cat. There's always something, he thought, mentally placing litter boxes throughout his mind palace. He hoped Mind Palace Molly liked cats.

Redbeard, too!