A/N: Instead of working on The Admirer, I've come up with this weird little piece where I play with expletives, yet again. (I need to stop guzzling coffee..) Hope you'll find something you like. x

Rated T for some strong language.

Curses

John had made a puzzling discovery one morning at Baker Street. He had just come down for breakfast when he found the corridor to Sherlock's room littered with wrinkled pieces of paper. After having picked one up to read, its content was, oddly, not as puzzling, for it contained a somewhat universally shared sentiment by a lot of people. In what looked like aggressively large and cursive handwriting, John could see that all the pieces carried the same message:

Fuck you Sherlock Holmes

There was a clear lack of punctuation across them all, with some notes absent of Sherlock's surname, or with the you abbreviated to u.

"Well, well, I wonder what's happened…" John said, kicking the papers aside to make a pathway for himself.
"Isn't it obvious?" came the reply of the detective, emerging at his doorway. His hair was tousled from having just woken, which explained his haphazardly worn robe.
"Yes, and no," John answered, turning round to take in the sight of his dishevelled flat mate.
"There was an altercation," the detective began, sauntering past John to the kitchen.
"I didn't hear any altercations…"
"Of course, you didn't. You're dead as a log when you're asleep."
"To be fair, it was a chaotic day at the clinic."

Sherlock smirked to himself as he put the kettle on. As it boiled, he turned to lean back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him, whilst John sat himself at their dining table.

"So, what happened this time?" John asked, folding his arms as well.
"This time?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I may have been dead as a log, but I'm not stupid, Sherlock,"

The detective exhaled sharply and joined his friend at the table. Drumming his fingers, he looked up at John and, in that fleeting moment, seemed a little in distress. However, he did not seem to know what to say, or how to articulate the events that had led to the corridor of expletives.

"Whatever you've done, Sherlock," John said, finally, "Go and apologise."
"Apologise? Why am I always the one apologising?" the detective asked with a huff.
"Because you're most commonly the one in the wrong." John said, "And it takes a lot to upset Molly. So you must have royally messed up this time."
"I know, I know…" the detective muttered.

The sounds of bubbling water and a loud click interrupted their chat as Sherlock got up to make coffee for them both.

"Whatever it is, apolo—"
"In my defence," said Sherlock suddenly, "She was the slightest bit drunk."
"I'll give you that," John said.
"But…well…" the detective was stuttering now, "Perhaps what I did was…unpleasant."
"Did she get drunk before or after you pissed her off."
"Well…that's hard to say…" said Sherlock, "I suppose the answer would be…during?"
"During?"
"I set her up on a blind date with a potential murder suspect," Sherlock blurted out at last.
"Christ, Sherlock!"
"Well, I didn't leave her alone! I was there, sort of, in the background… she'd never have come to any harm. I don't see why she had to get so upset…"
"Sherlock, you do not set your girlfriend up on a blind date with anyone." John exclaimed in horror.
"She was excellent though. I managed to eliminate what was a highly possible suspect."
"No, listen, Sherlock, "John said, leaning forward, "She is your girlfriend, you do not send her on blind dates. End of story."
"But it was—"
"Not another word," John said, sticking his hand up, "You go and apologise to her. Now."

The detective muttered into his coffee mug, while John set his aside and went to sweep up the angry notes that littered the walkway.

"You've some nerve," Molly said calmly as she emerged from her bedroom. She had just finished a shower and was towelling her hair, dressed in her robe.

Sherlock Holmes was seated in her living room, quietly waiting for her, having obviously broken in. He had a key of course, but he always found it faster to pick locks than to fumble for keys.

"John found your notes."
"So that's why you're here?" Molly asked, sitting herself in the armchair across from him.
"Yes," Sherlock said, "He made me realise I was wrong."
"Good," Molly said, nodding quietly, "Good."
"Although I slightly disagree because really, I had worked out all the odds and you were just the perfect litmus test I needed to—"
"I am your girlfriend, Sherlock." Molly interrupted, "Not your litmus test."

The detective sighed, as did Molly.

"Are you still upset?" he asked quietly.
"Yes." she answered plainly.
"Right."
"Don't look so despondent," she said with a chuckle, "I'm upset, yes, but it's not the end of the world."
"I was more worried about the end of us…"
"Please, Sherlock, I am not as dramatic as that."
"Well, you never know."
"You're the one that's the drama queen." Molly said with a smirk.

She got up from where she was seated and moved to stand in front of him. Placing both hands gently on his face, she leaned to kiss him on the forehead.

"Just don't do it again." she whispered, before moving to kiss him on the lips.

When she moved away, Sherlock reached to hold her by the waist, pulling her in for one more kiss. Molly obliged and held his face again as they kissed again. She could never stay angry with him for long, for she knew he really meant no harm. Sherlock merely needed to learn, and sometimes, he had to learn it the hard way.

"Come over tonight?" he whispered into her ear.
"What for?" she replied, kissing him below the ear.
"Well, you did leave me all those notes…" he teased, tightening his grip around her waist.
"I did, didn't I?" Molly said with a smirk.

Gently, she slid away from his arms and walked to her bedroom. Smirking to himself, the detective got up, straightened his shirt and followed behind her. Before he could take one step into her room, however, she appeared at her bedroom door, holding a jar of her favourite jasmine moisturiser.

"What are you doing here, coming into my bedroom?" she asked, looking innocently up at him.
"I thought —" Sherlock frowned, perplexed.
"Yes? You thought…?" she asked, biting on the inside of her mouth to stop from chuckling.
"I—"
"Here," she interrupted, handing him the jar.
"What's this?"
"My favourite moisturiser. I use it after a shower. Mainly on my legs." she explained simply.
"Why have you given it to me?" he asked, confused.
"Because Sherlock, for the time being," she said with a devious smirk, "You…can go fuck yourself."

With a quick wave of her hand, Molly shooed him out of her bedroom as she shut the door, leaving the detective to let himself out. Sherlock remained standing, gobsmacked, with the jar in his hands.

"I hope you've learnt your lesson," came her voice from inside the room.

He tried to find a reply, or something witty to say, or even an excuse to barge into her room, but he had nothing. Sherlock Holmes had been taught a lesson, and Molly was going to make sure he remembered it.

"Curses," he muttered, giving up, as he hung his head and left the flat.

A week later, it was John's turn to want to leave angry notes along the hallway, for the detective and the pathologist had reunited for a date and had come home inebriated, indiscreet and completely enamoured with each other all over again.

END