"Sherlock."

"Molly." He looked up at his wife, attempting to be the picture of innocence, despite the three-legged feline in his hands.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving this cat a flea-bath, obviously."

"Yes, I see that," she stepped into the bathroom, standing over him. "Why?" she held up a hand as he opened his mouth. "Don't you dare tell me it's because he has fleas, I know it must have fleas."

Sherlock closed his mouth, rethinking his answer. "I assume you meant to ask: 'why is there a cat in our bath', to which the answer is, Toby has been gone for a month now, and you have always enjoyed keeping a pet, especially cats, I thought you would like this one."

"He's not Toby," Molly replied and stalked out of the bathroom.

Sherlock looked at the cat, who was actually sitting in the bathtub, letting Sherlock scrub him down. Molly loved cats. Not just her old cat, Toby, who had recently passed away. She was notorious for stooping to pet any cat that made its presence known to her. He had thought that by getting another it might make her feel better about the loss of her faithful companion.

Once the cat was rinsed of soap, Sherlock carefully dried him and then combed him again, for any remaining fleas.

"You needn't worry, I shall perform experiments on any other little pests I find on you," Sherlock promised. "I don't know what yet, but I'll think of something."

Once the cat was combed and dried, Sherlock set the cat down to explore the rest of the flat, while he went in search of Molly.

She was curled up on her side of the bed, facing away from the door.

Quietly, Sherlock climbed up next to her, curving himself around her frame.

"You wouldn't have me put a poor three-legged cat out on a night like this, would you?"

He could tell she was smiling, despite whatever hurt she was feeling.

"No of course not, Sherlock," she turned over in his arms. "I don't mind the cat, not really. I'm sure he's a nice one too."

Suddenly, Sherlock understood. "But he isn't Toby."

Molly shook her head. "No, he's not. I had Toby for fifteen years, Sherlock, all through medical school, through Dad dying…that awful business with Moriarty…"

"And the ensuing trouble that I caused," Sherlock added. "I am sorry, I didn't stop to think how much he meant to you."

"You didn't do it on purpose," she sat up with a sigh. "Besides, I didn't choose this cat, he's more yours than mine. Toby chose me, and I chose him."

"Hm." Sherlock became thoughtful. He remembered very well Molly telling him how she adopted Toby. The kitten had reached through the bars of the crate, wee claws hooking onto her sweater, and that was that. Molly loved the orange cat immediately.

"How'd you find him anyway," Molly asked, nodding to the other room, obviously referring to the new cat.

"I found him in a wheelie bin," Sherlock replied. "I was looking through the trash of my client, and lo and behold, he was rooting through the bins for something."

"Did you bring him around with you on the rest of the case?"

"Of course, what else was I to do with him? Let him trail around behind me? He might've gotten hit by a car!" Sherlock answered.

Molly smiled, knowing just how Sherlock felt. "Well it sounds like you picked each other."

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I meant to get him for you. I saw him today and I thought that he might cheer you up."

"It's the thought that counts," Molly smiled and kissed his cheek. "And he does cheer me up. Toby was my cat, but I know you liked him too. And now this one will be yours, and I'm sure I'll love him too."

Getting to her feet, she gave Sherlock a hand up, and he followed her out to the living room.

As Sherlock headed back to the kitchen to put away the rest of his experiments as Molly started dinner, the cat gave a purring meow, jumping up onto the table and then Sherlock's shoulder, perching himself easily there.

"He may be missing a leg, but he doesn't seem to miss it," Molly commented, scratching the cat behind the ears.

"Cats have a good sense of balance, it is fascinating how far it can be tested," he commented, agreeing.

"He doesn't look too old either, maybe four months at the most," she paused from looking through the fridge. "What are you going to call him?"

Sherlock looked rather embarrassed, but he smiled shyly. "Smee."

Molly bit back a laugh, nodding. "That's a good name."

Sherlock let her take Smee from his shoulder, pausing to watch as she cuddle the purring feline. Smee was happily kneading her, his long legs stretched over her shoulders, hugging her. Molly grew misty-eyed, and she kissed the cat quickly.

"It'll be nice to have a cat around the house again."

That was all she said, but Sherlock was pleased. No, the cat wasn't Molly's faithful Toby, and nothing would ever replace him. But this new cat would be a good companion too, one that both he and Molly could have new memories with.