A follow-up to "Then when you're quite dressed," though, absolutely not necessary to have read it in order to follow this story. Hope you enjoy! (originally posted on AO3 14 March 2018)
"(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing)."
––e.e. cummings
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
"That's really not fair. You're wearing more clothes than––" with that, Molly's ability to form intelligible words dissolved into incoherent noises and sighs as she felt Sherlock's breath already hot at the tops of her breasts.
"You were woefully overdressed anyway," he mumbled into her skin without a trace of remorse.
Before the haze of delirious ardour completely clouded her mind, she became aware of Sherlock's phone vibrating on the rug beneath her, to where she had dropped it moments ago when she tried to get her partner's attention.
"'S John," she half-exclaimed.
"Molly, I'm trying to get on with you, and apart from 'Oh look, it's Mycroft in beachwear,' that's the last thing I want to hear…" chided Sherlock gently, whose face then wore an expression that looked severely as though he regretted summoning the image of his brother in swim shorts.
She ignored him, straightening her body and extricating herself from Sherlock's embrace before she picked up the insistent device and handed it to its disinclined owner.
He sighed, as they both rather hastily rearranged their clothes, making themselves semi-presentable for their impending audience. "What," he greeted the pixelated face on the screen.
"Hey," replied John, who squinted and greeted Molly when he recognised her. Somewhere offscreen, Mary's voice floated, "Have you got both of them?" to which John answered, "Yeah, they're right here."
"What's this about, then?" Sherlock whinged impatiently.
His attention back on the screen, John replied, "Okay, so we've got good news and bad news." He didn't pause to ask which of the two Sherlock and Molly would like to hear first. "The bad news is that Harry's had a fall, and is in hospital and we've got to go see her for a couple of days."
"What's the good news?" asked Sherlock, bracing himself for more bad news.
"The good news is that you two can come over and babysit this little girl…" and the screen on his mobile flipped to show Mary carrying Rosie in her arms, encouraging a wave from her chubby little arm. Rosie, who was dressed in a pastel-coloured tutu designed to make it impossible to deny her anything, garbled in delight at her parents and godparents. John's face reappeared onscreen, as he finished, "… for a couple of days."
Before Sherlock could draw breath to explain to (read: argue with) the Watsons the relativity of good news versus bad news to certain people, Molly cut him off. "We'd love to."
"Thank you, you two!" Mary beamed, sliding next to John. "So, what are you up to tonight?" she asked, the overly-bright and casual lilt in her tone suggested she already knew the answer to her own question.
"Oh, you know, quiet night in while I try and shag my girlfriend."
John, a frown materialising on his face, cleared his throat disapprovingly. He lifted Rosie from Mary's arms––protectively, as if Sherlock's words had tarnished his daughter's moral compass before she could even walk––and handed the phone to his wife.
Not to be perturbed, Mary observed, seeming to peer over the edge of the screen for a better look, "Oh, is that why Molly's wearing her second favourite lacy black bra?"
"Oh geez," John cried out in exasperation, his face now occupied the screen again. He signed off as fast as he possibly could. "Good night. We'll see you tomorrow." The video call ended.
"Right…" Sherlock tossed his phone across the room, landing squarely on his chair several feet out of reach. "Where were we?" He inclined his head at Molly, giving her that dangerous look she had come to know more recently.
Over the next few hours, Mrs. Hudson would be completely unaware that she might have been thoroughly grateful for the set of earplugs Sherlock had give her the previous Christmas.
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
"The spare room's all made up––"
"And it's a double bed––" Mary winked at this.
"There's food in the fridge––
"Help yourselves to anything––"
"We'll only be gone one night––"
"Two, at most––"
"Call either––"
"No, both of us––"
"Both of us if there's any problem––"
"No matter how late––"
Molly and Sherlock's heads bounced back and forth between the Watsons, who seemed not to understand the concept of finishing each other's sentences, and rattled on an endless list of instructions they had not bothered to write down. Not that it was needed, given Sherlock's eidetic memory and Molly's natural ease with Rosie.
"She likes a little white noise when she's sleeping…"
When they ("Finally!" groaned Sherlock out loud) reached the end, John gave Sherlock a particularly stern look and a finger-wag of admonishment. "You behave," he warned.
Sherlock, to his credit, shot back an expression of overly manufactured innocence and his best pantomime of Who, me? which only served to make him look guilty of imminent offenses.
Mary and John both said their farewells to their daughter. Rosie was showered with kisses and nuzzles, a "Good-bye, my darling" and a "See you soon, sweetheart" from each of her parents.
"I suppose we should actually get going now," said Mary, giving Molly a quick one-armed hug, while the other held a duffle bag.
"Yes, please, do," answered Sherlock under his breath.
Molly swatted at him, and turned to their hosts, "Text us when you get there. Safe travels!"
When the door shut closed, Molly took Rosie out of her cushioned bouncer and carried her, taking a seat next to Sherlock's perch on the couch.
She caught him surreptitiously give the door a wistful glance when he thought she wasn't looking. The Watsons' did seem a bit quieter without two-thirds of its occupants in it.
She stood up, and with Rosie in one arm, held out her hand to Sherlock, who had suddenly grown less talkative. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?" she suggested.
shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh
The day couldn't have been lovelier if it had been a Renaissance pastoral landscape––minus the tunic-clad shepherds, frolicking sheep, and even their mobiles, which they each gladly abandoned on the coffee table.
The slight chill in the air gave Sherlock the perfect excuse to slip their joined hands inside one of his coat pockets for warmth. He carried Rosie in John's hip seat carrier while he pointed out the genus and species of all the urban trees and shrubs he could identify. Every now and then, he glanced down to see if the females in his company found his extensive knowledge of English flora impressive. He figured he had a better chance of impressing Molly, as Rosie had fallen asleep fifteen minutes into their walk.
Molly, who was only mostly-listening to him, nodded and gave approving comments ("Wow." and "Oh, really!") intermittently. She was occupied by something other than admiring Sherlock's mental prowess, which she secretly believed he did enough of for the both of them sometimes.
The afternoon was so pleasant, it seemed almost a tableaux, and the idea of the two of them playing godparents prompted something to stir within her. She wondered if she and Sherlock might not one day take daily strolls with a little one of their own. This made her involuntarily squeeze his hand, which he squeezed back in return and earned her a sidelong smile.
Of course, she scolded herself, having just "officially" begun dating less than three months ago, the question altogether might be premature.
When they returned to their temporary home, Sherlock gingerly placed the sleeping Rosie in her bouncer, tucked her in with her downy-soft blanket, and sat next to Molly on the sofa. She was scrolling through her mobile. She looked up at him with a quizzical look on her face. "Sherlock, do you know what this is about?" she inquired, showing him the cryptic message.
So sorry about John! I'll talk to him.
-Mary x
His brows furrowed. He picked up his own phone from the coffee table, and found a succession of messages for which Mary felt the need to apologise for.
Listen, I know you and Molly just started dating…
I remember what it was like when Mary and I first started going out… (He'll have to permanently delete this one entirely from his memory later on.)
But let me remind you…
Please have some decency…
For Rosie's sake…
Molly could only snigger in amusement after they read the some of the messages together. Since John had never been adept at picking up on the subtle, Sherlock was not surprised he was not master of its use either. They got the general theme of his messages, and left one or two unopened.
"Remind me why we're friends with him again?" asked Sherlock, puzzlement chasing the vexation already on his face, as dropped his phone back on the coffee table.
"Saved your life in more ways than one, set you up as a debonair-ish internet sensation, and you like him," Molly ticked off in a matter-of-fact air.
"Right. Just needed a reminder."
"He's just a concerned parent," she reasoned. "I'd be more worried about him turning into one of those helicopter parents, but he doesn't mean anything by it…" Her voice doting, she added, "Besides, given your history of poor decision-making, you can't really blame him…"
Sherlock stopped himself from responding, "Who, me?" and Proving John Watson Right. Instead, he did what any self-respecting person defending their honour would do, and shifted blame. "If you're referring to the incident at Bart's last week, when John discovered us in less-than-professional circumstances, you know, it's your fault for looking so ravishing in your lab coat."
Molly could only shake her head and unsuccessfully hide the smile that flickered at the edge of her mouth, partly from the memory of last week's indiscretion and partly because she recognised the look forming on Sherlock's face. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
Sherlock could only agree, "No." He pressed his body closer to hers and his voice took on a seductive tone, low and warm. "There's only one place I'd like to get with you."
Just as the words left his mouth, his face scrunched up in a way that Molly had never seen before. It was a moment before she took his countenance for embarrassment, (Sherlock Holmes, actually and truly embarrassed!) unfamiliar as it was. The subtle reddening of his cheeks confirmed it, and she brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a chortle. He heaved a defeated sigh. "It sounded better in my head."
Molly wound her arms around his neck and drew him closer. "That was pretty awful," she admitted, the laughter in her voice still had not faded. But in compensation, she moved in to catch his lips with hers.
It didn't take long for his brain to process and for his body to respond to her, kissing back with equal and growing eagerness. He gathered her in his arms, pulling her body so that her legs rested on top of his thighs and she was half-sitting on his lap. When he felt her lips travel along his jawline, peppering kisses, all he could think of were two things: the unequivocal swelling of his heart and the desire to return the favour. He let his lips and hands do the work.
He tried to suppress the manly pride that expanded in his chest every time he elicited delighted sounds of pleasure from her, filling his ears. The sharp intake here, a slow exhale there, a babble, a breathy half-formed moan.
He stopped his actions suddenly, and half a second later, Molly also halted her ministrations of that sensitive spot behind his ear.
One sound was definitely not like the others.
They both looked at Rosie, whose blue eyes were open and wide, uncanny in their exact likeness of her mother's. Her mouth formed a softer version of her father's, and her expression was undoubtedly the mien of John Watson. And it unsettled both of them to have her watching them in such a compromising position.
"Maybe we shouldn't––"
"Yeah…"
They disentangled from each other, albeit a little reluctantly, and Sherlock strode to see if Rosie needed a nappy change. He returned with the baby in his arms, whom he handed to Molly, while he took his place beside her again slinging an arm over her shoulders, keeping her close.
"Still though…" Molly said, finishing the thought she began before all the kissing began, a grin breaking through as she spoke. "It might be a laugh if we untidied John and Mary's bed a bit before they came home." She laughed at the imagined result of her future transgression. "John would be absolutely mortified!" she proclaimed, and giggled a little harder. She held Rosie at arm's length, saying to her as if she were already complicit in their little mischief, "Won't he, Rosie?"
Rosie made a tittering noise in agreement.
Sherlock joined in a beat later, but the smile that grew and lingered on his face wasn't merely because he had lost count of how many times he thought how brilliant the woman sitting beside him was. Or even that he fancied himself the luckiest man alive, for being with a woman after his heart in infinite ways.
He made a mental note to himself to ask after that ring Mummy kept hinting at, ever since he informed his parents he and Molly were romantically involved. The last unopened text, which Sherlock saw in preview, was a photo of said ring, and a cheeky text from Mummy. "A Vernet family heirloom," she captioned with pride.
His lips curved and his head spun at the thought of asking Molly to be joined with him for life. And maybe, just maybe, their prospective offspring might just edge Rosie out in cuteness––but just by the most microscopic sliver of a hair––and if only to one up John at something.
For now, he embraced his life's paramour and their babysitting escapade, because he figured, he could use all the practice he could get.
end