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Sherlock cocks his head, examining the body in front of him with a practiced eye. His eyebrows are pressed together and confusion is plain on his narrow face. Beside him, Molly does her best to keep quiet despite the questions burning in her throat. Eventually, Sherlock leans away from the corpse and hums softly.
“I’m not sure how the victim would have been struck here,” he remarks, gesturing at the bloodied left temple of the man on the slab. “If he was in the position alleged by the suspect. I’m not entirely clear on how that position would be manageable anyway.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Molly muses, a small blush creeping across her smile. “We’ve all done weird things in bed.”
“Have we?”
Molly peers up at Sherlock with a playful grin. “Maybe not all of us,” she concedes.
Sherlock hums a disgruntled acknowledgement but otherwise remains quiet, stepping around the body as if he’s trying to recreate a scene he can’t quite imagine. “There’s something missing,” he finally decides.
“Yes,” Molly responds as she examines the medical chart. “The murder weapon. The suspect said it was her shoe.”
Sherlock scoffs and pulls himself straight, turning back to look incredulously at Molly. “Do you really think that’s possible? This wound required tremendous force.”
“More tremendous than a kick in high-heels?”
He moves to stand beside her again, peering over her shoulder at the chart and the pictures of the shoes the suspect claims to have been wearing at the time of the victim’s death. “Do people even really do that?” he asks quietly, skimming the woman’s testimony. He can’t quite seem to push away his own prejudice at terms like 69 and fellatio.
“Of course they do,” Molly laughs, blushing again. “Not all people. Some don’t like it. But it’s not that unusual.”
Turning his head this way and that, Sherlock tries to picture what the scene would have had to entail for the murder to be possible. Eventually, he gives up, shaking his head and turning to Molly with a resigned expression. He inhales slowly as her eyes search his face, looking for some explanation for the sudden change in his demeanor.
“You’re about five-three, right, Molly?” he asks carefully.
“Yes…. What’re you on about?”
“The victim,” he gestures again at the man, who would probably be uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation were he not dead. “Is about my height and the suspect is about yours….”
Molly sighs, and crosses her arms over the clipboard against her chest. “Get it out, Sherlock. What’re you trying to say?”
“I think that the best way to establish whether or not the suspect’s account is possible is through a reenactment. We’re both built similarly to the suspect and victim, so variations in weight and body type won’t impact the situation much. I think it would help the case,” he finishes lamely.
It’s Molly’s turn to look incredulous and she does so impeccably. With wide eyes and a small, surprised mouth, she stares at Sherlock for a long moment. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Sherlock nods awkwardly. “It’d be the most expedient. You and I are both familiar with the mechanics of crime scene reenactments-“
“And sex?”
“-and it would take less time for us to do it ourselves than to find others who fit the victim’s builds.” He raises an eyebrow, wondering at her interjection. “Molly, you know I’m not….”
“Yes,” she laughs. “I know. Let’s do it then.”
He smiles shyly, grateful she didn’t put up more of a fight, and holds out a hand for the clipboard again. “So we have to sort out whether the victim could have been killed from a blow to the head from the suspect’s shoe during an act of… sixty-nining.”
“And if it doesn’t seem likely, we’ll have to see if it could be done another way,” Molly adds. “She might’ve struck the blow with an object in her hand and denied it when the cops asked her.”
Sherlock blinks, his mouth parting slightly. “Yes,” he finally responds. “Yes, that’s a good idea.” He glances around the room as Molly throws a sheet over the victim’s face. “It’s a bit odd,” he says, “but perhaps we could just use the next slab?”
Molly eyes it warily. “It’s a bit narrow. Would hate to fall off.”
He nods and steps back, considering the floor. Molly shakes her head; evidently knowing the details of what happens in the lab is enough to convince her it’s not a place she wants to lie on the floor. “Maybe one of the desks? I can get the tools off. Probably cleaner than anything else in here.”
“Is that of particular concern?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Fair. Alright, the desk then. Is there some sort of sheet or something to lay over it? It’s rather cold.”
Molly nods and they separate to prepare the scene. Sherlock does his part by removing the variety of notes, books, papers, and tools along the desk’s surface, and Molly retrieves several sheets to provide cushioning and protection from the cold metal surface.
“Do be careful not to actually kill me,” he remarks as he climbs on top of the desk and lies on his back.
“I don’t have stilettos,” she laughs, “I think it’ll be okay.” He eyes her heavy work shoes warily but doesn’t argue.
“So?”
“So, how do I…?”
He shoots her a cheeky grimace. “Come now, Molly, you can’t choose this moment to be uncomfortable. You said you’ve done this before? Go on then.”
She glares at him for a moment before slapping the clipboard down on the table beside them and using the bottom shelf of the desk as a stepstool. Careful not to kick him, although she suddenly thinks it might be amusing, she swings one leg over his torso and sits up on her knees, facing towards his legs.
“We’re going to have to do something about this,” he splutters, swatting the tails of her lab coat out of his face.
“Oh, sorry.” She unbuttons the coat and pulls off her sleeves, throwing it onto the other table. Sherlock places a hand on her low back as she leans over and the contact makes her more wobbly than the odd angle did.
He removes his hand when she’s centered again. “Alright. So how would they have…?”
“I think,” she contemplates, “that her feet wouldn’t have been able to reach the victim’s head. Look where mine are now, and I’m not even in the right place.”
“Well, get in the right place. I think that’s the best place to start.”
Molly sighs and brushes a defiant strand of hair out of her face. “Sherlock, I don’t know that you really want that,” she grumbles. “I’m trying to keep my weight off you but that’d be very close.”
“We have to figure out what it would’ve looked like to know whether it’s possible.”
Realization slides over Molly and she turns her torso to look back at Sherlock. His eyes are already fixed on her face as she turns and she puts a steadying hand on his stomach. "Sherlock,” she asks slowly. “Do you know what ‘sixty-nining’ means?”
It’s his turn to blush and a hot crimson tones his neck and face. His eyes darken suspiciously. “I know basically what it is. Are there details I should be aware of?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, trying not to laugh. “Well, how about you do some quick calculations and some math to figure out whether my legs are really long enough to keep this from being uncomfortable, and where our various body parts will be.”
He is silent for a moment, keeping his eyes on her face before reluctantly scanning what he can see of his own body and hers. His mouth twitches and he finally settles his eyes anywhere else in the room but her face. “Oh,” he breathes. “I see. If you’re not comfortable….”
She wants to laugh. She wants to burst into a fit of giggles at the unlikeliness of this situation. A smirk crosses her face but otherwise she maintains her composure. “No,” she decides. “It’s fine. We have to figure it out. Take off your suit jacket.”
“What?”
“Your suit jacket. There’s no way you’ll be able to move comfortably in it and the victim was supposedly leaned up around the suspect,” she reasons. “Sherlock? Don’t be awkward. It’s for a case and I know you can be rational. I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable.”
He blushes again, surprised at her words, and then nods solemnly. “Right,” he agrees, setting his expression into something more focused. “Thank you, Molly.” She turns back to face away from him with a small gasp as he leans up behind her. He places his hands on the table to prop himself but his stomach presses firmly against her back and she scoots forward carefully, doing her best to hold up her own weight still and trying desperately not to think of what she might sit on if she dared.
The sound of his jacket hitting the floor a moment later tells her he’s finished, but he doesn’t lay back down. “What’re you doing?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at his careful blue eyes.
“Thinking,” he responds, his breath warm against her shoulder.
“About?”
“What sort of marks would be on the victim and suspect. You said the victim was allegedly leaned up against the suspect, right?”
“Yeah, but not like that.” She turns and presses a hand against his shoulder and he lies down again. “She wouldn’t have been sitting where I am, she’d’ve been up by his chest so he could…y’know.”
Without waiting for her to continue, Sherlock places hands on either side of Molly’s hips and lifts carefully, pulling her backwards. A small chirp escapes her lips and she leans forward naturally to try to catch herself. Her hands land on his stomach again and she’s surprised to find hard muscles tensed neatly beneath his skin. She tries futilely to keep her weight off his chest but finds that her legs aren’t long enough to reach the table on either side of him.
“You’re fine, Molly, do calm down,” he remarks calmly. She’s hesitant to look back, horrified to imagine that she’s sitting atop the great Sherlock Holmes. “How would he lean up like this? I couldn’t possibly.”
She closes her eyes and crawls onto her hands and knees so she’s hovering above his torso. She tips her head down to find his eyes underneath her eyes but finds that her loose jumper has gotten in the way. “Hold on,” she grumbles, sitting up and yanking it off over her head. She adds it to the growing heap on the floor and adjusts her tank top before returning to her last position. “So if she was up like this, could he have leaned forward?”
Sherlock grabs around her hips again and slides her back to where the victim must’ve been in order to…well. He cocks an eyebrow, politely keeping his eyes focused on hers. “I could, but I think we’ll leave it at that. Suffice to say I wouldn’t be able to get clear of your backside.” One hand remains on her stomach, lifting her gently away from his face so as to avoid contact with anything inappropriate.
She nods, her mind whirring. As awkward and tense as their physical situation is, there is a case to be solved and her thoughts settle firmly on solving it. “Right,” she acknowledges. “Where’s my foot compared to your head?”
Sherlock turns his head and glances up at her leg. “Too high,” he decides. “Maybe in heels? I don’t think she could’ve kicked him this way.” His neck is tight and his face is oddly blank. She worries for a moment that the effort of holding her mostly aloft is too much a strain on him.
She turns her attention to the rest of Sherlock’s body, extending above her head, and wonders at his height. “What would they do?” he muses aloud. “What do real people do? Molly, are you at a sufficient angle?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, considering our height differences—their height differences—it seems unlikely that they both could have performed at the same time. What if you were further down?”
She turns her attention to the bit of his torso directly below her face and realizes with a grimace that he’s right. His belt is just at eye-level, leaving a small stretch of his stomach at reachable distance from her mouth. Bracing herself carefully, she scoots forward awkwardly. The movement is more difficult this way since she can’t sit up to aid herself, but she manages with the help of Sherlock’s hands against the back of her thighs.
Despite herself, she laughs quietly. “What would John think?” she mutters.
“What was that?”
“No, nothing.” She relaxes slightly, much more comfortable since she’s clear of most of Sherlock’s chest.
Her legs are more comfortably spread around the narrower part of his torso and she’s able to hold herself up further away from anything compromising. She keeps her eyes away from the front of his pants, for which Sherlock is particularly grateful. Despite his aim to be rational, he can’t entirely control his body’s physical reactions to such contact.
“Are you good?” he asks softly. The double question in his voice is clear and Molly smiles gently.
“Yes,” she responds. “What about now?” She gently tosses her left foot and wobbles a bit when she makes contact with something solid and Sherlock catches her ankle in one hand.
“You’re quite in place to kick me,” he mutters angrily.
She arches her back and glances over her shoulder, frowning when she sees the ugly red patch in Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She pulls her hands up and reaches back to offer some sort of help, turning so that one of her legs comes slightly up over his.
“It’s fine,” he responds. “Go back and see if you could kick with any force.”
“I don’t want to kick you!”
“You won’t,” he promises.
Molly returns to her hands and knees and is surprised to feel Sherlock untying and removing her shoe. “Sherlock! I’ve been on my feet all day, those socks can’t smell good.”
“Please, Molly. You always smell lovely.”
“My feet don’t!”
“All of you does.”
Silence stretches between them for a moment until Sherlock suddenly puts his arms on her sides and pulls himself into as much of a seated position as he can manage. With her backside pressed against his chest, Molly suddenly is quite certain that this was not a good idea. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” she groans.
“Kick where my head should be if I was laying down,” he instructs. She does as he asks but only manages one good swing before the door to the lab swings open.
“Right, so what’ve my geniuses got for me toda—“ Greg Lestrade steps through the door with a happy smile bumbling around his face. “Well,” he remarks, catching sight of the reenactment. “This is unexpected. Well, not very unexpected I suppose.”
“No, this isn’t what it looks like,” Molly announces as she scrambles forward, blushing ferociously. Unfortunately, Sherlock still has his hands on her hips and attempts to lift her off of him at the same time. The result is a firm kick in the face and Molly’s first bloody nose. Tears spring to her eyes unwittingly and she clutches her face in pain.
“Dear God, Sherlock,” Lestrade shouts, trying not to laugh.
Properly extricating himself, Sherlock wraps his arms around Molly in an apologetic hug. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
Whatever joke Lestrade was about to make stops as he watches. Carefully and very gently, Sherlock examines what must surely be a broken nose, his hands placed on either side of Molly’s small face. Tears still pour from her eyes and her mouth is turned into a sharp grimace but there’s something soft in the way she looks at him. Seated on the desk with Sherlock leaning forward between her legs, she looks like a small child and the innocence between them is heartwarming. Without a word, he backs out of the room.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks, peering closely at Molly’s small face.
She starts to laugh but the effort hurts and she winces instead. “I think so,” she decides, pulling her hand away from her nose. The bloody mess spread across her mouth and chin makes Sherlock draw back with a gasp.
“I’m so sorry,” he responds, placing his forehead against hers. “Let’s get you to a doctor. John might be able to help.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You really want to explain it to John? ‘This isn’t what it looks like!’”
He grimaces. “Well, better than telling anybody else. Shall we?”
“What about the case?”
He smirks as he helps her off the desk and retrieves her jumper from the floor. “I think we’ve established that a reenactment won’t help much.”