A/N: While there is currently only one entry, I decided to leave this open for further exploration. This will someday be a series of snapshots, drabbles, and pure fluffiness. For this first selection, I gathered the prompt from a message board. This particular fan was tired of all the angsty fanfics with Sherlolly. While their relationship is most certainly littered with angst, I thought it would be nice to have a break. Hope you enjoy! (By the way, I'm always accepting prompts for future drabbles ;p).

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (rats!).

The Physics of Peanut Butter and Jelly

1

"I don't get it," Sherlock muttered while standing in the doorway from his kitchen to living area in his flat at 221B Baker Street. He was watching Molly create an apparent childhood favorite of hers, but he couldn't seem to piece together what made it so special. It was a layer of peanut butter and a smear of jam surrounded by bread. Why was she always so excited to eat it? Sentiment.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the main reason he ate was purely for survival. There wasn't much enjoyment to gain from the experience. But Molly? Every time she collected the supplies for this simple snack, her skin would become a comfortable shade of pink, and her eyes would flicker with a magical fire.

"What is there to get, silly?" Molly questioned as she gently pressed the final project together and positioned her knife to slice the sandwich diagonally. Not straight across. Never straight across. Sherlock had learned that the hard way when Molly finally had to scold him for the sixteenth time. Yes, sixteenth. He had counted. Regardless of Sherlock's insistence that the shape of an item could hardly influence the flavor, Molly held her ground. Never had Sherlock seen Molly get so fired up about something, and it amused him that a sandwich of all things was what would do it.

"It's a sandwich," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Nice deduction, detective," Molly joked as she picked up the paper plate to carry it over to the couch. Sherlock remained in the doorway with a curious I'm-going-to-figure-this-out-one-day look in his eyes. When Molly got to him, she looked up expectantly, ready for him to move aside for her to pass. When he instead just stood there continuing to study her, she jabbed a finger into his side. This was a daring move for Molly, as she had never used this childish, yet affectionate form of touch to get her way. Something strange happened, though. Instead of Sherlock taking the unexpected contact in stride as he did so many other things, he reacted quite strongly. Not only had he moved from the doorway after Molly's finger had collided with his abdomen, he had leapt several paces backwards and hunched himself over in a defensive position. With this, Molly's facial expression went from one of surprise, to delight, and finally to one of pure calculation.

"You're ticklish," she decided.

"No."

"You are," she pressed on.

"Don't," he said. Molly turned, placed her plate on the kitchen table, and then faced Sherlock again.

"Don't what?" she asked jokingly, knowing exactly what he was referring to. But there was no stopping it as Molly had already made up her mind. While she may have seemed ambivalent to many, Sherlock had known her long enough to know that although it took her a fair amount of time to make a decision, once she had actually made the decision, there was no changing her mind.

"Please don't," he tried again.

"Are you pleading?"

"Yes," he said flatly. Oh, he was trying so hard to mask his panic.

"'I'm Sherlock," Molly mocked in a gruff voice well below her natural octave of speaking while pouting her lips in a funny way as she tried to reach Sherlock's baritone notes. "'I never beg.' Isn't that what you told that one woman?" Molly was of course referring to Irene Adler. Molly reveled in the glory of having one up on this rival from long ago.

"People change," he said, obviously grasping at straws by this point. His heart rate was beginning to rise as he took note of Molly's change in posture. She was readying herself for the pounce.

"Yes, they do," she agreed. "For example, years ago I truly wouldn't have considered doing what I'm about to do.

"Molly," he warned, completely unnerved.

"Sherlock," she returned playfully, and she dove for his middle, digging her fingers into him. Sherlock attempted to grasp for her hands, but he couldn't focus. Instead, a string of unrecognizable laughter was coming out of his mouth.

"Stop," he gasped in between chortles, trying to hold his arms over his sensitive areas. Molly's soprano giggles joined Sherlock's laughter. She was really enjoying having the upper hand, even if it was in a "tickle fight." Tickle fight… the moment her mind wrapped itself around that phrase, it was evident that Sherlock must have found the same term. No longer was this fight one-sided; Sherlock's fingers reached out to zestfully poke at her sides. Only she didn't respond the same way he did… she was still able to contain her own limbs and continue the offensive tickling.

Sherlock frowned, which immediately bothered Molly. "What is it?" she asked as she backed up.

"I'm ticklish," he said.

"I've figured that one out on my own, thanks," she said with a smile.

"But you're not?" Her smile broadened. A weakness Sherlock Holmes had that Molly Hooper did not. Today was a good day.