He comes home, ragged and with a limp, to find Molly in an odd position on the floor. Her right leg, bent at the knee, lies beneath her torso, sole of her foot outward, left leg straight back, elbows tucked below her chest, head lifted. She keeps her eyes closed, even as the door announces his entrance into their shared space – a shared space which, after nearly a year of seeing each other seriously, Molly had insisted upon. Sherlock still isn't convinced he doesn't regret it, though the access to her company (among other things) with which he's been rewarded does make a damn good argument for Molly's case.
Before he speaks, he considers her seriously with a pout of confusion. Her clothes indicate some sort of physical activity – exercise, he supposes. But she hasn't been running for she's barefoot. Besides, he's not sure those are the most appropriate pants for a run. They fit her far too well and the idea of other men seeing her in such a garment makes the acid in his stomach simmer. She knows it would bother him. So, no, not running.
He continues to observe her, even as she lifts her chest off the floor and extends her right leg bag in a slow, practiced motion. Though encased in an eye-burning lime green spandex shirt, Sherlock can just make out the curves of her breasts. He clears his throat, re-concentrating himself on the task at hand.
She interrupts his thoughts. "I'm doing yoga, Sherlock. Would you like to join?"
"Whatever for?" he asked. "I'm enjoying the view just fine."
Molly moves out of her current position once again, stretches gracefully and settles into a new pose. "Because it's relaxing," she says. "And good for you. There are physical, mental, and psychological benefits, you know."
"Mmm," he says, unwilling to commit to such a vulnerable exercise – or any exercise, really.
Standing once again, she straightens her spine and turns to him. "I do it when you're away," she says. Crossing one foot in front of the other – to continue her stretches or to seduce him, he can't tell – she makes her way to him. "It helps to keep me calm. Focused. I worry about you."
"No need," he says, swallowing.
"You're nervous," she says, twisting one of his curls around her forefinger. "Why's that?"
"No reason. I mean," he says, catching himself, "I'm not nervous."
"You're not the only one who can pick up on details, Sherlock."
"I never said you were incapable of doing so. You just happen to be incorrect this time. I'm simply running late." He attempts to take a step back from her but nearly stumbles in the process. The wall catches him and, while he's grateful that he did not fall on his arse, he struggles to appreciate the feeling of being trapped now.
"Late for what? You just got home."
"Ah, yes – you see, John. He…he'd like to ask me about some wallpaper swatches."
"Sherlock Holmes, you are a terrible liar," she says, pressing her finger, now free of his curl, to his sternum.
He feels his chest weaken and strengthen simultaneously beneath her touch. "You really ought to try it, you know. It may very well improve your mental abilities."
"My mental abilities need no improvement," he said, nose dipping into the bubble of her scent as his head dropped lower.
Molly adds to her height, pressing up onto her toes. Her balance isn't great and she finds herself leaning into Sherlock even more. The proximity nearly kills him and he does the only sensible thing he can think to do – he slides his hands around her back and cups her ass. She responds with an acute intake of breath. His shoulder blades brush against the wall as he draws his hands back up. He moves his hands to her front side, long fingers skimming the sides of her breasts on the way to her face. When his fingertips finally arrive at her jaw and splay evenly on each side, he tilts her head backward.
He does not waste time pressing his lips to hers and opening her mouth against his. For a brief moment, he hopes she appreciates the lack of cigarette flavoring in his mouth but forgets just as quickly when she curls her fingers around the lapels of his Belstaff.
She pulls away from him, breathless, and with a flirty grin takes a step back to her yoga mat, lying forgotten on the floor. He grabs her hand just as quickly – when in the world had he become so grabby? – and yanks her back to him.
"I'm not done with you, Molly Hooper."
In their months as a couple, she's grown to be bolder in their interactions. Raising an eyebrow at him comes naturally, skeptical that he'll win this battle.
"Come do some yoga with me," she says.
Sherlock slumps against the wall, his head lolling to the side and a pout settling on his mouth. "I don't want to," he says.
"Hmm. And I was going to make your favorite for dinner tonight."
He smirks. "I've already made a reservation at Beaulieu's for this evening. Nice try, though," he says.
"Well. Join me or not. I need to finish." As she walks away, she draws her finger along his shoulder.
"Bloody hell," he says, stripping off his coat.
He joins her on the floor in the most awkward downward dog she's ever seen.
"Here," she says, adjusting his legs with gentle nudges. "How's that feel?"
"Hurts," he says, nearly coughing.
"It'll get easier with practice. We'll get you a mat while we're out tonight and tomorrow we'll start with the basics."
"What've you gotten me into, Molly?" he asks, struggling to keep a straight face all the while. He collapses on the mat, leaving Molly to crawl over to him and then over him.
She positions herself in such a way that gives him an excellent view of the ass he admired so earlier. If this yoga made them more flexible, who was he to condemn it?