Sherlock Holmes was stretched out on the couch in his sitting room at 221B Baker Street, eyes closed, and fingers steepled under his chin, the position he almost always assumed when he was wandering the halls of his mind palace. But today, he was not actually wandering, but sitting comfortably in Molly's room, having a heated discussion on the life cycle of the various forms of mold and fungi to be found in London and its environs. Granted, this was not exactly Molly Hooper's area of expertise, being as she was a pathologist, and therefore much more familiar with the human body, or the remains thereof, but he found her observations intelligent and helpful, and never missed a chance to consult her. Unfortunately, their consultation was soon interrupted by the presence, in his sitting room, of the real Dr. Molly Hooper.
"Sherlock!", Molly called out after letting herself into the flat. The door was not locked, and she had no problem walking in uninvited, given the many times Sherlock had done the same at her flat. She was, after all, a woman with a mission. She glanced quickly around the sitting room, finding him immediately. "Not the bloody mind palace again." Then she realized that perhaps that was a good thing. She certainly did not need him hovering over her shoulder getting all territorial on her about the body parts residing in his fridge. Molly would make these occasional forays into his flat, at Mrs. Hudson's request, to retrieve overly rotting human tissue, but Sherlock often saw this as interfering. If he was, indeed, in his mind palace, Molly hoped he'd get lost in there.
But Sherlock Holmes knew immediately that she had entered his flat, and guessed her mission, as well. This was unusual in the fact that Molly Hooper was the only person whose presence he was aware of when he was thus occupied. John Watson could have stood in front of him doing a jig, and he would not have noticed. Mrs. Hudson had often threatened to do one of her exotic dances to attract his attention, but she, certainly, would have failed miserably. Or, if she had done so, he hadn't noticed in the least, thus proving his point. But the fall of Molly's light footsteps, the sound of her voice, even her scent always made its way into the mind palace, which tended to become a bit confusing if he was currently conversing with Mind Palace Molly, as he was on this occasion.
"You know I'm going to give you hell for the condition of that fridge, Sherlock." Mind Palace Molly said off-handedly.
"Not if I stay in here. Now, shall we continue? What fungi would be the most common in a dumpster located behind an upscale restaurant…"
"Bloody hell, the things I do for that man!" came from the kitchen.
"Told you so!"
"No one likes a know it all, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said to himself, or Mind Palace Molly.
"You should know, Mr. Holmes."
The two people inside the mind palace continued their discussion, as best they could, constantly interrupted by exclamations, epithets, and "ews" from the kitchen. Her task finally complete, Molly Hooper packed up, and washed up, and approached the man on the couch, looking down at him with a smile. He had not moved a muscle since she had arrived. So, safely believing that he was completely unaware of her presence, and would accept the newly immaculate condition of his fridge as a gift from some kitchen fairy, Molly bent over his reclining form, planted a kiss on his forehead, and said, "What would you do without me, Sherlock Holmes?" And, with that, she was gone.
Mind Palace Molly was studying him as he rubbed at his forehead with a puzzled smile on his face. "Interesting question, that," she said.
"Really? Why?"
"Well, what would you do without her..er..me...us?"
"I imagine I would do the same as I am currently, but without so much distraction."
"So, we're a distraction, Sherlock?" Mind Palace Molly was smiling now, and almost snickering.
"Back to work, Molly. About the fungus…"
"No more easy access to experimental material. No more expert advice…"
"I could always find other ways…"
"No more takeaway meals in front of the telly. No more…"
"Please stop that, Molly." Sherlock said cajolingly, and fixed the female avatar with his best plaintive gaze. The gaze that had been known to make her melt in previous incarnations. And it worked. The Molly in here was his own creation, after all, and even if the Molly who existed out in the real world had long since grown resistant to his charms, this Molly could still be made to stutter and stammer, on occasion at least. He quite liked that, sometimes missing this effect on the outside.
"Alright, Sherlock," Mind Palace Molly blushed, and stammered out an answer. But she added under her breath, "We'll talk later!"
It was two days later, early in the morning, when Molly Hooper had her next encounter with the consulting detective. Sherlock appeared in the morgue at St. Bart's, dressed, not in his customary dark fitted suit, but in dirty jeans, sweatshirt, and an absolutely fetid hoody.
"Please tell me that you're undercover, Sherlock, and that this is not your new look."
"Please excuse the aroma, Molly. I have been crawling around in dumpsters looking for a very particular strain of fungus, thus proving the location of a murder scene, eliminating several suspects, and solving a rather complicated crime. Just finished, actually. On my way home to fall into bed."
"Please back off a bit, Sherlock. You're attracting more flies than the cadavers!" Molly sighed, and fanned her hand in front of her nose. "What can I do for you?"
"Actually, Molly, I have something for you." And with that, he reached into the pocket of the filthy jeans, pulled out a key, and held it out to her as if he was presenting her with a trophy.
"What's that, Sherlock?"
"It's the key to my flat, Molly." the detective said, somewhat portentously.
"Thank you, but I don't really need it. I already have one," Molly replied a bit dismissively.
"How? Why?" Sherlock sputtered.
"Mrs. Hudson gave me one ages ago, you git. She couldn't bear the thought of all the deteriorating flesh you keep in that fridge, and gave me a key so I could come over at my convenience to take care of it. Although, I must say, most people would hardly consider it convenient to have to remove…"
"You mean, you've had free range of my flat all this time, Dr. Hooper? What about my privacy?"
"I care as much about your privacy as you care about mine, mate. You're always letting yourself into my flat."
"Only in emergencies, Molly. You know that."
"Your idea of an emergency is evidently different that mine, Sherlock. You consider boredom an emergency. And lack of tea. The last time you picked my lock was because Mrs. Hudson was boiling cabbage…"
"Oh, good lord, the stench!"
Molly, perhaps remembering her own mother making ham and cabbage on occasion, said, "Okay, mate, I'll give you that last one! But my emergencies are real emergencies. I am there to prevent a threat to public health. I let myself in on occasion to remove the lingering finger," Molly smiled at the slight rhyme. "I pick noses, I deliver livers, I clean spleens, I tend to tendons, I…"
"Alright, Dr. Hooper, let's not get carried away with the humorous allusions!"
"By the way, Sherlock, last week I gave you four sets of human eyeballs for your experiments, but when I cleaned out the fridge, I found only seven eyes. What gives?"
"I don't know, Molly. I'll keep an eye out!"
"Sherlock, that was terrible."
"You started it, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock grinned a bit, and continued, "But let's get back to my original intention." Again, he held out the key to his pathologist. "Think of this key as a symbol, Molly…"
"It's not a symbol, Sherlock. It' an actual key. If you wanted something symbolic, you could have made one of those giant key-to-the-city type thingys…"
"Molly, do shut up and pay attention. The sooner I get through this, the sooner I can get home and bathe…"
"Do hurry it up then, Sherlock!" Molly was again waving her hand in front of her nose.
"I have just finished a rather complicated case, as you know, and I now, as is my habit, intend to return to my flat, and sleep. I expect I will need at least eight hours of rest, but that is only an approximation. It is my understanding that it is customary, when a person wishes to enter into a relationship with another party, that, before committing to sharing a domicile, keys are exchanged. As you pointed out, I do not require a key to your flat, as I am quite adept at picking locks, and yours are painfully easy, by the way, you may want to consider…"
"Sherlock! Please do not get sidetracked now. Continue!"
The detective cleared his throat, and did continue. "I would like to give you the key to my flat, but it seems a moot point, as you already have one!" Sherlock looked a bit self-conscious at this point, not knowing whether to continue holding out the key as some sort of symbolic gesture, returning it to his pocket, or running home to make an appropriately out-sized ceremonial key. Molly eased his confusion by snatching the said item from his fingers. "I can always use two. You know how careless I can be!"
The detective shifted on his feet the tiniest bit before saying, "You asked the other night what I would do without you. Well, I have decided that I really don't know, and additionally, I don't want to find out."
"You heard that? I thought you were in your mind palace?"
"I always hear you, Molly. Mind palace or not. And I always will, I suppose."
"Sherlock, I really want to snog you senseless at the moment. But I don't want to get any closer to that jacket than necessary."
"Perhaps we could continue this discussion this evening." he said with a rather seductive smile, even with the fetid hoody. "Use your key to let yourself in. I'll be in the bedroom sleeping. And waiting."
"Shall I bring takeaway? I know you don't eat when you're working a case, Sherlock."
"Yes, please! I mean need some fuel, after all. Hopefully, it will be a long night!"
And, as he said that, Molly thought, What the hell!, and fighting her ways past a significant odor, a few flies, and a bristly beard, snogged him senseless, anyway.