Prompt: Sherlock runs into Molly outside of Bart's and notices how different she looks out of her lab coat (courtesy of Morbidbydefault)
It was drizzling. It had been drizzling all day, and it would continue drizzling into the night. There was no escaping the London rain. The sky was grey, the pavement was grey, and Sherlock's mood was grey. He had been standing outside for upwards of an hour, almost soaked to the bone. He was a statue, he was unnoticeable. He was also miserable. The things he did for his cases.
A few minutes more and he would head inside for a change of clothes and a cup of coffee. He might be Sherlock Holmes, but he was not willing to die of hypothermia for his art. Besides, his legs were beginning to ache.
Old woman, too-tall man, cluster of screaming school children, housewife, housewife, wrong complexion, three dressed-up young women—
Wait, he knew one of the women.
She was on the outer edge, clad in an ivory dress decorated with soft rose petals, auburn hair spilling down her shoulders, white umbrella in one hand, bright red lipstick on her otherwise small lips—
He blinked. No, there was no way—but she—Molly never looked fashionable. She was always frumpy, in those oversized jumpers and unflattering colors. She actually looked decent today. It was…shocking.
Sherlock cleared his throat as she and her friends passed. It got her attention. Her head twitched in his direction and she swirled around to face the undercover detective.
"I'll catch up with you later," she told her friends, not turning to face them.
"I—I didn't recognize you."
"Nor I you."
She looked puzzled a moment before pushing his comment off. "You're soaking wet."
"I've been out in the rain for an hour."
"Why haven't you got an umbrella?"
"It would give me away, obviously."
She stepped away from him, facing back towards the street. "Was I giving you away?"
"I'm under the impression the man I'm attempting to observe is not here, and will not be, so no." His eyes wandered from the road to her, tracing the gentle curve of her spine in the fitted dress, the slope of her shoulders—no, no, no, this was Molly. He was Sherlock. They didn't fit together like that. He couldn't let them fit together like that, regardless of how his affection for her grew after the Fall, in the trapped period. He couldn't—
"Do you want my umbrella, then?" she asked, turning back to him. Her eyes were wide, accentuated by her mascara. It did her well.
"The rain will ruin your hair. You've just had it done, haven't you?"
"How—yes, I did. It's already frizzing though—" it wasn't "—so it doesn't much matter, does it?"
"Unless it will make me warmer, keep the umbrella."
"Would you like to get coffee, then?" she asked, fumbling her sentence. "If it'll warm you up, that is. I didn't mean—"
"I'm afraid I'd drip all over whichever shop you had in mind. You should go back to your friends."
She shook her head, grinning. "I'd rather not. They were dragging me to a fancy restaurant to meet friends."
Sherlock frowned, questioning how much she was holding back. "You should go." Why was he encouraging that?
"No, no I don't think I will. I'd just embarrass myself."
"Then if it's all right with you, I'll take you up on your offer for coffee."
"Oh, well, we could go to La Ballo—"
"Isn't that café over your budget?"
She colored. "Yes, but it's not like I'll be just indulging myself for once."
"If it is fine with you, I'd rather you make me coffee, or at least go somewhere I can dry off."
"Oh. I—sure. I live around the corner, so it's not that far a walk. Are you sure you don't want my umbrella?"
Molly's flat was cozy, but not in a small sense. She made a decent salary—she was a medical professional, after all—and the space was well-tailored to her tastes. The colors were light—creams, ivories, eggshells, and pearls based most of the furniture, with rich accents of deep crimsons, vivid blues, enchanting golds, and consuming violets. Cheery, just like Molly. Nothing was modern. The sofas in her den were a mock-up of the French Regency style—detailed, ornate, and elegant.
"It's a bit ostentatious, I know," Molly said quietly, leading him inside her living space. "There's a reason I hardly have people over."
"It's…not what I expected."
"No one really does, to be honest. My friends were a bit shocked when they first found out. I'll get you a towel."
"Is the bathroom decorated like this as well?"
"Little less so—don't have room for a master bathtub!" she called from down the hall. "I'd love a clawfoot tub," she said, returning with an oversized bath towel. "It'd be anachronistic, but I doubt anyone would notice."
"Thank you, Molly. Would you mind terribly if I removed my wet clothing?"
"Go ahead—I mean, no, no I don't. Erm, I'll go put the water on." She scurried off as he began to unbutton his shirt. "Do you want any specific kind of coffee? I could read them out or—or you could just—" She popped her head through the wide opening where the kitchen fed into the den. He took one look at her and she blushed. "You can just wait too."
He toweled his hair before wrapping it around his now bare shoulders (he had kept on his pants in fear that Molly might have a hemorrhage). He smiled to himself about that—he may not have been aware of the depth of her affection a few months ago, but now it intrigued him, increased his self-esteem. He drank it in heavily, an alcoholic to her wine. Her blushes and fumblings were endearing; he let the towel slide a few centimeters down his chest.
The tiles of the kitchen were cold under his feet. The room was warm, however, with the kettle rising to a cheery boil. "Why are you so dressed up?"
"Excuse me?" Molly turned and avidly avoided staring at his exposed skin.
"You said you were going to meet friends and you're in a new dress by the looks of it, have just gotten your hair done, and are wearing bright red lipstick. You weren't going to meet just friends. There was a man waiting for you, wasn't there?"
She switched the kettle's burner off and bit her lip, white teeth contrasting the smooth red of her lips. "Yes, there was."
"But you stopped when I announced my presence. You asked me for my time instead of seeing him. Why?"
"He's…" she trailed off, looking for an exit. He had cornered her, and she was an uncomfortable, caged animal. "He's my friend Alison's brother, the girl with the blonde hair. She's been dying to set us up for ages."
He felt a surge of jealousy flame through his body upon confirmation. It started to eat away at the corners of his rationality. "Is he not attractive enough?"
"What? No, no, he's…he's far out of my league. Very dashing. A dentist. They dolled me up in hopes that I'd present even half appealing—"
"You surpass half appealing in those awful jumpers. I'd say they made you look stunning."
Molly's cheeks flared and she turned back to the coffee, poorly hiding her embarrassment. "What kind of coffee do you want?"
"Espresso if you have it," he said gently, moving to stand beside her. "Daniel Trisk, older brother to Alison Trisk. Thirty-four, strawberry blonde, works for a private clinic. Perhaps half as attractive as you on a good day. Not much your type."
She turned to him and stared, not making a sound, not daring to question how he knew. "How do you know he's not my type?"
"Because your type is me," he said, far too close to her. He could feel her breath on his skin. Her big brown eyes were blank. "If you blush any harder, Molly, I fear your cheeks may match color to your lips."
"I—" she stumbled around the morpheme, bewilderment capturing her features. "That's why."
"My type is you. That's why I didn't want to go."
He smiled, a smug pride swelling in his chest. "Have you given up on any sort of relationship?"
"I'm pretty sure you've got that answer figured out already, haven't you?"
"May have, may have not."
"At the moment, yes."
She sighed, crossing her arms across her small breasts. "Sherlock, what are you getting at?"
He took a step forward, towering over her like a predator. She flinched as he raised a hand to her cheek, fingers running across her soft skin. "You didn't answer my question."
"Maybe? I'm not sure?"
"You sell yourself short. You're very pretty, Molly."
"Are you feeling all right? Maybe you've caught a cold standing out in the rain—"
"You and I both know that's not how you get sick." He backed her up against the far wall, consuming her personal space like smoke. He placed his arms on either side of her, fully pinning her. The towel fell from his shoulders and he watched with satisfaction as her face twisted in both lust and discomfort—no, lust wasn't the right word. It was more like…desire.
"What are you doing?" she choked.
"I like that you fancy me," he said into her neck, ignoring her question. "It makes me feel powerful. Do you know why?"
"N-no." She struggled to sound coherent. He could feel her pulse accelerating and had to resist every urge to nip at her jugular.
"Because I have your heart, and that foul man never did," he said calmly, pulling his head up to look her in the eyes.
She was a deer in the headlights, staring right through him. She blinked, coming back to reality and laying a hand on his forehead. "Are you positive you're not feverish? You feel warm."
"I'm fine, Molly."
"Then what's gotten into you? You have me—me—pinned to a wall. And you're half-dressed, Sherlock!" she cried, her senses returning. "I'm glad there's no one here to burst in on this, but what are you thinking? You've never…never taken an interest in me."
"On the contrary, Miss Hooper, I have always had an interest in you, but until recently it has been purely platonic. I guess I could say I was overtaken by a spark of jealousy. Now, with your permission, I'd like to kiss you."
"Yes, your consent. It's rude not to have it."
She laughed, no doubt half at the absurdity of the situation, the improbability of it all. "You've had my nonverbal consent for over a year. If you want to kiss me, kiss me. If not, pinch me so I wake up."
Molly let out a small gasp as his lips met hers, devouring the red, the cherry of her mouth. His hands found her waist and pulled her closer against him, crushing her to him. He bit down on her lip as her fingers slid up his back, tangling in his hair. She bit back.
Oh, she wanted it rough, did she?
He pulled away from her to leave a trail of fierce red marks down her neck, each redder and angrier than the last. Her fingers laced tighter into his hair with each new spot while breathy, incoherent words slipped from her mouth.
"H-how long have you b-been hiding this?" she asked, voice quavering with pleasure.
"Three, four months," he replied into her skin. "Since the end of our stay in France."
"I could've—go back, go back up—oh my god—could've sworn you were the least patient man on the planet."
"And I am. Sensitive neck, Miss Hooper?"
"Neck, ears, and I forget what else."
He glanced up, a hungry grin on his face. His hands trailed up her dress, pulling the zipper down. "Let's find out then, shall we?"
A/N: what am I doing with my life I should go back to my multichapters