Prompt for Morbidbydefault! Brought about by After Midnight, an instrumental from the 2002 Chicago soundtrack.


It had been a long day.

A "long day" usually referred to a particularly stressful workday, with tedious tasks and frustrating, pressing issues. The remedy was mind-numbing television, coffee, food, and sex.

A long day for Sherlock Holmes was exactly that—a long day. He hadn't slept in…he hadn't slept. The unfamiliar sensation of hunger was beginning to gnaw on the edge of his conscious. His brain continued to roar at an inhuman pace, but his body was fraying. His feet ached, eyes were becoming more and more bleary, joints were throbbing, neck on fire from bending over microscopes and cultures, back stiff and sore from awkward angles; he was a train wreck.

He wanted to sleep. Maybe have a biscuit. Or half a cold sandwich, too lazy to prepare the other half. Take a hot shower. Curl up next to his girl—…eh. He really didn't like that term.

The door to his flat was closed—uncharacteristic, odd. It was only closed when no one was in, and he watched Molly leave Bart's hours ago—gave her a goodnight kiss and everything, not expecting to find her awake when he managed to drag himself back to his rooms.

The door to his flat was also locked. He stumbled with the key like a drunkard, unable to control his fine motor skills out of sheer exhaustion. Perhaps he should skip the shower and sandwich and just go to sleep.

He entered quickly and shut the door quietly, swinging around immediately to relock it, stripping off his coat and scarf. He bent to peel his shoes from his feet, worried about making enough noise to wake Molly. Timid when flirted with, two-headed fire-breathing monster when woken from slumber.

He rubbed his eyes and turned—

Oh. There really was no need to be quiet.

Molly was sitting in his armchair with a book, reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Awake, for once, even though it was well after midnight. She was clad in dark red undergarments and a lab coat, hair messily tucked into a bun. One leg was brought up in front of her, the other stretched out, stocking slipping down her pale thigh. She glanced up and smiled. "Evening."

"Evening. How…long have you been waiting?"

She shrugged her face a picture of innocence. "Since I got home."

"You should be glad John doesn't pop in for night visits."

"Oh, he did, but I was dressed then." She turned back to her book, not giving him the slightest bit of her attention.

He must be delirious with sleeplessness. Molly usually had coffee or tea with little cakes and toast for him when he was working on long, arduous cases (which he thanked her for with a show of skin or a weekend without leaving the bedroom depending on the case). There was nothing of the sort. The kitchen was dark and there was no slight aroma of food or drink. Just Molly, semi-naked, reading.

"I think I'm…I'm going to go to sleep."

"It's only two."

"I've been working all week, I'm tired."

"Are you admitting defeat, Sherlock?"

He thought a moment. "Yes."

"Oh. Then goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, Molly," he called as he slunk off into their bedroom. He would take the shower, actually, he had been running around London all day; god knows what stuck to his skin. It might wake him up, but he'd take his chances. Doing laundry was the bane of his existence.

The shower made it worse.

The hot water was too calming and inviting. He stared dazed at the drain for ten minutes before scrubbing his hair. He didn't remember body wash, but figured it must have happened somehow, as he wasn't holding a soapy loofa a moment ago. It wasn't even his—it was purple. Definitely Molly's.

He emerged from the steamed-up room in pajamas, mind hazy and body cripplingly hungry. The bed was looking fabulously inviting, but he had a persistent question—

"Molly?"

"Yes?" came the response from the living room.

"What…what exactly are you doing?" he asked, stumbling through the doorway.

"Can't deduce it yourself?"

"I'm exhausted. Humor me, please."

"I was waiting for you to come home, whisk me away to the bed, and make love to me until we fell asleep. But you've chosen to sleep now, so I'm finishing this chapter and coming to bed."

"How was I to know that?"

"You're Sherlock, this is your favorite outfit," she said, gesturing to her skimpy choice of clothing. "I even added the glasses—well, I need them to read, but I thought you wouldn't be out very long so I only recently got the book."

"I'm—sorry. I'm not thinking straight right now."

"I figured. Go to sleep, I'll join in a few minutes."

"But the bed's cold."

"Go warm it."

"No."

She bit her lip, the white of her teeth emphasized by the red of her lipstick—that had now (obviously) gone to waste on him. "I'll come now if you carry me."

"I don't think I can pick you up at the moment."

The smile of the devil reappeared on her face. "Then you can wait."

Sherlock groaned. He was tired. He was cold. He wanted to sleep. His muscles were screaming at him for standing. "Please?"

"Please what?"

He sighed and crossed the room to her, bending to kiss her forehead. "Please, Molly dearest. I'm freezing; you're warm. I'm wasting all my energy begging you right now."

Molly calmly set down her book and removed her glasses. "All right."

"All right?"

"Yes, all right. Move so I can stand." He scooted out of her way as she stood, stretched her arms, and yawned, leading him to their room. "I've been on that chair for ages, it's so uncomfortable. There's half a back. Do you know how bad that is for your spine?"

"Tell me about it in the morning, doctor."

"I will gladly tell you about that in the morning. I will tell you about it until you buy a new one," she complained, sitting him down on the bed. "I'm going to change out of this, then. Please don't look?"

"Molly, I've seen you nude an innumerable amount of times."

"I know, I just don't like people watching me change. It makes me feel vulnerable." She went to her drawers in the dresser, pulling out a pair of pajama pants and a thin camisole.

"I still don't understand how you have this complete…divide in sleepwear. One side is elegant and seductive, the other is…unappealing."

"I said don't look!"

"I'm just making a comment!"

"I like being comfortable sometimes, okay?"

"Fine."

Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn't watch her out of the corner of his eye, the slow curve of her back shifting as she wriggled out of her bra and slipped the cami over her head. "You're looking."

"Am not."

She whipped her head around, watching as he looked away. "You were. Sherlock!"

"Your back is nice."

"Not an excuse."

"You look very beautiful tonight."

"I always look beautiful, whether you notice or not."

"I always notice."

She laughed as she walked around the bed, sliding in beside him. "That's right, you always observe."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her small, warm frame towards him. "I just don't always say anything. But…erm, the…the flirting you were doing—"

"You mean that I wasn't doing."

"No, that. Do that more."

"May I ask why?"

"I like. It's…different."

"You only like it because it's different," she said, kissing him. "Always want a challenge, and my disinterest is a challenge, is it?"

"Like I said, it's different." He leaned in to peck her on the lips, holding her warmth tighter to himself.

"I vote you find a new word."

"I vote I go to sleep before I suffer from extreme exhaustion."

"I'll let you go to sleep if you devote this entire coming weekend to me."

"The entire thing?"

"All of it. Or I'll keep you up."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

She swung one leg around his waist, no doubt making a suggestive face at him. He wouldn't know—his eyes were closed.

"The entire weekend is yours. Now let me sleep."

"You'll make me breakfast, won't you?"

"Sleep, Molly."


A/N: hhhhhhhhhhhhhahahahahhahahhha this is not what you had in mind at all