Well… how about the SECOND time Sherlock winds up in the locker room? Un-betaed, so do forgive any mistakes.

"Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" ~ Doris Day

"Habanera" ~ Carmen


Molly Hooper ran her fingers under the collar of her lab coat, tugging with frustration at the coarse fabric. There was nothing more tedious than breaking in a new lab coat. She had already washed it once with copious amounts of fabric softener, obviously to no avail. She couldn't wait to take the thing off.

Nodding politely to the janitor as she passed him in the quiet hall, she made quickly for the locker room. The door opened with a groan and she flipped the light on in the empty room, sighing. Last one gone, as usual, no thanks to a morning visit from the consulting detective himself that had pushed her schedule back at least an hour.

It had been six months since his return from the dead and Molly had been able to breathe easier, no longer harboring his secret. The two years between seeing him disappear from the morgue after his fall and seeing his reflection in the locker mirror had been the longest of her life. Her initial reaction had been to step straight over the bench and wrap her arms around him. He let her, and the tentative hands placed on her back thrilled her only for a moment before she stepped back and half-heartedly shoved at his chest.

"Not even a single word," she'd chastised.

"I couldn't and you know better than anyone why," he'd said firmly, giving her an all over look, observing. "You're all right?"

She had nodded.

"All the better knowing you are," she whispered.

"Very glad to hear it."

The tenderness with which he had spoken and the way he seemed to forget himself for a moment, drawing his fingers nearly indulgently along the braid of her hair, had caused her heart to flip against her will.

Their relationship had gone back to normal fairly quickly, which was much more than she could say for his relationship with anyone else.

It took time, but here they all were, solving England's more curious cases again.

Molly turned the face of her lock, entering her well-worn combination, and pulled it open. Immediately reaching for her phone, she took advantage of the absence of co-workers and set her music playing in the quiet space. She smiled as the soulful strains filled the air, relishing the feeling of being able to rip the sand paper coat from her shoulders. With a bit of a flourish, she let the coat drop down her arms and to the floor, bending to pick the garment and hang it with a wrinkle of her nose in the back of her locker. She eyed the change of clothes waiting for her, excited to be heading out for an evening of drinks with Mary.

Starting to let the music influence her, she toed off her loafers and unfastened her trousers to shimmy out of them, kicking them to the side and grabbing the blue jeans in the locker. She stepped into them one foot at a time, hopping to pull them up and swaying and humming a bit as she zipped and buttoned. Finding it too tempting to resist, Molly tugged her shirt over her head and swung it about over her head before tossing it happily into the locker, pretending for a moment that she had the bearing of a dancer.

Sherlock strode down the hall of St. Bart's with determination, his Belstaff billowing behind him. He had always enjoyed this time of night in the pathology department – no one around. If he had judged everything properly, he would catch Molly exactly at the end of her day and the items needed for his experiment would be in his possession quickly. He pushed at the door to the lab and stopped short when he saw the older, balding man sitting at the workstation. His lip curled in displeasure as the man looked up at him.

"Dewston," Sherlock greeted reluctantly.

"Holmes," the older man replied around a mouthful of ham sandwich.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched as he took in the mustard staining the corners of his mouth and the bag of greasy crisps and large soda sitting nearby. Eating his feelings again, Sherlock mused.

"If you're looking for Hooper, she's done for the day," Dewston informed him as he returned his focus to an agar dish in front of him. Sherlock nodded and offered a final disdaining glance.

"Honestly, Dewston, keeping food around corpse samples," he tutted as he swept out of the room.

There was one logical place to try looking before he resorted to insistent texting. He smirked a bit as he made his way towards the women's locker room. He'd done it before – where was the harm in one more intrusion? She had shoved him last time; there was no certainty that he wouldn't sustain another rebuke. Then again, she had also hugged him – a much more agreeable reaction.

He glanced about when he reached the door, finding the coast to be very clear.

His hand stilled on the door and he paused, listening. His curiosity got the better of him at the sound of the music and he gently pushed at the door, slipping silently into the room just in time to see Molly rip her shirt over her head with more than a bit of grandiosity. If he had been a more common man, sent into fits of embarrassment at the sight of the human body, he most likely would have lowered his gaze and made his presence known. As it was, he was not in the least embarrassed or bothered and he had an experiment that needed finishing. He could wait.

Quite intrigued, he watched as Molly pulled a pink shirt from the locker and slipped it from the hanger. His eyes split focus between the shirt and the oddly captivating expanse of skin exposed to him. She pulled the shirt over her head, her hips swiveling slightly to the music as the loose fabric fell over the smooth skin of her back. A quick hand under her ponytail released her hair from under the shirt.

It was when she reached into the locker to retrieve a pair of black heels, steadying herself with one hand while she bent to put the shoes on with the other, that he began to reassess his previous feeling of being… not bothered.

It wasn't an entirely unwelcome revelation.

Unfortunately, he didn't have time to properly explore the feeling. She straightened and looked straight into the mirror to polish her appearance.

Molly spun around, flattening her body against the locker next to her own, gulping for the air that had fled her lungs. In seconds, her surprise gave way to exasperation and she ran a still-shaking hand over her face, pushing away a few strands of hair that had escaped as they caught on the fabric of her shirt.

"How. Long. Have you been standing there," she demanded.

"Long enough for you to have earned the blush on your face," he replied cheekily. When her only response was a pair of narrowed eyes, he switched gears to the reason behind his visit. "The foot you gave me liquefied before I had a chance to finish my experiment. I'll need another."

"I'll have it to you by tomorrow night," she replied tersely. Sherlock nodded and turned to leave the locker room. Molly was about to pry herself off of the locker when he suddenly stopped and turned an assessing eye on her again.

"Do you do that often?"

She took in a calming breath and tried not to roll her eyes.

"Only when I'm the last one here," she said through gritted teeth, not bothering to lie, as he would see right through it anyway.

"Hm. Should have started following you in here a long time ago."

The door swung open and shut abruptly, leaving her gaping and wide eyed.

Sherlock spent an insufferable morning sifting through requests on his website for his expertise and an equally boring afternoon with John accompanying Lestrade to a crime scene he had solved in a few short hours. Fire set at a family owned fish and chips shop, the wife had obviously done it for the insurance money. They had all walked away smelling like fried oil. Returning alone to Baker Street, he could only hope for the delivery of the specimen that would make the day not entirely wasted.

He shed his jacket immediately, dropping it in a heap on the floor before taking a good whiff of his shirt. Nothing for it but a change of clothes. His hand ran across his cheek as he walked into his room, deciding that a shave was in order as well; he hated the feeling of stubble.

Once in the bathroom, he pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and placed it on the counter. He paused.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy listening to music. On the contrary, he enjoyed it very much. It was simply that he usually preferred to be in control of the instrument and the tune.

Molly had looked to quite enjoy the stimulation.

He eyed the phone with some trepidation. Limited selection, but he knew it was all to his liking.

Strains of Bizet echoed in the bathroom as he methodically removed each article of clothing, starting with his shoes. By the time he reached the buttons of his shirt, he felt his movements growing rather regal to match the staccato composition. If he removed the shirt with a bit of a flare, he would never admit it. Standing before the sink in his pants, he reached for the door of the medicine cabinet to retrieve his shaving kit, plunking each item onto the counter to the beat of the aria.

He swung the medicine cabinet shut and promptly reached down to grip the side of the sink at the sight of the figure standing behind him in the mirror. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to one side as he took in a deep breath, trying hard not to give her the satisfaction of seeing how unnerved he was. Opening his eyes, he saw the reflection of her smug smirk.

"I brought you your foot," Molly said, altogether too delighted by herself as she leaned against the door frame.

"And you decided to stay for tea?" he asked snappishly.

"No, I decided to stay for payback," she laughed lightly. "Absolutely bloody worth it."

The smile gradually fell from her face as he suddenly found his opportunity to regain the upper hand. Turning around, smooth as cream, he crossed the small space and raised a hand to gently place his fingers on the warm skin below her jaw. He was close enough to her to see the gooseflesh rise on her arms, but kept a necessary inch or so between them. Fortunately for him, her eyes were trained on his and nowhere else.

Molly's fault with him was always going stupidly rigid whenever he came within a foot of her body and this moment was no exception. The tingling that rippled under her skin as he touched her was the least of her reactions.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she asked quietly, suddenly not finding the situation quite so funny anymore.

"Proving a point," he said, his voice unusually low.

"Which is?"

"I should have kept following you into the locker room a long time ago," he told her, watching his fingers lift with the thrum of her heart. "Your pulse is racing."

Molly swallowed hard and watched his reaction carefully as she brought a hand to his stomach, sliding it up to rest almost possessively over his sternum, feeling his muscles contract at her touch.

"So's yours," she murmured.

When she saw his lips part and his gaze drop blatantly to her mouth, she seized her moment as brazenly as she'd ever done anything in her life. Sliding her hand to the back of his neck, she pulled him down to her and nearly lost her mind at the feeling of his lips on hers. There was no hesitation in the way he responded to her, pinning her between his body and the door frame and kissing her breathless. She became acutely aware of their unbalanced state of dress, her arms winding happily around his bare torso and biting back a gasp as he pressed his hips into hers.

There went the office speculation that he was a resolute cold fish.

Any other man and she would have been pulling the emergency break on the situation as he began guiding her to the bed just a few steps away.

But this was Sherlock fucking Holmes and she had waited too long to start listening to the good girl's guide to dating in a moment like this; although, she was entitled to some clarification.


"What?" he asked shortly, making quick work of her jumper and undershirt.

"This is not going to be the only time," she stated, leaving no room for misinterpretation in her meaning. She felt the small laugh and his smile against the skin of her neck.

"Obviously, Molly," he replied, eliciting a whimper from her as he ran his hands up her sides and brushed lightly at the curve of her breasts. "Why on earth would it be?"

She held onto him as they toppled onto the bed, his mouth dipping to her collar bone and trailing kisses across her chest.


"Mmm?" she hummed, fisting her hands into his hair as he made his way further down her ribcage.

"I don't like the term 'boyfriend.'"

"Too bad," she gasped, succumbing to his ministrations while he chuckled deeply.

In moments they were a tangle of limbs, hands, and mouths, gripping and writhing as a condom package was ripped open and names were moaned and cried over and over. Molly wasn't entirely sure she didn't see stars for a few seconds and she knew for certain that it was the only time she had ever seen Sherlock at a loss for words.

Breath almost caught, he rolled off of her and dragged a hand across his forehead to slick back the damp curls. Molly rolled to her stomach next to him and watched him with appreciation. He caught her small grin and looked at her curiously.

"I s'pose you could be my consulting lover instead of boyfriend," she teased, her smile increasing when she saw his mouth turn up in an amused smirk. "Or my locker room lover."

"Not unless you want to find yourself explaining to the Bart's staff why you're suddenly becoming locked in the locker room at random times," he threatened good-naturedly. Molly laughed as he moved to roll her onto her back, bringing his mouth back to hers.

"And who says I wouldn't enjoy that, Mr. Holmes?" she murmured against his lips.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this quite a lot.

So, I realized as I was writing this: locker room. LOCKer room. Maybe I'm just fangirling too much over that teaser/trailer, but come ON! Moffat and Gatiss, the kings of hidden clues and word play, it can't just be a random choice for that scene when we've never seen even a hint of that room before. Someone tell me I'm not crazy.