Dr. Molly Hooper was trying to enjoy her Saturday morning off by sleeping through it when she was awakened by noises coming from her kitchen. She looked at her bedside clock only to find out it was 8:12 AM. The only person she could imagine being in her flat at this hour on a Saturday morning, uninvited, was Sherlock Holmes. Molly groaned into her pillow. Despite the fact that she was always happy to see him, on some occasions she was less happy than others. This was one of those occasions. It was then that she noticed that the sounds were accompanied by smells. Smells of coffee. And was that bacon? Sausage? Sherlock cooking? Was the world ending? Or was it not Sherlock , but a highly considerate thief/rapist/murderer who was going to feed her before stealing from her, raping her, and/or murdering her? She considered the "balance of probability", as Sherlock would say, and considering that a random crook was as likely to fix her breakfast as Sherlock Holmes was, believed it to be fifty/fifty chance that she was about to be victimized. Strike that. If it WAS Sherlock cooking breakfast, it was almost definitely a one hundred percent chance she was about to victimized, in one way or another.

Molly arose from her bed as silently as possible, crept over to the door, and peeked out. There stood Sherlock in front of her stove, humming. She closed the door quietly, looking down at her worn and frazzled ducky pajamas. One of her pet peeves was that he always showed up when she looked her worse. He had seen her in every horrendous at-home outfit that she owned, from faded baggy tee shirts to torn oversized sweatpants. He often used her flat as a bolthole, and was not too shy to slip into her bed with her, claiming the couch was too short to accommodate him. On none of these occasions had he attempted anything ungentlemanly, much to her chagrin. Perhaps, if he had caught her wearing one of her racier nightgowns, this might not have been the case, she liked to tell herself. But every time he awoke with his arms wrapped around a definitely unsexy Molly, in striped flannels or something equally atrocious. The fluffy bunny slippers she slipped on later had never seemed to help. But today, given that she had some warning, this was going to change. Molly went to her top bureau drawer, found a lovely, but not too obvious lavender and lace teddy. She covered this with a tightly tied robe and entered her sitting room ready to do battle.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing here at this hour of the morning?"

"Cooking breakfast. I would have thought that was obvious."

"I worked late last night. I've only had three or four hours sleep…"

"Sorry. I didn't know you were called in, and I knew this was your day off…" Sherlock turned toward her, frying pan in hand. "Molly, what happened to your ducky pajamas? You didn't really have to dress up, or down, for me," he added almost suggestively.

He must have glanced in at her while she was sleeping, she thought. So much for her subtle change into a femme fatale!

Molly yawned and plopped herself down in a kitchen chair. She was amazed when Sherlock placed two plates full of food on the table, each containing a very substantial breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, fried tomatoes, and toast and jam. She stared at the plate suspiciously, although she must admit she was more than a bit hungry. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, she started on the eggs.

"What's all this about, Sherlock?"

"There's something I need to discuss with you, Molly Hooper."

Molly looked over at him and tried to deduce what was going on. He looked slightly tense, but was trying to hide it. He had not only cooked her breakfast, but enough for himself as well, and was, in fact, eating it with some gusto. So he was hungry. Sherlock never seemed to be hungry, or to eat anything beyond a package of crisps, when he was on a case. So, no case to discuss, then. And he had used her full name. Must be serious.

"Molly, I have a proposition to make. More of a proposal, actually."

Molly cut a piece of sausage, put it in her mouth, and looked over at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Molly, I think we should get married."

It took Sherlock just a short time to figure out that Molly was not jumping up and down for joy, but that she was, indeed, choking on the piece of sausage she had swallowed in shock at his rather offhand comment. He immediately jumped to his feet, positioned himself behind her, and, wrapping his arms around her in the correct position, applied enough sudden pressure to dislodge the sausage and send it flying across the kitchen. Her cat, Toby, snatched it up immediately.

"I hope you didn't react like this when Tim proposed. I doubt whether he would have been quick enough to save your life!"

"His name was Tom, as you damned well know, and I wasn't all that shocked when he did it. Besides, we were eating ice cream. No danger in choking on ice cream." Molly was now trying to appear nonchalant, as if she received proposals from the love of her life every day. She sat back down at the table and continued eating her breakfast.

Sherlock studied her intently. "Aren't you at all curious about my proposal, Molly?"

"Of course I am, but I'm also hungry. And if I'm going to have my heart broken, again, I want it to happen on a full stomach."

Sherlock then reached over the table and proceeded to cut her bacon, sausage, and tomatoes into very small pieces. "Just reducing the choking hazard, Molly. Better safe than sorry." He was now in full-on smirk mode.

Molly continued eating, but stopped chewing long enough to say, "Well. go on."

"I have long since been aware of your attraction to me. Practically since we first met. I must admit that I have been attracted to you in the same manner for quite some time now." Sherlock looked across the table to see if there was any further danger of a food related injury. Seeing that she seemed to be swallowing quite well, he continued. "It seems to me that a period of courtship would be superfluous. That time is usually used to further acquaint yourself with the object of your affections…"

"Did you say 'affections', Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly, do try to keep up! In any case, I don't believe we need any further period of time to become sufficiently acquainted, do you?"

As he seemed to expect an answer, Molly simply shook her head.

"I would make a terrible 'boyfriend'. The term itself makes my skin crawl. To think that I should have to spend my time prancing and preening, just to get your attention…"

"You already seem to do a lot of prancing and preening, Sherlock."

"...to get you attention, which I, obviously, already have seems an inordinate waste of time. "When I came back from my 'death', you were engaged to Todd…"

"Tom."

"Whatever. I thought you had, perhaps, gotten over me. But once I saw how much he resembled me, it was obvious that you hadn't. I knew that you would end your engagement in due time, and was very gratified to find that you did it so quickly." Sherlock smiled at her, a real smile.

"Why now, Sherlock? If you've been attracted to me for a while, why was I never privy to your attraction to me?"

"I suppose because I can hide things much better than you. And I wished to spare you. I am well aware that I am a difficult man. I am arrogant, selfish, pompous, egotistical, impatient, caustic...You can stop me at any time, Molly!"

"No, please continue! I'll make any necessary additions later."

Sherlock sneered, "See, that's my point! You know how truly unbearable I can be, and you love me anyway. You're not going to ever get over me, and I know I'm never going to get over you. All these years I've spent pushing you away, and you just won't move! It's a hopeless case. So we might as well be married!"

"Sherlock, what if we're not...compatible?"

"How do you mean? We both have scientific minds. We're intellectually superior. Death intrigues us. I could go on…"

"I spent half of our time together thinking you were gay! I threw myself at you continually, and you never caught me! Mrs. Hudson finally brought me over to her way of thinking. Then I thought you were probably asexual. Irene Adler disavowed me of that notion! Did you really sleep with her?"

"We didn't sleep…"

"So much for the rumors about your virginity!"

"Yes. Irene seemed quite surprised, too."

"Janine?" Molly almost hissed the name.

"I did sleep with her," but when Molly looked crestfallen, he added "But nothing else. Really!"

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Look at how many times I've just slept with you. And I find you much lovelier. Look, I am prepared to supply you with a list of all my previous sexual partners. There will be no future ones, I can guarantee that, if you accept my proposal."

"Just how many are we talking about, Sherlock?"

"Fourteen," he answered matter of factly. Not an extraordinarily high number for a man of his age, but certainly higher than Molly, or anyone else for that matter, would have guessed. "All female, to answer your next unasked question.

"Six," Molly said quietly.

"Really? Only six. Of course, I was aware of the four men you have had relations with since we met, but I assumed the number was higher due to your years at uni…"

"How were you aware, Sherlock?"

"Molly, I am a detective!"

"None of them seemed to last very long after we did the deed, so to speak…"

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed as he said quietly, "I told you I was a selfish man. Perhaps I should have added jealous?"

At this revelation, Molly slightly lost her composure and spilled some coffee down the front of her robe. She jumped up from her chair to grab a kitchen towel and moisten it. She then dabbed at the middle of her chest where some of the still hot coffee had come into contact with her skin. Sherlock approached and, taking the towel from her hand, gently said, "Allow me."

He was still gently dabbing at her chest area, fingers "accidentally" straying over her breasts, when Molly whispered, "We still don't know if we're compatible, Sherlock."

"Well, yes. It is a major commitment to make without being sure. Much like buying a new car, I suppose."

"A car?" Molly was not sure if it was particularly romantic for his proposal to be compared to closing the deal on the purchase of new vehicle.

"Yes. First you negotiate." One arm slid around her waist while the other dropped the towel and moved to entangle itself in her still messy head of bed hair. "Then you kick the tires, and take a test drive."

Sherlock started to nuzzle her neck, kissing her clavicle before moving up to nibble her ears. By the time he got around to actually kissing her passionately, Molly was sold on the new model Sherlock Holmes. So much so that she surprised herself as much as him when she ended the kiss and took a step backward.

"What are you doing?"

"Negotiating," he responded in a husky voice.

She smiled sweetly at him just before she drew back her right foot and kicked him in the shin.

Sherlock was jumping about rubbing his leg when he shouted, "What the bloody hell was that for?"

"Just checking the tires." Molly said sweetly, as she turned and walked toward her bedroom.

Sherlock was still limping as he followed her, asking, in a plaintive manner, "Care for a test drive?"

It was more than a few hours later when Molly exited the bedroom, having negotiated a deal which involved a lifetime warrantee and unlimited servicing. She puttered about the kitchen, fixing some sandwiches, finding an open bottle of wine, and a small bag of crisps. Time to refuel. She was still mildly curious about the mileage she could get out of him, and happily returned to the bedroom to continue her investigations.