This was absolutely ridiculous. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake, a bachelor living in London.
Under no circumstances should Sherlock Holmes have been in trouble for having "a girl" in his bedroom.
Besides which, Molly Hooper was not a girl, but a woman. A stressed, somewhat traumatized woman who had very much needed to be someplace that was not London, and Sherlock thought that for once he might be able to be helpful in a way that did not end in John wincing and exasperatedly explaining that he was wrong. So instead of letting Molly remain in her ransacked flat he tucked her into a rented car and drove out to his parents' country home. Conveniently enough, said parents were on vacation, cruising around the Danube or some such thing, so Molly could have peace and quiet.
Or at least, Sherlock thought they were, right up until the moment his mother opened the bedroom door.
Sherlock was surprised when Molly called him on a bright Saturday morning – like him, she preferred to text when she could – and was equally surprised by the way his heart leapt into his throat when she told him that it looked like someone had broken into her flat. He didn't see Molly as often as he once did, even if she drifted into his thoughts surprisingly often. She seemed to have pulled away since the disastrous Magnussen case, and was even briefly swept away by Mycroft's people until the Moriarty video crisis was defused (to Sherlock's chagrin, as she really was an optimal lab assistant).
She had barely spoken since he had established that her flat had indeed been burgled, the thieves long gone. He'd found her in the corridor, arms hugged tightly across her middle, looking infinitely more fragile than he recalled. To Sherlock's relief, the theft seemed to be on the straightforward side – just some jewelry, a laptop, some prescription medications taken and Molly's cat left unharmed. This was little consolation to Molly, who was unsettled by the mere knowledge that someone had been in her flat and tossed about her belongings.
"Call the building manager and tell them you want the locks changed," Sherlock said. "And pack a bag. You're not staying here until that's finished."
True, he could have taken her to a hotel, or her friend Meena's place, or simply put her up in John's old room. The Watsons, for that matter, would have kept watch and filled her arms with baby Rosamund and plenty of red wine until she was calm again. Somehow none of those solutions had seemed quite right at the time. He had called Mycroft and asked to borrow a car while she packed and asked her neighbor to watch Toby. Molly was plainly surprised when the sleek black car pulled up to the curb (and moreso when Sherlock slid behind the wheel), but she had apparently decided not to ask where they were going. She remained quiet through the trip, staring out the window as London faded into suburbs and then the countryside, until they finally arrived at Sherlock's planned destination in the early afternoon.
"Where are we?" Molly finally asked, looking over the unfamiliar house.
"My parents' place," he replied, and proceeded to dig up a key from the potted plant beside the door. They could try a bit harder on that count.
Sherlock opened the door, uncertain of what was producing the knot of tension across his chest...although he supposed his last visit had been overly eventful. Molly stepped inside and let her bag slide from her shoulder and hit the floor with a thud. She looked around, and finally a very small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. Sherlock was surprised to realize how much he had hoped for it. The smile was followed by a stifled yawn.
"You must be tired," Sherlock said quickly. Ridiculous, of course she was – she'd worked a full shift at Bart's before coming home to find her flat torn up. He scooped up her bag and took the stairs, Molly trailing behind him. He opened the second door on the right side of the hallway and flicked on the light. Molly peeked her head into the room and the smile grew.
"This is your room," she said softly.
"That's a rather easy one, Molly." Sherlock pulled open a chest of drawers to yank out a set of sheets. "I certainly wouldn't put you in Mycroft's room. It's probably bugged."
She giggled at that, and started unfolding the sheets, snapping and letting the fabric spread softly over the mattress. They worked together, quickly getting the bed to rights. Sherlock pulled out a thick blanket from the closet, helping her to make a warm hiding place. He nodded and stepped out, determined to let her get some rest.
The bad dream – nightmare seemed a wrong term in the afternoon – was hardly surprising in retrospect. He rushed into the bedroom, lunging across the bed and gently shaking her awake when she cried out. Blinking and confused, Molly looked up at him.
"Oh," she murmured softly. "Sorry, I – I forgot where I was."
"It's fine," he replied, pausing briefly as he settled onto the bed a comfortable distance from her. And why not, it was technically his bed. "Not unusual, under the circumstances."
"No, I suppose not." She sighed. "Thank you, by the way. For getting me out of there for a bit."
"Why me?" Sherlock asked. "You could have called anyone for help. Could certainly have notified the police yourself."
Molly ran her hands through her hair, tucking it behind her ears. "You were the first person I thought of, actually. And I thought – if you were willing to come then that meant that things were all right between us again."
"You thought they weren't?" Sherlock asked, frowning in confusion.
"I slapped you, Sherlock. In front of your best friends and – whatever that Wiggins bloke is. And then of course you got shot and then you were trying to get back on your feet and then – Christmas." She glanced at him briefly, the sadness there suggesting that she had picked up some hints of what went on. "You've been back of course, but it's different somehow. You're distant. Not that you've ever been warm and fuzzy but it feels like you've put up a wall, and I can't blame you for that."
Stunned, Sherlock sat silently for a moment, letting this new information settle.
"I thought you were angry with me. That you hadn't forgiven me," Sherlock replied. "You called what I did a betrayal. That is no small thing, Molly."
"It wasn't a small thing that you did, Sherlock." Molly sighed, hugging her knees. "But it's also something that can happen sometimes. I might hate it but addiction lingers...and of course I've forgiven you. I always do."
Sherlock didn't know why that idea produced an aching sensation behind his ribs, but somehow he found it to be a perfectly Molly-suited reasoning in its way. He let his head drift back into the pillow, noting that everything felt a little heavier than it had earlier in the day. Driving could be tiring, after all. Even on nearly empty roads...surrounded by fields...with little in them besides sheep...
It had to be near dawn when he awoke. At least that was his bleary-eyed thought as he looked at Molly's small form in the bed beside him. No, wait. Not dawn, but dusk. They'd fallen asleep in the afternoon, and this room faced west. Sherlock grunted in dissatisfaction. Naps were the absolute worst, he always felt cold and foggy afterwards.
Suddenly, the floor creaked and the light in the room changed. As adrenaline surged through his veins, Sherlock abruptly pulled Molly to him, nearly rolling her under him in an attempt to shield her from whoever was in front of him, which resulted in her squealing and flailing at being awakened so abruptly.
"Sherlock Holmes. What on earth are you doing here?" He blinked, realizing that he was staring up into the face of his very present, very irritated Mummy.
"Mmmph!" Molly shoved at his chest, reminding Sherlock that he was not actually alone at the moment. He sat up, letting a bewildered Molly sit up and attempt to right her rumpled clothes.
"And who would this be?"
"Molly Hooper. I believe you've heard me mention her previously?" He turned to Molly, who somehow appeared both bleary-eyed and stunned at the same time. "Molly, this is my mother. Who has apparently forgotten how to knock."
His mother raised an eyebrow. "I don't need to knock, Sherlock. This is my house. We were hardly expecting to find you up for a visit." She deigned then to smile down at Molly. "I'm sure my son hasn't even bothered to offer you a cup of tea, Molly. Why don't you come downstairs?"
"Um. Of course," Molly murmured, her voice scratchy from sleep. She slipped from the bed and padded out, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock with an expression he could describe only as "!"
Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly sent John a text.
Help. Molly Hooper is meeting my parents. - SH
Mercifully, the response was quick. What? How did that happen?
My mother walked into my bedroom and found us sleeping together. - SH
Thank you for that delightful image that I'll never be able to unsee.
Sherlock blinked in confusion, then realized his mistake. SLEEPING, JOHN. ACTUALLY SLEEPING. -SH
Was she wearing actual clothes? Because that's a step up from when I ran into Janine at your place.
Of course she was. Why wouldn't she be wearing clothes at my parents' house? -SH
Wait, why are you at your parents' house?
Her flat was burgled. She could hardly stay there. - SH
That doesn't begin to answer my question.
Sherlock sighed. He should have texted Mary instead.
This led to Sherlock's current predicament, being unceremoniously yanked into the kitchen by his mother for the equivalent of interrogation with a bare lightbulb and a single chair. To her clear bewilderment Molly distinctly had the better part of the deal, placed in the sitting room with tea and biscuits with a warm throw over her shoulders.
"What is the meaning of this, Sherlock? Using our house for – for assignations?"
Sherlock jerked backwards. "This wasn't – Molly is my friend, Mummy."
Mrs. Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Friend? Last I checked it's rather unusual to cuddle your friends, Sherlock."
"It was an accident!" Sherlock blurted, feeling his cheeks heat despite the frustrated knowledge that he hadn't done anything wrong. "Someone broke into her flat last night and she had a nightmare while she was taking a nap. I went in to check on her. I didn't mean to fall asleep. And for heaven's sake, perhaps you haven't noticed but we're both completely dressed!"
The skeptical look on his mother's face suggested that she did not believe him. "Is this another case, Sherlock?" She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not going to hear about this from my garden club, am I? Because that was quite possibly the most mortifying experience of my life, and I attended your parent-teacher conferences."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know at least one of your friends' children was in the papers over a scandal involving a goat and three members of Parliament."
"The goat didn't go to the tabloids!" His mother glared. "And even if that's true, why on earth did you bring her here?" Before Sherlock could find an answer, she looked up, attempting to school her features into a more pleasant expression when Molly appeared in the doorway.
"I'm so sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear," Molly said, stepping hesitantly into the kitchen. "Mrs. Holmes – Violet, sorry – Sherlock is being completely honest with you." Her gaze drifted towards her shoes and she bit her lip before speaking. The effect made her seem demure, to the point of near ridiculousness. That alone made Sherlock just the slightest bit curious. "Someone broke into my flat and ransacked it. My flat was an absolute mess, and Sherlock knew I wouldn't be able to sleep there after that, and obviously I could have just called a friend to stay with them or gone to a hotel but Sherlock was so insistent that I needed – some space, away from all the noise and all the people in the city. Breathing room, to recover. And since you weren't home he thought it would be harmless to come here."
Sherlock stared as two thoughts began to coalesce in his mind. The first was that he had perhaps overreacted to Molly's situation, which was not terribly unusual for the practiced urban dweller. Secondly, he hadn't uttered more than ten words to Molly about staying elsewhere than her flat, and yet somehow her logic...fit alarmingly well.
"And I'm sure that it did look a bit odd but really, we were just talking and I was so tired and Sherlock had just come off a case so he must have dozed off. You know how he runs himself ragged, and then he insisted on driving all the way here."
Sherlock glanced back and forth between Molly, looking as unassuming and sweet as could be, and his mother, who seemed to be thinking this over. Mummy didn't even seem particularly upset. Was she...was she actually believing this story?
Wait. Of course she was believing it. Molly was, in the most technical sense, telling the truth...with a touch of sentimental embroidery.
Somehow, of all the tools he'd ever attempted to employ against his parents, that one hadn't genuinely occurred to him.
Molly glanced shyly towards the floor again as her cheeks flushed with pink, and Sherlock had to wonder if she could actually blush on cue, and if she could if she would teach him how. "I know it's not terribly like him. But Sherlock was wonderful today. I think he gets to take a nap after all of that."
His mother laughed. "Well, now that he's had one, you shouldn't waste what's left of the day. Sherlock, take Molly to see the pond. I'm sure she'd like that."
"I'm sure I would," Molly said, grabbing his arm and rather quickly and wisely dragging him towards their coats before he could say anything to contradict her. They stepped out into the cool, but pleasant evening, Sherlock finding his feet making an automatic beeline for the aforementioned water feature.
"The pond probably isn't the most exciting thing," Sherlock said confusedly.
"Why? Is there a folly?" Molly looked up at him, eyes twinkling.
"What? No. This isn't a manor, Molly. Oh." He realized from the playful smirk that she was joking. "How did you do that, back there, by the way?"
"Convince your mother that two people doing something innocent were actually doing something innocent? Not that difficult, Sherlock. Now show me this pond."
So he did, and to his surprise the pond was actually looking quite sparkling and scenic, a few ducks swimming about in the golden light as the sun sank into the horizon. Sherlock frowned, suddenly suspecting his mother of having ideas, regardless of how platonic Molly had explained everything to be. They settled themselves on a well-placed bench, and Molly folded her hands in her lap, gazing calmly out over the landscape, little wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and winding around her ear. Sherlock watched her, finding the lines of her profile satisfying like the last few pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.
"I'll check the locks your landlord has installed, of course," he blurted, breaking up the quiet of the pastoral scene when he realized that he didn't know quite how long he'd been looking at her.
"And if they're not sufficient, I'll make sure you get a better set. You can stay at 221B until it's finished, Mrs. Hudson won't mind as long as I remember to tell her you're there, something about her heart and unexpected footsteps in the flat."
"Thank you, Sherlock. That's kind of you." Molly tipped her head back, breathing in the fresh air. "I forget how lovely the country is. Pity they don't really need full-time pathologists out here."
"No. They really don't." Sherlock studiously ignored that there was in fact a rather excellent hospital in a town 30 minutes away that might well appreciate a good pathologist. That was irrelevant, Molly's talents were needed in London and it would be terribly inconvenient for her to be located at such a distance.
"I suppose I'd find it dull eventually anyway. Not nearly enough murders." She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, that sounds awful. But they do make the job more interesting sometimes."
Sherlock caught himself smiling. "I think I know exactly what you mean."
Mrs. Holmes put together a light supper that evening (Sherlock had to admit, he hadn't considered that he and Molly would eventually need to eat), and he watched in fascination as Molly continued to charm his parents despite the occasional awkward moment. To Sherlock's amazement, his father brought out the scotch that only appeared at holidays, so finely crafted that even he decided to have a drink.
He should have known that this was merely a ruse to cause him to let his guard down before his mother brought out the only thing worse than a photo album – a scrapbook.
"Molly does not need to see that, Mummy," Sherlock complained as they flipped through his baby pictures, interspersed with certificates, ticket stubs, locks of hair, and ghastly cut-outs that his mother acquired on trips to America.
"Oh, but Molly does," She replied, a cheeky grin on her face. To Sherlock's horror, the scrapbook in question extended from birth to age five, and Molly found some way to comment on how adorable every single picture was. Sherlock pulled out his phone, which not only lacked new cases but also any useful support from John.
They're showing her photographs, John. Curls preserved under plastic. I think Molly's going to steal them and clone me. - SH
I'm sure, John replied.
Unless your mum ripped it out of your head, there are no roots on that hair anyway,Mary added, as this had apparently become a group text at some point. Unhelpful, if accurate.
Instead of accusing Molly of untoward scientific intentions regarding his DNA, Sherlock thought he'd have another scotch (or preferably five, but unfortunately his father was sitting next to the bottle). He even managed to redirect the conversation about the family's first trip to France such that his parents did not have the opportunity to bring up the incident of Sherlock's attempt to return the escargots his great-aunt was serving for dinner to her garden. This managed to sustain his patience until his mother started to say something about sleeping arrangements.
"Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock and I will be fine as we were."
Sherlock's gaze flicked between Molly and his mother. The former was smiling pleasantly, as if she had just announced nothing more mundane than the weather, while his mother seemed to be calculating...something.
"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in your own room, dear?" Mummy asked, in a manner suggesting that Molly faced nothing less than an iron maiden in sharing with him.
"Oh, we'll muddle through." Molly replied. Through a light haze of peaty scotch, Sherlock concluded that she was correct, and nodded in agreement. Mummy's eyes narrowed slightly, looking them both over with what Sherlock could only describe as suspicion. The fire crackled in the background, an ice cube melted and clinked, and Sherlock seriously considered volunteering to go sleep in the car just to put an end to the awkwardness.
"We'll leave you to it then. Just be sure the fire's out before you head up," his father said, and Sherlock thought that this might be what mercy felt like. With a gentle nudge, his father escorted his mother from the cozy sitting room, and Sherlock was left to stare across the room at Molly.
"Why did you do that?" he finally asked.
Molly grinned. "Because while we were clearing away the dishes after dinner, I overheard them betting on which one of us would sneak into the other's room. Besides, like you said, Mycroft's room is probably bugged."
"Sorry about all of that." His cheeks felt heated. Maybe it was the scotch. "They've always been a bit much."
"I dunno. I don't have any parents left. It's sort of – nice to be reminded of what that's like." Her smile turned wistful as she rolled the ice around in her glass. "I can just imagine what my dad would have said about all this. A lot of lecturing about living in London and security and then getting into a car with a strange man -"
"I'm hardly a stranger, Molly."
"I said a strange man, not a stranger," she teased. "Your parents are eager, though. I mean, really, they're placing bets and I've been mildly traumatized and you're obviously not interested."
Molly hopped up and started gathering glasses to take to the kitchen, but Sherlock sat frozen to his spot on the sofa. Fortunately his general aversion to chores prevented Molly from noticing that anything was amiss, for to his enormous surprise Molly's last statement was...incorrect.
If she had asked him directly, he could deflect, avoid, distract. Instead Molly had inadvertently found his most vulnerable spot and lured him into a semantic trap, for Sherlock found correcting erroneous perceptions simply irresistible.
(John had once sent him a crudely drawn cartoon featuring a character that refused to sleep because "someone is wrong on the internet." Sherlock didn't entirely grasp why this was funny.)
At any rate, Sherlock practically needed to stand on his own tongue to keep himself from responding that he was indeed interested in her. After all, he might have misunderstood her meaning.
Really? It's not as though she concealed her meaning. Last time I checked your hearing was perfectly fine. Irene Adler appeared in his mind palace, smirking and seated as modestly as possible considering her usual state.
"Couldn't you at least wear a dressing gown for serious topics? Besides which, this is definitely none of your business," Sherlock replied.
Irene laughed. Oh, I think we both know that's not true, Mr. Holmes. This is exactly my domain. She leaned forward, eyes twinkling with her own cleverness. Rather, I believe it's Ms. Hooper's intrusion into this area that poses a problem for you.
"Yes, Molly is my colleague and friend." He frowned. "Although I suppose that isn't necessarily an impediment. John and Mary worked together."
Good chemistry does have its way of making itself known. No matter how much one party may be trying to avoid it.
"And I suppose you'd know how to handle such a delicate transition."
Irene let out a rather ungainly snort. Mr. Holmes, I think you know exactly how I would handle this...in remarkably explicit detail.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered, brushing Irene and her innuendo aside.
This is an unusually dreadful idea. Have you decided to pursue a new form of disaster now that drugs are increasingly inadvisable, Sherlock?Mycroft asked archly.
"Oh, how would you know? It's hardly your area, either." Sherlock replied with a sneer.
I know perfectly well that you don't have the patience or the attention span to maintain a relationship. How do you think Miss Hooper will feel about being overlooked and ignored every time you have a case?
Sherlock frowned. Even if Molly knew his methods, his typically single-minded case behavior would be discomfiting at best for her, particularly if he needed to manipulate someone with flirtation again (although frankly, he intended to never let things get as far as they had with Janine).
Honestly it wouldn't be the worst thing, John said. Not if you actually want to try. It's life-changing, good and bad.
"Good and bad? Aren't you supposed to be taking the pro side of this debate?" Sherlock said with a frown.
John smiled thinly at him. Hardly the angel and devil on your shoulder, is it? There are risks, Sherlock. No one knows that better than I do.
Moriarty was his first thought, although Sherlock refused to let his mind wander to the depths where the psychopath occupied his own space, and in reality Sherlock had many lesser but nonetheless dangerous enemies.
Yes, all of that. However, you're forgetting something important.
"And what's that?" Sherlock asked.
It's half her bloody decision, you git! You're not deciding any of this alone. Admitting that maybe you fancy her isn't signing the book at the registry.
Right. What my easily irritated husband said , Mary added cheerfully. Let Molly decide what she wants...if Molly might be something you want.
"That's the entire problem," Sherlock complained. "I don't know if I do."
Right. What is it you like calling yourself? A high-functioning sociopath, Mary said, wiggling her fingers in quotes. And what do sociopaths do?
"Manipulate situations to suit their interests."
Mary beamed at him. Exactly. You rescued Molly from her burgled apartment, swept her off to your family home in the countryside, where you would have spent the weekend alone together if your parents hadn't come home. You were on good behavior with your parents all night and you listened to her when she was upset and promised to keep her safe. Whatever else you might want from her, Sherlock, you certainly do want her to think the world of you.
Sherlock had to admit that this made an alarming amount of sense...as well as that John and Mary provided far better advice in his mind palace than in real life. However, giving in to temptation was potentially a massive error. He had no idea if he could function in a more intimate relationship, although he'd managed relatively well with Janine with only a professional interest in the outcome. He didn't even know if he held genuine interest in Molly, versus a craving for her previous admiration or the jealous fear that someone else would take her away from him. He'd never been good at sharing, and the idea that Molly would find an understanding Mary-equivalent was tragically unlikely.
Frankly, Sherlock didn't fancy the idea of getting shot again.
"Hullo? Sherlock?" Molly waved a hand in front of his face, and he blinked, looking up at her.
"Sorry, were you, er, mind palace-ing?"
"Yes – nothing important though," Sherlock replied quickly. "We should probably go up, don't you think?"
"Yes, but you probably ought to snuff that out first." She nodded towards the glowing embers before turning up the stairs herself.
Sherlock picked up the fireplace poker and spent a moment breaking up the remaining logs in the fireplace. Growing up he had always thought they looked like tiny, flaming cities, tumbling into an abyss. He pondered for a moment the multiple potential uses of the fireplace poker as a murder weapon, and then traded it for the shovel that he would use to crush the remaining wood and smother the remaining low flames and embers with ashes.
In a moment of desperate procrastination, he checked his phone one last time, where there was a message from Mary, which read "Uejdjsksjeibdue." Rosamund really wasn't one for helpful input. He supposed it was time to get to bed.
Molly was reading a book from his shelf when he finally made his way upstairs, wearing flannel pajamas in a tartan that Sherlock was certain was attached to no Scottish clan, unless they wished to use it to blind their enemies. That was the reason that he turned away from her in the bed, he told himself, and not in an effort to reduce his awareness of her presence.
"I had another reason," Molly said, closing her book. "I feel safer sharing with you. And you don't have to say it, I know it isn't logical to feel unsafe – especially not all the way out here – "
"To the contrary, I find it to be a reasonable response to an upsetting invasion of your private space," Sherlock replied, shifting around to find the tartan remained amazingly offensive. "You're hardly one for hysterical reactions, Molly."
She looked pleased at his assessment. "Thank you for today. I don't know why you thought of it, but I'm very glad you did."
"It – it was my pleasure," Sherlock stammered slightly. As he observed her fussing with a button at her wrist, he wondered if he should admit the reason that he'd come up with such a dramatic solution to such a small problem. Molly was remarkably skilled in understanding and translating his thoughts into the language of sentiment. Even if he stumbled, she would understand what he meant.
She might even reveal whether she still had any desire to tangle up her life with his, to walk and talk and solve some crimes (even the dull domestic ones) with him.
Timing, Sherlock, John's voice reminded him. Right, yes. Molly was vulnerable right now, temporarily uprooted from her home. Not a good time to approach such an emotional topic, particularly when any failure would be amplified by a rather awkward drive back to London in the morning.
"That said, all contents of that scrapbook are strictly top secret."
"Of course. Minus the picture with the short pants. I already snapchatted that one to Mary."
Sherlock groaned. "You didn't."
"I did. Now go to sleep so you don't drive us off the road tomorrow."
Sherlock sighed but rolled over again to comply, secretly relieved that she hadn't seen the photo from the time his mother put her vaguely hostile sons in a village Christmas play. That was definitely in the next scrapbook.
Sherlock woke up as his phone vibrated on the night stand to inform him of its dying battery. He noticed that while sleeping Molly had migrated across the invisible border between their pillows. Close enough that he could study the brush of her eyelashes against her cheek and the little mole on her neck, feel the hint of warmth from her body. He didn't mind the intrusion into his space, to his surprise, but then he was used to having her close while they worked. This was a similar proximity, merely switched to a horizontal orientation. (He did mind the godawful flannels, but waking her to ask "Would you mind taking off your shirt?" would not have gone over well.) Gently, he brushed his finger over the faint line between her brows, which made her curl up slightly, her knees poking into his thigh. Her eyes fluttered, and she squinted slightly before her eyes went wide at realizing her location.
"Morning," Sherlock said hoarsely.
"Morning," she replied in a soft voice, her breath quickening slightly under his gaze.
Not entirely immune to him then. Good, even if he didn't need it just yet. Sherlock rubbed the fabric of her collar between thumb and forefinger, and raised his eyebrows.
"How does anyone even agree to make a print this loud? I think it's actually burning my retinas."
Once upon a time, Molly Hooper would have been very upset by this comment. She would have spluttered and looked shocked and either scuttled away or told him off. Present day Molly Hooper, however, took a different tack.
"My God, you are such a wanker!" She grabbed her pillow and swung it at him with more force than he expected. Sherlock scrambled off the bed, sending her sprawling as the bedcovers came with him. He grabbed his own pillow and swung at her, only to get another wallop from Molly.
Apparently she had more experience with pillow fights than one might expect. Deciding all was fair in love and war, Sherlock grabbed the duvet and tackled Molly to the mattress with it. Naturally, this was the moment his father chose to open the door with a casual knock.
"We were just - er, self-defense?" Sherlock said, as Molly poked her head out of the duvet.
"Not saying a word. But breakfast will be ready shortly," his father said with an amiable smile, and closed the door.
"Do you really think he won't say anything?" Molly asked.
"Not a chance," Sherlock said with a sigh. He looked down at Molly's pillow creased cheek and hopelessly ruined plait. "I think we can handle them – together?"
"Together," Molly agreed. Then she pecked him on the cheek, and took his surprise as an opportunity to shove him off and dash into the en suite first.
"Don't know why I rescued you," Sherlock complained to the bathroom door, but smiled as he leaned against the wall to wait. This was absolutely ridiculous, and he was going to enjoy being in trouble with the girl in his bedroom.