Sherlock Holmes was sitting despondently in the basement morgue ar St. Bart's hospital looking slightly more depressed than the corpses. Even the one currently being worked on by his pathologist, Dr. Molly Hooper. Occasionally he would let out a sigh. Over the past several hours these sighs had grown progressively louder and heavier, until Molly could no longer ignore them.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, you sound like you've lost your last friend. Suck it up, and stop making that pitiful noise!"

"Maybe I have lost my last friend, Molly. Have you ever considered that? John's married! He's gone! I'm alone!"

"You haven't lost your friend, you git. You've just misplaced him. He lives six blocks to the west, in a small flat in a large gray building. I'm sure you can find him easily. Why don't you start looking now?"

Molly had been trying to concentrate on stitching up the cadaver in front of her, and so hadn't noticed that the detective had approached the table and leaned over to study her work.

"Perhaps you should try a blanket stitch, or maybe a chain stitch, Dr. Hooper. It would make your work so much more distinctive."

Molly jumped in surprise, almost driving the needle into her own hand. "Bloody hell, Holmes, back off. I almost stitched myself to his chest! And I doubt the crematorium gives a damn about decorative stitching on their customers!"

Sherlock sighed again, and returned to his seat. "Are you almost finished? What are we doing tonight?"

"Going home to a large glass of wine and some crap telly."

Sherlock picked up his signature Belstaff coat and headed toward the door, saying as he departed, "I'll pick up some takeaway and see you there."

Now it was Molly's turn to sigh. This would make the third time this week that Sherlock had spent the evening at her flat. The last time he had actually spent the night. She had constantly hinted about the lateness of the hour, but the world's greatest detective couldn't seem to pick up on her hints. Finally, she turned out the sitting room light, announced she was going to bed, and did so. He followed her shortly thereafter, ordered her to move over, and settled down fully clothed, but without shoes, on the opposite side of the bed.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to sleep! Will you please keep it down, Molly."

So Molly had simply let out a grunt, rolled over clumsily, and tried her best to sleep while the love of her life lay stiffly in the bed next to her, completely oblivious. When she awoke the next morning it was to find Sherlock, fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view) still fully clothed, wrapped around her like a child clinging to a parent's leg on his first day of school. When she had finished showering and dressing, she found him slowly sipping a cup of coffee, having made himself at home in her kitchen.

"You look a bit the worse for wear, mate. You couldn't have been overly comfortable sleeping in your clothes."

"No. I shall have to bring over some pajamas."

Molly almost choked on her own cuppa. "Don't bother!"

"Oh, it's no bother," he said as he finished his morning brew and headed out the door to who knows where. "See you later."

Later that evening Molly found herself sitting on her couch actually considering whether she should go for a signature look in her cadaver stitching. She had been at home for a over an hour, almost giving up on the promise of takeaway food, when Sherlock Holmes made his entrance. In one hand he carried a plastic sack which smelled of Chinese food, and in the other he held a canvas bag containing who knows what. Molly had already changed into comfortable at home attire, meaning sweatpants and an over large tee shirt, and the detective glanced at her and said, "I see we're not dressing for dinner!" With that he removed his coat and made his way into Molly's bedroom.

By the time Sherlock returned to the sitting room, Molly had organized the meal on the coffee table so they could eat while watching telly. Sherlock flopped down on the couch next to her in his pajama bottoms, tee shirt, and dressing gown.

"Sherlock, did you think we were having a pajama party or something?"

"You don't work tomorrow, so I thought we'd be staying up late. What are we watching?"

"Don't you have a case, or something?"

"London has been remarkably free of interesting crimes. Just common, ordinary mayhem! The criminal class has certainly been slipping lately. I'm bored!"

"What do you usually do when you're bored?"

"Shoot interesting patterns into the walls of my flat. I don't suppose you have a gun, Molly. I didn't think to bring mine."

"Sherlock, if I had a gun right now I might be tempted to shoot an interesting pattern into your chest!"

"Empty threats don't frighten me, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said as he leaned back on the couch. "So, what's on telly?"

The evening passed uneventfully, as they were watching old videos of Agatha Christie mysteries. Sherlock loved Miss Marple, but really disliked Hercule Poirot. "Overly fastidious little prat! How annoying."

"An annoying detective, imagine that!" Molly murmurred.

"Are you insinuating that I'm annoying, Molly?"

"You're the detective. Figure it out!" She then rose and started to clear the remains of the meal from the table. By the time she finished, Sherlock had retired. To her bed!

"Sherlock," she spoke loudly from the doorway, "You simply cannot invite yourself to stay every night. And you can't sleep in my bed!"

"Relax, Molly. It's a queen size. Certainly big enough for two. You must have purchased it when you were still overly optimistic about your romantic fortunes. There's plenty of room. I hardly even notice you're there."

If only I could say the same, Molly thought. But she climbed onto the other side of the bed, and resigned herself to another night of restless sleep and unfulfilled dreams.

When she awoke the next morning, Sherlock was gone but his pajamas were still there. On his pillow (she mentally kicked herself when she called it "his") she found a note.

Call from Graham. Case. See you later. SH

What did "see you later" mean? Was he returning tonight? Molly sincerely hoped not, as she had a date that evening with an accountant from the hospital. David was a perfectly nice man, never married, very attractive, intelligent, and funny. Everything she wished Sherlock was, but without the cheekbones and the attitude. She decided to text the detective.

YOU CAN'T STAY TONIGHT - MH

WHY NOT? - SH

I HAVE A DATE - MH

I TAKE IT THIS IS A FIRST DATE AS I HAVE NOT HEARD ABOUT HIM BEFORE - SH

YES, AND YOU ARE DEFINITELY NOT INVITED! - MH

I WOULDN'T PRESUME TO INCLUDE MYSELF, MOLLY, BUT SINCE IT IS A FIRST DATE I WILL PRESUME YOU WON'T NEED YOUR BED. TRY NOT TO WAKE ME WHEN YOU GET HOME - SH

STAY OUT OF MY BED! - MH

GIVEN YOUR PREVIOUS INFATUATION THAT IS NOT SOMETHING I EXPECTED TO HEAR DR HOOPER - SH

GO BACK TO BAKER STREET, YOU BLOODY PRAT! - MH

TEMPER! TEMPER! IS HE FEEDING YOU, OR SHALL I ORDER A PIZZA? - SH

Molly refused to continue this inane conversation. Sherlock was just being Sherlock, and he was very good at it.

Molly was very relieved that the detective had not returned to her flat before her date for the evening arrived, but her relief was short lived, as he did show up shortly after her suitor, carrying another canvas bag and a pizza.

"Molly, I thought you would have left by this time." He turned to face the man sitting on the couch, studying him. Rather attractive, blond hair, styled in a conservative manner, nice suit, but poorly tailored, friendly smile, unmarried, relatively successful, and he seemed enraptured by HIS pathologist. Sherlock hated him! He started to open his mouth, but Molly interrupted him, "I've told David all about you, Sherlock. Of course, he's heard about you around the hospital, but I've warned him about your sometimes odd behavior…"

"Odd behavior, Molly? Whatever are you talking about?" He smiled a sincerely insincere smile, and turned once again to the gentleman on the couch. "I suppose Molly has told you that I tend to be overly possessive, David. May I call you David? If I were really like that, would I allow the woman with whom I sleep to date other men? I think not!" He now gave David an appraising look, moving his eyes slowly over his body from head to toe and back again. Then, unseen by Molly, he winked. "No, I think we're going to get on famously, don't you?"

David made a hasty retreat, explaining that he just wasn't into that sort of things, and actually apologizing for the misunderstanding.

Sherlock Holmes knew he was in real trouble when Molly uttered not a word, but simply glared at him in a most unpleasant manner. When she finally did speak, it was simply to say, "Get out!"

"Molly, he really looked quite dull, you know…"

"Get out!"

"An accountant! Really, how exciting can an accountant be. Unless they're crooked, of course. Did I ever tell you about…"

"Get out, NOW!"

Sherlock thought it best to beat a hasty retreat, as discretion is the better part of valor, so Molly was surprised to hear his knock just a moment later.

"What could you possibly have to say for yourself, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Uh, could I have my pizza?"

Shortly thereafter, the world's only consulting detective made his way down the stairs, wondering how to get tomato sauce and cheese out of a rather expensive overcoat.

Molly wasn't sure if she should be relieved that he had gone, or disappointed. So she decided to think it over with a bottle of red wine, some chocolate ice cream, and a zombie movie.

The next day Sherlock showed up to apologize. She might not have been so open to said apology had he not held her hair while she clutched the cool porcelain of her toilet and threw up red wine and chocolate ice cream. When he went out to replenish her depleted supply of paracetamol, and pressed a cold compress to her aching forehead all was forgiven.

The next two weeks passed in much the same way. Sherlock would show up at odd times, always without warning. It was getting to the point that it was unusual if he didn't spend the evening with her. Molly supposed he was just lonely, missing John. But it was getting a little out of hand. He had clothes hanging in her already small closet. He had taken over a drawer in her bureau. He really crossed the line when she found a bag of assorted fingers and toes in her freezer. But before she could get up the courage to talk to him, she received a call from John Watson, asking her if she could perhaps stay with his heavily pregnant wife Mary while Sherlock kept him busy chasing a serial arsonist. Since Molly was relieved that the detective had, indeed, found his misplaced best friend, she of course agreed, and left for the Watson's flat almost immediately.

Mary Watson was happy for the company as she had been cooped up with an overly concerned husband for the past two weeks of her maternity leave.

"And I never thought that this would happen, but Sherlock is even worse," Mary sighed.

"Sherlock? I was under the impression that he hadn't seen much of John and you." Molly seemed puzzled. "He's been moping around my office and my flat as if it was the end of the world. All he talks about is missing John."

"I don't see how he can miss him. He's here quite a bit. John suggested he get himself another roommate, if he doesn't want to be on his own."

"What did he say to that?" Molly asked curiously. "I mean, it certainly is practical advice, but it took him long enough to find John…"

"Believe it or not, he said he was working on it! Any clues?"

"I have no idea, but I wish he'd find one soon. He started following me home like a stray dog. You know, like a cute little puppy that looks so pathetic. And you take him home. And feed him. And let him sleep in your bed…"

"Careful, Molly!"

"Just sleep, for god's sake! And then he bites you, chews up your favorite shoes, pisses on your rug, and runs away with another dog!"

"Strangely enough, that does sound a lot like Sherlock Holmes," Mary agreed.

At approximately the same time this conversation was taking place, John was attempting to talk Sherlock out of his plan to entrap a new roommate.

"Sherlock, have you ever considered just being honest?"

"There are too many risks to being honest, John."

"But, mate, sooner or later Molly is going to notice that you have simply moved into her flat…"

"Yes! And her lease expires in three months, John. So I will simply suggest then that she move to Baker Street."

"Dumbest plan ever. You can't possibly be succeeding…"

"So far, I've got a couple of changes of clothes, pajamas, dressing gowns, most of my required toiletries, Cluedo…

"You moved your Cluedo game to Molly's?"

"And the Operation game. Mycroft actually came by to play while Molly was at work. He likes her cakes."

John Watson simply rolled his eyes at how far Sherlock had gotten in his campaign to ensnare Molly Hooper.

"And I have some experiments in the freezer…"

"Experiments, Sherlock?"

"Just some fingers and toes. Truthfully, I had hoped that that might be the tipping point, but so far she hasn't said anything."

"And just where are you sleeping? On the couch?"

"Of course not, I'm much too tall for the couch. We established that when I stayed for a few days after my 'death'. I sleep in her bed…"

"Her bed?!"

"Just sleep, John. Although I must say that I hoped it would have progressed beyond that stage by this time, given her long standing infatuation with me! But so far she has succeeded admirably in resisting temptation. I, however, am taking a lot of cold showers."

"This isn't some sort of weird experiment, is it, Sherlock. I mean, I like Molly. Everybody likes Molly. Greg likes Molly…"

"Who is this Greg?"

"You know damned well that's Lestrade's first name. And one day you will have to explain that whole deal, by the way. Mary likes Molly, and you don't want to go there, mate! I'm willing to bet even Mycroft likes her. So, if you screw this up, you're going to be the one on the outside, Sherlock…"

"I'm not going to, as you put it, 'screw this up', John. I have made some progress, you know."

"How much progress?"

"Well, we do spoon!"

"Sherlock, not to be rude, but it doesn't count until you're forking!"

"John, are you making some sort of crude cutlery reference?"

"Damn right I am! Just tell her what you want and end this game you're playing before you have to move your favorite chair and the cow skull to her place, for god's sake!"

"Point take, John. I will speed up the timetable."

Speeding up the timetable became a moot point when Sherlock returned to Molly's flat to find her sitting at the kitchen table in a confrontational manner, a cooler full of fingers and toes sitting in front of her.

"This," she said, pointing at said cooler, "Is the first thing you will have to remove from my flat!"

"Ahh," the detective said dejectedly as he slumped into a chair across the table from her.

"Sherlock, is there anything left at Baker Street?" Molly asked him as she pointed out all the items she had gathered from various points in her flat, and placed in neat piles around her sitting room.

"Well, there's Mrs. Hudson. I couldn't really find a carpet bag big enough for her." He looked over at his pathologist, and gave her what he hoped was an endearing smile. "And my violin, and favorite chair. Don't forget the cow skull, and my human skull…"

"So, I also understand that you've been seeing quite a bit of John, despite your martyr act around my lab…"

"Mary does let him out to play occasionally…"

"Sherlock, you git, has it occurred to you that the more stuff you move over here, the more we have to move back to Baker Street. Unless you really want to move in here, but my lease expires very soon, so you'd better make up your mind…"

"Have you been talking to John?"

"And Mycroft. He wants to stay on my good side. He likes my cakes!"

Molly was smiling now. Actually, she was trying to keep from laughing outright. Sherlock rose from his chair and approached her, picking up her hand and gently kissing her palm. As she rose, he wrapped his arms around her waist, and moved in for a proper kiss, but stopped himself short, and asked her, "When you were talking to John, did he mention anything about cutlery?"

"As a matter of fact, he did!" Molly then threw her arms around his neck and drew him closer. "We should discuss this further in the bedroom. Then tomorrow, we can finally go home."