Sherlock Holmes did not really look like Sherlock Holmes as he made his way back to the flat on Baker Street. He had been working a case for almost two weeks now, and this very evening had seen its conclusion.. The detective had been undercover in some of the worst areas of the city, diving into dumpsters and kipping in alleys for days on end. He looked terrible, and he smelled worse. All he wanted to do was stand under a hot shower and fall into a warm bed. He reached his home, and climbed the stairs slowly, stripping of his clothing as he walked through the flat. The hot water did wonders at refreshing his body, but, at the same time, lulled his mind into a somnolent state, so that, upon exiting, he was longing for his bed.

Upon completing a case, Sherlock often found himself collapsing into a state of heavy torpor, his body attempting to catch up on all the sleep lost while he was working. He would often take to his bed for twelve or fourteen hours at a time, sleeping like a corpse. Or a cadaver, he mused. He often thought of this metaphor as he drifted off. He didn't mind sleeping like a cadaver, he thought. It coaxed up images of Dr. Molly Hooper, his pathologist. Of his long, pale body lying naked on a table in her morgue, and of her standing next to him in her pristine white lab coat. And nothing more. Investigating. Examining his body. And not with a scalpel! A smile on his face, the detective quickly dozed off.

When he awoke in what he assumed was morning, Sherlock found that his body had once again reacted to his rather erotic, though somewhat disturbing, dreams, leaving him in a condition which would normally require a trip to his bathroom, and a cold shower. But, on this particular morning, he had nothing to do, and no one to do it with, so he decided to roll over, go back to sleep, and let the dreams take him where they will. But he seemed to hear voices coming from his sitting room. Female voices. Had he left the telly on? He didn't think so, but he had no desire to get out of bed to check. Instead, he pulled the pillow over his head, trying to shut out the world, and return to dreamland.

But the voices continued. He identified Mrs. Hudson's immediately. Had she, in her dotage, taken to talking to herself out loud? No, the other voice was different, unexpected. His eyes widened, and his stomach turned, as he recognized it at last.

Mummy!

Sherlock sat bolt upright on his bed, all need for a cold shower immediately gone. What the bloody hell was his mother doing here? And unannounced? He listened to the voices, but could not make out what they were saying. It seemed a pleasant conversation, interspersed with giggles. At his expense, he thought! Deciding that it was better to face the music, no matter what tune his mother was currently playing, the detective wrapped his sheet around him and made his way to the sitting room.

"Good morning, Will. Although it is, actually, afternoon. How nice of you to join us." Violet Holmes greeted her younger son cordially.

"Mummy," Sherlock returned, not so cordially. "The name is Sherlock, in case you've forgotten!"

"The name I gave you is William Sherlock Scott Holmes! It seems you are the one who's forgotten!"

The detective rolled his eyes, and flopped down into his chair, gathering his sheet around him. Mrs. Hudson handed him a cup of tea, "Sherlock, be nice! Give your mother a kiss!"

Sherlock rose from his chair, gripping the tea with one hand, his sheet with the other, and walked over to where his mother sat, bending to kiss her cheek, and smiling indulgently. He definitely felt outnumbered by the presence of his first, and second, mother figures. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Mummy?"

"Will, love, I've had a little talk with Mycroft…"

"Oh, good lord!", Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing nothing good, at least as far as he was concerned, could come from that.

Mrs. Hudson, perhaps sensing that things were about to get tense, an easy assumption given Sherlock's attitude toward his elder brother's advice and his mother interference, quickly took her leave, muttering, "He's all yours, Violet!" Violet Holmes took her defection with some humor, though, calling out to her retreating form, "Thank you very much, Martha. I shall remember this when you need me to nag him about cleaning out the fridge!"

Violet took another sip of tea, eying her son over the rim, and gathering her thoughts on how to proceed. "Will, dear, your brother has informed me that you seem to have developed an infatuation for a certain young woman…"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mummy!"

"Of course you don't, you have never known anything about women, young man…"

"Mummy, please refrain from using that rather patronizing term. While I have not yet approached that state of decrepitude where I need the assistance of a walker and a caregiver, I am hardly a young man…"

"I speak in relative terms, you bloody insufferable git…"

"Mummy, really! Your language!", Sherlock smiled to himself, happy to have gotten a rise out of his usually unflappable mother.

"Anyway, Myk had informed me that you are interested, in a romantic way, in one Dr. Molly Hooper. And, I must say, I wholeheartedly approve! As does your brother. He's really quite fond of her. From what Myk tells me, she is a truly remarkable woman. Not the least of her virtues is the fact that she seems to care for you in return. Boundlessly!"

"Mummy, Molly is a very nice woman. She is highly competent, intelligent, clever, and kind. She is also a friend. Period."

"Really, Will? You're going to try lying to your mother? I can see you, you know…"

So can Molly, Sherlock thought, with the briefest of smiles. "Mummy, this is my life, and this is a decision you can't make for me. Molly and I are friends, and will remain friends. People I care for become targets…"

'Good lord, for someone so intelligent, you can be such an idiot! I cannot believe I raised such idiot children! We're all targets, Will! Whether it be for the drunken driver on his way home on a Friday evening, or some mutant bug working its way through an unsuspecting population! There is only one ending to this life, and it comes to us all, eventually. What matters is how we live that life. Do we cower in the shadows, afraid to be happy, or to make others happy, for fear of the consequences?" She studied her son, to see if any of her words were getting through. "Will, love, you may have more targets on your back than others, but, so far, you've been smart enough to survive. And to protect those you love, as you have been protected by those who love you!"

Sherlock knew she was referring to his elder brother, who had, indeed, been his saviour on more than one occasion. But she could also be referring to Molly Hooper, who had risked everything to help him. How much did his mother know about that, he wondered. Looking at her, he suddenly deduced that she knew quite a bit.

Violet Holmes put down her teacup, rose, and approached the younger man who was still sitting in his chair. She smiled down at him lovingly, and ran her fingers over his messy curls, just as she had when he was a child. The she smacked him rather violently on the back of the head.

"Grow up, you git! You may be an idiot, but I have never believed you to be a coward! Go tell the woman how you feel, what you want, then go about making it happen!"

"Mummy…"

"Don't even try to argue! I am an old woman, and you and your brother are aging me rapidly. I am almost at that stage of decrepitude which you mentioned earlier, and before I require said walker and caregiver, I want to see my boys happy! And I want grandchildren, by the way, before senility renders me incapable of remembering their names!"

"It may be too late for that, as you already seem to be incapable of remembering that my name is 'Sherlock'!", her son said, with an affectionate smile as he rubbed the back of his head.

Violet sighed a small sigh of submission. "If I remember to call you 'Sherlock', will you promise me to take care of this matter?"

"I'd shake hands on it, Mummy, if I didn't need to hold on to my tea, and my sheet."

"You may let go of the sheet, Wil..Sherlock. I've seen everything you have on offer, remember?"

But Sherlock did her one better. Putting down the tea, he pulled her in for a quick embrace. "I promise, Mummy. And thank you for the shove I needed."

Violet pulled away from her son, once again smiling at him. "I'm a mother, Sherlock. Shoving is one of the things I do best." She paused for the briefest moment. "By the way, what do you know about this Anthea person?

The detective in him deduced immediately that his elder brother would be the next recipient of a maternal nudge, and couldn't help but laugh.

After his mother had left for Mycroft's, Sherlock Holmes made a dash for the shower. He then picked out Molly's favorite purple shirt, one of three purple shirts he owned simply because they were her favorites, and dressed for the most important meeting of his life.

Dr. Molly Hooper was finishing up the dishes from her evening meal when she heard the knock at her door. She was surprised to find Sherlock Holmes on her doorstep, not because she hadn't grown accustomed to his dropping in, unannounced, at all hours, but simply because he never knocked. If the door was unlocked, he came right in. If locked, he picked it. Knocking, at least for Sherlock, was highly unusual. It was not the last thing which would surprise her about this evening.

Sherlock removed his Belstaff as soon as he entered, as well as his suit coat. He wanted to show the purple shirt to full advantage, after all. Molly thought he seemed a bit nervous, as he paced the room instead of taking his customary seat on her couch.

"Sherlock, is something wrong?"

"Molly, I have been informed, by a very reliable source, that we belong together…"

"Together, Sherlock?"

As if not wanting to attempt a further explanation in words alone, the tall man took the considerably smaller woman into his arms, crushing her against the shirt she found so attractive, and gave her a kiss devastating enough to curl her toes. And her hair, perhaps.

"Do you disagree, Dr. Hooper?", he said when she finally pulled away to catch her breath.

"Not all all, Mr. Holmes!" Molly quickly replied, as she dove right back in for round two.

Hours later, as they lay in each others' arms, Molly finally thought to ask, "Just who was this very reliable source, Sherlock?"

"The only person I know who is, evidently, always correct. About everything. My mother."

The pathologist smiled happily, and nestled in even closer to his chest, which she found infinitely more attractive without the purple shirt. She giggled a bit, "I know it's still nine or ten months away, Sherlock, but you shall have to get her a very special Mother's Day gift this year!"

The detective, thinking almost immediately of Violet's demand for grandchildren, gently positioned himself over his Molly, nuzzling her neck, and saying in a pleasantly muffled voice. "I think I know just the thing, actually!"

At the same hour of the night, Mycroft Holmes lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling, still contemplating the rather ungentle shove Mummy had delivered to him just hours earlier. He might have known that unleashing such a force of nature on his younger would have serious repercussions. But he was finding that he did not mind these repercussions at all. He would see Anthea in the morning, and take it from there. Just before he dozed off, he reached to the back of his head to rub the spot where his mother had delivered a rather violent blow. Perhaps he should take some paracetamol?