Authors note; Posted this on AO3 the other day and stupidly forgot to upload it here.

Hope you enjoy this and I would love to hear your thoughts :)

"I cannot stand this for another second," Sherlock complains, flouncing away from his window with an air of disgust. "It's akin to torture. Worse than being forced to spend a day locked in a room with Anderson."

"Drama Queen," Mary sings under her breath.

"Have you tried just asking them to leave?" Molly asks, turning her head from the take-away food on the table to Sherlock pacing the living-room like a caged animal.

"Every-time I try to say anything, they start screaming," Sherlock scowls. "It's very off-putting."

"That's because they're your fans," Greg Lestrade says, wiggling his eyebrows as he grins.

"Fans," Sherlock scoffs. "I do not want fans."

"Yes, you do," John fires back as he pours a mountain of noodles onto his plate.

Sherlock stalks back to the window, as if convinced in the past minute, he's produced the power to somehow will away the crowd of women and men outside Baker Street. Damn Janine and those ridiculous, far-fetched articles. It was all the Irish woman's fault, her exaggerated stories of his sexual prowess were the catalyst for a media furore, and a resulting influx in 'Detective Shag-a-lot' fans. The faux Moriarty ploy, which had proved to be nothing more than rogue group with an infliction for James Moriarty, had also increased the media attention around Baker Street. John's blog was now in the company of hundreds of blogs about Mr Sherlock Holmes and his cases. Some were slightly more gushing than the army doctor's, some were disturbingly more…. graphic. A more dedicated band of fans had taken it upon themselves to camp out at Baker Street, rain or shine, shouting professions of love, holding signs. It was all very distracting.

To Sherlock's chagrin his fans are still out there, some chatting merrily, some idly reading or checking their phones. They're just waiting, constantly waiting for him and it was driving him mad.

"They seem nice," Molly offers, fiddling with her fork. "Didn't cause us any trouble on the way in, did they Mary?"

"No, they just said how cute Elizabeth is," Mary says, leaning down to her sleeping daughter in her carrier, stroking her pink cheek.

"Ugh," Sherlock groans, turning again to prowl around the circumference of living-room. "I have to find a way to get rid of them."

"You're not going to be rude, are you?" Molly asks, a frown across her pretty face.

"I tried rude, it didn't work. I tried ignoring them, it didn't work. Nothing works." Sherlock grumbles, kicking his foot against his chair, his agitation spilling over.

"Why don't you ask Mycroft to deal with it? Threatening them with life in prison should do the trick," John jokes, eyes gleaming as he steals a prawn cracker from the centre of the table. Sherlock had invited them to Baker Street under the pretence of friendly dinner, but it was becoming clear to them all he had an ulterior motivation for gathering them in 221B.

Sherlock falls back onto his chair, glaring over at the table of his friends enjoying their take-away. "He thinks it's hilarious," Sherlock sneers. "Revenge for all the fat jokes and musicals I refused to intend with our parents."

John only nods in response, not surprised by the pettiness of the Holmes brother's fueds.

"They like you," Molly says softly, her brown eyes grasping his full attention. She looks away, stabbing her fork into a spring roll before speaking again, "Is that such a terrible thing?"

"They're distracting. I can't work, can't leave the flat without them or the press following me," Sherlock says, his hands drumming against the arm of his chair.

John chuckles. "We were on a case last week and one shouted out her affection for certain parts of Sherlock's…anatomy. He went as red as tomato. And then there was that guy who-"

"That's quite enough, John," Sherlock interrupts, standing up abruptly to join them at the crowded table.

John was grinning rather wolfishly, eyes flashing to Greg and Molly to reassure them he'd finish that particular story another time.

Greg laughs despite not hearing the end, his imagination doing all the work for him. "Mate, we've all read the stories. Eight times in Baker Street… you can hardly blame people for being interested."

"Perhaps I should inform them that the reports of my sexual appetite were fabricated," Sherlock muses, elbows leaning against the table.

"Can we not talk about your sex life while I'm trying to eat?" John questions, scrunching up his nose but still happily shovelling the food into his gaping mouth.

"Plus, that would only work if all of them were actually interested in having sex with you," Mary says, her eyebrow tilting at the detective.

"I have collected enough evidence to suggest this is the case," Sherlock responds loftily, though Mary is certain she spots a flush of pink across his cheeks.

"Try talking to one of them for five minutes and I'm sure any attraction to you will quickly disappear," Greg teases.

"I wish it were that simple," Sherlock gripes.

"I don't understand the attraction myself," John says, his lips drawn upwards into a cheeky tilt. "Mate, you just need to lay low. No more stories in the papers about your supposed wild antics. You need to be off the market, so to say. Unavailable for public consumption."

Molly-who had been rather quiet during this exchange- cannot help but crinkle her nose at the phrase.

"Off the market," Sherlock echoes, mulling over the word for a moment. "Oh!" He exclaims. "John, you are genius! A genius! How did I not think of this before?"

"Think of what?" Mary is the first to ask, though all of them appear eager to discover the great detective's latest grand plan.

"I need to be off the market," Sherlock says firmly, shifting his gaze to each person at the table, as if he expects them all to understand.

"Oh god," Mary mutters, the quickest to catch on to the meaning of his words.

"Molly," Sherlock says, smooth as silk, turning his gaze to the small woman sitting next to him.

She recognizes the tone immediately and his previous words click in to place. "Absolutely not! Not a chance, Sherlock Holmes."

Her first mistake is choosing to glance up at the detective. A pair of wide, pleading blue eyes fix on her, imploring her with their largeness to agree to his ridiculous plan which will no doubt end in disaster. And heartbreak, quite possibly, for his adoring fans and her.

Sherlock takes hold of her small hand in his, eyes still blazing into hers. Molly's eyes flicker to the rest of table; Mary cringing into her hand, John and Greg's perplexed expression searching for answers.

"Molly," Sherlock says, his baritone voice deepening purposefully. Persuadingly. "Will you be my girlfriend?"