The world's only consulting detective was hungry. And thirsty. He had been on a case for the past few days, and had taken in only enough food and fluids to sustain life, it seemed. Now , after having slept for close to fourteen hours, he was ravenous, and was waiting impatiently in his flat for Mrs. Hudson to ascend the stairs with sustenance. But it was in this state of almost fulfilled gratification that he began to think of other things he had been neglecting.

Sherlock Holmes had always thought of the body as merely transport. Ot so he told people. If you supplied it with sufficient fuel, and provided maintenance as needed, it would chug merrily on its way, pulling you along with it. But lately he had begun to think that food, fluids, and rest were not the only things a body required. That there were, indeed, other forms of maintenance required to keep his transport in optimum operating condition.

He had begun by reasoning that when his body required food, he ate. When it required rest, he slept. This is not to say that there were no occasions when he ate simply to enjoy a meal, or slept simply for the hell of it! But lately his body, in no uncertain terms, had been informing him that it required further maintenance in the form of sexual release. Those brief sessions in the shower, or while perusing John's old girly magazines, were, seemingly, no longer sufficient to assuage this need. Why should he deny himself the distraction of sex if he felt the body required it? This was a matter of his health, after all. How could he hope to maintain a sound mind without a sound body, as the old adage taught. And, for some reason, which he could not, or would not, fathom, when his body indicated this need, the only image to pop into his mind was Dr. Molly Hooper. Not the femme fatale Irene Adler, known forever as, simply, "The Woman", or the latest centerfold in any one of John's magazines, but the petite, clever, and kind hearted pathologist who frequented his dreams, innocent and otherwise.

Sherlock of course knew that Molly had previously harbored romantic notions regarding himself, but he believed that these notions had dissipated long ago. He had done nothing to encourage them, in fact, probably the opposite. He considered that they were now well and truly friends, however, as Molly had long ago learned to see through him, and he, in turn, had come to appreciate her unflagging loyalty. They had known each other for close to seven years now, and had grown comfortable in each other's company. Sherlock thought that Molly looked as lovely now as they day they had me, and reasoned that he, himself, had changed only slightly. Just a few lines and several scars. If she had found him attractive, physically, then, why should she not be physically attracted to him now. With this thought in mind he sent the pathologist a brief text.

WOULD YOU CONSIDER HAVING SEX WITH ME? - SHERLOCK

Dr, Molly Hooper was in her lab/morgue. She had just finished carving up to corpse of one skinniy junkie with enough coke shoved up his rectum to kill an elephant. It had only succeeded in killing him. The next cadaver on the agenda was a broker from the City, who had evidently taken an overdose of something after suffering a huge loss of funds for a client who did not take such losses well. DI Lestrade needed her to tell him whether such overdose had been taken voluntarily, of with some unwanted assistance. She was about to start cutting when she heard the tone indicating an incoming text. After reading it, Molly stood staring down at her mobile for more than a moment. Was this a joke? She checked the source to confirm the message had, indeed, come from Sherlock's mobile number. Was someone else in possession of it? Impossible! Sherlock never let the device out of his sight. Molly continued to stare as she considered her options. It had to be an experiment, of course. The man she had loved, and lusted after, for almost seven years, was now asking if she would consider having sex with him! Bloody hell, she had considered having sex with him for ages! The fact that he had never indicated his interest was the only fly in the ointment. But, if this truly was an experiment, Molly had to be careful. Was he testing her for her response, or was the sex itself the experiment? Molly replied cautiously, with a bit of humor.

YOU'LL HAVE TO BUY ME DINNER FIRST! - MOLLY

His reply came almost instantly.

I HOPE ANGELO'S WILL SUFFICE. BE READY AT EIGHT - SHERLOCK

Molly looked at her mobile once again, wondering how far the detective would take this, and decided to make an even cheekier reply.

FOR DINNER OR SEX? I NEED TO KNOW THE PROPER ATTIRE! - MOLLY

YOUR CHOICE. I AM SURE YOU WILL LOOK LOVELY DRESSED OR UNDRESSED - SHERLOCK

Molly put the mobile back in her trouser pocket, blushing like a schoolgirl. It had been quite a while since Sherlock Holmes had provoked such a reaction in the woman, and it made her a bit uncomfortable. She quickly turned her thoughts back to the corpse she was about to carve, and away from the evening to come.

It was at precisely eight that evening, Molly answered the knock at her door, nicely attired in a dark green dress and small heels.

"I see you've opted for dinner first, Molly," Sherlock said with a chuckle, and perhaps a little disappointment. "Shall we go?"

Molly found the cab ride to Angelo's a bit on the awkward side. Given Sherlock's previous indication of how the evening was to end, she may have expected a bit of a cuddle, or a closer seating arrangement. But the detective did nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary, calmly discussing her day, and commenting on the bodies which had presented themselves tat St. Bart's. Hardly foreplay, Molly thought. But perhaps Sherlock saw it as such. Dinner passed without incident. They were, after all, two old friends well past the stage where silences were awkward. The only blush which Sherlock brought on occurred when the waiter asked if they wanted dessert, and the detective replied that he and the lady would be having that later. Sherlock rather enjoyed the fact that he could still make her turn crimson with a word, and made a resolution to do it more often.

The ride back to Molly's flat was spent in almost complete silence. The detective was fidgeting a bit, perhaps nervous at the prospect of engaging in an activity so long avoided. Molly kept glancing over a him, resplendent in his purple shirt. It was her favorite shirt, and had been for close to seven years. It made his eyes seem even more attractive, and she loved the way it hugged his torso. All of his shirts hugged his torso, in fact, but something about this one made it even more attractive. Molly knew it couldn't possibly be the same shirt for all these years. It always looked like new. Did he have multiples? Had he kept replacing them? Did he do this because on some level he knew how attractive she found him in this particular color?

They climbed the stairs to Molly's flat in silence, Sherlock following closely as Molly moved in front of him. Not for the first time he noticed the gentle sway of her hips as she took each step. Tonight he would finally allow himself to do something about his fascination with her hips. And her not-overly-small mouth, and her equally delightfully sufficient breasts. He was lost in these thoughts when they reached the landing in front of her door.

"Please, Molly, allow me," he said as he took the keys from her hand and opened her door. The slight woman looked up at him as he handed her keys back to her, and slipped out of his coat. And suit jacket. Right down to the delightful purple shirt. She was wondering what to say, or do, next, when the point was rendered moot by the feel of his lips on hers. He wrapped his arms around her, and deepened the kiss dramatically. She couldn't bring herself to speak, and found she didn't really want to, as he led her to her bedroom and lay her down. Sherlock then started to pull down the zipper on the back of her dress, which she took as a cue to start undoing the buttons on that wonderful shirt. Moments later, all obstructions having been removed, the couple were definitely enjoying their dessert. So much so that they indulged in seconds, and finally thirds. And Molly couldn't have enjoyed this final course any better if the detective had been dipped in chocolate and covered with whipped cream! But in the morning, as she had expected, Molly awoke to a rumpled, and empty, bed. So much for experimentation, she thought with a sigh, and drifted back to sleep.

Sherlock Holmes thought long and hard about his night spent in Molly's bed. He had certainly enjoyed the experience, and found he wished to repeat it, rather sooner than his body would necessarily require. So, just two days later, he found himself toying with his mobile as he considered what message to send. As much as he hated using the invitation which "The Woman" had used to try to entice him, he found it was brief and to the point. So he typed the word, and sent the text to Molly.

DINNER? - SHERLOCK

Molly looked down at her mobile, and all the tension which had been building for the past two days dissipated when she read the word. Sherlock wanted to have dinner again! And, of course, dessert!

OF COURSE - MOLLY

CHINESE? BE READY AT EIGHT. - SHERLOCK

Molly was ready for far more than a meal come eight o'clock that evening. Except for the difference in the cuisine, and the shirt, it turned out to be a replica of the original evening. An enjoyable meal, following by even more enjoyable sex. Molly Hooper could definitely get used to this! But there had been no serious conversation concerning these evenings, and nights, spent in each other's company. Molly knew that eventually this would have to happen, but at the moment she didn't want to upset an apple cart filled with such delicious apples. Their professional relationship went on much the same as it always had, working together with long stretches of companionable silence, interspersed with periods of information exchange and friendly banter. There was never any indication of when the detective would text again, and what he would ask.

A few days had passed, and Molly had almost given up hope of a continuation of their "meals" together, when she received a text at almost eleven o'clock.

HUNGRY? - SHERLOCK

RAVENOUS! - MOLLY

WOULD TAKEAWAY SUFFICE? HOW ABOUT A LITTLE ITALIAN? - SHERLOCK

I WOULD PREFER A TALL ENGLISHMAN - MOLLY

Sherlock chuckled at his pathologist's cheeky humor. He loved that about her, he thought. Come to think, he loved many things about her. Her brain, her smile, her eyes that always managed to see him, even without really looking. The detective had recently come to the realization that sentiment was not only found on the losing side. Sentiment had saved his life. Sentiment had saved the lives of his friends, as well. He had recently been indulging himself in his sentiment, his feelings, for one Dr. Hooper, and he found his brain to be as clear, and his thoughts as concise, as they ever had been. And he had achieved the added benefit of certain quiet in his soul, a sense of fulfillment. This, surely, did not feel like the losing side, Mycroft be damned! So he went off in search of a pizza to bring along to Molly's. He had a feeling they may need a bit of sustenance before the night was over.

Having not even touched the pizza before falling into bed together, the pathologist and the detective were now, hours later, sitting at Molly's kitchen table eating microwave re-warmed pizza. The pathologist was sipping a glass of red wine, while her detective studied the way she flicked her tongue over her lips after every sip.

"Molly, you know I am not good at observing social conventions…"

"You're actually doing quite well, Sherlock, for a man who never dated in his life."

Sherlock blushed, and Molly found that she liked the idea that she could make him do so almost as much as he enjoyed doing it to her. "But, Molly, you must tell me, how far into this relationship do we have to be before I can stop feeding you? While I would really enjoy the extra curve of your hip, I am afraid all this eating is going to ruin my slim physique, which you seem to enjoy so much."

Now Molly was blushing a bit as she asked, almost timidly, and somewhat dumbfounded, "Is that what this is, Sherlock? A relationship?"

"What else do you think it is? You care for me. You always have, I suppose. I feel the same way, of course. We are indulging in sexual relations on a regular basis. We are monogamous, or I have assumed us to be…"

"Of course, you git!," Molly said, somewhat angrily.

"I see no reason why we cannot continue on this path. Maintaining two domiciles is a bit of an inconvenience, and more than a bit of expense. When does your lease expire, by the way?..."

Sherlock was going on and on while Molly tried to absorb the fact that she was in a real relationship with the man she loved more than anything in the world. Sometimes dreams come true and you don't even know it!, she thought.

"That sounds rather permanent, Sherlock…", she said tentatively when she finally managed to speak.

"Of course it is. I can foresee no circumstance in which I would not want it to be permanent. Can you?" The detective looked across the table at the petite woman with the question hanging in the air, and a small uncertainly written on his face. "I know I can be a real bastard at times, but you've managed to put up with me up until now. Do you think you could manage ' 'til death us do part'?"

Molly almost choked on her reheated pizza before she managed to get out, "I think so, Sherlock. Yes!"

"Good! Then I no longer have to provide meals for our trysts, right?" He took her hand in his, and pulled her gently back toward the bedroom. "Because, I intend to hang around at least until morning, and it would have been rather inconvenient to rise early enough to buy you breakfast!" And Molly Hooper's last thought before they closed the bedroom door was, I'll have to get up and make a big breakfast for us then, because, judging from the look in his beautiful eyes, he intends to work up a hearty appetite!