Sherlock Holmes had completed a major case, returning to his flat at just after three in the morning. Normally, not having dozed in days, he would have collapsed onto his bed and slept for hours, but this case was interesting, a solid seven at the very least, and he wanted to share it with someone. But there was no one. He looked around the empty flat, sighed heavily, and made his way to his bed.
When he woke late the next morning, of course, there was still no one. John was long gone, sharing a home with his wife and daughter. This was all John's fault, actually, Sherlock reasoned. Before John, the detective had been content in his solitude. Well, perhaps not content, but at least acclimated to it. There were people in his life before John Watson. Mrs. Hudson, who treated him like a rather disappointing, but beloved, son. DI Lestrade, who had taken him from a drug den, delivered him to his brother for yet another stay at rehab, and given him a reason to stay clean with some rather interesting cases for the Yard. And there was Dr. Molly Hooper, his pathologist, who had always seen him for what he was, and chosen to care for him anyway. But John Watson, for whatever reason, was the first person, outside of his family, whom he had allowed into his life. It was probably just a matter of complementary personalities, timing, and his growing maturity, but it worked. Now that he was gone, Sherlock found himself not only alone, but lonely.
He had returned from his two year long "death" a changed man. Granted, he was still the arrogant, egotistical arse he had always been. But this time around, he seemed to recognize the fact, and had taken some steps to alter the situation. His social skills had not yet advanced to the "life of the party" stage, but he had been trying, with some success, not to deliberately hurt anyone's feelings. He still never apologized to anyone, with the exception of Molly, of course, but he did find himself trying to avoid circumstances where apologies were called for, and had met with some moderate success. But the new Sherlock Holmes was still definitely a work in progress.
The detective, wrapped in his sheet, flopped down into his favorite chair. If John had still been living here, there would have been the smell of freshly brewed coffee. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't been distracted by her newest romance, there may have even been a hot breakfast. He pulled his sheet more tightly around him and grunted. This was not the life he wanted, not for these past two years. When he had returned, he had been full of hope, only to find that Molly Hooper was engaged, and John was about to be. It seemed that he was no longer the center of their worlds, and he found that he did not care for the feeling. But a lot had happened in the intervening time. He had been shot, had relapsed, had "dated" Janine, murdered a man, and been exiled to his death. For all of four minutes. Moriarty had returned. Or not. He suspected Mycroft knew a bit more about that than he was willing to admit, but it had gotten him off that damned plane ride into oblivion. John and Mary had married and reproduced, and Molly had not. And he was still alone. And lonely. It was then that Sherlock Holmes disappeared into his mind palace to weigh the possibilities.
It was just after one that afternoon that Dr. Molly Hooper was startled by the abrupt opening of the swinging door to her morgue. Sherlock had always been known for making dramatic entrances, but today's seemed a little extreme. The doors were still bouncing a bit as he approached her where she sat a lab table, studying something under the microscope.
"Molly, have you found a new flat yet?"
Molly looked a bit taken aback. She may have mentioned, in passing, that she was considering moving, a month or two ago, but it had not gone any further than the "considering" phase at this point. "Sherlock, I haven't even decided if I want to move. And my lease doesn't expire for another six months. What's all this about, then?"
"Molly, think logically. Your flat, while adequate, is hardly convenient to your place of employment. It's woefully small. The neighborhood is not the best, either. Your building manager is a lech. Your heating system is barely adequate…"
"Sherlock, have you taken up a second career as a real estate advisor?" Molly let out a soft laugh. "Besides, finding a larger flat in a more convenient location, which means closer to Bart's, which means a more central neighborhood, with a good heating system can be very expensive. As for the lecherous building manager, there are some days when I find it rather gratifying…" She stopped mid-sentence. "Stop rolling your eyes at me, Sherlock! Sometimes a woman needs an indecent proposal to get her through the day!"
"Money need not be a concern, Molly. I have come up with an excellent solution. You should move to Baker Street." Sherlock finished with a flourish, expecting Molly to see the logic of the proposal at once.
"I don't think so, Sherlock," Molly said, returning her attention to the microscope.
"What do you mean, you 'don't think so'! There is no downside! It's a perfect solution!"
"A solution to what, Sherlock? I haven't even decided if I want to move. I've lived in my flat for years. Ever since I moved to London. I'm perfectly happy where I am...' She was studying his face as she spoke, and as usual, Molly Hooper could really see him, see what was going on. "It's a solution for you, you mean!"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Molly."
"Don't lie to me, Sherlock. Mary Watson isn't the only one who can tell when your fibbing!"
The tall detective leaned back on the table next to the shorter pathologist. "All right, all right! I admit it. I'm bored. I miss having someone in the flat. Someone with whom to discuss my cases. Someone to bounce ideas off of, someone…"
"To show off for!"
"Someone with whom to watch crap telly! Someone to assist with my experiments…"
"Still no, Sherlock." Molly resumed looking into the 'scope.
"But, Molleeeee…" Sherlock whined, just a bit.
Dr. Hooper got off her lab stool, stood to her full height, straightened her shoulders and looked the detective right in the eye, and said, " 'I won't do it because all of me wants to…' "
"That sounds familiar…"
"It's from 'The Maltese Falcon', remember? We watched it together a few weeks ago."
"Yes, I remember. It made sense for Sam Spade, but not in this case. You want to, but you won't?"
Molly shook her head and sighed, but continued. "Look, Sherlock, we're friends, right?"
"Of course we are…"
"And you're the world's greatest detective, at least in your own estimation…"
"I think, perhaps, a few other would agree…"
"And a few more wouldn't!" Molly almost stomped her foot. "But that's not the point. It wouldn't take the world's greatest detective to figure out how I feel about you. You know. And I know you know. And you know that I know you know…" Molly paused again. "This conversation is making me dizzy, Sherlock, so I think we should end it."
"Ah, you're worried that your attraction to me would be a problem, right? But, Molly, as I've told you. I've worked it all out. Will you allow me to present my case?"
"Can I stop you?"
"Not without a hypodermic needle full of a heavy sedative, or a blow to the head with an equally heavy object, Molly."
Molly resigned herself to the inevitable, and motioned for him to make his case. "First, money would be of no concern. I am handling the rent payments on my own as it is. You would be providing services, such as preparing meals, doing laundry, housecleaning, handling the everyday running of the household…"
"Doesn't Mrs. Hudson take care of those things, Sherlock? Despite the fact that she not your housekeeper!"
"Yes, but she is getting older, Molly, and the new me has been feeling just a bit guilty about having her run up and down the stairs eight or nine times a day…"
"As well you should!"
"Now, as the the other aspect of our sharing living quarters, I must confess that I had believed that the fact that you are attracted to me would have influenced your decision in a positive way, not the other way around. I can only assume that you believe that I am not agreeable to a sexual relationship, but I can assure you that this is not true. We are both relatively young, and healthy, and I assume that we both experience the same needs, and urges…" Molly's mouth was now hanging open, which Sherlock, of course, did not miss. "Do close your mouth, Dr. Hooper, or I shall be forced to take some offense at your evident disbelief that I am capable of such things! I assure you I am nowhere near as virginal, or as disinterested, as some would have you believe!"
Molly could not speak for several moments. She sat herself back down on her stool, gripping the table with both hands. She was finally brought out of this state by the sound of the man next to her clearing his throat. She looked over at him, trying to gather her thoughts before responding. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to move into your flat, take over all domestic responsibilities, in exchange for free rent and the occasional shag?"
"Well, when you phrase it like that…"
"How else am I supposed to phrase it, you git?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. "Your emphasis seems to imply that I would be the party servicing your sexual needs, where I am proposing a more balanced exchange, as I would fully expect that our relations would be mutually satisfying, Dr. Hooper." As he spoke, Sherlock was, for the first time, unsure of himself. Had he misjudged her feelings for him? Was she offended by his proposition?
"So there would be an equal exchange of sexual favors? And a sort of symbiotic relationship, as it would apply to domestic arrangements. Something like a marriage?" Molly said hesitantly, and was not at all prepared for his response.
"I would be more than willing to make our arrangement legal, Molly, if you feel up to making the commitment." Sherlock spoke with a definite sense of triumph, thinking this was actually going more easily than he had expected.
The pathologist once again clutched at the table and adopted a blank stare as her mind processed this latest development. It took her a full two minutes to recover herself, while the detective shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his confidence rapidly diminishing, until he finally heard the woman say, rather quietly, "Okay."
Sherlock Holmes breathed a sigh of relief, leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, as was his usual habit, and said in a congenial manner, "I shall collect you this evening, and we can discuss the matter further." He turned on his heel and headed toward the exit, a smug smile on his face. He had managed to bring his project to a successful outcome without having to resort to sentimental dribble. It was a good day, indeed! He was still congratulating himself when he was stopped dead in his tracks. "Sherlock, there's a couple of things…" Ah, negotiations! He turned around, and slowly walked back to join Molly.
"Sherlock, my mother visits me at least once a year, and unlike you, I cannot foist her off on Mycroft. She will have to stay with us!"
"Agreed, but each visit must not be longer than a week's duration."
"Agreed." Molly spoke quickly, knowing that seven days was about the limit of her own tolerance for her mother's visits. Then she continued. "Children? You know I've always wanted children, Sherlock."
"Egoist that I am," Sherlock said with a smile, so that you might think that he was joking if you didn't know him better, "I am not opposed to sharing my genetic gifts with the world, especially since I frmly believe that, by diving into your own gene pool, I can only enhance the species. I am not opposed to one a child. I suppose that a he or she would occupy my mind, keep me busy, so to speak. Keep me from becoming bored. A child would be a welcome distraction."
" 'Distraction', eh? Perhaps that could be his middle name, then?" Molly punched her newly minted fiance on his shoulder. "But I was thinking more along the lines of three or four, Sherlock."
"How about we agree on two for the time being, with a right to reopen negotiations at a latter date?"
"Fine!" Molly said with a smile. "Now, about Toby…"
Damn, he had forgotten about the bloody cat! "I prefer dogs, Molly…"
"I will not give up my cat, Sherlock! You can have a dog after Toby goes toes up!"
"A colorful expression, Dr. Hooper, but that won't be for quite some time, as I believe that the average life expectancy for a domestic house cat is about fifteen years. And I would like our child to have a dog, as I have many happy memories…"
"Okay, okay. How about this? You can get our first kid a puppy for his or her first birthday. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" the detective said, already thinking of a future containing kids, and puppies, and Molly. Always Molly. He bent to kiss her once again, but was halted by her hand on his chest.
"One more thing, Sherlock." The woman took a deep breath, and spoke more seriously than she had when discussing maternal visitations, and reproduction, and cats versus dogs. "Sherlock, you know I can see you, right? I always have been able to see you, and who and what you really are. I know you care for me, even if you don't want to admit it to me, or even yourself. And I'm telling you right now, that if I ever look at you, and can see that you no longer care, I'll leave. You understand me?"
And Sherlock looked down at the small and serious woman standing in front of him, and knew that she did, indeed, see him, and understand him. And he just couldn't understand why she still wanted him, but was eternally grateful that she did. So, deciding that the moment was, perhaps, in need of a little sentiment after all, he wrapped his arms around her waist, under her loose lab coat, and pulled her close, bringing his lips down to gently caress her neck.
"Molly," he spoke in a low and seductive tone. "I really…", he kissed her neck.
"...really," he nibbled her ear.
"...really," he moved his lips along her jawline as a small moan escaped her.
"...want", he finally brought his mouth down over hers, first with a gentle pressure, and then not so gentle, as he tried to express with a single perfect kiss all that she meant to him. When they finally broke apart, he completed his sentence. "...that puppy. So perhaps we should get to work on the kid as soon as possible!"
And Molly didn't care. She'd buy the git a dozen puppies if it meant a lifetime of kisses like that.