Molly Hooper, it seemed, was about to become one of Sherlock Holmes' homeless network. The flat she had leased for these past eight years was in a building which was being sold, and consequently, renovated. Molly remembered when she moved in, new to London. She had a flatmate then, a boisterous young woman who was Molly's complete opposite. But she needed a flatmate, financially speaking. Within two years, the flatmate was married and moved to Australia. Molly had considered replacing her, but, with an increase in her salary which came with her promotion at St. Bart's, she decided to struggle on alone. And struggle she did for a couple of years, but it was worth it to have her own cozy little nest. Now, financially secure and successful in her career, she was being faced with a major upheaval in her life. Molly Hooper was not happy.

Sherlock Holmes was facing almost the opposite problem. His flat was secure, his landlady more like a second mother, only without the sarcastic comments, the arched eyebrows, and the all-knowing gaze of his actual mater. The Baker Street flat was large, and comfortable, and entirely his own, now that John Watson had moved on. The detective had, in fact, once suggested that John and Mary move in with him, even allowing them to bring their squalling infant, whom he actually adored, with them. If looks could kill, the one that Mary Watson sent his way may have done the trick. In fact, Sherlock was not entirely sure that it wouldn't have, if Mary had really tried! So, where he had previously been adverse to human companionship, he now found himself rattling around longing for a voice to answer his. Sherlock Holmes was not happy.

When he entered the lab at St. Bart's, Sherlock immediately picked up on his pathologist's distress, although he would have had to have been a complete moron not to have done so. Molly always broke into a smile when he graced her lab with his presence, and he hated to admit to himself how much he enjoyed this. But today, there was no smile, just a murmured, "Hello, Sherlock. What do you need?"

"What's wrong, Molly?"

Molly Hooper suddenly became very animated. She leaped from her chair, waving several pages of legal size paper in his face. "Look at this, Sherlock! Do you know what this is?"

"I can't say that I do, Molly, as it is traveling past my nose at a speed much too high to read anything. Why don't you calm down and tell me about it? I can see it's a legal document of some sort. Are you being sued?"

"I wish! I'm being evicted, Sherlock! After eight bloody years of never missing a rent payment, painting the place at least four times, fixing my own pipes…"

"I fixed your pipes, Mol…"

Molly glared in his direction. "You, me, what's the difference? It wasn't the building manager, the bloody git! And now, the building's being sold! And fixed up! All the tenants have been complaining for years that it needed repairs, and now they're finally going to do it! Or the new owners are! I've got thirty days to vacate! Thirty bloody days to find someplace as convenient, as affordable…"

"Molly, the solution is obvious, don't you think."

"No, Sherlock, it isn't!"

"Move to Baker Street. With me." Sherlock spoke calmly, displaying neither eagerness or trepidation at the prospect, and sat stoically while Molly considered the idea for a moment or two before finally saying, "No."

The man was a bit surprised, to say the least. This solution was perfect. The rent would be minimal. He was managing the expense just fine on his own, after all. The flat was large, and conveniently located. She would be living with one friend, with another one just downstairs. How could she not see the logic of the situation.

"What do you mean, 'No'?"

"I mean just that, Sherlock. It wouldn't do. I'll find something. It's just that I loved my place, you know? I had made it my own after all these years…"

"Molly, you are more than familiar with Baker Street! You could be very comfortable there…"

"Physically, maybe. But there are other considerations…"

The great detective finally made the connection. "You are worried that you would not feel comfortable, emotionally, because of your infatuation for me. But, surely, that is a thing of the past…" But as the detective looked at his pathologist, he realized, for the first time in months, that perhaps it wasn't. And an infatuation which had lasted, by his count, for over seven years, was certainly more than an infatuation. And a new course of action occurred to him, a new solution which appealed to him even more than the flatmate scenario.

"Perhaps you should marry me, then, Molly."

"You're joking!"

"I never joke about marriage, Dr. Hooper. Think about it. You'd gain a convenient, roomy flat. I'd have someone to keep me company, as, much as I am loathe to admit it, I do miss John's companionship…"

"Sherlock, I've already said no to being your flatmate, so what is the difference…"

"Sex, Molly. We'd be having sex on a regular basis, I would assume. I would have just offered to sleep with you, but marriage seems more appropriate, given societal norms. And my mother's expectations."

"Sherlock!"

"Not to mention it would legitimize any children resulting from our relationship…"

"Sherlock! Just stop! You can't be serious.!"

"Of course I'm serious, Molly. This is an ideal solution. It is certainly convenient. It serves both our needs, rather admirably, don't you think. You need not fear my lack of commitment. You know how I dislike change, so I am hardly likely to want to replace you down the road…"

"How romantic!"

"Come now, Dr. Hooper, you know that I am hardly the soul of romance! But I am making a legitimate offer, one which will benefit us both. So, what say you?" The detective studied the small woman's face, looking for a sign of her answer as she considered his rather strange proposal. If he held his breath just for a bit, he chalked that up to tension, not the fact that he was more than slightly convinced that she would turn him down out of hand.

After what seemed like an eternity, Molly Hooper looked him in the eye and said, quite simply, "Yes."

"Ah, well then. Good. Molly, you know how I abhor social situations. I shall call Mycroft and arrange for all the paperwork to be completed by today, so tomorrow we can simply go to a registry office, if that's alright with you?"

"Uh, yes, that will be fine, Sherlock," Molly replied, a bit surprised that it was all happening so quickly. "Look, one thing. Do you mind if we keep this arrangement just between us. Until we see, at least, how things work out?"

Sherlock looked a bit surprised, but finally spoke. "You're concerned that you won't find us to be, ah, compatible, Molly? I assure you that I am not as inexperienced as everyone assumes…"

Molly had started to blush at his words, but soon decided that, if she was going to be married to this man, perhaps honesty was the best policy. "No, Sherlock, it's nothing like that. I'm just rather afraid that you're going to break my heart."

"Yes, well, I know I've come close in the past. And I regret that. Would it help if a promise to endeavor not to so so in the future?"

"It would."

Sherlock walked quickly over to where Molly was sitting behind her desk, and bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Well then, I do promise!" He then straightened, and continued. "I'll be off to make the arrangements, then. I'll text you about the registry office. I assume you have some preparations to make, so, may I suggest you take the day off tomorrow, as I don't know yet the exact time and location."

"Yes. Good idea. I'll see you, then?"

"Yes. I'll be in touch…" the detective called to her as he walked through her lab and out the door, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts. She had gone from a homeless spinster to being engaged to the love of her life in the space of just a few moments. She wanted to shout for joy, and wring her hands in worry at the same time time. And, try as she might, she couldn't ignore the little voice of doom in her head.

The following morning, not having to get to work, Molly Hooper slept in. She had had a bit of trouble dozing off the previous night, constantly turning over in her mind the events of the day. She had heard not another word from her presumed fiance, and had been beginning to wonder if she had imagined the entire episode. Some kind of fugue state brought on by the trauma of losing her home, perhaps. But this thought was quickly banished when she received a text.

WE ARE SCHEDULED AT THE REGISTRY OFFICE AT FOUR. I'LL PICK YOU UP AT THREE-THIRTY - SHERLOCK

Molly sat bolt upright in her bed. It was almost ten! In just over six hours Molly Hooper was scheduled to become Molly Holmes. Her monogram was about the only thing that wouldn't change! What was she going to wear? Did she have time to run out and pick out a new dress? She wanted to call Mary Watson, or Mrs. Hudson for help, but remembered her resolution not to tell anyone until she had an idea how things would work out. She was certainly rethinking that decision, along with everything else! She went to her closet, a veritable jungle of bright prints and khaki trousers. She did have a special dress, purchased long ago, during her engagement to "meat dagger". Oh god, she thought, when had she started to refer to her poor Tom using Sherlock's epithet? There it was, the dress. Very pale yellow, almost the color of butter. A knee length sheath, never worn. Saved for the honeymoon that never happened. And, buried in her drawer, she would also find a small box from an exclusive lingerie shop, another item from that same honeymoon. Oh well, recycling was good for the environment. And it's not as if her detective would even know, let alone care. At this thought, Molly had another passing doubt about what she was doing, but quickly brushed it aside, replaced by a vision of Sherlock Holmes in his dark fitted suit and his lovely aubergine shirt. And out of his dark, fitted suit and lovely aubergine shirt!

It was just before three-thirty when Sherlock Holmes showed up at the flat, actually looking like a bridegroom, splendidly suited and coifed, holding a bouquet of red roses and gardenias. "Are you ready, Molly?"

"Yep, ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. I've packed a small bag, for tonight and tomorrow, at least. I wasn't sure if we were going back to Baker Street today, or what…"

"I suppose we could, given that it will be your home. We can start organizing your move in earnest in a day or two. I'm sure Bill Wiggins can help with that, but you'll have to indicate what you need to move to the flat, and what goes into storage, or…"

"Yes, well, I still do have twenty-nine days to organize that. If you would prefer that I stay here during that time,,,"

"No! Of course not! Of course we'll go to Baker Street. I just wasn't sure that you were ready, that's all." Sherlock was looking a bit ill at ease, as if the full implications of the situation were beginning to occur to him. He then picked up the small bag which she had packed, held open the door for her, and led her down the stairs and out to the waiting cab.

The wedding was a very low key affair, with only Molly, Sherlock, the officiant, and the required witness, a stranger who they plucked from an adjoining office. Molly was beginning to regret her decision to keep the whole thing under wraps, not quite sure how their friends would feel about being left out. But Sherlock seemed more comfortable with the arrangement, more at ease. When the brief ceremony was over, the bride fully expected the usual cursory kiss on the cheek, and was delighted when her groom's lips landed on her own for a brief, yet very real, snog. Their first, hopefully not their last.

When they climbed into a cab afterwards, Sherlock unexpectedly suggested going to dinner.

"Dinner? Really? Like a date?" Molly couldn't help but laugh.

Sherlock, too, snickered at the incongruity of the situation. "It may seem a bit strange, going on our first date after we're married. But then again, it seems we're hardly a conventional couple, are we Molly?"

"No, I suppose not. But what do we do with my suitcase?"

"We'll stop at Baker Street. I'll run it upstairs, then we can leave. I've made an early reservation at Fera, at Claridge's. Mycroft recommended the place, so I made him foot the bill. It's quite expensive, I'm told. Shall we?"

"I'd love to. But we don't have to if you'd rather just, you know, go home…" Molly was finding it a bit hard to refer to Baker Street as "home".

"Nonsense. Let's go eat my brother into bankruptcy!"

When the cab pulled in front of the flat, Sherlock grabbed the case and quickly headed toward the front door. As soon as he entered, he was confronted by Mrs. Hudson. "My, dear, don't you look nice today. Especially well turned out, even for you!"

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind putting this case in my bedroom. Molly is waiting in the cab. We're going to dinner…"

"About time you splurged on that young lady. I don't imagine she'll wait forever, you know. You really should have…"

"Mrs. Hudson, Molly and I were married about an hour ago. But, please, keep that to yourself for the time being. It seems Dr. Hoop.., uh, Holmes is in no hurry to make it public knowledge just yet. But since you live downstairs..."

"Why would she want to keep a thing like that a secret. Especially considering the way she has always felt about you…"

"Perhaps she's afraid I'll do something to bollix it up!"

"Just promise me you'll try your best, Sherlock Holmes."

"I've already promised Molly, and myself, that very thing, Mrs. H., so I have no qualms about making the same promise to you!" He leaned over, kissed her on the forehead, and took his leave, to rejoin his waiting bride.

Dinner passed pleasantly. It certainly was an excellent meal, well worth Mycroft's money. But Molly was slightly taken aback that none of the conversation, pleasant though it was, involved the sudden change in their relationship. When they left the restaurant, having had pre-dinner cocktails and lingered over dessert and coffee, more than three hours had transpired. The ride back to the flat they now would share was blessedly brief, and Molly, primed by the cocktails and some excellent wine, was more than ready for the night to come.

As soon as they had closed the door, Molly approached her husband, stood on tiptoes, and, pulling his face down to hers, kissed him passionately. Sherlock seemed taken aback at first, but soon relaxed into the kiss. Molly thought that things were, indeed, looking up! She excused herself to make her way to the bedroom, and was gratified to find Sherlock following her. But this didn't last, as the detective rooted through his drawers to pull out a pair of pajama bottoms, grabbed his dressing gown, and beat a hasty retreat, leaving Molly alone to stare at the empty bed where her small suitcase was resting. Not completely discouraged, she pulled the honeymoon-ready lingerie from the bag. It was a barely there piece of white chiffon and lace,see through in all the right, or wrong, places, depending on your point of view, extending not quite to mid thigh, with the tiniest of embroidered daisies embellishing the rather revealing decolletage. She quickly slipped out of her wedding dress and into the seductive nightgown, letting her hair down to fall randomly over her shoulders. Then, as Sherlock had not made a reappearance, she hesitantly made her way into the sitting room, and then the kitchen. When he heard her approach, Sherlock looked up and blinked. Twice. His eyes moved over her body, taking everything in. She could see him gulp, and his pupils go a bit wider. "AH! Gotcha!", she thought, simultaneously catching a breath as she caught a glimpse of her new husband's bare chest and low hanging pajamas by way of the open dressing gown. She couldn't help but smile as she said, "Sherlock, it's been a rather eventful day. I'm going to bed. Aren't you going to join me?"

But the tall man stood to his full height, pulled the robe tightly around his body, and replied in a voice which seemed much colder than the one he had used during their pleasant dinner, "In a while, Molly. I'm at a critical phase in my slime mold experiment. I can't leave it now!"

At his words, Molly once again felt the cold breath of doubt sweep across her mind. She felt like she was all dressed up, with nowhere to go. Or no one to do, to put it more bluntly. She took herself off to what was supposed to now be their bedroom, and climbed into an empty bed. She lie on top of the covers, light on, not wanting to dilute the effect of her rather sexy attire. After about forty-five minutes, she turned off the light. It took another hour for her to become discouraged enough, and chilly enough, to pull the covers over her body.

Molly lie there for some time, clutching the duvet to her chest as if it were her childhood security blanket. She should have expected this. As much as she would like to believe that there was a possibility that such a marriage of convenience could succeed, she was now becoming painfully aware that, on the scale of significance in the life of the world's only consulting detective, Molly Holmes, nee Hooper, ranked, evidently, somewhere below slime molds. She had just enough pride left to know that this was something she couldn't live with, no matter how much she loved the man. She rose from the bed, changed into the more comfortable sleepwear she had packed, crawled back into bed, and sobbed until she dozed off, knowing that she would not be disturbed. When she awoke in the morning, she scribbled a brief note, which she left on the bed where he should have found her.

Dear Sherlock,

This was a mistake. I cannot stay with a man who does not find me significant enough

to at least talk to on our wedding night. Perhaps I could bear it if I loved you a little less.

My solicitor will be in touch. Sorry.

When Molly quietly made her way through the sitting room to the front door, she saw Sherlock curled into a fetal position on his couch. She was tempted to kiss him goodbye, but feared waking him. She knew if she looked in his wonderful eyes, and listened to his attempts to explain, no matter how feeble, she would be tempted to stay. But, she acknowledged, he probably wouldn't even make the attempt, as he, obviously, had reached the same conclusions about their precipitous marriage. She hurried out the door, now having only twenty-eight days to find a new home. At least she had gotten a good meal out of it.

Sherlock awoke to the sun streaming through the windows, bringing light into his still cloudy mind. Oh, god, what time was it? He had played with his slime molds only briefly after talking to Molly, his mind distracted by images of a tiny woman in a tiny nightdress. He had then retreated into his mind palace to study the situation. Molly had a virtual wing all to herself there, and now this new image had been added. He reviewed every interaction he had ever had with the woman, something which he could easily do because he could never bring himself to erase a single thing about her. John had always been amused that the great detective did not know that the earth revolved around the sun, but this was simply because he needed the room to store recordings of Molly's laugh. Or the color changes of her hair in the moonlight. Or the way her eyes looked when they were angry, a look he had seen far too often. On this particular occasion, however, overloaded with the new image, he had spent too long there. When he finally exited his private world, he was overcome with fatigue. And a bit of panic. He had never been faced with the prospect of being intimate with a woman he cared for so much. What if he disappointed her? She was waiting in his room, in his bed. He could do this. He wanted, so much, to do this. Perhaps just a few more moments to gather his courage, and then he would go in to her. He gave a single huge yawn, and that was all he remembered until he woke on the couch. He jumped up to run toward the bedroom, a sense of foreboding building in his mind. He had promised her he would try not to hurt her. Had he already done so? Irreparably? No, of course not. Molly always understood. Molly always forgave. He had almost convinced himself of this until he saw the empty bed, and the note. Even on his worst day, Sherlock thought that he could manage to sustain a marriage for longer than a few hours. He flopped down on the bed, note in one hand, his other clasping and unclasping the mussed sheets. That's when he felt the softness of the chiffon and lace thingy which Molly had been wearing in his kitchen the night before, and in his mind ever since. Wasn't he clever? Smarter than the average genius? Surely he could fix this.

Molly had taken a break from her packing. She had scrounged up a few boxes, and was currently filling them with things that she could live without for the next four weeks. She was sorting through the stacks of periodicals, disposing of many of them as outdated. Her books were being consigned to another box. At least the ones she had decided to keep. The others she would donate to a shelter, or something. She was currently sitting on the floor of her sitting room, staring at the floor contemplating her fate, when a pair of highly polished size elevens came into view, surprising since she had not been aware of her front door being opened.

"Hello, Sherlock." she said flatly, not looking up, afraid to meet his eyes.

"Hello, Molly. You didn't have to start packing so soon, you know. I did say I would get Bill Wiggins and a couple of his friends to help."

"Sherlock, I have quite a lot to do in just twenty-eight days. I have to decide what goes, and what gets disposed of, not to mention I have to find a place…"

"I thought we had decided that you would be moving to Baker Street?"

Molly finally ventured a look in his general direction, only to see that he looked a bit stricken. "Sherlock, didn't you get my note?"

"Of course I got the note, Molly, since it was in the precise location where I fully expected to find my wife! I have decided to disregard it, because it was predicated on a completely false assumption…"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"You seemed to be stating that you believed that I considered you insignificant to my life, when the truth is exactly the opposite, Dr. Hooper. Uh, I mean, Holmes, of course, although we never did discuss what name you would choose to use…"

"What do you mean, opposite…"

"Molly, you are the single most significant thing in my life. You have been for quite a while now. It was only my panic at the thought of not being enough for you, or not deserving you, which keep me from joining you. That, and well, some interesting developments in the world of slime molds…"

"Sherlock!"

"Molly, I know you entered this marriage thinking it to be a 'marriage of convenience', as they say. But did you ever truly expect marriage to me to be convenient in any sense of the word? Really?"

"You say you panicked last night…"

"I assure you I am no innocent when it comes to sex, Molly. But I have never been involved with anyone I wanted so much to please, to make happy, to satisfy. Oh, bloody hell, with anyone I simply WANTED so much!" The detective was running his fingers through his now wild looking locks.

"Are you still panicking, Sherlock?"

"A bit, I suppose. But that was nothing compared to the panic I felt when I thought I had lost you!"

He now crouched down, resting on his heels and looking his wife directly in her eyes. Her red-rimmed, and once again filling with tears eyes. "I haven't lost you, have I, Molly?"

"No, you haven't lost me yet, you insufferable git." The small woman said with resignation, and relief. "Perhaps misplaced me for a while, but it seems you've found me again."

Sherlock smiled, and reached into his pocket, "Good. Because I seem to have something you've misplaced as well." He then pulled out the lovely little lacey thing Molly had left in his bed. "You have invaded my mind with this little thing, Dr. Holmes. I picture you in your office, in the morgue, at crime scenes, everywhere, always wearing this. Hardly appropriate attire, would you say? You have contaminated my mind palace, running up and down its corridors in nothing but this. It's very distracting, and disturbing. I don't think I'll be able to wipe it from my imagination, until I get my fill in reality. Perhaps you would indulge me?"

Molly took the nightgown from his hand with a seductive giggle, a sound that went straight to his heart, and parts southward. "I suppose I could do with a little break from all this heavy work. A nap would be nice. Would you care to join me?"

The detective faked a yawn, "That would be nice, considering all the exercise I've been getting chasing you around in my head!"

Dr. Holmes, nee Hooper, took her husband's hand and guided him quickly to her bedroom, now their bedroom, at least for the next twenty-eight days left on her lease. "Did you bring your pajamas, Sherlock."

"I prefer to sleep in the nude. Something you would have learned if you'd stuck around!"

"How very convenient," Molly said, working the buttons on his shirt, as he worked the ones on hers. "Very convenient indeed!"