Molly Hooper was many things, but a baker was not one of them. Spluttering and coughing, she pushed open another window of her flat and grimaced at the black mess that had bubbled over her only good cake pan. It sat on her counter, smoking and putrid and nothing like the light, sweet Angel Food Cake that it should have been.
"So much for cheering him up," she grumbled, and lifted her apron over her head. "What a waste." Molly shook her head and tipped the concoction, pot and all, into the sink with the tips of her fingers. It clattered loudly and she winced, glancing anxiously at the door to her bedroom. Sherlock was usually a heavy sleeper, and usually didn't wake up until after she'd gone to work, but there was no harm in making sure. The doorway was empty.
She had the water on full blast and was so intent on scrubbing out her pan that she didn't hear the soft, even sound of bare feet padding across the floor, or hear the exasperated sigh that barely escaped his lips. Molly scrubbed away, muttering furiously under her breath, right up until a pair of lips tickled her ear and whispered—
"Good Lord, Molly. Did you try to cook again?"
Molly whirled around, her cheeks already turned an appealing red. Sherlock didn't even bother to disguise his smirk. He adjusted her bed sheets—pink rose patterned— so that they sat more comfortably on his shoulders, and continued.
"I believe that you should leave this recreational pursuit in favor of one less…dangerous. Perhaps you ought to take up knitting. Or photography. Or—" Molly sniffed, and Sherlock broke off abruptly, his eyes widening. "You're not…are you crying?" he asked, bending down to get a better look at his pathologist's face.
"I-I am not!" Molly exclaimed, turning away to wipe furiously at her wet cheeks. "And you don't have to be so bloody rude about it—I was just trying to do something nice."
"Nice…for whom?"
"Nobody. It doesn't matter now, does it?" Molly picked up her brush and started on the pot again.
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "You were trying to do something nice for me, then?"
"I don't know why I try," Molly growled. "But yes, if you must know. You've been so down about all this Moriarty business, and I thought if I could cheer you up, it might help a bit…" she shrugged. "But the cake didn't turn out, and I didn't have the chance to decorate or clean o-or…Sherlock," Molly said as one of his arms encircled her shoulders and pulled her against his very naked chest. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"You remembered my birthday," he mumbled into her hair.
"Well," she said, patting the consulting detective's shoulder, "of course I did, it's carved into your headstone."
His body spasmed against her, and Molly smiled.
"Was that a laugh?"
"No. I was merely choking on this air. You ought to open more than one window—create a cross-breeze."
"I ought to," Molly said. He nodded, and slid his other arm around her waist.
They never did open that second window.