Author's Note: I'm gifting this fic to introspectivenavelgazer/Cutebutpsycho (who provided me with the premise for this fic) and conchepcion (who answered with an emphatic 'No' when I wondered, "Is this fic too perverted though?"). Thanks to the pair of you for encouraging me in my debauchery. This fic should have approximately 7 chapters, if all goes to plan, and should be updated pretty regularly.

If you like the story then please, review, favourite and follow this fic! Or don't. I ain't here to tell you what to do. I'm just here to write stupid smut.

Title comes from Arctic Monkeys' song 505, and the lyric "In my imagination you're waiting lying on your side / With your hands between your thighs."

Monday

"Molly, have I ever told you how wonderful your breasts are?" He's lying in the bed, his head hanging upside down over the edge, and he's got the lopsided grin of a schoolboy on his face. "Especially from this particular angle."

"Sherlock, don't," she chastises, but it's no use. He's still got that 'just been shagged' puppy look of triumph about him. (Morning breath is awful, but Sherlock is Sherlock, she's marrying him in a month and his enthusiasm in the morning makes up for any sort of bad breath.) "Do you know where my bra is?"

"Top of the lamp," Sherlock says, twisting his head and raising an arm to point. "My overenthusiasm did that I'm afraid."

"It would," Molly mutters, pausing to apply her lipstick. "You're such a teenager sometimes."

"Could've said no," he says, with an obnoxiously large stretch and yawn. She rolls her eyes and makes to shove on her bra, but the feeling of her fiancé's hands grasping around her knees and tugging her forwards causes her to yelp and laugh.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Come back to bed," he murmurs. His thumb draws against the back of her knees in small circles and she has to plant her palms on his chest to remain steady. She glances down at him, and his smile turns wicked as he nuzzles against the inner of her thigh. "There's a position I didn't get to try."

"Down boy," she laughs, stepping out of his grip. She grabs a shirt from the door and is fully intent on running out of the door, but he looks so hopeless that she crouches down in front of him, cupping at his chin. She presses an upside down kiss to his mouth, stroking her fingers down the expanse of his throat. Her gaze flits to his torso, and beyond that. It is awfully tempting. And it only takes her 20 minutes to get to St. Bart's from here—

"Later," she says firmly, a reminder to herself and a promise to him. She looks back to him. "We can try all the positions you want – but that's only if you do the laundry, of course."

His eyes stay fixed on her breasts for an awfully long time. "Fine. Laundry – and then lots of sex."

We're having quite a lot of sex. A set of words that Molly both regrets and triumphs in her genius over, for although Tom is nothing but a distant memory for the pair of them, those words seem to have stuck to the walls of her consulting detective's mind, for ever since they banged their heads together and realised that being together wouldn't actually be such a bad thing after all, Sherlock has been intent on beating Tom's record of four times a week into oblivion.

She doesn't dare tell him that the reason it was so frequent is actually because Tom was more the roger-and-out type of lover (ordinary, average, not really that satisfying), but that probably wouldn't have deterred the consulting detective. Ever since his rediscovery of his libido, he had switched from monk to gigolo practically overnight. The transformation has been "astounding" (according to Mary), "disturbing" (according to John), and "expected" (according to Mycroft). For Molly, she might, and did, describe it as "overdue" and "thoroughly welcome".

Not this morning, though. This morning, she has a job to go to. So she asks if he can see her nipples through her shirt (not unless someone looks at her from an acute 180° degrees, he says, and she just about manages to avoid his still wandering hands), reminds him to do the laundry and kisses him goodbye. Hearing a final goodbye from him, she slams the door to Baker Street behind her.

If morning sex with Sherlock is a 10, then the rest of the day has been a -100. Not only has she had to deal with pathology interns—all of them, thinking they know everything when they actually don't—while attempting to do numerous autopsies, she's had to fill out reports left unfinished by certain members of staff (one of these days, she will kill Rutherford; the difference in completed workload would be barely noticeable anyway) and, to top it all off with a nice bow, she's had to try and explain to her superiors that it is, in fact, entirely possible for someone to trip and fall first into a bath and drown as a result of sleepwalking. That particular incident had taken a good half an hour.

So now she trudges up the steps to Baker Street, tired with feet almost burning from how much they ache. She should've worn her sturdier pair of shoes. Opening the door to the flat, she kicks off the offending shoes and tiptoes towards the sofa, wincing with every footstep only to sigh in content when she falls back onto the sofa. Sherlock is sat on the floor, a game of Operation on the floor in front of him. He grunts on seeing her. She decides to take that as "hello".

"Practicing?" she asks, curling her legs up to her chest.

"My brother's clearly been doing so – I might as well," he says, and immediately swears when the buzzer goes off. He always has trouble with the apple. Letting her eyes drift close, she massages at her toes and the balls of her feet, her cheek resting on her knee.

"How long have you been practicing?"

"A few hours."

Her eyes flick back open, and narrow. "Sherlock—"

"Mm."

"Did you do the laundry?"

Another grunt, a nod towards the kitchen and a comment of "Table". Sighing, she stretches out and stands. It's too much to expect that he's actually done the laundry, and that's exactly what she sees.

"Sherlock," she groans, moving towards the laundry basket. "You're supposed to wash and dry the clothes—"

"Which I did."

"And hang them up!" she adds. He shrugs.

"That's not exactly 'doing laundry'."

"That's an umbrella term, you tit," she says, her mouth twitching when she notes, out of the corner of her eye, the way in which his mouth drops open in offence, only to immediately shut again. "It's not just shoving things into a washer and dryer, you know."

"Ah. I suppose the 'all-the-positions' sex is postponed then?" he asks. He may have some (read: many) flaws as both a human and as a life partner, but his tendency to actually read her expressions, hear her voice and listen to her words and deduce her emotions is just one of his few good points. He may not often know how to deal with all of them quite yet, but he's learning. She laughs mirthlessly.

"You'll be lucky." She flicks out a set of pink lacy knickers (shame really, she planned to use those tonight) and folds them, eyeing him. "You'll be lucky to get sex on our honeymoon as well."

"Mm. I find that Sex Holidays are utterly pointless anyway."

Molly arches an eyebrow up at her fiancé and continues to fold the clothes into the laundry basket. "What makes you say that?"

"Their purpose."

Her eyebrows knit together. "Their purpose is what makes them pointless?"

"Yes, exactly."

"You might want to explain the logic behind that statement, Sherlock."

He sighs, forgetting the game in front of him. Apparently her lack of knowledge in regards to 'Sex Holidays' is much more important. "Sex Holidays – or honeymoons, whatever you want to call them – were originally designed in a time where courting was entirely controlled. Honeymoons were, from what I can tell, a space where a newlywed couple could be intimate without shame. It was something the couple in question could look forward to. The sex would probably been awful of course, as neither party would've had the sufficient amount of sexual experiences to know how to pleasure themselves, let alone another person. However, in this day and age, most couples – including ourselves – have usually had sex multiple times before they get to the altar – so there's really nothing special about it."

She pauses.

"Nothing special?" she echoes. He glances up, and nods.

"Mm."

Either he doesn't know he's implied that sex as a general concept is nothing special, or he does and is deliberately waiting until she bites and takes the bait.

She's happy to do so.

"Do you want to challenge that?"

"Challenge what?"

"Your theory. About honeymoons being pointless."

"In what way?"

"Well, you said that honeymoons were originally created in a culture where courting was incredibly controlled – what if we, I dunno, aped that?"

He stands, moving towards the kitchen door, hands folded neatly at his front. "Aped it?"

"Yeah. Like, maybe we could have a week where we don't touch each other – at all."

"No touching?" His smile turns predatory, the sort of predatory where an idea—quite often a very wicked one—is beginning to take shape, and he slowly advances forward, circling her. Very soon, she's wedged against the kitchen table and he's looming over her. She nods.

"Yep. Not even a tap on the shoulder."

His palms ghost lovingly over her shoulders. "Not even this?" He speaks with a low whisper, dips his head and steals a brief, sound kiss from her waiting lips, smiling as he does. "Or that?"

She giggles. "Two of the biggest offences."

His arms drop back to his sides. "What are the stakes?"

"Well… if I win, we'll go on the holiday, obviously—"Molly turns her head and eyes the temporarily laundry basket behind her. A grin slides into place. It's a wicked idea, a salacious idea, and one she very much wishes to try. She looks back to her fiancé. "And I'd get to watch you clean this flat. From top – to bottom."

He frowns, but Molly only giggles and leans back, fingering a particularly lacy set of knickers. She bites at her bottom lip. "In whatever garment I provide."

"Will I indeed? Hm." He plucks the knickers from his soon-to-be wife's fingers and runs them through his hands, a smirk touching the edges of his mouth, and she's reminded why she loves him so much. She could never have even hinted at this sort of thing, or played this kind of game, with any other bloke she's been with in the past. They've been so tied to convention and social norms that they'd no doubt regard merely a hint with outright disgust. But Sherlock doesn't obey convention. He doesn't care, he never has. It probably helps that he's one hell of an exhibitionist. Quickly, he flings them over his shoulder, where they very deftly land atop the kitchen sink's tap.

"I accept. But with two conditions: if I win, then there will be no holiday, and no complaining about my housekeeping skills. For at least a month."

She nods towards the laundry basket. "Put all that stuff away where it's supposed to go, and I'll happily accept."