Gloves – check.

Cooler – check.

Confidence – decreasing.

It was a simple enough plan; wearing clothes that she was sure wouldn't make a racket in case anyone was home, soft supple ballerinas that she'd slip off, before she padded barefoot across the wooden floors of the kitchen, while she slowly opened the fridge door, until she got the parts back placing them into her cooler, intending to get out before anyone would notice.

Since saying she'd misplaced some paperwork while scratching her head idly didn't work - for pretending to have no idea about who'd severed a foot off a body that'd previously had both did make her seem less than serious, so it was apparent that Sherlock's testing's would need to be mentioned in the paperwork from this point onwards.

The fact that it had been going on for years was disturbing. Other people wanted coffee (not that he didn't ask for that), or possibly chocolate – Sherlock however wanted human flesh, which he then exhibited in his fridge scaring the living daylights of his flatmate or landlady. The parts never did look quite as good when they were returned, but she usually fixed it up to the best of her ability.

She didn't really feel tempted to complain, though she did give him an earful of - - sighs, if she were completely frank about it. It wasn't that she didn't own the ability to curse him to hell, of course, and she had all right to do so, if this was to continue that was, because soon enough he'd have to brandish a slip from his big brother to be allowed to do anything at her lab or morgue for once.

Not that any of the parts were technically hers, but she'd feel better with some paperwork under her belt, since lying wasn't exactly her best skill.

So, there she was in the middle of the night, rummaging through his fridge, slipping body parts into plastic bags, before she placed them into the cooler, hoping that if the rumours were correct – nobody was home.

221B was dead quiet at least, so it seemed like an easy enough job, and she was glad for the spare key she'd gotten in case of emergencies. She'd still warned Mrs Hudson of her inexplicable entry and intent by giving her an advance phone call. The fact that the landlady also confirmed their departure from 221B settled her nerves.

While bended down, she shut the cooler snuggly, smiled to herself, pleased by her own deviousness, until she heard the distinct sound of a door opening. It was not the front, followed by a questioning Mrs Hudson – oh – no the door that had slid open was the most mysterious room of all; his bedroom.

Her eyes widened, for she soon would be caught, and a conversation she'd rather not have would ensue. Any other person would have risen, taken the cooler and run for it. That would be logical, however, she felt like a thief in the night, and considering what she was currently doing – sneaking his possessions away in the dark – it was true.

She knew nonetheless that it was her right. Indeed it was, yet thinking on her feet was possibly not a good idea after a late shift; for instead of running, instead of facing a conversation with the man she shoved the cooler, as quietly as she could underneath the kitchen table, before crawling besides it.

The minute she'd done that she bemoaned the stupid idea, but it was too late to turn back now. How could she have been so thick? Like he'd never spot her hidden underneath his kitchen table? The man had sharp eagle eyes, beyond excellent hearing for whispered conversations, and would most likely smell out the combination of her flowery perfume mingled with sweat.

Typical, that he had to be home early, and typical that she was hidden underneath his kitchen table like a small child. A giggle almost escaped her lips, the minute she realised how senseless she was, and how much better it was to have a discussion with him as proper adults, but the minute bare feet tread past – a white sheet dangling behind said legs she held her breath.

Appearing from under the table now would induce a torrent of questions, but she could just hurry out shouting out nonsense, which would lead to no fuss at the moment. Of course that was until the white sheet was dropped in a heap on the kitchen floor, and her mouth hung open in shock.

She'd heard the story of him in Buckingham Palace – amused herself of the fact that he'd only worn a sheet, but he certainly wasn't naked now, right? A slight glance in the right direction showed her full view of his arse, and her suspicion was absolutely confirmed.

If her eyes had been wide at being discovered – they were now that of saucers at his being absolutely starker's and heading for the living room. He'd see her, underneath the table, of course – and now she wouldn't be silly – she'd be a full on pervert. She couldn't exactly proceed to ask him why on earth he'd dropped trou, though it would seem natural, as it was his flat.

A flat that he shared with John – this wasn't the point where she turned full blown pervert, right?

There would be no way of explaining oneself out of that, but John's constant line of girlfriend's begged to differ – however they were exes.

Her mind reeled, especially when she understood that he'd settled on his familiar black chair – bare skin on leather, and realised that by sheer luck she was hidden by John's chair – of course if she wanted to fully see him – she'd have to twist her head in a certain angle, and possibly be caught.

Needless to say, despite her curiosity she brought her head back out of pure decency, only to catch sight of the sheet reminding her of her situation. It was very difficult not to be reminded of it, since she was positioned quite awkwardly underneath the table – but how on earth hadn't he noticed?

She'd half-way expected a snarky comment the minute he'd padded past the table, but encountered none – instead she was Molly, being a complete nutter underneath his kitchen table, while he was apparently having a nudist-mo in the living room.

Her legs cramped, while her skin flushed at the idea that he was naked, and she could have a completely innocent view without him ever knowing – ok – he'd probably know. Since after this she'd probably stare at him an indecent amount while he was clothed, but he'd probably misconstrue it as just typical Molly-behaviour. He knew she thought he was fit, since she'd accidentally let it slip once – so it wasn't a complete -, the thought became lost the minute she heard a deep growl.

No, it wasn't really a growl, but a moan verging on animalistic.

The hairs on her neck stood up, her skin prickling from head to toe, as she clung to the cooler in front of her.

Curiosity killed the cat – she'd be murdered before sunrise. Slowly, excruciatingly slow she edged her head, so she could have a look on what was going on. His dark curls were lank, falling perfectly on his face, eyes shut, and lips parted, neck tense, as his hands were quite evidently on his –

She'd gone from thief to voyeurist – quickly she drew her head back, trying to keep her mind from jumbling up, as images of him stroking his rather – no – no – no – she was not going to think about it.

If she'd ever been in such a position herself, and found someone had been watching – she'd – well – she'd certainly run for the hills. Sherlock, however – Sherlock who saw sex as something - Well, what did Sherlock see sex, as exactly? And why was she thinking about that, and not an escape plan instead? Oh god.

It's not like she could pop up out there, try to be seductive, and say, "Let me assist you," like that was actually going to happen.

He'd toss her arse out of the flat immediately. Instead she leaned her head to the side, eyes flickering casually over the man. Well, not at all casually over his spread firm legs, his sculpted chest, his long fingers stroking his delightfully – back on the subject, Miss Hooper!

This was madness, this was absolutely mental, but he looked rather beautiful like this; with a concentrated expression on his face, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead. Another guttural moan being uttered – heat flooding her below, as she hated herself for being there, while another part was happy – for she'd never get to experience this otherwise. There she was, just assuming she'd caught him naked, before awkwardly escaping the flat – now she was too far-gone. She couldn't leave now, especially not now, as another moan was being whispered – a moan that turned into a name, "Molly."

Her name – he had said her name.

No, he couldn't have, but there it was, "Molly," repeated like a prayer, and she felt her cheeks grow impossibly hot.

He had moaned it.

He was on the chair naked moaning her name, and she was hidden under his kitchen table like a pervert listening – occasionally watching, when her eyes begged for it.

An unmistakable shiver ran down her spine, while she tried fixing her gaze on her cooler.

Yes, think about the original problem – the actual issue and not Sherlock Holmes moaning your name while touching himself.

Right, that was obviously not going to work. The clever detective, with his buttoned-up shirts, dark coat was certainly distracting her mind from having coherent thoughts.

She took a steadying breath, trying to quickly think of how on earth she was ever going to get out of the flat, even if her feet did not want to budge.

She could –

1. Wait for him to finish.

2. Run.

3. Go out there.

Of course, it could be another Molly; a voice in her head said. Maybe Sherlock had some twisted fantasy where she'd partake in some odd fashion, but it didn't actually mean she was the fantasy itself. Or? Now, she was just being ridiculous, but then again she was a woman in the middle of her thirties hiding underneath a kitchen table. If there was one thing she was – it was ridiculous.

That's when the moaning stopped – only the sound of him shifting in his chair was heard, his hands roaming about, and his rasping breath filled the silence.

"I never knew you enjoyed voyeurism?" he said.

She blinked furiously, breath hitched in her throat, "When attempting to smuggle anything out. It would do best not to ring Mrs Hudson first. She has never been good at keeping anything quiet for very long," he continued, as she could only release a single puff of air in her shock.

He knew she was there.

She could physically not move, her limbs had stopped listening to her, as her entire being was caught in the full blast of shame. Oh, she was the very picture of red. There she was caught in the act, but – he'd known. He'd known all that time she was underneath the table - he had to, and he'd just gone along with it all?

There was something very wrong with this picture.

"I will cover myself up, if that is what is keeping you," he drawled, the sound of his fingers tapping the edge of the chair in a rather hurried tempo like drums in her head.

She bit her lip, steadying her breath, as she finally returned from under the table – her arms and legs positively creaking loudly – besides her heart beat thumping forcefully in her chest.

Molly soon brought the cooler out from under the table, busying herself with it, as she held it in her hand, and fixed her eyes above his head out of the window. She'd tried not to look at him, and she would especially not look at him now – for she could only imagine his face – smug, "It's – it's – err – fine – I'll just leave now," she said barely audible, wishing that her hair wasn't in a ponytail, and was in fact covering her face.

"With the body-parts?" he asked, when she'd started out of the kitchen, standing now in the middle of the living room – eyes fixed on the yellow smiley on the wall.

There was always something interesting to look at, in his flat that was – besides him that was –oh – too late – she looked.

Her eyes were quickly up on the ceiling, brows knitted, a hand calmly placed on her hip, "They're – you know – mine, after all," she said a bit more clearly now.

"That you had let me borrow, Molly," said Sherlock.

Her knees wobbled, when he said her name.

"Of course, I did – Sher- Sherlock, but these are people - and I – I need to bring them back at some point."

"What if I said it was important? That always seems to sway you."

She could hear the smirk on his face, plastered there in all its glory, as she almost stuttered her reply, "Well – you know – its – err – it's always important to you, right now, but that's because you're bored."

That sentence made more sense in her head.

"You're right – things do get dull – but what other activities would you want me to partake in?"

He was certainly not making her exit any easier, for there she stood more or less molesting her mouth, rolling her lower lip between her teeth furiously, "Well – err – you could of course – you know-," she started not knowing what to say.

"Obviously," he said easily, "Sex."

It was as if he'd said weather or any other ordinary commonplace word, but this was a word she'd never dreamt of hearing him say especially in front of her, except describing the sex of a deceased that was.

This was like any other scene, a scene that would happen in her flat, or at the lab, but she'd usually wake up during it. Was she even awake? It surely had to be some sordid dream that she'd wake up mid-dream-orgasm, before giggling into her flowery patterned duvet.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she tried to continue, not knowing if this would be her last word, "Yes – yes – there's – that – I was actually going to suggest exercise, actually."

That wasn't particularly saucy, if she'd known what she'd walked into, when getting there she might not be so shaken, but she supposed that the cooler filled with body-parts, or the fact that her legs felt cramped stilled every attempt.

"A quick vigorous jog is your answer? Well, that's certainly not where I expected this conversation to go – however – do I look like I need it?"

She shook her head without looking, she needn't get another eyeful really, and speech was starting to properly fail her, but she managed to clear her throat, "I'm just – I'm just going to let myself out now," she said heading towards the door.

"Molly," he said making her stop in her track, her back to him now, so she needn't pretend she was interested in the architecture of the flat at least.

Was this his way of stopping her from ever reclaiming things? It was certainly working. She might as well drop the cooler on the floor, and give it up as a bad job. Nobody would blame her, really, and she'd get out without blushing anymore. Well, until she was later tangled up in her sheets like a heated mess, or when he'd arrive unexpectedly at Bart's.

"Do you like it?" he said, as she tried curling her toes into his carpet.

That worked when one felt queasy after a flight, maybe it would work on the light-headedness she was experiencing.

"What?" she said carefully, and upon saying that – she heard him leave the chair, taking languid steps towards something – that something was apparently her.

"Do you like it?" he questioned once more, now however the question was breathed down upon her bare neck, tickling the loose hairs of her ponytail.

"Sex?" she said quietly.

Her lips started to practically quiver after the word was uttered, he said not a word, still breathing deeply behind her, "Err – well – I thought – you know – anyway – it's quite-," his mouth found her neck – a kiss gently bestowed. Her ability to speak evaporated – for he nibbled on her – tasting her salty skin.

She dropped the cooler – oh it would not look good – in the morning, but right now – with him pulling her towards him, his arms snaking around her waist, pressing her against his absolutely bare skin -, "Well – do you, Molly?"

"Is – what?" she managed to say.

She was soon silenced once again, as he stroked the flimsy fabric of her blouse, his hands caressing her breasts wordlessly, and she could only sigh, "You do that quite a great deal around me already – I don't note any difference-," he said.

Something was wrong, she suddenly felt like they were having two different conversations entirely, despite them being in the same room, or the fact he was fondling her nipples through her blouse.

She gasped, as one of his hands slipped down to her trousers, opening the zipper in a swift movement – hand slipping onto her obviously soaked knickers, and she could only throw her head back onto his chest. He eased her hair out of the ponytail, releasing her now wild curls, as she bit down a moan, "Sher- you're-,"

"This is no different from any other dream – though it feels different," he murmured.

Dream – the word dropped like lead in her belly and stayed, "Wait – what?" she said startled.

A dream?

"You certainly have never said that before," he said in what could be described as rather petulant.

"Sherlock?" she said, releasing herself from his grip reluctantly, shoving him away.

There he was, properly before her, and she looked up in his hooded gaze – his eyes red – pupils entirely gone, "You're – oh god – oh my god-," she said horrified realizing that this man was not acting out of sober passion.

"You're asking questions – you're not supposed to ask questions," he said resembling that of a child, despite his nudity dictating otherwise.

Oh God.

Oh dear God.

Of course he just had to be absolutely drugged out of his mind! – She'd heard mentions of the drugs, gossip circulating about, but she certainly never expected to find him dabbling in them now, at his age.

Sherlock however didn't seem to catch up with her distress. He seemed merrily annoyed by her lack of action – which was that she still wore clothing apparently, as he ripped open her blouse; the buttons tumbling to the floor.

Her maroon bra was now visible to all, especially to his drug-riddled eyes, but she slapped his eager hands away quickly. She was not going to have him like this, or ever – probably, but even if she'd been so very close to it – sense had fought and won.

But, when, "Sherlock?" was said by another familiar voice from the upstairs bedroom – all sense washed away, and she was left with complete fear.

John.

Well, this was a scene; Sherlock naked, while her blouse was ripped open, as he attempted to properly tug it off her – she slapped his hands away again. He flinched sullenly, as if she'd denied him sweets.

If she hadn't been so distracted – if she'd only dared look him in the eye during their conversation she would have realised – but now – a door was being opened upstairs, and she could only rely on her instinct (even how shoddy that was).

Molly quickly tried pulling Sherlock by his hand, but he tried to draw it away. In a fit of desperation, she planted a light kiss on his lips, only to be overwhelmed when he reciprocated deepening it.

It was their first kiss, and he was absolutely gone. Well, not, physically – for the tongue that attempted to slip itself into her mouth spoke volumes. She, despite her weak knees, or the fact that she'd almost started to moan herself stood her ground. Pulling away from him, she flashed her eyes towards the kitchen, and he willingly obeyed her. She grabbed his hand, took a full sprint to his bedroom - neglecting cooler – neglecting his sheet, before shoving him inside. Her intention was to hide underneath the table again, for John would probably be half-asleep, and would not see her, but Sherlock was having none of that. He grabbed her forcefully by the waist, clasping her towards him like an anchor, and she only saw the bedroom door close in front of her.

Bollocks.

She drew herself away from him, gestured frantically to the bed, which he sat down upon with a raised brow. Even drugged he was ever so snarky, even drugged he still observed patiently, but his eyes were not there. Those blue imaginable hues had not the same familiar shine, and bloody hell – John was heading for the bedroom. Before Sherlock could grab her she crawled underneath the bed, only to find Sherlock pointedly staring at her, his curls dangling to the floor, as his brow was furrowed at her actions, but she pushed him away, so he wouldn't reveal her presence.

The door to the bedroom opened.

"Have you been up?" said John who'd obviously brought along the sheet by the look of it. She kept entirely still; glad that John hadn't come to the assumption that she was hidden underneath the bed, but who on earth would ever come to that conclusion?

Sherlock only groaned in reply, "Right – are you OK, at least?" said John, before swiftly adding, "Your sheet was in the kitchen."

"There was a dream in my bed," said Sherlock groggily.

John laughed, "OK – Sherlock – well – soon enough the drugs will be out of your system. That's what they said in the hospital – this is what you get from testing something yourself – you git."

Oh, bugger it all, John knew, which meant Sherlock hadn't chosen this – at least, so that worry eased off her.

"Drugs?" repeated Sherlock.

"Ok – you know what – I'll sit in the living room for now, just in case you get up again – you shouldn't really be on your feet right now – I'll watch the telly, but I won't put it on so loud – so if you need me just shout, right?"

Sherlock grunted.

"Night, then – do try to get some sleep."

At that the door shut again, footsteps vanished, and the muted sound of a telly was heard in the distance.

Molly felt like groaning herself – normal people didn't do this – had she been normal she would have explained that she was just getting the body parts - found Sherlock naked, and he'd attempted to take her top off – and managed to open her trousers – yes, John would absolutely believe that.

It was the truth though, which was even stranger.

Oh, this was just her luck.

Why wasn't John a heavy sleeper?

Why was she still underneath the bed?

She crawled from under it, catching sight of Sherlock's now covered form – all except his chest of course, as he looked at her curiously, "Why are you still here?" he said in a whisper, his mouth parted in surprise.

She was astonished he knew that he should whisper, and she found herself wondering what on earth Molly in his dreams did that warranted such a reaction in the first place. Or, more importantly – why was he dreaming of her? It had to be the drugs – she wore a white coat usually – he obviously was convinced she could help, but for once in her life – she didn't believe that thought for a second. No, the evidence all pointed in a certain direction.

"Yes, I'm still here," she said, hands on hips, trying to avoid thinking that she was in his bedroom, and he was barely covered by his sheet.

He was after all – drugged. That word kept her grounded, that thought managed to make her say, "Now, you're going to sleep, right?" she said in the most motherly fashion she could produce. It was not very difficult, since his face was earnestly quite innocent-like now.

"Molly – can you stay until the morning?" he asked.

"I'll have to, I suppose," she said with a slight smile, her eyes going to the door, as she knew beyond that – there was a friend who kept guard.

"You never do," said Sherlock with a sigh lying properly down on his pillow, a defeated look to him, causing her to blink stupidly.

"I – I – will now, though," she said hastily, and a smile grazed his lips – an honest one. One she couldn't exactly say she'd ever seen before, and so she lay down besides him trying to cover up her chest, with the remains of her blouse. Sherlock noted that she slept on top of the sheet, but he slipped it away from under her – until it also covered her. She peered at him curiously, still trying to close her blouse. The buttons were out there, but John would most likely not notice. He'd suppose Sherlock had wild nightly adventures, and he wasn't very wrong at that.

Sherlock's hand drew hers away from her blouse, and she narrowed her eyes, "Sherlock – no – if you keep doing that, I won't be here in the morning," she hissed, as he seemed to want to do more than just that gesture.

"Fine," he more or less snapped, and she was worried that John heard, but by the low chuckle in the living room – he hadn't.

She could only imagine how the morning would turn out.

A/N: There might be a part two - a separate one-shot. I'll let you decide.