Some nice anon sent me a message on tumblr, and it was super cool. This one shot is dedicated to anon. You go!

If I owned Sherlock, I'd be changing a lot of things in it - for example, those horrible cliffhangers.

Based on the quote by Mr. Moffat – "Can you imagine romance with Sherlock? He'd poison his girlfriend just to see if it works."

It has been an extremely slow day at the morgue, and Molly was, quite frankly, bored out of her mind. Autopsy on heart failure, autopsy on death by strangulation (a case which Sherlock had solved, in about an hour. Molly was left to do the paperwork). And after all that, Molly's head ached at the thought of going back to Baker Street to babysit the overgrown toddler who was probably also bored out of his mind.

There were unfortunate repercussions of living with Sherlock – Molly had come to acquire his own brand of morbid humor. Which really didn't help her case, because she had a reputation for being morbid as it is. For example, today she had laughed at the thought of being able to poison the food supply of Barts.

Not the best thing.

And the worst part was, Sherlock refused to let her go. Apparently, since Sebastian Moran was still at large – Molly was still in danger. Molly had, with some asperity, pointed out that John and Mary weren't being relocated. Neither was Lestrade. What kind of stunt was Sherlock trying to pull here?

Sherlock had, with equal asperity, replied that Molly was the one who didn't carry a gun, whatever her skill may be in wielding scalpels. Molly grit her teeth and resisted the urge to slap him. She privately resolved to shrink one of his lesser shirts, or not give him a bag of thumbs, or something petty anyway.

Molly sighed. Her head hurt. Sherlock had been behaving very strangely around her lately. Curiously out of comfort zones – and in very peculiar things too – he became uncomfortable when she ironed his shirts, for example. Molly made it a point not to make him uncomfortable by touching or anything – but this was really, really strange. Additionally, he had acquired a very odd habit of looking at her very deeply, as if he was picking apart her brain or something. Again, in very strange things – when she made cake for Mycroft, for example.

Speak of the devil. The Detective himself was here.

She recognized the sound of his footsteps – and braced herself for the dramatic entry. But funnily enough, Sherlock stepped into the morgue. Like a normal human being. Molly raised her eyes.

"Ah – erm, Molly," he said. He stepped up – placed his hands behind his back, and watched her. "Sherlock…" trailed Molly, waiting.

"Well. Erm. So – I had some –" Sherlock seemed to be on the cusp of something important.

"Well, Sherlock, if you need help with your cultures, you can just ask, you know," said Molly, rolling her eyes. "I don't really have a habit of saying no."

"What? Oh, - no. Something else, Molly."

He was using her name strangely. Molly was quite earnestly wondering what the matter was.

He stepped forward, and magically, two cups of coffee appeared. "Erm – Molly – Would you – ah, like to – well, have some coffee?" he asked.

Molly squinted suspiciously at his face. John had told her about the last time Sherlock Holmes had offered a beverage. "Oh my god, Sherlock! I don't believe this!" she exclaimed, angrily.

"What? Did I say something not good?" At least he had the decency to look confused.

"Well, you could have just told me you needed someone to poison, instead of going to your first candidate!" exploded Molly. "I'm sure we would have found a suitable guinea pig!"

"What?"

"Honestly," she said, fuming. "I've had enough of this. I'm going home, watching hours of bad Romantic Movies. Just to punish you. Just waltzes in here, thinking he can…"

She trailed off, disappearing into the cool darkness of the morgue.

John popped into the morgue as Molly left. "Honestly mate, what did you do? You were supposed to ask her out and leave, pronto."

"I'm not even sure," said Sherlock, just as confused. "She thought I was poisoning her?"

John laughed. "Well, it won't be the most unreasonable conclusion."

"Come on, John," scoffed Sherlock. "I wouldn't do that. There are rules about this thing."

"Whatever mate," said John, still amused. "I'm a little surprised you told me and not Mary though – that you wanted to ask her out, that is."

"Your insufferable wife has a bet running with me, and I do not want her getting a hint of her imminent victory."

Of course, there was a considerable time gap between the bit previously narrated, and the one taking place right now. Molly was, predictably, very tired. She was still living in Baker Street, this time, however, not for safety, but because she was – well, she was Sherlock's – something.

And Molly was reluctant to go into what that something was. Girlfriend? Maybe. Partner? Certainly not. Love? Definitely not. She only knew that her duties seemed to go beyond whatever girlfriends did.

So, when she was hauling up take out to Baker Street, very, very tired, she didn't even raise her eyebrows when Sherlock rushed past her swiftly, grabbing the bags and not sparing her a glance. He was probably doing something – experiment, perhaps.

"Excellent, Chinese," he said distractedly.

"Mmhmm," said Molly.

"You seem tired," said Sherlock, suddenly. "Let me make some tea."

Molly felt a prick of suspicion. After all, the last time he got her a beverage, he had been trying to poison her. On the other hand, Molly was his – something now. She shrugged off her suspicion and accepted the cup of tea he offered.

"A little bit of Phosphor. Or probably some common salt? I wonder…" Sherlock was muttering to himself. Molly looked at him fondly, for about half a second before she fainted.

When the blackness receded, Molly got up, feeling mildly nauseous. Sherlock was bent over her, watching her closely. "You poisoned me!" she said, almost immediately.

"Don't be thick, Molly, you know I did," said Sherlock.

"But –" Molly couldn't help it, she felt terribly disoriented.

"Come on, Molly – you've only been out for an hour."

"An hour?" exclaimed Molly.

"Here we go – have some water. That will counter the effects."

Molly thirstily gulped down the water. She paused, took a breath, and then asked, almost reasonably. "Why?"

Sherlock's face cracked into a grin. "Wiggins taught me a new method to poison. I was also extremely curious to see if it would work."

"Sherlock," said Molly gravely, "Remind me not to accept so much as a crisp from you."

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. Molly immediately glared at him.

"Now come on, Molly," said Sherlock reasonably. "There's no need to get ups-"

"Oh, there you are," John entered the room, to find Molly lying on the couch and Sherlock leaning over. "We have to go, mate. Lestrade found a lead."

"John!" Sherlock said loudly. "Now, when I poisoned you," he began. "When I poisoned you, weren't we established friends?"

John looked at him with part grumpiness and part suspicion. "One of the worst decisions of my life."

"There!" said Sherlock triumphantly, as if it proved, without a doubt, that poisoning people was the sanest course of action.

"How does that prove anything?" asked Molly, unable to keep the bite out of her tone. "Besides, you already tried poisoning me once – that time in the morgue!" It's ridiculous that you'd do it again."

Sherlock blinked at her, and then remembered. "Oh, that time." He scratched his head. "No, I actually just wanted to have coffee with you that time."

"What?" said Molly, cutting the T of her 'what' sharply.

"Yeah, it's true," verified John. "Nervous as anything, he was."

Molly threw him a dirty look. So did Sherlock. "You mean to tell me that he was asking me out?" she asked.

"Yes, Molly, do keep up," said Sherlock impatiently. "Why would I ever have poisoned my romantic interest? These are basic sociopathic rules – you use the ones who have established relationships with as guinea pigs."

Molly blinked at him.

"Can you repeat that reasoning?" she asked, while John said – "Could you – could you clarify what you meant?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You were my romantic interest. John was my colleague. I couldn't poison you while your status was ambiguous – for heaven's sake, why would I poison a romantic interest anyway? Once the 'friend' suffix was added, it was perfectly fine – it's too late for you to back out of the relationship that way. John's my friend. Molly's my girlfriend. Poisoning them wouldn't cause too much damage."

Molly got up and blinked at Sherlock again.

"Too much damage?" echoed John.

She wobbled out of the room, deciding that she was too sleepy for this.

When she shut the door, she heard John say, "I'll give you too much damage!"

So I just got inspired by what Mr. Moffat kindly said about Sherlock. And this blurted out.