John Watson had returned to his old flat at 221B Baker Street to visit his best friend Sherlock Holmes on a rainy Sunday afternoon in April. He had become mildly concerned over Sherlock's increasingly disturbing behavior. To the average eye, perhaps, the consulting detective had not changed noticeably. He was still arrogant, vain, dismissive, and impossibly impossible. But John had noticed a certain ennui underlying his behavior, a more morose quality to his comments, a restless sadness, even. He truly believed the his friend's drug use was a thing of the past, but, feeling that it was better to be safe than sorry, made the trip to Baker Street to see if he could discern where the problem lie.
Sherlock, it would seem, was not interested in playing the charming host.
"So, what's up, mate?" John inquired in what he hoped was a casual tone.
"Please be more precise, John. What's up where? Up the river? Up in the air? Up your arse?"
"More like what's up your bloody arse, you git!"
"Sorry, John," the apology itself was yet another symptom .
"No, really, what's going on with you?" John asked with concern.
"I really don't want to talk about it John. Lately, I just feel sort of… restless…"
"Restless?"
"Unfulfilled…"
"Really, Sherlock, you're going to have to be more specific." Sherlock just glared at his friend and doctor.
"Maybe you're just rundown. I keep telling you that you must eat more regularly, sleep more regularly…"
"I eat when I need to! I sleep when I need to! There may be other needs that I must deal with, John!"
This was not a conversation which John Watson was looking forward to having. For as long as he had known Sherlock Holmes, his sex life had been an open question. Mrs. Hudson had always presumed that he was gay, and that John was also. She thought that they were an adorable couple, and made no bones about announcing it to the world, despite John's protest. He sincerely hoped that his marriage, and the subsequent birth of his daughter, had put that thought out of her mind. But what about Sherlock? He had never broached the subject in all the time they had spent together, except for one occasion when he indicated that he was not sexually interested in John. John was never clear on whether he meant himself in particular, or men in general. Sherlock seemed to read his mind, as usual.
"Why, John, in all the years we've known each other, have you never asked the question you're dying to ask? Are you afraid to hear that I am harboring an unrequited passion for Graham…"
"I assume you mean Greg."
"Or Mike Stamford? Or, worst possibility of all, Anderson? Let me assure you that I am neither homosexual or asexual. Neither am I a virgin, as Jim Moriarty would have you believe."
"You've actually had sex, then?"
"Not recently, of course, as you surely would have known given our close relationship. But in my younger years. I am surprised that Mycroft has not taken the opportunity to embarrass me by telling tales of my youthful escapades. Perhaps he is afraid that I would retaliate by regaling you with tales of his not-so-youthful ones!"
John was amazed, and not slightly disturbed, by this new image of the Holmes brothers.
"So now you're feeling anxious and ...unfulfilled?"
"I would have used a slightly more descriptive term," Sherlock arched an eyebrow, " but I do thank you for your attempt at delicacy."
"May I ask, is there a particular target for this...anxiety?"
"Of course there is! Do pay attention, John!"
John was quickly going over in his mind the limited possibilities in regard to Sherlock's fixation. Irene Adler? Too obvious for Sherlock's taste, despite his initial reaction. Sally Donovan? No, his dislike for her simply oozed from every pore. Mrs. Hudson? Don't even go there, John! This left only one possibility, the most obvious one when John really thought about it.
"Molly," John said softly. Even though it was not a question, John saw confirmation on Sherlock's face.
"Surely, that's not a problem. Everyone knows how Molly feels about you, Sherlock. She's adored you for years. Just get on with it!"
"I'm not good at these things, John. How do I broach the subject? What should I say?" Sherlock spoke, and John was at a loss. "You're my friend, and doctor, advise me, damn it!"
"What the bloody hell do you want me to do, write you a damned prescription?!"
Sherlock smiled a semi-evil smile, and winked conspiratorially, "Yes, that should do it. She is a medical professional, after all."
A moment later, Sherlock was, indeed, holding John's handwritten prescription, reading as follows:
Coitus o.p.d PRN
"Really, John, only once per day as needed? Don't you read the papers. According to Janine, we did it seven times in a single night. Don't you think you underestimate me?"
"Baby steps, chum. And didn't you tell me Janine made that all up?"
"Well, she did have a rather vivid imagination."
Sherlock rose from his seat and was headed toward the door when John interrupted him, "Hold on there, mate. Don't be so rude. You just can't walk out on company."
Sherlock looked around the room, baffled.
"It's me, Sherlock. I count as company. I haven't lived here in ages, after all."
Sherlock snatched John's coat from the couch, shoved it at his chest, and grabbing his friend roughly by the arm, navigated him toward the door, "So nice of you to drop in, John. Do feel free to return at any time!" And with that he opened the door, deposited his friend on the other side, and slammed it on his startled face. He was reaching for his Belstaff coat, when he decided to change into his snugly fitted purple shirt, the one Molly liked so much. Sherlock Holmes left nothing to chance!
A short time later, Sherlock walked into Molly's flat, as usual without knocking. He had long since started to consider her flat as much a home as Baker Street, and he knew it had nothing to do with the furnishings, the location, or the general ambience. It was solely to do with Molly. He had started to consider how much more practical, not to mention economical, it would be if Molly would simply move into 221B. He would be sure to bring this up, perhaps in the morning.
"Sherlock, what are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you. Tea?" Molly was sitting calmly on her couch, reading a medical journal and wearing sweatpants and a tee. One bare foot was tucked under her, while the other dangled off the couch.
Sherlock felt himself begin to stammer. He liked it better when she had been the one to stammer in nervousness in his presence, but it seems the roles were now reversed. "Molly, I seem… I seem to have… a bit of a ...medical emergency."
Molly was quickly off the couch and standing in front of him, "What's the problem?" Concern colored her voice. "What can I do? What do you need?"
"I have a ...prescription," Sherlock once again stammered, and offered her the slip of paper.
She took the paper, and a blush started to rise from her neck to the top of her ears. Sherlock loved the fact that he could always make her blush with just a kiss on the cheek, or the brush of a finger on her hand. He was now very curious about how much more he could make her blush! As soon as she looked up at him, and before she could say a single word, he closed the distance between them, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close for a seriously blush-inducing kiss.
"I was hoping you could fill my prescription."
Molly had recovered her senses enough to smile up at him and say softly, "Perhaps we should go into my 'office'?". But Sherlock was ahead of her, gently guiding her backward toward the door of her bedroom.
It was many hours later when Sherlock was awakened by the alarm indicating that a text message had been received on his mobile. He knew that the device was in the pocket of his trousers. He was just not clear on where exactly his trousers were. He rose to sit on the side of Molly's bed, and turned on the bedside lamp. Before he did anything else, he gently lifted the sheet from his companion's sleeping form, smiling to himself as he saw just how extensive her blushing had become. Then, finding his trousers on the floor, he quickly located his mobile and read the text.
HAVE YOU BEEN TAKING YOUR MEDICATION ?- JW
Sherlock typed quickly.
AS I PREVIOUSLY INDICATED YOU HAVE SERIOUSLY UNDERESTIMATED THE DOSAGE. DR HOOPER HAS ADJUSTED IT ACCORDINGLY - SH
Sherlock then returned to the sleeping form of Molly Hooper, and was not disappointed to find that his movements had awakened her.
"Ah, Dr. Hooper, I think I find myself in need of another dose of my medication."
And the doctor happily provided it.