Methods of an Unorthodox Nature

Self-issued challenge - can I do three POVs in one thousand words? Not quite. But I still enjoyed writing it. :) Hope you enjoy reading it too!

Sherlock Holmes is a man with a problem.

That alone is alarming enough – he is rarely a man with a problem, and on those few and far between occasions when he is, he usually finds a solution as soon as possible in order to return balance to the universe. He's tried everything he can think of: video research, covert observation, textual references – he'd even phoned a help line 'supposedly' dedicated to this type of thing (though the woman on the other end of the line seemed so flustered at his inquiries that he'd eventually just hung up and abandoned that effort).

The problem, in a nutshell, is this: sex.

It's been bothering him, quite frankly, since that morning at Buckingham Palace, where his infuriating brother had made a snide, off-hand comment about his lack of knowledge in regards to intimate acts. He'd brushed it off then, his thoughts racing past the barb to the issue at hand, but then when he'd met the woman and she'd suggested nearly the same thing to him, Mycroft's taunt had come rushing back to him, and he'd been struck by the realization that maybe (horrifyingly) they were right after all. Was he missing knowledge of some sort (the mere thought sickened him)? Was he really and truly lacking a more personal, visceral, understanding of the most basic physical act?

This bothers him. Immensely. And it only continues to get worse as the days wear on.

But what do to?

Then, one day, standing in the lab, fingers tapping nervously and anxiously on the side of the counter as he waited for yet another sample to finish reacting, he looks over to the desk at the back of the room and watches Molly Hooper. Really watches her. And then he smiles.

Molly Hooper is a woman without common sense.

Because, really, when it boils down to it all, who in their right mind would agree to Sherlock Holmes' newest... arrangement. First and foremost, it was a completely ridiculous and preposterous plan. Who thinks to arrange for... relations in order to satisfy scientific curiosity? Secondly, though the first reason was more than enough to occupy first and second place simultaneously, she knew objectively that this was no good for her mental health. It was, in fact, probably the worst possible thing she could possibly do for the continued integrity of her psyche, and yet, she still found herself nodding her head and saying yes even as the more rational part of her brain cried out for her to stop.

But even as her brain cried out no, no, no! she was staring at his eyes, his lips, his hair, his long fingers – and she found her mouth opening and stringing together the consonants required to make the word yes.

And now – now is the moment where she faces the repercussions of her choice.

She stands in his doorway, staring not at him, but at a section of his dress shirt that seems slightly more lavender than the areas around it. She'd thought about dressing up for the occasion, maybe a skirt or a dress, but then she remembered what this arrangement entailed and thought better of it.

"So – uh – w-where do we start?" she stammers out, finally gathering the courage to look up and into his eyes.

And when she does, she sees a man lost in thought, his hand on the base of his chin, considering her like a mathematician would ponder a particularly difficult proof. "I believe our clothing is the logical first step," he says softly, and with that, he begins to unbutton that unbelievably flattering shirt.

Molly can feel her breath hitch in her throat, and suddenly she can't remember why she ever thought to say no.

John Watson is man who is not easily flustered.

After all, he'd made it through university, and then medical school, and then two tours of duty in Afghanistan before coming home to London to work as a sort-of informal sidekick for an eccentric and possibly sociopathic detective. He is used to the unusual, habituated to it. In fact, deep inside, he knows that he revels in it. Craves it, needs it, just has to have it – like heroin for an addict, he lives for the unusual in life.

However, there are limits to this, he's discovered. Limits that he's reached right now.

He'd been coming home after a bland and boring second date with a woman who worked at the chemist's down the road; she was sweet and kind but unbelievably uninteresting. He'd just spent an hour listening to stories revolving around cats, gardens, and some reality television program called Dancing With the Stars. Within the first five minutes of date number two, he had already decided that wasn't going to be a date number three.

So he'd headed home, reaching the front door and turning the key in the lock. He'd bounded up the stairs, hoping beyond hope that Sherlock had something interesting for him, something to pique his interest after an hour of being horribly and completely bored.

But when he'd swung the door open and took a step inside, he can honestly say that he'd finally found something too interesting.

"Ah! John! How was the date?" called out Sherlock from across the room, voice remarkably steady for a man sitting on chair with a woman's legs wrapped around him.

John could only stare, flabbergasted at the sight. "Wh-what...?" he managed to croak out, unable to look away.

Sherlock looked down at the woman, and back up at John, as if assessing the situation for the first time. "Oh, yes, this. In the middle of an experiment, you see. Dr. Hooper was kind enough to assist me."

At that, the woman squeaked in embarrassment and turned her face away, burying it in Sherlock's shoulder.

"M-Molly?" the doctor stammered, completely confounded.

"He-Hello, John" a muffled voice answered, from somewhere in the direction of Sherlock's right shoulder.

The detective looked back over to his friend. "Shouldn't be all that much longer, John. The data collection is proceeding quite quickly. Somewhat... unorthodox methods, mind you, but the results will still have merit."

"S-sure. Right," answered John, backing out and away from the room.

"Come back in an hour!" his flatmate called out as he closed the door in front of him.

Come back in an hour? thought John to himself as he hurried down the steps and slammed open the front door. He's not even sure if he can ever come back at all – to see that chair, the memory of Molly Hooper wrapped around Sherlock Holmes like white on rice etched into his brain. An experiment! What kind of experiment calls for methods like that?

An unorthodox one, he supposed. With unorthodox methods. As only Sherlock Holmes could (would?) do...