There was much to be said about life at Baker Street. It was normally a loud, chaotic place to visit, what with one of the residents being Sherlock Holmes. Most people were used to it, and by most one really means a select group consisting of only five individuals. A case could be made for six if one counted Mycroft Holmes, but Sherlock never did.
During most of the week anything from gun shots to minor explosions could be heard, and that was just while Sherlock worked cases. The noise and danger level increased by five when he wasn't, and by ten when he was bored. There was really only one time of the week that 221B was a calm and quite place, and that was Sunday mornings.
Sherlock had not always viewed Sunday morning as sacred, everyone already knowing his views on that subject. It wasn't until he had allowed a certain person into his life more fully that things changed for him.
When John had moved in Sherlock had to accommodate the man more than he would have liked, but after moving in his…pathologist he found himself adapting to such a degree that his past self would have had a coronary at the shock of it. Still among the hassles he did find a few of the changes pleasurable, Sunday mornings being one of them.
Sherlock took a breath in as he turned the page in his paper, one he had neglected for several days, the paper having been tossed atop a stack of other unread papers that Molly insisted in bringing home. This is what Sunday mornings consisted of, reading those papers or other literature in quiet alongside his…his pathologist.
This particular Sunday had started out as they all did, waking up with his nude form tangled up with Molly's, both of their skin still sticky from the activities of the night before. He had shivered and pulled the sheet up along their bodies, as the thing always found its way sliding off the edge of the bed. It hadn't helped that it was the middle of winter and the room was cold enough to freeze water, or at least it felt like it to his exposed skin.
Molly had woken then, turning so she could look up at him with that sleepy smile of hers that always sent his chest into spasms. She had bid him good morning, pressed a kiss against his lips, or at least in the vicinity as she was always a little off in the morning, and headed off to have a shower. He had followed moments after and much of the first part of the morning had been spent splashing about as they endeavored to get clean and dirty all over again.
Breakfast was nothing more than tea and a tin of biscuits as Sherlock had been experimenting again with human flesh and Molly had tossed what food they did have in the bin. Meals had been either brought in or taken at John and Mary's lately, and even though Molly hated to inconvenience them it was better than eating a cut of meat that had set on the same plate as a cut of human arm.
The two were now where they could always be found at that particular time on Sundays, curled up in front of the fire reading. The two made quite a sight to anyone that would have thought to walk in, Sherlock settled in his chair wearing neatly pressed trousers, a crisp white button down and one of his many silk dressing gowns. He could never be anything but perfectly put together, even having his feet tied neatly in his shoes and socks. Molly on the other hand looked like any woman that planned to remain home and expected no visitors; legs clad in faded yellow pajamas paired with one of Sherlock's few t-shirts.
Sherlock shook out his paper, allowing the top bit to fall back as he felt pressure on the seat of the chair beside him. There were things he just never could understand about Molly, such as why when there was a perfectly good chair opposite him she chose instead to lay on the floor like some dog.
He looked down from his paper to find a pair of small, un-socked feet resting against his legs, the petite toes wiggling like worms after a rainstorm. He followed the feet down the attached legs, his eyes resting on the form of his…pathologist laid out on the floor, her head resting atop a pillow. She was completely engrossed in her book, one of those inane romance novels she insisted on reading, no matter how many times he expressed his annoyance with them.
He couldn't understand why she would need to read such drivel when he thought they had a perfectly functional romantic life. It didn't matter to him that she agreed, with the romance in their life at least, he still couldn't understand how she could read it. Rotted the brain in his opinion. Still she read them, and he stopped using them to light the fires…well after finding himself locked out of the bedroom for an entire week that is.
"You might find it more comfortable to actually sit in a chair, then you wouldn't have to steal part of mine." Sherlock nudged her feet with his thigh as though to make a point. Though what he actually did was cause the woman to roll her eyes and set her book down on her chest.
"I like lying here, less neck pain." Molly nudged his thigh back, picking her book back up hoping to continue reading about Lady Marie and her doomed love with the handsome stable boy.
"But more arm pain, not to mention that can not be good on your eyes." Sherlock rolled his own eyes when she ignored him, not to mention when he caught a glance at the cover of her book. Porn pure and simple he thought, the woman on the cover was barely covered in her torn dress and the man that held her to him…he wasn't even sure there were any real men that looked like that.
Molly simply continued to read, knowing that her boyfriend…not that he liked being called that…had simply grown bored with his paper. She had tried to find other things for him to read, medical journals worked for awhile, until he started submitting corrections to the editors and their post had been filled with what could only be called hate mail.
She had tried mystery novels, though he normally read ten pages in, announced the murderer and then tossed the book away into an ever growing pile. She would later retrieve them to read in hopes to proving him wrong, only to find he had been right every time. Sci-fi, fantasy, all manner of novels passed through his hands and into the pile in the corner, all of them thrown away with a scoff as he found one fault after another with them. Only two things seemed to hold his interest, classical literature and newspapers.
Wiggling her toes again, she moved to shove her unclothed feet under his legs hoping to find a bit of warmth. She held back a giggle as this made him jerk and send a glare down to her.
"What? My feet are cold." She smiled at him, hoping he would not be annoyed with her.
"They wouldn't be if you didn't insist upon traipsing around here without socks on. It is winter and you know how cold the flat gets." Though his words were a bit harsh, he really couldn't be mad at her. Annoyed, yes, but not mad. She did have cute feet after all.
"Traipsing? Really? Anyway, I didn't have any clean. I wore my last pair yesterday and they got wet from snow on my way home from work." Of course they wouldn't have gotten wet had she worn the boots he had bought her, and the look he sent her way expressed that thought. It wasn't that she didn't like them, she loved them actually, but she knew they were expensive and she feared splashing blood on them.
"Wear the boots from now on Molly, that is after all why I bought them. Having them packed away in a box in the back of the wardrobe is more of a waste of money than a bit of blood splatter." Sometimes the woman just exasperated him. He had done much to ensure that she had a comfortable life, allowing her to focus on her desires and work instead of the stress that others dealt with.
He had asked her to move in with him, though if you asked Molly he had done no such thing and had moved all her things in while she was at work. He had been sure of her answer anyway, so he didn't understand what her problem was with him on that point. He had filled the wardrobe with new clothing, both for function and comfort as well as a few nice pieces for dinners and the like. He had given her all those things because he wanted to, in fact he enjoyed it, but she still was wary about wearing them in fear that he would be angry if she got so much as a stretched stitch in them.
"Fine, but don't complain when I come home and they're covered in all manner of gore." Molly hid her face behind her book so Sherlock couldn't see the frown turning her lips down. She knew it was a fruitless effort as Sherlock was bound to deduce it even when he couldn't actually see it.
"Molly, I'm not going to leave you just because you use the things I buy you, it is after all why I bought them in the first place. The fact is, if I can put up with your cold feet I can put up with anything." Sherlock smirked down at the woman at his feet, absentmindedly setting the paper aside to grab the book he had set down earlier. "Now move your feet, I'm getting a cramp in my legs."
Molly set down her book as she moved her feet from under his thigh to set once more beside him. When she looked up she had expected to find his smiling face turned down towards her, instead he was already engrossed in his book. She picked hers back up and continued where she left off, a broad smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she felt Sherlock's hand wrap around her feet. She would never admit it to him, but this was the real reason she refused to wear socks around the flat. Sherlock would deny it if she told anyone, but whenever she had cold feet he would hold them, both of her small feet wrapped up in one of his large hands. It was a sweetness and intimacy that surpassed everything they had ever done in the bedroom or outside of it.
Sherlock peeked out from behind his book. He would never admit it, but there was a reason why he never
insisted upon Molly donning socks on Sunday mornings. Nor would he admit it that he had several pairs of Molly's clean socks stashed away behind the headboard. Better her think it was her idea, less uncomfortable questions that way.
Author's Notes: Ok, so this is just a small collection of connected oneshots that deal with Molly and Sherlock and books in some manner. Each one will most likely have a different rating, probably nothing overly M and no NC-17. It really is just an excuse to write all the fluffy domestic fantasies I have involving books….and yes several of my fantasies, mild and erotic alike tend to involve books in some way, but such is the lot for a bookworm.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.