Sherlock found himself trying to tidy up for the first time since, well, he and John Watson moved into 221B four years ago. He frowned, reminding himself not to think about that little traitor, moving one pile of papers on top of another, then gives up. He knows how unforgivably fortunate he was in not only knowing Stamford, but that Stamford knew John, and that John had been in need of a flat. He had been in need of so much more, and Sherlock thought that they would have a good long life together in the flat. He'd forgotten one thing, as he tends to have done so often with John, that John wanted female companionship in a more permanent fashion. That they came across Mary Morstan through a case was statistically understandable, the fact that she stole his friend from him, not so much. There were many Marys in the world, Sherlock thought, but there weren't many John Watsons like his John. He knows because he'd checked. And the combination of army doctor was on the rise, but not many turned out to be interesting like John.

He was starting to get into A Mood, which was Not Good, according to John and Lestrade, and he needed Molly to stay. Of course, she was attracted to him, that much was obvious, so getting her here wasn't hard. Getting her to stay on as his flatmate was another matter entirely. He hadn't told Mrs. Hudson or John or anyone exactly who he'd gotten to be his new flatmate, as he'd just learned from Molly's expression and words that it was A Bit Not Good either. It was so hard to remember what was Good and what wasn't, and usually, he couldn't be arsed to bother about it.

Then he heard Mrs. Hudson's unsteady tread up the stairs, due to carrying a full tea tray, before he saw her carrying the very thing. "Whoo-hoo!" she called out. "I do hope you keep this doctor," she said, "I'm sure he'll be another fine one like John." Then she looked around, putting the tray down. "He's got quite a bit more belongings, though," she noted, "he must quite-"

"Hello!" Molly called out from the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh, Molly," Mrs. Hudson smiled at the long-haired woman coming up, "you're just in time."

She blinked, "In time for what?" She put down the cat carrier and looked around, as if trying to believe that she'd actually be living here, rather than just visiting. Sherlock found himself mentally doing the same thing.

"To meet our new renter," the elder woman beamed, and Sherlock groaned softly behind her. "A… Dr. Hooper, I believe," she added.

Molly laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson," she said, "I'm Dr. Hooper. Dr. Molly Hooper." Her pleased smile faded when she saw the dawn of comprehension on Mrs. Hudson's face and Sherlock's perplexing and sudden inability to hide his discomfort. Then she frowned up at Sherlock. "You, you didn't tell her I'd be staying here?"

"Of course I did," he blustered, "I said 'Dr. Hooper will be staying here as my new flatmate'. Yes?"

Mrs. Hudson turned to give him a no-nonsense look. "You led me to believe another man would be here," she said, "nothing about a girl."

"Oh! Um, if this is a problem..," Molly sputtered, her gaze bouncing between the two of them.

"Not a problem at all," Sherlock waved his hand, "she knows I'm married to my work, and I know that she's got a cat that's used up at least two of its lives surviving on the streets. Molly, you and your cat will be in John's room, and Mrs. Hudson, be nice to her, because according to John, I'm not nice to anybody." Then he went into the kitchen and continued to monitor the experiment on toenails he was working on before he was so rudely interrupted by Mycroft this morning. As expected, they carried on without him, which is what he wanted in the first place. Yes.

The elder woman sighed, then said, "Better sit down and have a cuppa."

"Thanks," Molly responded happily, "how do you like your tea?" They were only in the next room, how could they be so loud?

"Oh, I'll like having you around," she said, "smart, and sensible. Just two sugars, please. What's your cat's name?"

"Toby," Molly said, the clinking sound of porcelain sounding in the semi-quiet of 221B. "Would you mind if I take him out?"

"I'd love to meet him," Mrs. Hudson said warmly. "Oh my, he's a rather self-possessed tabby, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," Molly smiled, or at least, it sounded that way. He hoped her lips weren't twitching, the girl was far too nervous at the oddest times. "He's sweet, but he needs to know where everything is. They told me at the shelter that he'd been living on the streets for a few years before the shelter got him. His scars are barely visible, I could scarcely tell! I wonder how Sherlock knew?" When the white and gray tabby came into his view, however, he grabbed the cat before it was even a foot from the toenail slides. "Oh no, Toby!"

"Molly Hooper, I will not have this creature disturb my experiments!" Sherlock said, carrying the cat out by the scruff of his neck.

The pathologist grabbed her cat as safely and quickly as possible, hugging the squirming creature to herself. "You," her eyes blazed although her lips trembled, "you shouldn't leave anything out that would hurt Toby!"

He looked surprised. Usually, it was easy to bully the mousy girl into doing what he wanted, but he supposed that being protective of her pet caused a fierceness that was otherwise not expressed. Lesson noted. However, that wouldn't mean he would back down easily, either. He was here first. "Isn't it your responsibility to train your cat better?"

"Cats aren't the same as dogs!" Molly shot back. "You can't just say 'sit' and expect him to do just that!"

"Why not?" Sherlock frowned.

"'Cos cats just don't do that!" She shook her head, her shaking ponytail fascinating the cat into trying to paw at it. "It would be like asking you to be polite!" Then it seemed she realized what she was saying and to whom she was saying, and she gasped. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't - !"

Mrs. Hudson unsuccessfully smothered a laugh behind her hand, and Sherlock frowned at her. "Sorry, I'll leave you two to get things sorted out. I wish Sherlock had told me you were coming, I'd have made the place more presentable." Then she gave Sherlock a pointed look, which he pointedly ignored. "But just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Oh, it's no problem!" Molly cried out. "We'll be fine!"

The landlady seemed sufficiently reassured by this, and went downstairs. And to Sherlock's surprise, the petite pathologist walked into the living room with the cat around her shoulders, and, after boosting it up with her knee, she proceeded to haul up the biggest and heaviest box up the stairs. She may have had help with delivering her things, but it was obvious that she carried her boxes out herself. He always got one thing wrong. A shame it was her hideous strength that he underestimated.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the girl unloaded half of her boxes' contents into the kitchen. "We've already got silverware and dishes," Sherlock said, a little confused.

Her mouth did a funny wiggle, and she almost smiled as she started labeling drawers. Perhaps it's a doctor thing, this need to label things, he supposed.