A/N: I'm going to post some of the things I've posted on tumblr here, and future ones as well.

Prompt by Ceaselesslyinlove: A drunk Sherlock kisses Molly. Embarrassment ensues in the morning.


A wreath over the fireplace was fine. After all, it belonged to Mrs Hudson, and had been yearly brought up by John during the celebrations at Baker Street. However, with Mary mixed into the celebration there was mistletoe hanging above the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room.

This too was fine - if one were to overlook the other artefacts of a less quality brand occupying the space, which Mary had brought in to his protest and John's amusement.

Neither of the pair lived there, yet they still disturbed his peace, as Mary had tidied up the kitchen, before using his space to start cooking what smelt – despite his better judgement – excellent.

He was not particularly fond of Christmas, as his own childhood memories of it were not exactly ones worthy of remembering. Sherlock did not reflect too long on the intrusion done by the married couple, occupying himself with his violin, as Mary had requested some music.

He would rather she did not play anything from her iPod. He did not exactly trust her taste, as the glaring Santa Claus she'd brought in, had finally been subdued when he pulled the plug from the ghastly thing (even John looked grateful).

Playing for what had been approximately two hours, listening to the lowered voices of Mary and John in the kitchen, the pair of them debating something furiously had been annoying, but he knew there was a topic that both wanted to bring up.

John finally cornered him, a drink in his hand, "Sherlock?" he said, clearing his throat, obviously trying to postpone his speech.

He paused the bow at the strings, letting the violin soon hang at his side, "John?" There was apparent hesitation in his friends face; clearly he was under pressure from his wife.

"Just – err – could you play nice – tonight?"

With furrowed brows he stared at John, his blue eyes dropping to the instrument before him, "I've never had a complaint before."

John snorted, "Not the violin – I mean – just – could you not be an -,"

"Arse?" piped Mary loudly from the kitchen, as she put her roast in the oven.

He stared at John, then Mary, before scoffing, "I think those who are coming are more than familiar with my behaviour."

"Well – we've had two quite normal Christmases – and I'd just like you to tone it down a bit-,"

"Don't act like an arse towards Molly," said Mary who came strolling out of the kitchen with a glass of red in her hand.

"Fine," he said briefly, his hand hovering over the strings of the violin again.

Mary seemed pleased by this, occupying one of the chairs, while John still hovered before him, "What?" he said, trying not to sound aggravated, though by the annoyed expression on John's face it had the opposite effect.

"Try to be normal, will you? She helped you, after all."

"I will be on my best behaviour," said Sherlock with a quick smile, that he dropped, and which did not make John look a bit more pleased.

"John, will you relax? It'll be fine – Molly knows what she signed up for after all. You don't need to protect her," said Mary with a sigh, "We just want you to not – make any observations about her…breasts…that's all."

Sherlock put the violin aside, "Well – I-," he had started, only to be interrupted by Mary's blurt of, "I didn't know you noticed that sort of thing, it's a bit odd…" She proceeded to look down at her own blouse, "Have you-,"

"No," he said without looking.

"Right," said John rubbing at his eyes, "Just be normal, and we'll have a nice evening."

"I suppose your definition of normal would be to drink, then?" said Sherlock, seeing the small bit of hurt appear in John's eyes.

He knew Harry had failed her recent attempt of sobering, though he did not anticipate John to retaliate by storming into the kitchen fetching a large bottle of whiskey.

"Drink up, then," he said annoyed.


Stepping into 221b Baker Street threw her back to the last Christmas she'd spent there, and it hadn't been a particularly happy memory. Excluding the soft feel of Sherlock's lips on her cheek, not that it hadn't stopped her from being a complete mess when she'd gotten to her flat, which she supposed was why the day after had been particularly harrowing.

There on a slab had been a woman who he seemed more interested in dead, than her ever alive, "Getting our Christma-," she started, when she'd gotten helped out of her coat, only catching Sherlock sat in one of the chairs looking very – grim.

"Oh…" she started, swiftly brought into conversation with Mary and John, both of whom were avoiding looking into Sherlock's general direction.

"Is he alright?" asked Lestrade out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the consulting detective who seemed to be mesmerized by the fire.

"He's just had a bit too much to drink," said Mrs Hudson with a wave of her hand, "Sherlock – will you play something for us?"

Silence fell over the party, everyone's eyes turning towards him, as he briefly gave a nod of his head standing on shaky feet, "Yes – of course," he said sounding rather distracted.

"John – maybe we should-," said Mary with a grimace.

"He'll be fine," he said.

Molly's brown eyes turned towards Sherlock who's bow was hovering over the strings over his violin, his blue eyes fixed on them, "Shall I?" he said softly.

"Yeah."

"Cheers."

"Lovely."

"Ok…" she said softly, clutching the drink she'd gotten from Mary, standing awkwardly in the sitting room. She wasn't wearing a dress this year, no; it was only a simple festive jumper and a pair of dark trousers. Molly didn't quite see the point of dressing up; neither had she wanted to, despite her presents.

They'd started to get along a bit better recently, and she supposed it had to do with the fact that he'd been dead for two years. Though, she hadn't seen him like this before, for when he did start to play it was erratic, and it was no tune that was worthy of being joyful.

Instead it was dark, tugging at the strings of her heart, more than anything, but she seemed to be the only one moved. Everyone else was awkward in their seats, eyeing each other, as she stared raptly at the man's half-shut eyes.

He looked different, though she suspected the alcohol had taken its toll, for everyone else were staring at him warily, like he'd snap any second. She'd never really heard him play, missing out that year.

Sherlock seemed relaxed, the crease between his brows of concentration, as he continued – he seemed at ease with the instrument between his hands.

Nothing wrong would come of this; it was only music, and not words that would ruin her evening.

His eyes opened, staring first into nothing, until they rested on her face. She let her eyes drop for a second, returning them slowly upwards to see that they were still on her. Blinking foolishly in return, she tried to calm the slow build-up of red in her cheeks.

Molly had forgotten her drink, letting it stay idle in her hands, as she freely stared at him in return. She had tried for a long time not to appear silly before him, at least not infatuated, but tonight she couldn't help herself really.

The music stopped.

His hand was gripping at the violin tightly, his knuckles white, the expression on his face confused, his eyes avoiding theirs, as he said, "I apologise."

"Oh, don't stop!" said Mrs Hudson teary-eyed, but he strode off through the kitchen, soon walking off to his bedroom, the resounding slam of the door audible to them all.

"Shit," said John with a frown, "I'll go, then."

Molly was surprised when she suddenly heard, "No, I'll just-," it was her own words, "Go."

She felt stupid the second she went, ignoring everyone's amazed looks, as she sprang off to his bedroom.

Giving to knocking ever so hesitantly, she heard the muffled, "Go away, John."

"It's me – Molly."

The door opened at that, causing her to take a step backwards, as he looked down on her.

She opened her mouth, soon shutting it, before she finally managed to say, "Are you okay?"

He stepped away from the door, and walked into his bedroom with uncertain feet, "Apparently not."

Molly walked in slowly, trying not to eye his room all-too curiously, "Um, that was – lovely – you should play some more…"

"Meditation," he blurted out, his back to hers.

"Sorry?"

He turned around, staring at her, "I was meditating on a pair of fine brown eyes." The way he said it, certainly caught her off guard, for his expression was muddled – that particularly line was underlined in her old copy, of course – Pride and Prejudice.

Sherlock did not go on, at first she wasn't entirely certain what to say, but she found her words in the end.

"Sherlock?" she said with a frown, "Are you making fun of me?"

He'd seen the book, of course he would, and she felt sillier than usual for being fond of it. Of course it would be a memorable evening, one of those evenings she'd find herself sobbing loudly in her bedroom, "No," he whispered, breaking her reverie, when he shut the door behind her.

She became aware of how unsettlingly close he was, of how he stared down at her, his blue eyes flickering over her face, "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

Next thing she knew his mouth was on hers, clumsily at first, passionate the next, as his hands wrapped around her waist.

She did not know what to do with her hands.

To be fair she did not know what to do full stop.

He tasted darkly of whiskey, of faded cigarettes; as his mouth coaxed hers open. Her back was pressed into the door, the woodwork pushing at her, while his firm body held her in place.

She let her hands stay on his warm chest, trying not to think, though it wasn't very hard. A deep moan left his throat, his hands pressing into her more persistently, with more longing than she knew he ever owned.

Molly didn't know what to think, what to do, feeling like she was being swallowed up by his very existence.

It was close to drowning…

The burning touch of his fingers that were hurriedly tugging at her clothes, awakening the little voice in her head – "No."

She'd said it out loud, drawing herself away from his lips, and finding the same chaotic expression mirrored in his eyes, "I've – I've got to go."

Molly tore her coat on after that, leaving her gifts, leaving the puzzled stares of the others, as she ran out of Baker Street, with no intention of returning.


"Hello," she said.

There he was by the microscope, as usual. She had never expected him to be there really, as it was still the holidays, and London was always eerily quiet during those. Molly was only taking over someone's shift, because she couldn't stand the idea to be left alone with her thoughts. Obviously she would have to reflect over last night's incident after all.

"Molly," he said without looking up.

She pressed her lips together, quickly trying to get her results, so she wouldn't need to be in his presence any longer, "I'm sorry."

She stopped in her track, letting her eyes stay on him, "It's alright – you – you weren't you, after all."

She laughed, too long maybe, for he looked absolutely at a loss, and she wondered if he'd forgotten.

"Oh, God – you don't – you don't remember?" she let out without thought, her hand leaping off to her forehead in embarrassment, "Of course you wouldn't-,"

He was about to open his mouth, though she went on, "It's alright – we can forget about it, it meant nothing to you of course, and everyone said you were pissed, so – it's okay, so, I'll just-," she pointed towards her papers, soon plucking up her samples, as she started to walk off.

"I never drank."

She whirled around, "What?"

He was standing now.

"John only thought I had – it's amazing what you can do with any regular kitchen item if you have it at your disposal."

She was gaping, "But-,"

"I only had one…I do manage to keep my drink, after all…They were all so worried I'd embarrass you," he said walking towards her.

She fidgeted with her papers, staring at him, "Then-,"

"Mary asked me a rather good question – why would I be aware of the size of any woman's breast?" His eyebrow was raised, so were hers, as she swiftly shut her mouth to appear less foolish, "Or her weight? Or the length of her hair-," his hand was toying with the end of her ponytail, a flush appearing in her cheeks, as his fingertips stroked the strands, "Or her favourite book? Or the way she takes her coffee?"

"You – you know everything about John."

He smiled briefly at that, "I know it, because I need to know it – I have never required any of my information about you."

"Oh – but you…kissed me."

He released her hair, his fingers idly brushing her shoulder, "I suppose a coffee would be good - first, then?"

She didn't know how long she looked at him, in disbelief, in longing. No, she didn't know, though her lips curved upwards as she said, "Black with three sugars," before she walked off, with him soon at her heels.