The small group of friends were scattered around the sitting room at 221B Baker Street discussing strategy in the current crisis. Or trying to determine whether a crisis even existed. Moriarty's face had, indeed, appeared on screens through the city, and even further abroad. But, so far, that was the extent of the threat. Mycroft Holmes had his minions investigating, but in the meantime his brother Sherlock had gathered all interested parties at his flat. This included his best friend Dr. John Watson and his wife Mary, and DI Lestrade, who, in Sherlock's mind, at least, was eternally first nameless. But his first stop on the way back from his four minute exile had been Dr. Molly Hooper's flat.
Sherlock Holmes was of the opinion that the current crisis was simply a hoax. He had personally seen James Moriarty blow his brains out on the roof of St. Bart's, and Sherlock was not one to be easily fooled. But, better safe than sorry, he had rushed to Molly's flat, instructed her to pack a bag, and carted her off to Baker Street. Now everyone sat around, trying to decide what to do with themselves until the situation was settled, one way or another. John and Mary, an ex-army officer and a former assassin, had opted to return to their flat, judging themselves fully capable of defending themselves. Lestrade, being a police detective trained in the use of weapons and self-defense, believed that he, also, was perfectly capable of meeting the challenge. Mrs. Hudson, of course, lived downstairs, so Sherlock felt that he could guarantee her safety. Molly was the only wild card. He insisted that she was to stay with him for the duration. And, truth be told, Molly could think of not a single objection.
As it was becoming rather late in the evening, everyone was rather eager to get on their way. Mary Watson was heavily pregnant, and longed for the comfort of her own bed. John helped his wife down the stairs and into a waiting car, provided by Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade was getting a bit antsy, and longed for the comfort of his new girlfriend's bed. Mrs. Hudson was already a tad loopy, due to her herbal soothers, and quietly tottered off down the stairs. This left only Molly in the sitting room with the detective.
"Shall I be sleeping in John's old room, then?" she asked, trying to distract the detective from his laptop.
"No, of course not. There's no bed up there. John removed it to the spare room in his flat ages ago. Besides, I would feel more comfortable with you closer."
"The couch then?"
"That would be highly impractical, Molly. I am up and moving about at all hours. You will have to sleep in my room."
"Where will you be sleeping, Sherlock?" Molly asked hesitantly, but with more than a touch of long frustrated hope.
"Also in my room, Dr. Hooper. Also in my bed, before you ask. I don't sleep much, and I am sure you will not be disturbed. It's quite a large bed."
"I see. Well, in that case, I suppose I'll see you later," she tried not to sound nervous as she picked up her bag and headed off toward the bedroom. Damned prat, she thought, there's disturbed and then there's DISTURBED! It wouldn't be the first time Molly had shared a bed, platonically, with the love of her life. But some small part of her always hoped that it would be the last.
It was just over an hour later that Molly was awakened by light coming through the bedroom door. She listened quietly as Sherlock puttered about the room, emptying his pockets and removing his clothes. She then felt the mattress shift as he eased himself under the covers. Molly enjoyed the feel of his breath on her the back of her neck but really hadn't given much thought to how near he seemed to be until she felt his arms snake around her waist. His hands then started to play with the fabric of her baggy, and rather unattractive, pajamas. Sherlock was soon pulling her around to face him, working one hand through her loose hair and the other clutching at the soft but bulky material separating them.
"We're not going to get much accomplished unless you remove these, Molly. Don't you agree?"
She did, indeed, agree. And that was the last coherent thought she remembered having.
When she awoke in the morning Molly had some trouble separating reality from her dream life. Was she really naked in Sherlock Holmes' bed? Had they really…? The evidence to support this conjecture was all around her, yet she was still having trouble believing it! The only thing that seemed to be missing was the detective himself. Molly slowly rose from the bed, found her missing pajamas, and made her way to the bathroom. She had barely finished brushing her teeth when there was a knock at the door.
"What's taking so long, Dr. Hooper. Mrs. Hudson has made us breakfast, and it's currently getting cold on the kitchen table."
Good lord! He was back to "Dr. Hooper" and criticism even sooner than she expected. Hadn't he ever heard of "afterglow?" Molly quickly joined him at the table, thinking that it was definitely time to "wake up and smell the coffee!"
She sat down opposite him and asked "What is this, Sherlock?"
"This? This is breakfast, Molly. Isn't this just the thing couples need after a rather, uh, strenuous night?"
"Couples? Are we a couple now?"
Sherlock was having trouble meeting her eyes, instead pouring coffee into her cup without looking up. "I should think so, at least after last night."
"People usually discuss these things, Sherlock."
"We did discuss it, Molly. Well, maybe it wasn't a discussion, per se, but you did so kindly acquiesce when I suggested you remove your sleeping attire."
"And that made us a couple?"
"Of course. You must learn to extrapolate, Dr. Hooper. Leaping to conclusions is only wrong if you arrive at the wrong conclusions. You have been infatuated with me for years now. I have always refused to acknowledge my own feelings, rather stupidly it now seems in hindsight. I now feel free to admit this. You love me. I love you. We are, therefore, a couple. It would defy all logic if we were not!"
Molly could only manage to get out the broken syllable, "Wha…!" before Sherlock continued.
"If you do not agree with this assessment of the situation, I am afraid you may very well be dismayed by my plans for the day."
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
"I have been in touch with Mycroft, who has assured me that the Moriarty threat was, indeed, a hoax. I suspect that he engineered it himself in an attempt to end my exile. No matter. When I apprised him of our situation…"
"You told him?!"
"Of course I did, Molly. After all, he is my brother!" Sherlock looked over to see that his companion's face was becoming redder and redder. "He has invited us to tea at his home this afternoon. My mother and father will be joining us."
"Your parents?!"
"Yes, Molly. Do try to keep up!"
"Why, Sherlock?"
"Because my parents are rather conventional, Molly. I am sure that they would like to meet my fiance at her earliest convenience, which in this case, just so happens to be for tea at Mycroft's."
"Now I'm your fiance!?"
"Of course. Are you not paying attention at all? Knowing your character, I just assumed you would prefer to be married before we started to have children."
Dr. Molly Hooper had now descended into a complete state of shock as she muttered her next question, "Children? Plural?"
"Yes, plural. I would prefer more than one, but less than six. I am willing to leave the exact number up to you."
"How kind of you!"
Sherlock smiled at her now. A genuine, dimple-producing smile which lit up his whole face starting at his lovely blue-green eyes and descending to his perfectly formed lips. It must have been contagious, because Molly found herself returning it in kind.
"You should have this on your finger before we head over to Mycroft's, love." And Sherlock Holmes slipped a stunning sapphire and diamond ring onto her ring finger.
Molly had tears in her eyes as she looked from his face to her left hand. "It is customary to ask, Mr. Holmes."
"Molly, as I told you, you must learn to extrapolate better. To leap to the correct conclusion. To assume or predict future occurrences from current situations. You know my mind skips from one small beginning point to a ending that should be obvious to all…"
"English, Sherlock! Speak English."
"You should have kept your pajamas on!"