The first indication that Sherlock Holmes had of trouble in Molly Hooper's world was the absence of her dimples. She did, indeed, smile when Sherlock entered her lab that morning, but it wasn't a full on Molly smile, the kind to which he had grown more than accustomed. No dimples.

"What's the matter, Dr. Hooper?

"Nothing to concern you, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous. If it concerns you, it concerns me. Tell me!" Sherlock practically barked the command.

"It's Toby," Molly said with a heavy sigh, "He's sick."

Toby. That damned cat. Since the demise of Moriarty Sherlock had come to think of the oversized ginger tabby as his new nemesis. He took up entirely too much of his pathologist's time and attention. Toby had to be fed. Toby had to have water. Toby needed his litter box changed! If he had been Sherlock's pet he would have been trained to use the toilet. And flush it, too! Besides, when he spent the evening with Molly, watching telly or playing board games, which Sherlock had to admit had been happening on a much more frequent basis, Toby was a constant irritant. The cat would glare at him if he happened to get too close to his mistress. There had been occasions when Sherlock had "accidently" brushed Molly's shoulder, or touched her fingers as she handed him her tea, and the damned cat had actually growled. This cat was under the mistaken belief that he owned Molly, not vice versa, and no matter how often Sherlock tried to disavow him of this notion, it was Toby who always wound up on Molly's lap being petted into a state of nirvana.

Sherlock put on his best sympathetic face. "I'm sorry to hear that Molly. Are they going to put him down?" He hoped that he hadn't said that last thing a little too eagerly.

Also, soon as he said it, John Watson's voice was in his head muttering "Not good, Sherlock." Molly started to tear up, which even Sherlock could recognize as not good.

"We may have to. It's cancer."

Sherlock thought to himself well, the damned cat is almost ten years old. He's had a good run, twirling my Molly around his big fat paw! Luckily for Sherlock, he said none of this out loud. What he did say was, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Thank you, but I don't think so. He requires surgery, and possibly chemotherapy. It's very expensive, and the surgery is very delicate. It requires an expert veterinary surgeon. And there are no guarantees. I have to decide what to do by this afternoon."

"Where is the animal now?"

"At my vet's office. He's sedated because of the pain."

"I really am sorry, Molly. Please let me know if there's anything you need." And saying this, Sherlock Holmes was on his way.

His first text was to his brother Mycroft Holmes, a "low level" civil servant who actually seemed to run the whole government.

I NEED AN EXTREMELY SKILLED VET SURGEON. THE BEST AVAILABLE. - SHERLOCK

ARE YOU UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT I RUN AN ANIMAL HEALTHCARE SERVICE?- MYCROFT

MOLLY'S CAT IS ILL. I REQUIRE THE BEST - SHERLOCK

HOW WOULD I KNOW WHO IS THE BEST - MYCROFT

GET ME THE VET WHO TREATS THE DAMNED CORGIS - SHERLOCK

PERHAPS HE'S BUSY AT THE PALACE - MYCROFT

THIS IS FOR MOLLY - SHERLOCK

TEXT ME YOUR LOCATION. HE WILL JOIN YOU ASAP - MYCROFT

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock was, indeed, joined at the office of Molly's vet by a distinguished looking gentleman carrying a medical bag and covered in dog hair. "You must have sold your soul to get me dragged out of Buckingham Palace while one of the mutts in regularly sneezing on the Queen! I dread what it cost you!"

"I have to have tea with Mummy twice next month. And accompany her to a West End show."

"Is that secret agent code, or something?"

"I bloody well wish it were!"

The Queen's vet quickly examined the gnarly tabby cat in question, arrived at the conclusion that the tumor, while in an unfortunate position, was, given his surgical expertise, completely treatable. The animal was quickly rushed into surgery, and by the time the operation was completed, everyone seemed confident that all malignancy had been removed. Sherlock thanked him profusely, but felt compelled to ask. "I don't suppose you'd like to accompany an elderly woman to a West End production, tickets and dinner all on me?" The vet, still half convinced that Sherlock was speaking in code, shook his head and quickly retreated to the waiting sleek black car.

Sherlock Holmes arrived back at the pathology lab just in time to overhear a telephone conversation between a very confused Molly Hooper and the receptionist at her vet's office.

"What do you mean Mr. Holmes can explain everything?"

When she saw him, Molly dropped the phone on her desk and ran to give him a hug. Almost as a reflex, Sherlock looked around for a growling cat.

"How did you do it, Sherlock?"

"Not a problem. Her Majesty owes me a favor or two."

Molly looked at him suspiciously. If anyone else had made such a remark, she would have known they were joking. With Sherlock you couldn't tell. "Come on, Molly. Let's get out of here. We can get some takeaway and watch telly." Sherlock was looking forward to a Toby free evening with his pathologist.

After dinner, they settled on Molly's couch to watch a documentary on telly. Molly had insisted that Sherlock should learn something about the basics of the solar system, as part of her ongoing campaign to convince him that not everything revolved around Sherlock Holmes. So far she had been failing miserably. As he stared at the screen, feigning interest for Molly's sake, he noticed that she seemed to be looking for something to do with her hands. This was the time of evening where Toby would sit on her lap, hogging all her attention, as she ran her fingers through his soft fur. Sherlock, not being one to miss an opportunity, suddenly changed his position so that his head was now in Molly's lap.

"You seem to be missing Toby, Molly. Try me!"

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous!"

"Come on Molly, you know you've always fancied my hair!" Molly blushed. "Now's your chance. Go for it. Pretend I'm Toby."

Molly laughed as she started kneading her fingers through his dark curls. Sherlock closed his eyes and settled down in a state of utter contentment. After a few moments Molly was startled by the low moan coming from deep in his throat.

"That doesn't sound like a purr, Sherlock."

"It's the human male equivalent." He then took hold of her hand, the one that wasn't drawing circles through his hair, and, kissing it, laid it on his chest.

"Toby never did that!"

"What does Toby do after an evening of watching telly and being petted into a state of bliss?"

"Well," and Molly couldn't believe she was actually going to say this, "Then he would follow me to the bedroom…"

"Interesting. Where did he sleep?"

Encouraged by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was not actually fleeing the scene at the mere suggestion of sexual innuendo, Molly continued, "Usually with me. Cuddled up. Toby's a real cuddler…"

Sherlock lifted his head from her lap. Now I've done it, thought Molly. He''s going to leave for sure! But he surprised her by turning off the telly and taking her hand.

"I guess you'd better lead the way, Molly." So she did, with Sherlock following close behind.

"You know, Toby's going to have to learn to share you when he gets home. I like to cuddle too."

Molly led him into her room, and they both tumbled onto the bed, snogging all the way down. She was slightly taken aback when Sherlock suddenly pulled away and, remembering one of the disadvantages of being a house cat, asked with a laugh, "I just hope you don't intend to have me neutered!"