A/N: From the Sherlock/Molly prompt meme:

From the Sherlock prompt meme: Prompt
Five times Molly saw through one of Sherlock's disguises and one time she didn't.

+1 if Molly is the only one who seems to be able to do this
+everything if one of the disguises is Sherlock in drag!

And just so we're clear, I am fully aware this is the worst title ever, I beta'ed myself which is the same as saying I let my dog beta me, and also, I am still totally unashamed of this fic.


The next time bloody Sherlock Holmes comes into her lab or her morgue, Molly Hooper is going to kick him out. She won't stutter or stammer, she won't shrink in on herself, and no amount of his damnable flirting is going to change her mind. It's all fake, anyway; she isn't blind, she isn't stupid, no matter what the wanker thinks.

But, oh God, that smile...

The voice in her head sounds like Molly at age thirteen, her uniform rumpled as she peeks at Sherlock and blushes, bites the inside her of lip, and races home to write filthy stories about them that inevitably end with wedding rings and babies and 'Molly Holmes, I love you.'

"No," Molly mutters to herself, really beyond caring if anyone happens to be giving the frumpy, scowling woman talking to herself a wide berth. (Not like anyone notices, though; no one ever notices Molly, which is good in situations like this.) "Stupid teenage Molly, go away. I am an adult. I am an adult, I am an adult, I am an adult. Bugger his cheekbones, he isn't worming his way back in ever again."

Cheekbones...! Molly gets the distinct impression that her younger self has swooned. And really, Molly can't blame her. They are fantastic cheekbones.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Of course she's too caught up in her frustration to notice the homeless man before she rams into him. They stagger (him more than Molly, limbs loose and flopping...he's pissed, no way around that fact), a shambling mockery of a dance on a London street corner while the masses flow around them, either blind to it or uncaring.

"Sorry, luv," he slurs, patting her shoulder as he laughs. "Ain't you cute, though? Spare some change, mm?"

It takes Molly a moment, and her hand is already pushed into her oversized purse to scrape change from the bottom. It's the voice that gives him away, lacking it's cultured tones, yes, but so deep and rumbling it makes Molly's toes curl entirely without her consent. It doesn't look like him, not really, not at first; but past the dirt and stubble and drawn down hat there are eyes, beautiful, sharp eyes that flash between green and blue and gray depending on his mood.

"Sherlock?" She can't help but hiss, eyes gone round as her jaw threatens to unhinge. "What are you – what the – you smell like month old rubbish!"

In the years to come, Molly is going to treasure this moment, hug it close to her heart and giggle, because how many people can claim as to having truly shocked the great Sherlock Holmes? Molly can only think of Mike Stamford, who brought his handsome younger cousin to the lab in a desperate bit to set the two up (and, according to Mike, get Sherlock laid so he'd bloody well loosen up and stop being such a prick).

Sherlock gapes. It doesn't last long, admittedly, but it does happen; he looks rather like a startled goldfish, all wide eyes, a mouth that keeps opening and closing soundlessly, drawing back in something quite like horror.

"How did you know it is me?" He snaps the question out like he's accusing her of murder, drawing himself up straight and tall and angry.

It takes every bit of Molly's self-control, the self-control she normally lacks around this bewildering man, not to collapse in hysterical laughter.

"Um, because I know you?" A snort of laughter escapes before Molly can stop it, and she clamps her hand over her mouth. The sharp sound is either Molly's ribs cracking under the strain, or Sherlock's teeth grinding together.

"No one recognizes me when I'm disguised," he accuses, glowering. "No one."

"They can't be looking very hard, then, can they? You're, um...well, you're very distinctive. Even when you smell like the bastard child of an old litter box and dead fish."

"Give me change," sniffs Sherlock, "and then go on your way. I am on a case, Molly, and I can't have you drawing any more attention to me."

"You're on a case, so you decided to beg for change and stop bathing?" Molly snickers violently at her joke.

Sherlock doesn't seem to find it amusing at all, and though he shambles away like an incredibly realistic drunk man, cup jangling with Molly's addition to his change, she can see how stiff his shoulders and neck are. (She even catches the dirty look he tosses over his shoulder.)

Sherlock comes to the morgue next Tuesday, and Molly hides in her office. She has paperwork to catch up on, and really, he can work just as well with Meena as he can with Molly. (Meena won't let him get away with sneaking out body parts, and will absolutely refuse to help him. Maybe it's a little bit passive-aggressive, but it's better than being a doormat.)

"God, Molly, you have to come down to the morgue." Mike hurls himself into Molly's office like a desperate man seeking cover. He's sweating, trembling, and red with rage. "Sherlock has made Meena cry three times. She tossed her coffee in his lap, threatened him with a scalpel, and is locked in the storage cupboard. She won't come out, and Sherlock insists that he won't work with anyone but you."

"Me?" Molly's pen falls from suddenly nerveless fingers. Butterflies take off in her stomach so strongly she thinks she may get sick. "What – why me?"

"I don't know." Honestly, Mike looks close to tears at this point. "But he's got a sword. Please, Molly, you're the only one that can handle –"

"You're the only one that is not blind to the world around them," Sherlock announces, banging into Molly's office as though he owns it. He stands tall and straight, nose in the air a sheathed katana at his side.

Molly hasn't ever thought any sort of blades were sexy before this. She's rather afraid she's going to have violent, embarrassing reactions to the sight of them in the future, however.

"I am surrounded by idiots, Dr. Hooper. You may not be as clever as I, but you certainly are a step up from your frankly useless co-workers. Now hurry up."

"Please, please, please..." Mike is mouthing.

"Um...um, alright, then. I'll be right there, Sherlock; just let me, um, put all this away."

"Do hurry. Oh, and coffee. Black with two sugars."

He gives her his first real smile when she brings in his coffee, and actually laughs when Molly squeals at being covered in pig blood once he is finished assaulting the pig carcass.

From this day forward, Meena refers to Molly as the Holmes Whisperer, and (though Molly is unaware of it) sets up a betting pool among the Bart's staff. She herself puts down fifty quid on four years until Sherlock realizes Molly is a girl and he is a boy (and, by extension, all the things boys and girls can do together), a wedding in the morgue, and a child named Sherlock Junior.


Sherlock is wearing green scrubs, latex gloves, and a surgical mask. His dark curls are hidden under a surgical cap, and he's lurking outside the St. Bart's nursery, pretending to be utterly absorbed in an open file.

Molly almost doesn't say anything. But then he starts squinting at the newborns through the glass, and she has a vision of him sneaking a baby out of the hospital to take Baker Street, where he will subject it to all kinds of experiments. God only knows the kind of mazes he would create to put it once it started crawling...

"Um..." Clearing her throat nervously, Molly slides up next to him. "What're you doing?"

Sherlock gives her a look that mostly exasperated, but perhaps – just the slightest bit – pleased, from over the top of the mask.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he demands, rolling his eyes, making it sound as though he spends every afternoon looking at newborns as though they are lab mice. "That nurse there is involved in a baby smuggling ring."

"Cathy? Are you...um, are you sure? Did – did Greg tell you, or, um –"

"Honestly, Molly, are you blind? And since when are you on first name basis with Lestrade? No, no, don't tell me, I don't want to hear it; and the next time he asks you out for coffee, do keep in mind that he will be returning to his wife when she realizes her new boyfriend isn't as wealthy as he pretends."

"Sometimes," Molly mutters, entirely without thinking, "I want to kick you."

Sherlock appears distinctly pleased by the news.

"Molly – oi, Molly!" John jogs towards her, hair ruffled and a scowl firmly in place. "I thought you might be up here...bad day?"

"Two teenagers in a auto accident," Molly explains, turning her back on Sherlock to give John her full attention. "I just needed a, um, pick-me-up."

"They are sweet," John agrees faintly, tossing a brief smile towards the glassed-in nursery. "Listen, have you seen Sherlock around? He wandered off, and I can't find him."

Sherlock kicks the back of Molly's ankle discretely. She gapes at John, fighting the urge to look at the man behind her; Sherlock begins to hum Yellow Submarine, off-key and utterly out of pitch, in a distracted sort of way.

John doesn't look twice at him.

"Oh, um, Sherlock? Um...nope! No, sorry John, I sure haven't. He's probably caught a cab, or, um, maybe he's the pediatric wing making children cry again."

"Oh, God, that arse..." John appears rather close to ripping his hair out.

Molly really can't blame him.

"Well, thanks anyway." He starts to turn away, stops mid-motion, and swings his head back around. Jerking his chin at Sherlock, he gives a grin. "Friend of yours, Molly?"

John has been rather intent on seeing Molly with a nice bloke after the discovery of Jim from IT's actual identity. He's a such a nice man, and Molly wishes she had even the slightest hint of attraction to him.

"Just, ah, Patrick. He's an obstetrician...such a sweetheart, really. He cries at every birth." Molly smiles sweetly, turning to lean against Sherlock. "Such a shame he's got a boyfriend."

Sherlock laughs; high, false, and a bit threatening.

"Miracle of life," John agrees, before taking his leave.

"Cries at every birth?" Yanking his mask down, Sherlock glowers.

Molly wheezes with the effort of not cackling.

"I know you try and hide it, but...well, I can tell you're really a...really a softy!"

Sherlock puts his nose in the air, summons his wounded pride like a cloak, and marches stiffly away.

Molly laughs so hard she snorts her coffee out her nose.


Sherlock Holmes is an extraordinarily, hauntingly, painfully beautiful man.

He is also one truly ugly woman.

"Sherlock," squeaks Molly somewhere between hysterical amusement and horror (oh God, she knew he wasn't interested in her, but this?), standing outside the dressing rooms of her favorite drag club. (It's totally natural to have a favorite drag club when one's brother is, in fact, a queen; Molly considers herself a connoisseur, truthfully.) "Please, dear god, why are you wearing – and the eyeshadow – and, um, did you shave your legs?"

"Molly Hooper," he drawls, painted eyebrows drawing tightly together. "How is that you always seem to be exactly where I do not expect you?"

"My brother works here. Lily Stargazer. Um, please tell me you're on a...a case. Or...something."

"You know perfectly well I'm on a case." Sniffing, Sherlock staggers into an empty dressing room, tottering in his heels. His hands are busy with his corset, attempting to keep everything in place. "How the blast does this thing work?"

"Um, Sherlock, it's –"

"Molly." Sherlock employs his I am busy being brilliant, please decease distracting me with your stupid.

"But Sherlock –"


"It's, um, on upside down."

(Molly had planned on giving John a new jumper for Christmas. She thinks he'll appreciate Sherlock in a dress, on a stage, attempting to strut in heels far more; to this end, Molly whips out her phone and takes a fifteen minute video that is overlain with her chortles and cat-calls.)


After he leaves her flat, it really does feel as though Sherlock Holmes has died. Molly knows he hasn't, knows he's alive and well and bringing down an international criminal organization, but everything is so...empty.

The morgue is cold. The lab is silent. The halls echo with the memory of his voice, his footsteps, the brush of his coat against her thigh as they passed each other.

She meets John once a week or so for coffee. They don't talk much. They do hold hands across the table, or side-by-side on a park bench. Molly cries, and John tries not to, and it feels like the whole wold is ending, because Sherlock is gone, and Molly can't breathe without him.

John comes to lab on a Friday night. Maybe he needs to talk, maybe he just doesn't want to be alone; they seek each other out more and more, because they both love Sherlock, and their lives are both so bleak without him.

Molly breaks into sobs as soon as he enters.

"Oh God, Molls, I didn't think," John sputters, limping slightly as he moves towards her. "Christ, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

They end up staying late in the lab, talking about Sherlock ("He was such an arse...do you remember when he tried to get a sample of flesh eating bacteria?" "He winked at me, the wanker...") and drinking coffee. Molly doesn't get back to her building until after one in the morning, and it's only by chance she notices the old man poking around the rubbish bins.

She squints at him, head tipped to the side, because doesn't she know him...? The way his hands move, yes, she knows him...

Molly practically bowls him over.

"Mr. Jones!" She's overly cheerful, she knows that, but if someone is watching, she wants to try and seem...normal. As normal as a crazy cat-lady pathologist that is helplessly in love with a self-diagnosed sociopath can be, at least. "It's too late to be taking the rubbish out."

"When you get to my age, you don't need as much sleep. Got to do something to keep me hands busy." Sherlock doesn't sound like Sherlock, no, and doesn't look like himself either; he's applied make-up and a prosthetic nose, and when he smiles he looks like a friendly old grandfather. "Too late for you too be out on these streets as well, Molly dear."

"I can take care of myself. Come on in, alright? I make you a cuppa."

"Oh, no, Molly dear, I'm sure you're tired..."

"No, I'm not. Takes me a while to wind down after work, and I'd like the company."

He leans on Molly, like he's got a bad hip and needs a bit of help. They chatter aimlessly in the corridor and up the elevator, all the way into Molly's apartment where she goes and flicks all the curtains shut while Sherlock rips off his nose and tears off his wig.

They don't speak much. Sherlock takes a shower, and inhales three bagels slathered in cream cheese. Molly guides him to the bedroom, and Sherlock – staggering and limp – is too exhausted to fight her.

"Sleep in here," she insists, "you need the rest, and I know the sofa is too short for you."

"Stay." He clamps his hand around her wrist, and pulls her to the bed with him. He's asleep within minutes, damp hair curling wildly around his gaunt face, snoring so loudly it's a wonder the neighbors don't start banging on the walls.

Molly doesn't know why he wants her there, but she stays, face hidden in her pillow, clinging to his hand.


Molly has had to redefine her definition of normal in the months that come after Sherlock's 'resurrection.' He breaks into her flat with alarming regularity, brings her actual food when he sweet-talks her into staying late at the lab, terrorizes her dates for a laugh, and seems genuinely baffled on why she won't move into 221C Baker Street. (Because Molly truly wants to be a woman that stands on her own two feet, and while things have changed between them, there isn't a single chance that she'll ever find happiness with another man alive when Sherlock effing Holmes is upstairs being handsome and brilliant and cheekbone-y. And it couldn't possibly be more clear that they are friends, just friends, only friends, until the end of time.)

Normal apparently now includes her boyfriend chatting with the Chinese delivery boy, who is actually Sherlock, but in a truly hideous hat. He didn't even bother with not wearing his coat and scarf, what does he think she is, blind?

"Oh, for the love of –" Tossing her hands into the air, she stomps to the door, rips all the way open, and begins prodding Sherlock in the chest.

"No, do you hear me? No. I am on a date. Go away."

"Go ahead and be on your date." Sherlock drops his accent, pushes past a wide-eyed, speechlessly Andy, and carries the bag of Chinese into the lounge. "Cuddle. Kiss. Be disgusting. I brought myself dim sum."

"Do...you know him?" Andy asks, but very quietly, in the tone of a man who fears he is dealing with someone deranged and deadly.

"Sherlock Holmes," she grinds out, "We work together."

"Oh...oh, wow! The detective, the one that came back to life, yeah? My sister swears he's a vampire, but I guess vampires don't eat dim sum, do they, mate?" Andy chortles as though he's said something blindingly clever.

Sherlock's expression implies that Andy is, in all actuality, a talking cockroach.

"Go home, please." Molly is not above begging, as much as it shames her to admit it.

"John's sister is the hospital – nothing fatal, do stop wringing your hands like that, Molly. She was drunk (I would be rather surprised if she weren't), tripped over her cat, and banged her head. He's gone down to take care of her a few days, and to force her into rehab again, I suspect."

"Surely there's a murder or...or something. A nice fungus you can poke at, maybe."

"I do not poke at fungi, Molly. Now bring me a cup of tea. Please."

Molly grumbles her way into the kitchen, kicks the rubbish bin, and makes tea.

The night is...terrible. Sherlock seems to be pretending that Andy does not exist; except, of course, when he attempts to come anywhere close to Molly. The glares the man gives could set plants on fire, Molly swears it.

Not even an hour into this uncomfortable evening, Molly leaves the loo to find Andy hastily shoving his feet into his shoes while pulling on his jacket.

"Listen, Molls, I just don't think this is working out. It's not you, it's me. I'll uh – I'll see you later."

"Andy, no, just wait. Please. I know Sherlock can be a bit...himself...but, but really –"

Andy leaves so quickly that one would think the flat was on fire.

Sherlock looks every bit as happy as he did last week when there was a triple homicide involving Satanists.

"You – you just –" Molly is so angry she can't even find words. She sputters, and points, and stomps her foot.

Sherlock sighs, pushing himself to his feet to take her by the shoulders and guide her to the sofa. He pushes her down, sits beside her, and props his feet on the coffee table.

"It wouldn't have lasted more than a month or two, anyway."

"You don't know that!"

"Oh, Molly. How many times are we going to have this conversation...?"

"When you stop driving off my boyfriends! I have needs, Sherlock, alright? Do you understand that? You may be just fine being all – all – nonsexual, but I am not, and it's been ages, and you –"

"He would have been a terrible sexual partner."

"How could you possibly know that? Give him a snog while I was in the loo?" Shoving ineffectively at him, Molly tries to pry herself away from his side. She seems to be loosing the battle, however.

Sherlock's only answer is to roll his eyes. And what can Molly do, really? She longed for ages to be something, anything to Sherlock; now she's his friend, and while it isn't all rainbows and sparkles, it is what it is.

"One day you're going to be interested in someone," she grumbles, "and I am to going to stalk you, and ensure that you never get a moment alone with them."

Sherlock laughs, and Molly's heart flutters, just like always.


Mary Morstan has been seeing John for three months now, and while Molly thinks she may be jumping the gun, she's already planning the wedding. (Nice spring wedding, and Molly will club Sherlock into saying nice things during his best man speech.)

"So..." Dipping her fork into the ice cream and fudge covered brownie she is savoring during their much needed girls only lunch, Mary arches an eyebrow at Molly and gives her a sympathetic sort of smile. "John told me what Sherlock gave you for your birthday."

Molly briefly considers stabbing herself in the throat with her fork to end the torture.

"What kind of – of idiot...! I mean really, I know we had a conversation about my needs, but...but..."

"I was really hoping John was having me on. He really brought you a vibrator?" Mary doesn't bother lowering her voice, and a young woman passing by their table to leave the cafe audibly sputters on her to-go coffee.

"I thought I was going to die." Molly abandons her cheesecake to clamp her hands over her face, flushing so brightly that her skin aches with the heat of it. "Who does that?"

"Sherlock, apparently."

"Mrs. Hudson slapped him so hard I thought she knocked him out for a minute, but oh no, he didn't stop there. No, of course not. He pointed out all the settings, noted that it's water proof, and explained, 'Since you cannot seem to choose the correct man, I am hoping this will tide you over until you do so.' Then the stared at me really hard (you know, that Sherlock stare? Like he's reading your mind?), while John sat on the sofa beside me wheezing up cake and blushing so hard I thought he was going to catch on fire."

"I'm so sad I missed it. Greg said he took pictures, though."

"He did," grits out Molly. "He put them on Facebook. My mum saw them. She thinks Sherlock is a renegade pervert, but insists she'll be okay with it, so long as she gets at least one grandbaby with his curly hair."

"You know, Molls, John and I do have theory about Sherlock's recent behavior towards you..." Smiling in a secretive, cat that ate the canary sort of way, Mary gives a decidedly lecherous lick to her spoon. "We think this is Sherlock's version of flirting."

"John did mention that, and I think you're both mad," answers Molly, taking an enormous bite of cheesecake. Washing it down with coffee, she dabs her mouth with a napkin before continuing. "John may know Sherlock best, but he's wrong. We're just friends."

"I'm your friend, and I'm not buying you high speed, water proof sex toys."

"But you aren't Sherlock Holmes."

"That's right. If I was, you'd be busily eye-fucking me when you thought I wasn't looking."

A man at a corner table, hiding behind a newspaper, gives a sort of sputtering sound. Molly covers her eyes, certain that she will actually die from blushing if Mary doesn't drop it.

"I do not eye-fuck Sherlock!" she hisses, kicking Mary under the table.

"Yes, you do. I've seen it. You practically catch on fire when he so much as holds his violin."

"Musicians are sexy, I have a weakness, it's not my fault. And those hands, oh my God, those hands just – um – they just – yes –"

Mary takes a moment to fan Molly with her napkin.

"Is that...?" Mary trails off, peering in confusion somewhere over Molly's right shoulder. Molly twists, but sees nothing of interest; the man reading the paper, a woman on her laptop, and a passer-by's outside the window.

"Is that what? Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew going by, but it wasn't him. Listen, I really think you just need to sit Sherlock down and explain to him that he needs to appreciate the fantastic, sexual woman that you are, or let you get a nice boyfriend you can shag raw."

"Because I really want to have another awkward conversation about shagging with a man who has never had an erection in his life. Yes. That sounds like the perfect Saturday evening. Oh, then he can list all the ways in which he finds me repulsive, and I can have myself a nice long cry. Best night ever, why didn't I think of it?"

"All men get aroused. Even Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, well, not because of me."

They finish their desert on a few different topics. Molly kisses Mary's cheek, pays before Mary can stop her (that's what she gets for picking up the bill for their last lunch, take that), and leaves while Mary is still finishing her coffee. And because she is gone, already around the corner and out of sight, she has no idea that Mary takes her coffee, moves to the corner table, and takes a seat.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"Drop the accent, I know it's you." Sherlock drops the newspaper, grudgingly removes his beat up pork pie, and scowls.

"How did you know it was me? Not even Molly caught on."

"Please. You're my boyfriend's boyfriend, I have learned to spot you before you can cause too much trouble. So tell me, do you often stalk Molly around town?"

"I am not stalking. I am observing."

"I'm sure that's what all stalkers say. So, when are you planning on shagging her?" Taking a skip of coffee, Mary relishes a obviously speechless Sherlock Holmes. John will be devastated that he missed it...

"I don't know why that could even remotely be considered your business."

"Because Molly is my friend, and you're driving her up the wall? Talk to her, Sherlock. It's not hard. God knows, you can talk for England when you get the right mood. John says she's been mad for you since before he met you, and it's obvious you've been awakened to normal human emotions."

"I do not know how to be any more direct – I have even followed John's example exactly. I watch movies that she likes with her. I bring her food. I eat with her, even when I am not hungry. I ensure that other men know that I am interested, and they should look else where. Molly is, quite simply, oblivious."

"So, during all of this, did it ever occur to you to, I dunno, tell her that you fancy her?"

Sherlock's mouth hangs open. He sniffs, folds his legs, and attempts to look bored.

"I have been more than obvious."

"Sherlock, sweetie, obvious for you, and obvious to the rest of the world are two different things. You know how you have to explain simple deductions to everyone else? You have to explain what you're feeling to Molly. Because she can't tell because of the color of your socks, or the way you menace men attempts to date."

"You noticed. Even Mrs. Hudson has caught on. She gave me a...sex talk." Sherlock sneers, shudders, and looks faintly ill.

Mary wishes, with all her heart, that she had been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

"Neither myself or Mrs. Hudson have spent years trying to crush our feelings towards you. Molly is in love with you, Sherlock, and all you have to do is tell her how you feel." Despite the fact that Sherlock spent a solid month pretending not to remember Mary's name, she has a fondness for him she simply can't deny. He's just so...odd. Genius, and yet childlike in so many ways. She can't help but reach across the table and take his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "She knows all about your funny little ways, and loves you because of them, not despite of them. Don't let her get away because you can't open your mouth express yourself, or I promise you'll spend the rest of your life regretting it."

"Thank you." It comes out rather grudgingly, as though Sherlock would rather have bamboo needles stuck under his fingernails, but he says it all the same. He even pats Mary's hand with his free one, twice, delicately, and as though he is worried he may catch some terrible disease from her.

Mary doesn't have high hopes for Molly's sex life, given Sherlock's general horror with touching, but she figures if he keeps in her vibrators...

"Oh," she thinks she to add, "and I'll help you pick out her Christmas presents."

"I've already bought it," Sherlock announces, smiling in a troubling angelic way. "Nipple clamps."

Mary laughs so hard she nearly pops a rib out of place.


"We need to talk." Sherlock bursts into the morgue as though he owns it, which is exactly how he enters any room. Molly, who is in the process of pulling out Davidson, Myrtle A., stops to stare at him over the top of her surgical mask.

"I'm about to begin an autopsy."

"It can wait. This cannot. You – who are you?"

"David," David squeaks, trembling from head to toe. "I'm a – I'm a student. Here. At Bart's. I brought you coffee last week."

"Leave. I need to speak with Dr. Hooper privately."

"Sherlock, I am busy –" David takes off like a scared rabbit, cutting Molly off. She sighs heavily, pushes the body back into the refrigerated holder, and shuts the door. Pulling down her mask before stripping off her gloves, she tries to contain her tempter. "I swear to God, if this is so I can text someone for you, I will –"

Molly is cut off in the most unexpected way possible. Sherlock – Sherlock Holmes – strides across the room, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her.

Kisses her.

Honestly, Molly thinks she blacks out for a moment or two. When she comes back to herself it's with a shiver little moan, her hands clasping his wrists as his tongue sweeps across her bottom lip.

"In case you are unable to deduce what has just happened," Sherlock pulls away to say, maybe with even the slightest hint of breathlessness about him, "I have just kissed you. Because I, as you might say, fancy you. I do not want you seeing other men; in fact, I will be high displeased if that should happen, and feel I should remind you that my brother is the only who would be able to pin a murder to me, and while he would use it for blackmail, he would never allow me to enter a prison. I cannot promise that I will be a very good boyfriend (and we must think of some other term; I am not a child, and that term is incredibly childish to any logical adult, no matter what John says), but I will try. Does this proposal sound acceptable to you?"

It takes Molly to work it out. Really it does, as her mind is still very busy going over Sherlock just kissed me, that was his tongue, ohGodohGodohGodohGod. She just gapes at him for a completely obscene amount of time, until Sherlock begins to fidget nervously.

"Well?" he demands.

"I love you," Molly blurts, because what the hell else is she supposed to do in this situation. "I always have."

"I know," Sherlock assures her, smiling in such a way that her knees to liquid and she debates the merits of tossing him on the floor and having her way with him right there.


"Bloody hell has he gone now? Always running off, going to buy him a leash, see how he likes that –" John Watson rants as he walks, steps sharp and precise and angry. Detective-Inspector Lestrade follows, perhaps a bit too amused by the idea of Sherlock Holmes on a leash (he would pay money to see that, actually), following John towards the morgue.

"Oh, um – um, you can't go in there. Um, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Hooper, ah, they, ah, they're talking." A med student, chewing on his fingernails and fidgeting nervously, isn't brave enough to bar the way, but he looks as though he would like to.

"Bugger Mr. Holmes," snarls John, flinging the door open. "Damn it, Sherlock, you better stop – holy fuck!"

Lestrade rams into John's back, clamps eyes on the sight before him, and thinks he may faint.

Sherlock has Molly pinned to an examination table. Her trousers are rucked down to her knees, his hand is between her thighs, and dear sweet God, Sherlock is licking her stomach.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Lestrade whimpers quietly, stumbling backwards. Like a bystander at the scene of a bloody accident, no matter how much he wishes he could, he can't look away. "My eyes. My eyes!"

"Out!" Sherlock roars, giving them a look so vicious that the Prince of Darkness would scamper else where with his tail between his legs. "Out! Now!"

"Oh my God," Molly is flailing, trying to shove her jumper down, pull up her trousers, dislodge Sherlock's hand...the consulting detective seems to being having none of that though. "Get off me, get off – I am so sorry, I am so –"

John nearly knocks Lestrade over in his own frantic back peddling. He slams the door shut, staring with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Did you just...?" John inquires quietly.

"Yes. Saw that. Mother Mary, I saw it, no matter how much I didn't want to." Absurdly, Lestrade thinks he might cry. Yes, he's said for years that Sherlock needs a right good shag to calm him the bloody hell down, but he didn't want to see it.

"They were...?"


"I...I need a drink."

"Lucky bitch," the med student mutters, envy painted across his face.