AN: Okay, I'll try to make this quick! This isn't exactly my first fic, but it has been quite awhile, and I deleted my previous story. I haven't written or published anything since I was recently reintroduced to fandoms about a year ago when we got Netflix and I started looking things up on Pinterest and fanfiction again. I did get a tumblr a few months ago by the same username, and now it seems I can't exit the fandom world. I'm okay with that right now though.
Anyway! This is the first story I've ever written for BBC Sherlock, and I really love Sherlolly! So please no flames; I know it's not perfect and that everyone has different opinions. If you do see some grammar errors or something, feel free to say something because I'm kind of a stickler about that sort of thing. Otherwise, please be positive if you do decide to review.
I'm sorry, that was longer than I meant it to be! Onwards!
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or anything associated with it.
Summary: When Detective Greg Lestrade finds Philip Anderson poking around St. Bart's morgue, he's annoyed. He doesn't have time for this shipping nonsense Anderson keeps talking about! That is, until he sees it with his own eyes. Sherlolly oneshot. Crack!fic.
"Anderson! What are you doing?" Detective Lestrade demanded as he approached the scraggly man skulking outside the door to St. Bart's morgue.
"I-um..." The man looked like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "...I'm trying to see if my ship is sailing, okay?!" he finally exclaimed, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically. He glanced back through the window into the morgue.
"What?" Greg was surprised at his outburst. And confused. What was Anderson talking about?
"My ship. Sherlolly." He pointed inside, and Lestrade leaned forward to see in.
Sherlock and Molly stood beside one another over a murder victim. They were obviously discussing the case, the same that the detective was there to ask about.
He didn't have time for Anderson's antics! There was a murder to solve, and it didn't involve any kind of boat!
As he moved forward to open the door, Anderson stopped him. "Wait! You'll ruin their moment!"
"They're talking over a dead body!"
"I know! It's perfect for the sexual tension." Lestrade gaped at him. "Just-just wait a second. And watch."
Inside, just as Lestrade thought, Molly and Sherlock were discussing the case. As a lag in deductions silenced them, Sherlock chuckled. Molly looked at him confused.
"Apparently," he explained, "Anderson believes that we are having some kind of romantic moment over this corpse." She grimaced. "He and Lestrade are outside the door. Anderson has been here for probably a good hour, but Greg just arrived for the autopsy report and has been attempting the impossibility of understanding him. "
She gave him a surprised but withering look. Finally, she sighed. "Let's go save him then, shall we?"
As she started to turn, Sherlock caught her arm and turned her back to face him. Stepping closer, his eyes sparkled with mischief. He smiled as he looked straight into her eyes.
"No, why don't we give them something to talk about? I'd love to see Anderson's face after this."
Before Molly could ask for more details about this plan of his, he leaned down and placed his lips on hers. In shock she froze, but Sherlock's hand lightly squeezed her arm to remind her to respond. Without a second thought, she kissed him back, but a second later he moved away. Molly's wide eyes looked up at him. Even though she knew it was for show, she couldn't deny the surge of energy that went through her at the kiss, or her wildly beating heart; neither of them could. Sherlock, still trying to understand this new feeling, smiled as if it wasn't a problem.
"Sherlock, that was an entirely inappropriate thing to do here," she whispered, trying to sound more angry than she felt.
He shrugged and sent her a wink before turning with a flare and walking toward the door. Flinging it open, he continued to walk on, briefly greeting the two men standing there. Lestrade's jaw hung open, his eyes wide as his head turned to follow Sherlock. Anderson, however, looked like he was frozen, his fists up to his mouth and a huge open mouthed smile on his face. Molly went bright red at the sight of them.
A squeak came from Anderson and he fell on the spot. Greg had turned back to her, but at the sound of Anderson's thud he reacted, pulling the man off the ground.
She had no idea what was going on. When Greg got him to his feet, Philip weakly thanked him, but Lestrade just grinned. Seeming to catch on, Anderson squealed at the same time as the detective inspector.
"I SHIP IT!"