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Case. Need you; John’s unavailable. SH
Please? SH
Sure. Mollyx
Pack for overnight. SH
Barely fifteen minutes later, Molly found herself wedged in one of Mycroft’s black cars right up against Sherlock (really, the man had all the space in the world) hurtling towards the case she knew nothing about. Ever since the arrival of Sharlotte Watson, this had been happening rather frequently. Not that Molly ever complained – she’d told him once that she was his.
Thankfully, the journey was short enough to keep her mind from wandering about how his soft, warm body could be pressed up against hers in far different ways…well, she’d thought. Sherlock was already walking quickly towards an old dilapidated warehouse building. Molly followed at an almost jog, noticing the spring in his step. This must be a ten, she thought with a slight smirk. She had her notebook and pen waiting when an unfamiliar Inspector approached them.
“Mr. Holmes? Detective Inspector Thomas, I appreciate your help, this is truly an honour.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll soon regret that statement…and Sherlock, please,” he smiled humourlessly, shaking the hand of Inspector Thomas. He gestured vaguely at Molly, “oh, this is my assistant, Molly Holmes. Make sure she has whatever she needs.”
Thomas nodded, trying to figure out the family connection in his head as he began strolling in the direction of the body; it was almost two minutes later when Molly realised she should be following, too.
He didn’t say anything when they examined the poor stabbed fellow lying amongst the old shelves.
He didn’t say anything over their lunch in a quiet little café.
He didn’t say a word when they arrived at their hotel, discovering that Mycroft had only booked one room.
Molly sighed into the bathroom mirror, attempting to forget about the whole incident; she threw yet more water over her face, shaking her head. Maybe the idiot really didn’t realise what he had said. In which case, why the slip of the tongue? What did it mean? Was it a mistake? She mentally shook herself – yet again, she was fretting over Sherlock Holmes? She left the bathroom and found him where she had left him, lying flat on his back on the double bed, in his mind palace.
She had been about to sit on the edge of her bed to peel off the boots that were now aching her feet when Sherlock sat up so fast, she jumped up as if she’d done something wrong. He looked at her like he’d just won the lottery and scurried onto his knees.
“Molly, Molly, Molly…you brilliant little wonder,” he pulled her tight against him, pressing flurried kisses all over her face. She giggled, gently shoving at his chest.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She spluttered, certain her face was on fire. She never got an answer to her question.
Two hours later, the case was wrapped and they fell into the hotel room, the impromptu chase having completely knocked the breath from the both of them; Sherlock was on his knees, rummaging through the mini fridge when Molly finally caught her breath back.
“I can’t…believe it was Thomas…”
“Of course. Superiority complex: textbook. What do you fancy?”
Molly chuckled, chucking herself down onto the bed with a deep groan, “something strong.”
He poured the drinks as Molly pulled at her boots in vain; she gave up several moments later when it became apparent she was being watched. She blushed as he gave her the tall glass of…whatever it was. He shouldn’t have been staring.
“You can keep those on if you want,” he nodded at the boots, sipping at his drink to hide his smirk; Molly lifted her head and her eyebrow, also smiling.
“For what?” She couldn’t help but notice he rolled his eyes so she took her chance, “you called me Holmes…earlier. At the crime scene.”
“Oh, so you did notice,” he smiled, a smug self-satisfied smile that had Molly on her aching feet, approaching him; she stood as close as she could without touching him, tilting her head.
“Why,” she took the glass of pink liquid from his hand, “do you,” both glasses were placed on the vanity cabinet behind him, “have to,” her hands climbed his shirt as his reached her hips, “make things,” she heard him swallow and smiled softly, “so damn difficult?”
He shrugged, taking a loose hold of her wrists, “oh, I’m not sure I do,” Molly challenged him with a raise of her eyebrow and he smirked, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Mycroft didn’t book the hotel.”
Molly grinned, certain she couldn’t be happier as she moved closer still, “next you’re going to tell me you orchestrated the murder.”
“Molly, I think we’ve done far too much talking tonight,” he bent down and captured her lips quickly, before whispering in her ear, “oh, by the way, I didn’t have someone kill him.”
“I know,” she took his hand, leading him to their bed, “now let’s talk about these boots, shall we?”