Before moving in with Sherlock, John had warned her of many things (understandably). One of those things was that Sherlock had little to no tolerance for any television programs (especially crime dramas). In fact, the only type of television program that Sherlock appeared to show any interest in were what Americans would call "trash TV."
Upon moving in together, Molly and Sherlock had come to a compromise about television watching: neither would complain of or try to prevent the other watching what they wanted, and were more than welcome to join them in watching if they kept to that simple rule.
Over time, each learned to tolerate, even sometimes enjoy, their partner's taste in television. Sherlock wouldn't complain – and pretend not to get engrossed – in Molly's favorite crime and period dramas. And Molly thought that the trashy reality TV programs that Sherlock got so worked up over were just plain hilarious.
One bitterly cold evening, they were snuggled under blankets and around each other on the sofa, watching one of Sherlock's programs. It was a type of "The Bachelor" program, where each female contestant was willing to do anything to the eager man and each other in order to win the prize. It was at the end, when one of the girls would be eliminated.
"Siobhan, hands down," said Molly with certainty. "She double-crossed one too many of her roommates this time."
Sherlock snorted. "Heather is a far more likely candidate. Compared to how often Siobhan has kept Luke happy, Heather is practically a nun."
"I agree. But Siobhan is coming on way too strongly, and monopolizing most of his time. Luke doesn't just have her, he's got a whole house full of candidates. You think he wants to settle for just one right now?"
"Of course not, but he's certainly not going to keep around the one not putting too much of an effort to get into his bed."
Their bickering ceased when the host opened the envelope and, after a dramatic seven-second pause, read out the name: "Siobhan."
"Yes!" Molly screeched triumphantly, sitting up and sticking her fists in the air.
Sherlock reverted to his pouting pose. "I didn't know that you had become so attached to Heather."
"I haven't," replied Molly, and then shot him a sweet smile. "I just like proving you wrong."
Sherlock looked at her with narrowed eyes, and then turned off the telly as a wicked smirk lit up his face. "Oh, I can think of several things that you not only like more than that, but can make you scream."
"Oh, really?" Molly replied, even as her cheeks flushed and her body buzzed with eager anticipation. "Prove it."
Thankfully, Sherlock didn't need to move them off the couch to prove it. And the fact that he proved it four times that night came down to his natural inclination to be thorough.