"I need Binton's file as well as the files of all his friends and his immediate family," Sherlock dictated quickly to the timid coroner. As soon as Molly turned around to gather what he had asked her for, he let his eyes follow her. He knew the depths of her affection towards him but he didn't understand it.
Sherlock tried to look away, but found that for some reason he couldn't, so he let his mind analyze her.
Coroner, obviously, nervous, hasn't had coffee this morning…
"Sherlock," John's voice tugged at him but couldn't pull him out of his thoughts.
"Sherlock!" The detective turned at the rising of John's voice to see that his sleeve was on fire; when he was watching Molly, he must have let the singeing torch get too close to his shirt. He stared at it for a moment.
Then quickly, he sort of flailed forward, shoved his arm into the nearest sink and turned on the water. The fire went out, and Sherlock sat back on his stool, letting John turn off the water for him.
His arm was drenched almost to his shoulder and across his chest.
Sherlock shuddered and Molly came running over, arms full of files.
"What happened? Why is your arm all wet?" she asked confusedly.
"Sherlock accidentally lit himself on fire," John explained in a matter-of-fact tone.
"How did that happen?"
"Well, he was-"
"Studying the way polyester singes with the torch and let the flame rest too close to my sleeve," Sherlock interrupted quickly.
John looked at him suspiciously for a moment.
"No, you-"
"We don't have anymore milk in the flat, John, would you mind going and getting some?" the detective broke in again.
John gave him a hard look before trying to hide a knowing grin.
'What does he think he knows?' Sherlock wondered, squinting his eyes as he watched his friend leave.
After a moment, he concluded that John may have suspected him of trying to hide romantic feelings towards Molly.
'Absolutely ridiculous,' he thought.
Before he could turn back to his work, he noticed Molly was setting down the files and sorting through them aimlessly.
"Bring me Binton's file," he instructed, unbuttoning his shirt; the water was seeping slowly all the way through and it felt very cold. His shirt halfway undone, Sherlock suddenly became curious as to what Molly's reaction would be to seeing him completely shirtless.
Swiftly he undid the shirt all the way, chucked the wet wad of cloth to the other end of the room, smiling like a child, and resumed a composed posture instantly as Molly looked up.
Without looking at her directly, he watched her reaction. She looked at his face, then his chest, and then absently back down at the files as if nothing was out of order.
Once Sherlock was sure she wasn't looking, he frowned at her and furrowed his brow.
This was not the reaction he was expecting from her. Not a blush, not a sutter came from the little coroner.
"Interesting…" he mumbled.
"What is?" Molly asked, looking up.
"...Th-the cloth." Sherlock was surprised when he stuttered, pointing stupidly at the singed experiment before him.
Molly looked back down to her task of finding the file he wanted, and Sherlock became confused. He looked down at his chest and stomach.
He wasn't super toned but he wasn't pudgy either, or wiry for that matter; he was just…lean. He had a habit of hardly ever eating.
'Maybe Molly likes muscular men...' he considered. But when he glanced at Molly again, he caught her sneaking a timid look at his chest.
'She finds my body pleasing.' He smiled smugly to himself, finally getting the result he wanted, and subconsciously he puffed out his chest a little.
He turned back to his experiment and Molly brought him Binton's file as he had asked.
It only took a moment for Sherlock to become curious again of the coroner's reactions and become disinterested in what his present experiment was.
Sherlock turned to look at Molly again who had her back turned, busy at work on some cadaver.
"Molly," he said, thinking quickly.
'What to ask...' he wondered as she turned at his voice. 'She's always asking if I want food or coffee...' he thought.
"I want a coffee. Five sugars, a generous amount of milk, and a...cup…" he didn't actually want coffee and his voice trailed off hesitantly.
Molly smiled quietly, nodded eagerly, and left the room looking as if he'd just given her a glorious quest to venture forth on.
Another expected reaction.
Sherlock smiled and looked down at the file he'd asked for but hadn't touched yet. Staring at it a while, he realized he had asked for the wrong one and he got up to find the one he wanted.
After searching slowly through the pile for approximately five minutes, Molly returned, the strong smell of coffee in her hands.
"Here you go, Sherlock," she tried not to sound as nervous as he knew she felt.
Sherlock reached for the coffee without looking and when his hand touched hers, his hand drew back because of how surprisingly cold hers felt.
In the next moment, Sherlock looked over and the coffee spilled over Molly's hand and fell to the ground. Without hesitation, Sherlock grabbed Molly's burnt hand and practically dragged her over to the sink and ran cold water over it.
"I'm alright, Sherlock," she protested weakly. The detective said nothing and only let her withdraw her hand when he'd deemed it had been long enough to prevent a burn.
She dried her hand off and timidly thanked him before apologizing for the coffee and cleaning up.
A very slow and awkward hour passed, full of work, and timidness on Molly's part, and all the while Sherlock's head was spinning with new experiments to conduct on the little coroner.
Molly set down a rack of vials next to Sherlock and grabbed a pair of latex gloves. But before she could put them on, Sherlock remembered her cold hands and reached out for one of them.
His hand nearly encompassed hers and out of the corner of his eye he saw her blush.
"Sh-Sherlock…?"
"Your hands are cold," he answered calmly. He continued to work for a little while before he could no longer focus; all he could focus on was the feeling of her little fingers against his palm…
He slowly watched her as she tried to continue working with only one available hand.
'I'm doing this for research,' he reassured himself as he hesitantly leaned towards her. '...For research...'
He squeezed her hand, she looked at him in confusion, and their lips met.
For both of them, the experience was not like they had expected, in their respective imaginations, but they both found it equally difficult to pull away.
A moment later, Sherlock looked abruptly away, set his elbows on the counter, and steepled his hands under his chin; he could feel heat emanating from his face and guessed he must be blushing.
Just then, John walked in and stopped in the doorway, seeing two profusely blushing people and a shirtless Sherlock.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Sherlock got up abruptly and grabbed his coat, pulling John out of the room with him.
"Wot was that then?" John asked in suspicious confusion.
Sherlock buttoned his coat all the way up to protect his care chest from the cold outside.
"Research, John. I was doing research."
And as they stepped outside, Sherlock couldn't help but think on how her lips had felt against his.