Dr. Molly Hooper made her way to 221B Baker Street after her shift on Friday evening, carrying a small overnight bag and a cat carrier with her beloved cat Toby howling his displeasure at being removed from his home so unexpectedly. Her block of flats was currently being fumigated due to an invasion of some of creepy crawly things (which she didn't want to think about!), and she had needed to find alternate housing for herself and her cat for the next seventy-two hours. Mary and John Watson had offered to put her up, but she didn't want to be a burden, what with John's long hours on-call and baby Claire's collicky nights, so when Sherlock Holmes offered her a place at 221B Baker Street she immediately took him up on it. His flat was larger than hers, and there was a second bedroom, formerly John's, where she could bunk in privacy and comfort. At least that what she thought.
When she arrived at the flat about seven-thirty, Mrs. Hudson informed her that Sherlock had gone out for Chinese takeout and would return shortly, and she was to make herself at home. As soon as he returned Molly confronted him.
"Sherlock, there's no bed in John's room!"
"Of course not. John moved out months ago. He took his bed with him," Sherlock said as he busied himself dumping containers of food, utensils, and plates onto the coffee table. "You'd better eat while it's still warm'"
"Sherlock, you git, you told me you had plenty of room for me."
"I do. You can sleep in my room." He glared at the cat. "He can take John's room!"
"And where are you going to sleep, Sherlock. I know you hate using the couch. You complained about it often at my place, when you were in hiding."
"Yes. Until you finally let me share your bed. So now you can share mine. It's no different."
"There is a difference. That was MY room. I was comfortable there. I would not feel comfortable in your room," she sighed resignedly. "I'll take the couch."
"It's lumpy."
"I expect it is!"
"It's leather. If it gets too warm you'll stick to it!"
"It's March, Sherlock, how warm can it get?"
Plenty warm if I turn up the thermostat, Sherlock thought to himself.
"I'll just use a sheet."
After dinner, they flopped themselves down on the couch to watch some videos. Sherlock was bored, as usual, and she hoped introducing him to some of her favorite scifi would at least keep him interested. A few hours later her head was spinning, having listened to Sherlock's endless dissertation on the problems inherent in time travel, and the possible consequences for the universe in general. Perhaps she shouldn't have introduced him to the Doctor. Molly yawned, but Sherlock still went on. Molly yawned again, Sherlock continued on unabated. Molly yawned very loudly, and stretched her arms, "accidently" hitting his nose with an outstretched hand.
"Very subtle. I'll leave you to your couch," he said as he rose from his seat. "Changed your mind?" he added with a wink.
If he were anyone else Molly might have thought it was an almost indecent proposal. "Go to bed, Sherlock," she said tiredly, "See you in the morning."
Molly had slept fitfully the entire night and woke early to find Sherlock busy in the kitchen. But her dreams of a nice breakfast, and maybe some hot coffee, were shattered when she discovered that Sherlock was "experimenting". She could she flames dancing on the stove, and the smell of chemicals wafted through the air.
"How long have you been at that?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"A few hours. I couldn't sleep"
"Tell me about it. I'm going to take a shower."
Molly felt a little refreshed when she left Sherlock's bathroom, drying her hair with one of his towels. She went into the kitchen to see what he was up to. Spread out on the kitchen table, in varying states of dissection, were a dozen human fingers of varying shapes and sizes.
She knew he was doing an investigation on the tensile strength of digital tendons postmortem. He was working carefully with a scalpel, cutting into a new finger at the first joint. He looked up at her as she shook out her semi-dry hair and ran her fingers through it.
"BLOODY HELL", he screamed as he sliced through the palm of his hand.
Molly quickly wrapped the towel around his bleeding hand, applying pressure to stop the flow of blood. It was at this instant that Mrs. Hudson made her appearance, carrying a plate of freshly baked biscuits. She looked at the bloody towel around Sherlock's hand and went a bit pale. Meanwhile, Toby the cat, taking advantage of the distraction, leapt onto the table, grabbed something, and made his getaway. Mrs. Hudson's eyes now went from Sherlock's bloody hand to Toby carrying a finger in his mouth and scampering across the floor. She now went completely white, dropped her plate of goodies, and fell to the floor.
"Now that's a damned shame," Sherlock said calmly, surveying the broken plate and the scattered baked goods, "Mrs. Hudson makes lovely biscuits."
It took only a little time for Mrs. Hudson to return to her normal unshakable self. "I was married to a drug lord, dear. I've seen worse!"
Sherlock, however, was a different story. He found the sight of his own blood more than a bit disturbing. Molly was grateful that he stopped short of tears, but he did carry on for a bit like the spoiled five year old that some people were convinced he was. His inner child was definitely on the loose today. Molly examined his wound, cleaned it, and bandaged it.
"It's not deep at all, but a fairly long slice. I don't think it needs stitches. The butterfly dressings should keep it closed. But you must keep it clean and dry."
"Are you sure?"
"I am a doctor, after all, Sherlock."
"But none of your patients bleed, do they Doctor? Will I still be able to play the violin?"
"No."
"What?!"
"I'm joking!"
"It hurts," Sherlock said quietly.
"It will for awhile, I'm afraid." Molly sat on the end of the couch and motioned for Sherlock to join her. He laid down with his head on her lap. She absentmindedly started to knead her fingers through his curls, and he moaned, "That feels good. Mummy used to do that when I was sick."
With that he closed his eyes and drifted off, supposedly to his mind palace.
Mrs. Hudson came in carrying two cups of tea. "I brought these for you and Sherlock, but I can see he's too far gone for a cuppa." She looked down at the detective. "He seems to be playing the wounded innocent. He can be so endearing when his mouth is shut!" she snorted. She gave Molly one of the cups, and settled herself in Sherlock's chair with the other. "I've known him since he was a child, and I still want to throttle him occasionally."
Molly looked at her curiously.
"I was his nanny for a very brief period of time, until his parents became aware of the fact that I knew far more about stripper poles than hobby horses. But his mother and I had become good friends and we stayed in touch. Violet is a very interesting person. Almost as brilliant as her two sons. It was she who sent him to help me out when I ran into that bit of trouble in Florida."
Molly looked puzzled.
"Oh, he never told you then. Well, I had gone back to "exotic" dancing, and I meet this American businessman. He would come into the club every month like clockwork. He showered me with gifts, and asked me to return to America with him. It was easier to get a visa if we were married, so we married. I really didn't know what his business was. I did a lot a typing, and I took care of the books. I later found out he was a drug lord. Oh, he was a handsome man. We were quite hot and heavy for some time. But things started to sour, he got a little rough. Even rougher than I liked it," Mrs. Hudson had the decency to blush at this point. "He was then arrested for two murders. I never really thought him capable of that! But Sherlock was there to help."
"He got him off?"
"Oh, no, dear, he got him convicted. By the time he was executed I had moved back to London, bought this property, and set myself up with a modest income. I did do the books for a drug cartel after all!"
They discovered that Sherlock was not in his mind palace after all, and had indeed heard every word, when he quietly said, "You left out the part where the two men he murdered were your lovers!"
"Oh, luv, he would have killed them anyway. They were skimming his profits."
"As his bookkeeper would no doubt know."
"Well now, look at the time. I really must be going." Martha Hudson gathered up the empty cups and hurried off downstairs.
As soon as the door closed behind her, the two people on the couch burst into fits of laughter, but stopped when they heard Toby growl from some undisclosed location. Sherlock looked at Molly. "Did you recover the finger?"
They searched the flat but found no trace of the missing digit. The other ones used in the experiment were carefully packaged and put in the freezer. By this time Sherlock was becoming more and more unnerved by the way Toby was looking at him. Molly just laughed, telling him it was his imagination. Just because Toby had tasted human flesh didn't mean he would turn into a maneater. The idea was absurd.
"Easy for you to say," Sherlock grimaced, "He likes you."
Molly gave him a painkiller and sent him off to his room, telling him to lie down for awhile. He objected, but not very strenuously. Truth be told, he hadn't slept very much the night before, and could use a nap. But he would leave the door to his room open in case she was attacked by a tabby cat in search of a snack. As he laid there, listening to the sounds coming from the other room, he found himself smiling. He could hear Molly puttering around in the kitchen, humming to herself. She probably had those earbuds in and was listening to her favorite music. He could picture her moving her shoulders to the beat, her long hair moving around her shoulders. He drifted off to sleep with this picture in his mind.
Sherlock was awakened several hours later when John Watson entered his room.
"Sherlock, I'm here to take a look at your hand. Molly told us what happened. Give it here."
John removed the dressing and studied the wound. Molly had done an excellent job of attending to the cut, as John knew she would. He really didn't need to add anything. "What the hell happened, Sherlock? I've seen you handle a scalpel. You're never this careless."
"I was distracted. Do I smell something?" Sherlock changed the subject.
"Molly's cooking. We've been invited to dinner, Mary and I, and Claire, of course, though I don't imagine she'll be eating the chicken curry! And why is Molly here at all. She could have stayed at our place. She seemed to be under the impression that you had a spare room. Didn't you tell her there was no bed?"
"I have plenty of room!"
"Where, Sherlock?"
"Right here," Sherlock mumbled and glanced around the room.
"Are you hinting around about what I think you're hinting around about?"
"Could you be a little clearer, John, I've been injured and perhaps I'm not thinking straight enough to understand your convoluted sentence. Where's my goddaughter?" Again Sherlock changed the subject.
"Playing with Toby."
"Ayyiii!" Sherlock leaped from the bed and ran into the sitting room. "Keep that bloody animal away from the child!", and with that he scooped Claire up into his arms. "Have you found the finger?" This last question was specifically aimed at Molly.
"I found some bones, licked clean." Toby licked his chops just at that moment, and Sherlock shuddered.
They then had to recount the entire story to the Watson's, and, while they both laughed, Molly noticed that they also kept a tighter hold on little Claire
"I knew something like that would happen eventually. Bloody body parts in the fridge! You've come close to disaster before, you git. Remember Mrs. Hudson and the pate."
"Don't over excite yourself, John. She didn't actually eat any."
"It wasn't pate, Sherlock. And she could have!"
"Serves her right for snooping in our fridge."
Dinner passed amiably, friends enjoying each other, lubricated by two bottles of wine. About ten o'clock Sherlock started whining about his injury. John offered to look at it again, but Sherlock assured him that Molly knew how to take care of him.
"I'm sure that you want Molly to take care of you, you prat. Just you make sure you take care of her!" John whispered in his friends ear as they parted company.
Molly and Mary were making their way downstairs, Molly helping with the baby gear, when John joined them just outside the door. "Look, Molly, a word of advice. Just because Sherlock doesn't act like a normal, healthy male doesn't mean that he is not a normal, healthy male."
Molly looked puzzled.
"What I'm trying to say is, oh hell, he doesn't want you sleeping on the couch any more than he wants to sleep there himself! Don't let him talk you into anything you don't want to do! Oh, and keep him away from the cat." He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Have a good night," and he winked.
When Molly returned to the flat, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, holding his injured hand to his chest and wearing a pained expression. "Molly, I wish you would reconsider your decision to sleep on the couch. My hand is quite painful," he moaned a little, "What if I need you in the middle of the night?"
"For your hand?"
"Among other things," he smiled wickedly.
"Well, I am a doctor. I suppose I owe it to my patient to provide aid and comfort…"
"I knew you'd see it my way eventually!" And with that he jumped up from his chair and, grabbing her with his uninjured hand, pulled her close and kissed her thoroughly, before pulling her toward his room. "I'm suddenly very tired."
"I sincerely hope not!" Molly laughed.
The next morning Sherlock Holmes awoke with Molly Hooper wrapped around him, her hair flung wildly across his face and pillow. He loved the feeling, and he loved Molly. For the first time his flat seemed like a real home. The only fly in the ointment was the sight of a fat ginger tabby cat sitting on his bureau and staring with hungry eyes in his direction. Sherlock growled. The cat growled back. Molly woke up.
"I suppose I ought to feed him. I certainly wouldn't want him nibbling on some of your more interesting body parts!" she giggled as she pulled his face in for the first of many kisses on this beautiful Sunday morning.