"What the hell is going on in here?"
There were cardboard boxes neatly stacked up along the walls of Sherlock's Mind Palace. Each one clearly marked with a white St. Bart's Hospital label, and the piles were growing larger as past and present members from his Homeless Network added to them. The scene was noisy, but boisterous and cheerful as each ruffian greeted Sherlock with a smile as they hurried off to place a box or get their next assignment, but they received nothing but a wide-eyed stare in return.
At the end of the hallway, just before the double doors leading to Sherlock's mind-morgue was Philip Anderson, with a massive clipboard in his hands. It seemed he was the one giving orders to the network, and Sherlock stormed over to him in a rage.
"Ah, Sherlock! Right on time. We've got everything ready to move," a smiling Anderson told Sherlock, ignoring the detective's fury and confusion. As he flipped through the thick stack of documents he relayed more information.
"The lab is moving upstairs to the spare room off the ballroom, Molly's room has been moved to the room directly next to yours- but don't worry, she's built in a door between them. She just wanted to be sure you had your own space, after all."
Anderson flipped a few more pages. "Ah, here it is- she requested the morgue remain in the same place and noted that she would handle the moving of the more emotional memories from her areas."
Sherlock was dumbfounded. He'd delved in to his Mind Palace to talk to Molly about a few things, yes, but why was she moving things around? It was his bloody Mind Palace and she had no right!
"Everyone stop! Just stop!" shouted Sherlock.
All of the bustle in the hallway stopped. Every face was looking at Sherlock, frozen in confusion.
The detective could almost hear is brother roll his eyes as the British Government appeared at his side.
"Oh, Sherlock. Even in your own mind you act like a petulant child," Mycroft remarked snarkily. Though he spoke quietly, his voice cut strikingly in the silence.
"Everyone carry on," the older Holmes remarked to the crowd. "You'll be informed if plans change." All activity resumed and Sherlock shot a hateful glare at his brother.
"What plan?! Where is Molly Hooper?! And why the devil is she rearranging my Mind Palace?!"
"She's in the ballroom, Brother Mine." Sherlock took off, running toward the grand spiral staircase that would lead him to his meddling pathologist.
"After all, where else would one hold a coronation?" retorted Mycroft to his brother's back as he watched Sherlock hurry up the stairs.
"Molly Hooper!" yelled Sherlock as he threw open the gilded double-doors of the ballroom. There was a bit of an echo in the room, but the room was empty save for two chairs sitting side-by-side on a raised platform. And at least one of them was quite familiar.
His leather chair from 221B was seated next to an old floral armchair. It was the one Molly Hooper had sat in many a night while he commandeered her sofa, and sometimes her bedroom. Her flat was always his favorite bolthole.
"I'm fairly certain it's still your favorite hiding spot." Sherlock spun around to see Molly Hooper standing in the doorway. She was in her lab coat and had her safety goggles pushed back on her brow. Her hair was parted on the side, just the way he liked seeing her in the lab. He preferred her hair down, really, but that wasn't always practical at St. Bart's. Perhaps...
"You were looking for me, Sherlock. What do you need?"
Those four words relieved all the anger and agitation in him immediately. Sherlock sighed as they walked toward each other, meeting in the middle of the ballroom.
He took her hand gently. "Today, I finally asked you to join me for dinner- well, the real-life you."
"I know, I accepted. And yes, I think finally is the right word. It took you an awfully long time to get around to it," she teased, looking up at him with a smile. "So, what's wrong?"
"Molly, I'm- nervous. I've been awful to you. I don't deserve you." He pulled her close and rested his chin on the top of her head, minding her goggles. "But I need you, I need this night to go well. How do I go about making you happy?"
Molly had her arms around his waist and squeezed his lithe frame before pulling away with a grin.
"You will be just fine, Sherlock Holmes. I've hidden a few of your memories, the ones that might make you nervous tonight. You just focus on keeping me happy from this point on, and when it seems you're ready to revisit those old mistakes, we'll face them together."
Sherlock looked at her in confusion, before understanding dawned. He returned her big smile.
"That's what Anderson was talking about earlier, of course."
"Well, I wasn't going to allow Anderson to be in charge of our important moments, Sherlock. You've told me time and again that the man is a perfect idiot."
"Quite right." Sherlock's laughter echoed a bit in the hall. But he realized that he still had some unanswered questions.
"Molly- the other boxes. What are they? Why are you moving them?"
Molly chuckled slyly, and walked toward her floral throne on the dais. She had a regal air about her as she walked, but after turning to face the detective she giggled and flopped down into her oversized chair as he'd watched her do time after time in her own flat.
Sherlock joined her, grinning widely and seating himself in his own chair at her right.
"I had been in that basement morgue since you met me," she said, blowing him a kiss.
"If I'm going to be queen, I'd like to stay a bit closer to my king."