A/N: My contribution to Sherlolly Week 2015: Day 2, Established Sherlolly can't keep their hands to themselves (with a side of Warstan).

It had to be the longest anyone has ever had to wait for a taxi in front of St. Bart's in the history of London's black cabs. And Sherlock Holmes was not a man given to hyperbole. Certain army doctors might accuse him of being a drama queen, sure, but that was neither here nor there.

John Watson, who stood next to him with his hands behind his back, was teetering irritatingly on the balls of his feet like an excited three-year-old waiting for an ice lolly. His eyes were fixed on the indifferent passenger cars that drove past them, evidently trying hard—and failing spectacularly––not to cast a look in the consulting detective's direction.

Sherlock, his gloved hands needlessly stuffed inside his Belstaff's pockets, was content to ignore his curious companion and wait for the arrival of a single bloody cab in silence. But both cases were too much to hope for, apparently.

"So…" Oh, and here it is. He unsuccessfully fought the urge to roll his eyes, as John continued, "You and Molly…"

If he had the presage to set the timer on his mobile, Sherlock would have calculated that John was able to keep to himself for thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds before bringing up the incident he witnessed at Bart's lab.

He and John were currently in pursuit of a case––a seven-and-a-half––and a clue surfaced that required a trip to Bart's. Molly Hooper was, as usual, gracious enough to let the two men use the lab space, even personally conducting gel electrophoresis on the DNA samples Sherlock collected from the crime scene. After nearly an hour, several used strips of litmus paper, five test tubes of multifarious colors, and one broken microscope slide later, Sherlock announced he'd had a breakthrough ("This might even turn out to be an eight!"), and needed to make some inquiries. He stood up to don his coat, while John began gathering the police reports he had been revising.

Sherlock meandered around the granite countertop to where Molly worked, her face in deep concentration as she pressed the plunger of the pipette in her hand, emptying some amber-colored liquid into a petri dish.

He stood close enough––not to disturb her focus––but just so, that he could see his reflection in the plastic goggles she wore when she looked up at him. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips at the mere sight of her looking so sciencey. This was followed by a wider grin, at the thought of not minding at all that Molly has made him prone to making up words like sciencey.

"I'll see you tonight," he said softly to her.

Molly smiled, as she set down the pipette, and nodded.

Without sparing a second thought, Sherlock brought his face very close to hers before tilting his head to an almost ninety-degree angle––awkwardly maneuvering his nose around Molly's protective eyewear, which earned him a giggle from her. He did what came naturally to him of late, whenever Molly was around, and kissed her soundly on the lips. He felt her tug at the lapels of his coat and he smiled against her mouth at her boldness.

But just as he was about to deepen the kiss, Molly suddenly withdrew from him, their lips disengaging with a loud smacking sound. He looked at her, momentarily confused and a little stung. He followed her eyes, which looked comically large behind her goggles, to the man now standing behind them.

Right. He knew he forgot something. Sherlock grimaced, realizing that he may have neglected to share with the good doctor, the fact that he and Molly had been seeing each other for over a month.

He straightened himself, and turned to see John's eyebrows had knitted together so tightly that he appeared to possess a unibrow. At least he had the decency not to let his mouth hang open.

Sherlock glanced down to see Molly was caught somewhere between bursting into laughter and fighting against nature to prevent a blush from reddening her entire face. It escaped his comprehension just how Molly managed to execute a graceful exit, given the situation. With an "I'll see you later" to Sherlock and a quick good-bye to John, she disappeared into the adjoining lab with her ponytail swishing behind her.

He doubted his exit was as graceful, but Sherlock walked briskly and wordlessly past John, toward the building's exit. He could hear his friend's footsteps trying to keep up with his longer strides, but he didn't stop until he reached the square on Giltspur. By the time John caught up to him, Sherlock occupied himself with finding them a taxi.

Sherlock braced himself for a gamut of possible sentences following his friend's undisguised segue, ranging from his usual talent for stating the obvious, to snide comments about his celibacy, and to being chided for––this made Sherlock cringe inwardly––toying with Molly's feelings. All of which would prove vexing. But, since there was no sense in denying it, he ventured, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh, "What about me and Molly?"

John's answer, and the fact that he wasn't attempting to hide a snicker, surprised him. "Nothing," he shrugged. The tyres of a cab finally screeched to a halt in front of them, but it didn't prevent Sherlock from hearing John add, "You're good together."

Sherlock blinked, trying to process the emotions coursing through him. He was genuinely shocked at John's succinct remark, slightly guilty for not telling him about Molly sooner, but above all, he was touched to find another reason to be grateful for his friend. He stood unmoving in front of the waiting cab for some moments, before John waved him into the seat after him.

It wasn't until the cab passed through Soho that a series of vibrations emitted from John's pocket. Sherlock waited for a beat but kept his eyes forward. "You texted Mary, didn't you?"

"Oh, you betcha."

end

John is maybe channeling Lester Nygaard with that last line, but I couldn't help it! Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. Cheers!