2

John sometimes thought that Sherlock Holmes needed a keeper. Well, actually, he thought that Sherlock needed a sedative... and maybe a leash but that was another matter completely.

It had barely been two days since their last case and Sherlock was driving him up the wall.

He'd been lying around in his ratty pyjamas and silk dressing gown, yelling at daytime television and making the flat look like an explosion in a mad scientist's lab.

John picked up something that might, at one point, have been someone's hand and placed it gingerly in the bin.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock yelled from his place on the sofa. "I'm testing the decomposition rates of infected flesh."

"Infected?" John looked down at his hand and shuddered, heading for the sink and the bleach he had started to buy by the bucketful. "Why in god's name are you doing that at the kitchen table?"

"Bored."

Of course.

John rolled his eyes. It was like living with five year old. A five year old with access to body parts, munitions and a centrifuge. Why he had decided that living with this madman was a good idea was beyond him. Especially now when all he wanted was a ham sandwich but he was loathe to touch any meat... well anything in the fridge in case he accidentally committed cannibalism.

It also wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had injected his food with something in the name of 'science'.

When he'd flat shared before he'd been worried about walking in on his flatmate naked, in the throes of sex or drug abuse or committing some sort of sin with an animal. He'd been worried about theft and accidentally rooming with a nutcase. He'd even worried about the levels of cleanliness approaching biohazard level and being arrested by the police.

He never thought that it would all happen in one go.

Sherlock really was a nightmare flatmate. His only redeeming features were that he was never boring and that John had never caught him mid-shag.

In fact, up until a few days ago, John would have said that Sherlock was not interested in the opposite sex. Or the same sex. Or sex at all.

Even The Woman had only aroused his intellectual interest. Sherlock had been intrigued by her and admitted such to John but he confessed it was more of an academic interest. He was interested in her sexuality merely because she utilised it as a tool in her own intellectual games. After he had deduced her, he found her as titillating as a jam sandwich. And she was a dominatrix. If a woman who wore leather and threatened to spank you with a whip didn't turn you on then there was definitely something wrong with your radar. Or equipment.

Not that he was thinking about Sherlock's equipment.

John shuddered and wondered if pouring the bleach on his head would rid him of those images.

Probably not. He peered over his shoulder and scowled at the Consulting Detective who was sulking, his arms folded like a petulant toddler.

If only Molly could see him now.

The thought of the pathologist made the corners of his lips turn up as his mental meanderings returned to the topic in hand.

He hadn't really noticed any change in Sherlock's behaviour towards the sweet brunette until his 'slip'. Afterwards John had spent time thinking about it and had come to some startling realisations.

In three weeks he hadn't heard Sherlock deduce Molly negatively at all. In fact, twice now, Sherlock had 'absent-mindedly' thanked Molly for her services.

He'd also insisted that the flat was too nosy/ cramped/ dry/ ill-equipped and dusty for his experiments and that St. Barts was the optimum place for his work. Oddly enough, only during Molly's shifts.

And then there were the odd looks that he kept giving her and the fact that he'd called her Molly Holmes. Add them all up and John was coming to some pretty amusing deductions all of his own.

John cleared his throat. "You know, Sherlock, I've been thinking about what you said the other day."

"Good, I've already been using your clothing to test elasticity."

John gritted his teeth. "Not that. And you still owe me ten pairs of socks. I was talking about Molly Hooper."

Sherlock stilled and John watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock sat up slowly. "What about her?"

"Well, Molly is one of our greatest assets and it just occurred to me that it's been a while since she dated. Not since Moriarty really."

"What?" Sherlock's voice was low.

John bit his lip. "Just seems a shame that such a lovely girl is alone." He could see Sherlock stiffen even more.

"Maybe she likes it that way."

John scoffed. "No one likes to be alone. Molly would make someone a wonderful girlfriend or even wife. She'd be loyal and she's clever. She's also quite pretty. Yep, a man could do worse."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and then, through gritted teeth, he said. "You aren't her type."

"Beg pardon?"

"Molly. Her previous paramours have been tall, dark and intelligent. Ben was a surgeon, Grant was a photographer and Jim was a secret mastermind. You are not tall nor are you dark, and your intelligence is minimal at best."

John glared at his 'friend'. "Right, thanks very much. It just so happens I wasn't thinking about me. But don't get me wrong, Sherlock, I could pull Molly Hooper if I wanted to."

Sherlock scoffed.

"I could. But I wasn't thinking me."

"Exactly when did your sex change occur, John? I always assumed that it was only women who attempted to match-make and were obsessed with relationships. In fact, I would have assumed, given your general demeanour towards the opposite sex, that you are more inclined towards brief physical liaisons rather than anything meaningful."

John turned to face Sherlock. "Just because I enjoy female companionship doesn't mean that I wouldn't give it up if I found a woman who was right for me."

"Sentimental nonsense, John, there are over seven billion people on this planet, over half of them female. That is almost four billion women. If there truly is one 'right' woman, the odds of you actually finding her are exactly four billion to one." He lay back down on the sofa. "You'd have more luck winning the lottery."

John counted in his head slowly to ten. And then twenty. Then fifty just to make sure. "I said the right woman. I didn't say there was just one. Besides we weren't talking about me. We were talking about Molly Hooper."

"And I'm still not sure as to why."

"I've decided I'm going to help her find a nice man."

Silence.

"Someone who treats her right and makes her smile."

Silence.

"Someone who'll appreciate her odd humour and the fact that she dissects bodies for a living."

The word was spat out like a curse. "Why?"

John smirked. "Because what you said is true, she really does have awful taste in men. She needs a guiding hand. And I know just the man."

"Oh?" Sherlock turned over. "And who is the lucky man that gets the mousy pathologist who smells of formaldehyde, talks to corpses, has atrocious dress sense and can't talk to a man if her life depended on it?"

"Greg."

John counted silently for the explosion.

Three, two-

"LESTRADE?" Sherlock bounded out of his prone position. "Are you mad?"

"He's tall, used to be dark and, you've said yourself that he's the only intelligent one at the Yard. He also knows her, finds her funny and attractive and Molly has no problems talking to him."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times. "You are forgetting that he's married."

"Divorce came through last week."

Sherlock looked wrong-footed. "It did?"

John rolled his eyes. "We celebrated by going down the pub. I came back with a two day hangover."

"Is that what that was for?" Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't change the fact that he is still in love with his ex-wife. He would only hurt Molly."

John slipped his hands into his pockets. "Watch it there, Sherlock, it sounds like you care."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Whenever Molly is distressed, her work suffers. I merely wish to circumvent any plan which renders my pathologist useless."

"Your pathologist?" John was now grinning openly. "Staked a claim have you?"

"Oh, do shut up."

"First she's Molly Holmes and now she's your pathologist. You know you always tell me that I see but don't observe. Well, I've seen you checking out Doctor Hooper and I observe that you fancy her."

Sherlock looked horrified. "I do not."

"Do too."

"You are being ridiculous. I don't do women."

"Which could be why you're always so tetchy. You really need to get laid.

"Don't be vulgar, John."

"Well, if you are not interested in Molly then you wouldn't mind if Lestrade asked her out, would you?" John faced off against Sherlock, his raised eyebrow almost daring the detective to make something out of this.

Sherlock opened his mouth once and then closed it again. "Of course not."

Challenge accepted. John nodded.

"I happen to know that Molly is very keen on the theatre. They're playing Phantom at the Playhouse. I'll tell Lestrade to get tickets. I know he's fancied her for ages."

Sherlock turned his back on John and headed back to the sofa, picking up his violin on the way.

"Fine."

"She told me once that she quite likes him too. Called him a silver fox."

Sherlock drew the bow over the strings with an evil hiss. "Lovely."

"Yep, they'd make a cute couple." John beamed as Sherlock faced the window.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."