It was only a small explosion. Certainly nothing earth shattering as far as explosions go, but it did manage to destroy Molly Hooper's carefully crafted little world.

Sherlock Holmes had appeared at her flat rather early that evening, vaguely distracted and definitely bored. Molly was growing accustomed to such appearances, allowing him to invade her space as much as he had already invaded her heart. Sometimes it was like trying to occupy a restless child. They would play games, watch crap telly, discuss her work, or simply sit and sip tea, Sherlock in his "mind palace", Molly lost in thoughts, and desires, of her own. She never could figure out why her flat had become his place of refuge. Surely, John Watson was his best friend, and he could have gone there. Perhaps Mary would not tolerate the intrusion? He could even have gone to his brother's place, couldn't he? They could have played Cluedo and argued into the wee hours, until Mycroft had to go start, or end, a war, or something. Even Greg Lestrade would have put up with him on occasion. But then, perhaps, he would have insisted on being called by his real name, something Sherlock Holmes steadfastly refused to do for some reason or another. And Mrs. Hudson? Well, in truth, she did put up with him most days, and took to her herbal soothers at night. So, Molly's place it was!

On this particular evening, they had watched documentaries until Molly's eyes had slowly started to close. "For god's sake, Dr. Hooper, go to bed if you don't find this interesting enough to keep you awake!", Sherlock spoke in a gruff tone.

"Sherlock, it's about bees. The only thing I find fascinating about bees is their honey."

"But it's such a matriarchal society! I thought that you, as a woman, would appreciate that. Queen bee, and all."

"I 've never identified with the queen bee, Sherlock. I see myself as more of a worker bee. And they must lead a very dull life, indeed. No drone to call their own…"

"Molly, drones exist only to serve the queen, to provide fertilization…"

"So you have a society headed by a fat, lazy female who does nothing but produce young, males who live only to serve her, and sterile females to do all the work. Yes, Sherlock, a exemplary society, well-organized, viable…"

"I see your point, Molly," he said with a snicker, "go to bed."

Molly, the worker bee without a drone, rose from the couch and headed toward her bedroom, knowing that the detective would make himself completely at home with or without her actual presence. He would leave when he was ready to, or, on some occasions, simply shove her over and crawl into her bed, if he was too exhausted to make the trip to Baker Street. On those occasions, Molly tended not to get a lot of sleep, as she would lie awake, listening to his breathing, and think of what she would prefer him doing instead of sleeping.

Molly was awakened a few hours later by Sherlock Holmes frantically shaking her, and pulling her from her bed. She vaguely smelled smoke, but couldn't think of the implications which that represented, as all she could process at the moment was being scooped up in the detective's arms and carried bodily from her bedroom. By the time they reached the sitting room, she had awakened enough realize that her eyes were burning from the dense haze enveloping the room, illuminated at certain points by bright flames. "Oh shit!", was her only thought as Sherlock carried her down the stairs and into the cool night air. He deposited her on the street, clad only in the sweat pants and a tank top in which she had slept. Reaching into his trousers, Sherlock produced his mobile, instructed her to call 999, and rushed back into the building.

Molly could now see flames coming through the window of her kitchen, but the fire did seem to be contained to her floor, at least at the moment. The other tenants were now pouring from the building, and had gathered, chattering away, nearby. Then Molly spotted Sherlock coming through the front door, his Belstaff in his arms, and her purse slung over his shoulders.

"Sherlock, you went back in to save your bloody coat? What the hell were you thinking?"

The detective managed to look a bit indignant. "I was thinking, Dr. Hooper, that you might be a bit cold, standing there in your pajamas!" As he unfolded the coat, a large ginger tabby, slightly sooty, made his appearance. " I also thought you might prefer you bloody cat slightly less than well-done!"

Molly grabbed the animal from his arms, as he wrapped the Belstaff around her shoulders, and handed her her purse. "I thought you might need this, too, all things considered. I did forget you were barefoot, though. Shall I breach the flames one more time to bring added comfort to your dainty feet?", he said with a half snarl.

"Don't get all snarky with me, Sherlock Holmes. You just burned down my flat!"

"That may be a bit of an overstatement, Molly. The flames are seemingly contained in the kitchen area, although there is quite a bit of smoke throughout the entire flat." He nodded at the approaching fire company. "I assume they will contain the blaze relatively easily, before it spreads to the other flats."

Molly sat herself down on a step across from her building. "Great! So it's just me who is homeless! What the hell happened, Sherlock. I leave you alone…"

"I was simply making tea! There must have been a gas leak. There was a small explosion, and flames. Your fire extinguisher did not work, Molly. Nor did your smoke alarm! When I find your building manager…"

"Good luck with that, Sherlock. Nobody can find the building manager!" Molly had now begun to shake, as the full implications of what had happened slowly sunk in. "You could have been killed, Sherlock."

And Sherlock's thoughts were exactly the same. It could have been Molly. Alone in the fire, with no alarms, no extinguisher. He would kill that building manager if he ever found him!

After answering some questions, Sherlock bundled Molly, and her cat, into a cab and took them to Baker Street, which is where his brother found him the next morning, around ten o'clock. Sherlock had just risen from a fitful few hours of sleep on his couch, looking a bit worse for wear, when Mycroft sauntered through his front door, smiling as he said, "You do know that arson is against the law, don't you, Sherlock?"

"Oh, bugger off, Mycroft. I am in no mood for your attempts at humor this morning."

"I can see that. Sleeping on the couch, are we? So your nefarious plot did not reap the rewards you expected.."

"Oh, do shut up, Mycroft. You're not making any sense!"

"I am making perfect sense, brother. It has been apparent for quite some time that your interest in Dr. Hooper has gone well past the platonic stage.."

"Apparent to whom?"

"Well, myself, and anyone else with a more than a few active brain cells. But really, Sherlock, setting fire to her flat. A bit extreme, even for you…"

"I did not stage a fire, Mycroft. As I explained in our earlier conversation, there was a gas leak…"

"Yes, yes, I know. And no smoke alarm. Nor fire extinguisher."

" I want that incompetent at best, dishonest at worst, building manager found and dealt with…"

"Done and done, Sherlock. He is being questioned about his shortcomings as we speak. There will be repercussions, although the death which you previously demanded may be a bit much…"

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"I came to see Molly. And to be of service. I have made arrangements with the fire department to tour the flat this afternoon to assess the damage. I took the liberty of informing John and Mary of the circumstances. Mary will be here shortly with a change of clothing. She will then take Dr. Hooper on a shopping spree, the likes of which you have never seen, financed, of course, by you." Sherlock moaned from his fetal position on the couch. "When do you suppose Molly will be up and about?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself, Mycroft? She seems a bit put out with me at the moment."

"You did burn down her flat, brother…"

"It was an accident…"

Just then the brothers heard the bedroom door open, and a sooty ginger tabby made his way to Sherlock's side, purring and rubbing against him. "Since when does Molly's cat like you so much, Sherlock?"

"Evidently since I retrieved him from the smoke and flames."

"You went back into the burning building to rescue her cat?"

"I grant you he is a rather arrogant, obnoxious, and unlikeable character, but Molly seems inordinately attached to him…"

"You are a rather arrogant, obnoxious, and unlikeable character, Sherlock, and Dr. Hooper seems inordinately attached to you…"

"Let's keep this between ourselves, Mycroft. I believe that Molly thinks I went back in to save my Belstaff!"

"No wonder she's angry, you git. You could have been killed to save a cat and a coat. Wait until Mummy hears about this!"

At the mention of his mother, Sherlock sat bolt upright. "What's Mummy got to do with this, Mycroft?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention. Mummy is on her way to town as we speak. She and Anthea are to meet us for lunch, where we will strategize our next move…"

"What next move?"

"Our plans to make this transition easier for Dr. Hooper, of course."

"What transition?"

"She needs a place to stay, for weeks at least. If you play your cards right, it could well become permanent…"

The brothers were interrupted by the arrival of DI Greg Lestrade. "You do know arson is against the law, right, old son?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and nodded at his younger sibling, as if to reconfirm his previous statement that anyone with more than a few active brain cells was well aware of his interest in the petite pathologist.

"Arrest me, if you must. Just get me out of here!" Sherlock extended his wrists toward the policeman. At the moment it seemed a more pleasant experience than enduring a luncheon planning session with his mummy.

Mary and John were the next to arrive. After greeting everyone, Mary hurried off with her bundle of clothes to join Molly in the bedroom. John sat himself down to join his friends, asking, "So, what's on the agenda?"

Mycroft was the one to speak. "Sherlock and I will be lunching with our mother. You are more than welcome to join us, John. We will be discussing the next move…"

"You do know that Mary believes you set that fire, Sherlock?" John interrupted the elder Holmes to make the comment. Sherlock growled, as his brother responded, "I always knew your wife was very clever, John!"

"I did not…", Sherlock muttered.

"Of course not, brother dear. Now to continue. We will then survey Molly's flat, to see what can be salvaged. Mary is to take Molly shopping to replenish her wardrobe. And, I assume, Mummy will want to return here to straighten up the flat…"

Mrs. Hudson had now entered, bearing a tea tray. "Yes, indeed, we must make this place presentable…"

"It is presentable…" Sherlock muttered, once again. Everyone in the room gave him a disbelieving look. Mrs. Hudson put the tray gently on the table, saying, " I thought I'd better prepare the tea downstairs. We know how Sherlock can be around gas stoves…"

Mary and Molly soon joined everyone else in the sitting room. Despite the fact that Mary was slightly larger than the pathologist in virtually all dimensions, the borrowed clothing fit her petite frame more closely than her usual attire.

"Molly, my condolences on your loss. Rest assured the Holmes family will do everything to ease your burden at this time. Mary will take you shopping." Mycroft looked at his brother. "Sherlock, as is only proper, will foot the bill. Get your card, brother." Sherlock, as directed, rose from his spot on the couch to retrieve his wallet, and pulled out a black American Express card, and handed it to Mary, knowing that, unlike his pathologist, she would have no qualms about spending his money.

"Is that really one of those black cards! Oh my god, I knew they existed, but I've never seen one before!"

Mycroft smiled, and assured her that it was real. "Buy whatever you deem appropriate, Mrs. Watson. My brother and I trust your judgement…"

"Mycroft, you do realize that I could charge a new car to this account, no questions asked?"

"If you feel that Dr. Hooper would benefit from such a purchase, feel free to do so. I am sure my brother is feeling sufficiently generous, having just destroyed her home."

Molly had barely said a word, whether from fatigue, shock, anger, or distress was anybody's guess. But she finally did say, "All this is unnecessary, Mycroft. It was an accident, after all. And I do have insurance. I just need to purchase some clothing so that I can return to work. Then I need to find a place…"

"Molly, I have spoken to the powers that be at St. Bart's, and you have been granted an emergency leave, for as long as required."

"Mycroft, that is unnecessary. I'll be fine, really…"

Sherlock interrupted her, taking her hands in his, and saying, "Molly, let us take care of you for a change. Let me take care of you. This is my responsibility, my fault. I blew up your kitchen. Go shopping! Enjoy yourself! Let Mary enjoy herself. I am sure she has no qualms whatsoever about driving me into bankruptcy." At this remark, Mycroft snickered, and John narrowed his eyes. Finally, all parties in agreement, each left for their own appointed rounds. Greg went back to Scotland Yard, John went off to hospital rounds, remarking, just before he left, "Someday, Sherlock, you'll have to explain to me why we had to eat beans on toast for a week at a time while you had a top shelf credit card in your wallet!"

"I like beans on toast!"

And Mary, with Molly in tow, went off to spend Sherlock's money.

Lunch with Mummy had not been a comfortable affair for the Holmes brothers since Violet Holmes had grown impatient with their state of single blessedness, and had started hinting around about her desire for grandchildren. This had happened shortly after they reached puberty, and had continued unabated ever since. It had taken many years, but Violet had recently begun to think that she was making some headway. She didn't like to believe that her younger son had become so unbalanced to actually commit arson in his quest to move a suitable woman into his flat, but, even if he had, she would consider it a small victory in her campaign to see him settle down. And lately, she had come to notice the way her elder son watched as his assistant, Anthea's, fingers danced over her mobile, perhaps wishing that they were dancing over something else. Ah, yes, things were progressing nicely. She just hoped that Mycroft would not find it necessary to start a revolution or two to garner the attractive woman's attention.

"So, William, what's new?" Violet said innocently as her boys joined her at a table at one of the nicer restaurants in London. Anthea, who had accompanied her to town, snickered at bit at the detective's discomfort.

"No matter what you have heard, Mummy, I did not set that fire!"

"Of course not, Will. That would have required some initiative. Something which you sorely lack when it comes to the remarkable Dr. Hooper."

"I don't know what you mean, Mummy. Molly is my friend…"

"Enough of that! I was not born yesterday," she paused to send an icy glare in her elder son's direction, as she considered his slight smirk to be a commentary on exactly how many yesterdays ago she had been born. "Everybody knows how you feel about her…"

"Mummy, have you been talking to Mycroft?"

"Of course I have! He is the only one of my sons who answers my phone calls!"

Sherlock Holmes shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mycroft sat a little straighter, basking in his mother's approbation. "Don't look so smug, Mycroft. Our next conversation will be about your apparent interest in Anthea here." Mycroft now looked slightly defeated, while Anthea appeared smug. Violet Holmes was known to take no prisoners, and today she was going into battle! By the time lunch was over, Mycroft and Anthea were dating, Violet Holmes had high hopes for her younger son, and Sherlock had indigestion.

After the meal, the Holmes brother dropped Mummy off at Baker Street, where she was determined, with the help of her old friend Martha Hudson, to make her reprobate son's flat more presentable. How was she ever expected to snare a daughter-in-law in such a disorderly environment. There were to be no more livers in the fridge, unless they came from cows, not cadavers. No eyeballs cooking in the microwave. And no collection of toes in a pickling solution in the pantry. Martha may a bit squeamish about the clean-up, but Violet was determined.

At the same time, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Anthea made their way to Molly's flat to survey the damage. It had, indeed, been the only flat in the building to suffer any damage, aside from from smoke, and a bit of water in the flat immediately below. All of which was easily remedied. But Molly's place was another matter. Her kitchen, in the front of the flat, was a complete loss, and the sitting room next to it was not much better. The bedrooms had sustained the least amount of damage, but they were covered in soot, and smelled heavily of smoke. Most of her clothing carried the smoky aroma of a barbeque joint. Insurance would cover almost everything, but there were some things, Sherlock knew, which his pathologist would consider irreplaceable. Her father's desk, in the sitting room, was a bit waterlogged, and smelled heavily of smoke, but had been spared any fire damage. Her grandmother's armoire, in the bedroom was still intact, but a bit smoky, too. Mycroft was on his mobile in a trice, arranging for these items to be removed immediately, and restored to their former glory. Sherlock was filling a plastic bag with the few stuffed animals which were scattered around the bedroom, remnants of Molly's childhood. And he grabbed her jewelry box, which contained mostly costume items, but with a few other pieces whose value was both monetary and sentimental. Anthea was busying herself photographing Molly's waterlogged library, so that it could be replaced. She also grabbed her laptop from the desk. It may be irreparably damaged, but Mycroft had people who could reconstruct everything on it. Finally, Sherlock grabbed what he knew Molly would consider the most important items, her photo albums. Taking one last walk around the flat, the trio left, satisfied that they had accomplished their task.

"Is there anything else we need to see to, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a bit of concern. "There is no bed in John's old room, for instance. We could have one delivered immediately, if you like. Or, at least a mattress and boxspring, until you decide what decor would be appropriate…"

"Mycroft, could we stop at the bank. I need to retrieve to something from the vault. And I need to make a stop at a chemical supply store. There's one near Regent's Park that I use…"

"Sherlock..."

"Nothing flammable, I assure you!"

During the ride. Sherlock busied himself studying Molly Hooper's photo albums. Pictures of her as a toddler, as a child, as a young girl. Pictures of her parents, and grandparents, aunts, and uncles, he should imagine. Cousins, friends, pets. Everything and everybody which the small woman considered important in her life. And the later pages were filled with images of him! With John, and without John. In the morgue. In the lab. At that awful Christmas party. Playing Cluedo. And Operation. Asleep on his couch, her couch, even in her bed. He couldn't imagine when she had taken so many pictures! Stealthily, on her mobile, he imagined. He always missed something. Mycroft was looking over his shoulder and smiling, at the pictures themselves, and his brother's consternation. "There seems to be little doubt about her feelings, brother mine," he said with a slight nod of his head.

By late afternoon everyone had returned to Baker Street. Anthea had organized a meal of various takeaway foods, enough to satisfy everyone in attendance. John had expressed his relief that it was not beans on toast, as that was evidently one of Sherlock's favorites. The short doctor still sounded a bit disgruntled. Violet and Martha had the place in tip top shape, with a new fridge installed in the kitchen, the old one relegated to the empty flat downstairs for the moment. Sherlock would have been upset had not his mother told him it had been charged to Mycroft's account. Anthea, Molly, and Mary were busy displaying Molly's new wardrobe, one heavily influenced by one Mary Watson. It was still comprised of all the vibrant colors, and happy floral prints which Molly adored, but with a slightly more sophisticated, and, Sherlock assumed, more expensive edge. He contented himself with the smile on his pathologist's face, until John leaned closer to say quietly in his ear, "Thanks for the lovely new car, Sherlock. It will make it a lot easier getting around the city with a toddler in tow!" The detective may have choked a bit on his kung pao chicken before he realized his friend was joking.

When everyone had gone home, leaving just the Sherlock and Molly at the flat, the rather dishy detective explained the results of his and Mycroft's trip to her flat. Her most important treasures were to be restored to her. The desk and armoire. He presented her with the photo albums, saying, "Rather interesting, those. Quite a collection."

"You looked through them?", Molly asked, a bit embarrassed, "All of them?"

"Every last page. Quite a revelation, I must say." He smiled down at her. "But you haven't checked your jewelry box yet."

"No need, really. It doesn't appear damaged, after all, or tampered with. I'll just put it in the bedroom, shall I?" She looked at him curiously. "I did hear a bit of commotion in John's old room, so can I assume it is now ready for occupation?"

"You could say that, Molly. Would you like to take a look?" He took her hand, the one not holding her jewelry box, and led her upstairs to John's old room. Indicating that she should open the door, Sherlock stood behind her, waiting, it almost seemed to Molly, to catch her. As she slowly turned the knob and pushed into the room, she heard a small popping sound, and was engulfed in white smoke.

"You son of a bitch! Is this your idea of a joke!"

"Actually it is. People have been accusing me all day of causing a fire to get you to move in here. I just thought I'd get my own back a bit!"

"That is not in the least bit funny, Sherlock. You could have scared me to death. What if I had fallen down the stairs, you git!"

"I'm right here, Molly. You would have landed on me!"

"Wait a minute. Why would people think you set a fire to get me to move in here? And what people are we talking about?"

"According to my brother, and I quote, 'Anyone with more than a few active brain cells!' I suppose that means that we are both among the brain dead, Dr. Hooper! I did not, I reiterate, start that fire. But I can't say I'm disappointed by the results, in any case. And you still haven't checked your jewelry box."

"Sherlock, that can wait. What in god's name are you saying?"

"Just check the box before you examine the contents of the room, Molly, or this could get a bit embarrassing."

Molly quickly surveyed the contents of her old jewelry box, examining certain items more closely than others, until she came to one small piece of gold buried under a mass of cheap colorful beads. An antique ring, with a beautifully cut diamond solitaire.

"It was my grandmother's, Molly. I hope you'll accept it, and wear it until I add the wedding band." He stood looking down at the small woman, expecting some kind of answer, but receiving none. She appeared to be carved in stone, and he was becoming a bit concerned. "Breathe, Molly, please. You're beginning to frighten me!"

The detective briefly considered mouth to mouth resuscitation, but the point was made moot when the woman launched herself at his face, making a perfect one-point landing on his lips. And stayed there until the white smoke had completely dissipated and she could see into the bedroom. Which she soon discovered was furnished as a nursery.

"Too soon?" he asked quietly, as she took in the the contents of the room.

Molly smiled up at him, and pulled him closer. "A bit, perhaps. But it just may be the encouragement we need." She pushed him up against the wall of the nursery, and snogged the life out of him. Well, at least, she came close.

Later that very evening, as they lay in bed, happily exhausted, Molly couldn't help but notice the broad smile on her new fiance's face. "I'm glad you're happy, Sherlock. All I've ever wanted was to make you happy, you know?"

"I know. And I intend to return the favor." He moved to pull her closer to his chest, and wrap himself around her. "Molly, would you like to go to lunch with my mother?"

"That's an odd thing to ask at a time like this, Sherlock. What are you up to?"

"Nothing, really. I just want to have lunch with my mother. And my brother," he added with a smirk, anticipating Mycroft's discomfort at now being the sole object of his mother's maternal tirade about the advantages of wedded bliss. Take that, brother dear, he thought, as his kissed Molly on the forehead and settled down for the first of many nights to be spent in her arms.