There wasn't a point to Molly being in 221B at the moment, but she was there, as was Toby the cat and Jack the dog, curled up a respectable distance from each other by the fire. She would have usually been curled up as well, in her chair by Sherlock's with her "grotesquely fuzzy", as Sherlock liked to say, blanket covered in kitties. She did have the blanket, but she was laying on the couch, surfing the internet on her phone. Well actually just cat pictures, which was most of the internet anyway. Sherlock, last she'd seen of him, was in the kitchen looking at a new culture under his microscope. A culture of what? She had no idea. It looked suspiciously like carrot juice and blood that it was breeding in. She didn't want to find out for sure.
The floorboards creaked. She looked with the animals to see Sherlock, rubbing his eyes and meandering over. He wasn't dressed, not even in his dressing gown. It was just his sheet, though he was wearing underwear underneath. Not because he wanted to but because they'd ordered takeaway earlier and he'd not draped himself correctly; ended up flashing the poor delivery girl when paying. He looked at Molly, the couch, then wordlessly put his knee between her legs and draped himself over her, face to her belly. She blinked and slowly moved her arms apart. He wiggled around until he was satisfied, legs half hanging off the end and his arms pushed out all the way until he tucked his hands under the pillow Molly had her head on. She went to sit up but he stopped her, nuzzling her belly.
"Ah-hey, that tickles."
He slowly lifted his head until she could see his eyes. Just his eyes and all the fluffy, unruly and unwashed hair. He kissed her belly through her shirt and she giggled. Then she felt his hands move, slowly, slowly down to the hem of her shirt. He didn't break eye contact. Molly's breath hitched as she felt his warm breath on her skin, and she began to wonder just where the dear detective intended to go. He smiled, she could see it in his eyes pushed her shirt all the way up to her chest and then softly kissed just below it. He planted another soft kiss a little lower, then another, peppering them so faintly they tickled until he got just above her belly button. She could hardly breathe. Her hand was vicelike around her phone. He rested his mouth there and just barely touched her sides, sending a shiver up her spine that left behind goosebumps. Then he tilted his head down and pressed his lips to her skin…
And blew a giant fucking raspberry.
All at once anything Molly thought he was doing vanished and was replaced with a shrill squeal and a right kick that flipped him off the couch and onto the floor where he lay in a tangle of sheets, cackling like a madman. Molly made a bunch of sputtering confused noises, rapidly smacking her belly to get the tingling feeling to go away. She wanted to hit him but she was overcome with idiotic laughter, the kind that made your face hot and your lungs hurt and your eyes water. She doubled over, half falling off the couch. Sherlock had gone from a mischievous cackle to Molly's favorite laugh, the sweet, clear ringing one that reminded her of church bells on Christmas.
The pets, for their part, appeared thoroughly confused, if not alarmed. Their master and mistress didn't usually engage in gut-splitting stupid silliness, so neither really knew what to do besides lay their heads back down and ignore them.
"S-Sherlock Holmes," Molly half wheezed, gasping to get a hold of herself. She tried to look at him, but every time she did she started laughing again, and he started chortling, and then they were a mess for a moment. She wiped her eyes with her shirt, holding it there and breathing. "Good God, why in the hell did you do that?" She couldn't hide her mirth in the least. She peeked over her shirt. Sherlock was splayed over the floor, legs tangled in sheet, lavender (not purple, lavender) underwear peeking out amongst the folds of silk, one hand behind his head and looking straight at the ceiling, grinning like a dork.
"No reason."