Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This just wouldn't leave me alone- Nothing to do with No Capes! or Little Goldfish I'm afraid. Just a little stand-alone ficlet...
~ THE PROPERTIES OF LIGHTNING ~
Sherlock Holmes knows that he is a creature of winter.
It's not that he doesn't like sunshine, per se. He has nothing against its brightness. Nor its inevitability. Nor its frankly lobotomising effect on a British public which sees far too little of it and thus quite loses the run of itself whenever a sunny day appears. After all, even he must allow that occasionally leaving the flat is a good idea, however little he may like to admit it; If he wants good cases and exciting adventures and to go chasing after criminals then it is necessary for him to venture forth onto the streets, and sometimes those streets are both sunny and summery-
So no, Sherlock doesn't have a problem with summer or sunshine, per se.
No, he just has a problem with its effects, now that he's stuck in Baker Street with one Molly Hooper, St. Bart's pathologist, apparent damsel in distress and tiny, miniscule, actually-are-you-sure-those-are-legal? pyjama-wearing enthusiast.
And it's really starting to get to him. The tiny-pyjamas-wearing part.
He's trying to pretend it isn't, but he knows deep down that it is.
Because Molly (along with John, Mary and The Sprog, though they've relocated to the flat upstairs) is spending increasing amounts of time in his presence now that Mycroft's decided to place all his highest profile eggs in one basket in the hope of flushing Moriarty out. And Sherlock is finding this fact increasingly… irksome. Disagreeable.
In fact, there are times when her presence makes him downright jittery, so wound up and uncomfortable, that he feels like crawling out of his skin might not be a bad idea.
It's her proximity, you see. The way she slouches and pads around the flat in her little pyjamas, or at best a pair of trackies and a tee, really should be cause for complaint. Would be cause for complaint, if he had any say in her coming to stay here and didn't feel slightly guilty for his part in her having to do it. Unfortunately however, he does feel guilt for her having to leave her flat to come and stay here, and this contrition raises its head at the most inopportune times, usually when he's about to order her to put some bloody clothes on and stop distracting him-
So he holds his tongue. He does sometimes do that.
John seems to know and John seems to think it's hilarious.
So does Mary.
This is extra annoying because now that he's married a Bond girl, John doesn't even respond to threats, and not even Sherlock is foolish enough to try making any at the new Mrs. Watson.
He doesn't think he'll survive being shot twice.
So he's stuck. It would be easier to become cross, Sherlock often thinks, if Molly were dressing the way she does in order to pique his interest. But she isn't- One look at her bewildered response to his recent narkiness is enough to make that self-evident. Molly's just not the sort to flaunt her body without reason; as lovely as she is, she simply doesn't seem comfortable wearing figure-hugging clothes, and Sherlock has always respected that about her. It's nice to be around someone- rather like John, in fact- who really doesn't care how she looks-
He said this to Molly once, with the full intention of praising her.
By the time the yelling had died down, John had punched him, Mary had thrown a pillow at him and Molly had excused herself to run into the bathroom, which even Sherlock knew was a Bit Not Good. He still has no idea why everyone was angry at him though.
It's a mystery, and not even a fun one.
But then these days Molly is often a mystery, and for him to describe the most inanely banal and predictable woman of his acquaintance thus is really saying something.
He frowns as he thinks it, glaring into the darkness and willing to heat to lift. Even after the sun goes down it's stifling, wrapping itself around him until he thinks he might smother. Making his flesh creep, his bones languid, and bringing the salt tang of sweat from seemingly every pore. It is disgusting. To his right pale yellow lamplight pours in through his window, washing the room in neon and making sleep even more impossible, and as he realises that Sherlock huffs out another, angrier breath, grabbing his pillow and pressing it in front of his face though he knows that it's completely counter-productive-
He hears it then, the slight, hissing pitter-patter of rain, the wind beginning to rise though the temperature doesn't drop any.
Sherlock swears to himself.
Wonderful, he thinks, now I really will never sleep. The one time when I bloody want to, and the weather's out to get me. Stupid bloody climate change-
He lies on his back, slowly, colourfully cursing his way through every tap and whisper and press of rain, the light from the streetlamps growing ever more washed out and wavering-
He's still doing that when the first crack of lightning comes, and when Molly opens his door and whispers to him to ask if he's still awake.
Molly knows she's being ridiculous.
Just as she knows that she's never going to hear the end of this.
But the simple fact is that she doesn't like electrical-storms, finds being stuck in them rather terrifying actually- a boring childhood trauma involving being locked in a closet during one by an older cousin is to blame-
And frankly if she's going to be stuck in a strange place while one scares her out of her wits then she is not willing to suffer alone. The last time she had to sit through one, Tom was still living with her. Needless to say, Tom isn't living with her anymore- But someone else who fit's the description tall, dark and dorky is.
And that being the case, she fully intends to take advantage.
So she taps shyly on Sherlock's door, pushes it open. A flash of lightning cracks as she does it, harsh and platinum-white and jagged, outlining everything in garish, x-ray bright light. For a moment Sherlock looks up at her as the thunder rolls, hair standing on end, startled, and she's almost tempted to mutter, "It's alive!" he looks so like a certain post-modern Prometheus.
She thinks he might even appreciate the joke.
The scowl he immediately shoots her makes the words die in her throat however, the desire to talk to him going with it. For a moment Molly is silent, more flummoxed around him than she has been in years, and then-
"Well?" he snaps. "What is it, Molly?"
She opens her mouth to answer him, entirely sure she can- she'll just tell him she wondered whether he wanted a drink, there's no need to share how nervous she is-
She really doesn't think it would be wise to try something silly like being vulnerable around Sherlock at a time like this.
Unfortunately however she doesn't answer quickly enough and Sherlock rolls his eyes. Gives a martyred sigh. He shifts in his bed, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest and in that moment Molly realises that- Oh my- He's not wearing a pyjama top. Or, by the looks of things, a pyjama bottoms either- A single, muscular calf and foot poke out from under his sheets, its white flesh dusted with black hair and looking far more alluring than a man's leg has the right to look…
Silently, Molly curses a misspent youth watching Jane Austen adaptations on the BBC and the subsequent leg fetish such diversions may have given her.
Mr. Darcy's trousers have a lot to answer for, she thinks darkly.
An image of Sherlock wearing said trousers pops into her head and it is only with great difficulty that she forces the unruly image away.
Ahem.
"Molly, if you're going to say something then say something," Sherlock snaps peevishly then. He's glaring at the rain-spattered window as if it's taken his last penguin bar and now he wants it back.
He always takes the universe not going his way so personally, she thinks.
But the tone is enough to get her moving. She blinks and looks back at him. Nods. "I was wondering whether you wanted a drink of something?" she says quietly. "I-I can't sleep, and I thought I heard- um, heard you moving about in here." She gives him a weak attempt at a sympathetic smile. "So if you would like a glass of-"
Whatever cover story she would have come up with is ruined however, because another flash of lightning cracks and, since she wasn't expecting it, Molly nearly jumps out of her skin. She lets out a little shriek that makes her sound about three years old, her arms coming up to wrap around her middle in fright, and Sherlock smirks at the sight, snickers, amusement clear in his reaction. That git, Molly thinks. She acts on impulse, picking up the nearest object and smacks him over the head with it. Hard. And when he doesn't apologise- Did she really expect him to?- she hits him again. And again. And again. It's really rather enjoyable… Feels almost… therapeutic…
This results in his glaring at heras if she's taken his last penguin bar.
It's made even more ridiculous by how good he looks with hair that appears to have been electrocuted and a facial expression that appears to have been stolen off a toddler.
Unfortunately- or fortunately, depending on how you look at it- Molly's chosen weapon happens to be the pillow Sherlock has kicked down to the end of his bed, and in picking it up and hitting him with it, she disturbs said leg and the sheets covering it. And by disturbs, she means moves. Uncovers. Unveils. She never got a look at anything like this of Mr. Darcy's, Molly thinks, caught somewhere between delight and mortification as she gets an eye-ful- I believe the phrase I'm looking for is Hello Sailor-
If he weren't being beaten about the head by a pillow, Sherlock would doubtless notice that he's giving his pathologist a flash of a great deal more than a comely ankle, but hey, he's still trying to defend himself and he doesn't notice that he's flashing her his hip, belly, and- yup, he's shifted to avoid impact- a sliver of his bare arse. Molly sees absolutely no point in telling him this, particularly not since he's started to fight back and is attempting to wrestle the pillow out of her hand. She may seem like a peaceful creature but she knows better than to give him any advantage: He's nearly a foot taller than her as it is, after all.
So, knowing that her chances of keeping her weapon are zero if she doesn't find a decent defensive strategy she hits him particularly hard, managing to knock him back onto the bed. And then, like the true heir to Boudicca she is, she takes off out of his room, pillow still in hand, her own breathless laughter trailing after her-
She should have known, however, that the great detective wouldn't give up that easily.
Moriarty would be running the country by now if Sherlock were the kind to just give up.
For with a warrior yell of his own, Sherlock takes off through the apartment in hot pursuit, apparently caring not one jot that he's as naked as the day he was born. Apparently not caring that John and Mary are asleep upstairs either. (John lived with him, he's slept through worse). He's wearing this slightly demented grin on his face now and Molly can't help but suspect that her goose might be cooked-
She just really hopes that it won't be as mortifying as she suspects it will be.
Not the sort to give up though, Molly makes it through the kitchen, stopping only to throw sofa-cushions and bits of clothing and- since it came to hand- a loaf of bread at him as she thunders towards her own room. (She belatedly registers as she does this that she's laughing. She's not sure why; She finds the ongoing thunder and lightning as scary as she ever has). She skids to a halt inside her bedroom door, slamming it shut behind her. Unfortunately for her, however, Sherlock's just a little too heavy to keep out- That's what happens when a man is ninety percent leg, she thinks scornfully- and he manages to pop the door easily. He looks- He looks slightly demented wearing that manic grin.
For some reason she doesn't want to examine, Molly's suddenly feeling rather flustered and though she knows he's the one wearing not a stitch, she's the one who feels exposed.
Still smiling though Sherlock stalks- there really is not other word for it- into her room, his eyes trained on her. With a look of consternation, Molly realises that he has grabbed the fish-fingers she bought for dinner yesterday out of the freezer and he's holding them in front of him now like some sort of weapon. He appears to have a bag of ice in his other hand. He should look ridiculous like that, bollock-naked and waving about frozen perishables but he doesn't. He looks edible. Divine.
Yummy, her mind murmurs, I believe that's the technical term-
Molly's doesn't have time to debate with herself though: instead she darts to one side of her bed as he darts to the other side. The git throws the bloody fish-fingers at her, but they miss.
He's between her and the door so she's not going anywhere, and he hasn't taken that electric-blue gaze off her since he entered.
Unwilling to give up the fight Molly feints towards the door and he moves to block her; At the last moment though she jumps onto her bed instead, dislodging the bed-clothes and sliding through them. Trying to surge past him and onto the floor, from where she can launch herself at the door. (Being small has its perks).
She makes it halfway through the manoeuvre but with a loud, delighted, "A-ha!" Sherlock realised her plan and throws himself onto the bed, stopping her mid-skid. Their bodies collide and he manages to roll them so that his weight doesn't land on her though he does, laughing that rough, deep bark of his as Molly tries to get loose.
They come to a halt with her underneath, fully dressed, and him on top, wearing nothing. Molly's hand is resting right next to the bag of ice, but though she knows she should press her advantage she does not. Maybe it's the fact that him not wearing any clothes makes him seem vulnerable, right at the minute. Or maybe it's the fact that she doesn't want to douse this thing between them in ice, not with Sherlock looking at her like that.
Whatever the reason though, as she blinks up at him she sees something… confused move through his expression. He cocks his head to the side as he stares down at her, almost as if he's trying to work out what he's looking at. Almost as if she's a puzzle, an equation, that he just can't solve.
He opens his mind mouth- to ask a question?- and then snaps it shut again. This move is repeated twice as Moll stares up at him, and despite herself she feels that old longing twist through her, attraction sliding through her flesh. Making it tingle.
For a moment, she feels like she has champagne in her veins instead of blood. It's a good feeling.
Without her willing them to her nipples peak through her pyjama t-shirt, the beginnings of arousal working their way through her frame. Her body loosens beneath him, and suddenly she is very aware of everywhere his body touches hers: His hand at the back of her head, the thumb of his free hand brushing against her leg. Her knee. She can feel his breath against her skin. He's dropped the ice-bag, forgotten, beside her, and she can feel cold coming off them against her skin though it feels ever so hot there where it's pressed against him. The silence stretches out, one beat, two beats, loud and rushing and completely, utterly unexpected-
And then, just as suddenly, another crack of lightning flashes, turning everything in her room x-ray bright and livid.
Without her meaning to Molly lets out a little gasp, the spell broken as her body shudders, the sound of her sharp intake of breath covered by the boom of rolling thunder as Sherlock watched her carefully.
She feels a little like a specimen in the lab, as he does that.
"It is curious," he says softly then, and his voice sounds odd, a little ragged. Breathing seems to be an issue for him. "You appear to be genuinely afraid of lightning. Why is that?"
He's still staring down at her, genuine interest in his gaze as Molly trembles against him.
His voice has dropped, become deeper, and she has no idea why.
"I-" She clears her throat and tries again. Turns out, he's not the only one who's breathless. "I, um, I don't like lightning," she says. "It frightens me. Always has-"
"But there is more to it than that." Sherlock shakes his head. "What is it?"
She doesn't like telling people, is used to being told it's stupid. But she knows better than to think making him badger her is a good idea. "When I was a kid, one of my cousins used to lock me into a broom cupboard under the stairs during lightning storms," she says quietly.
"He knew you were frightened of them?"
Molly nods. "He thought it was funny."
Sherlock's look is thoughtful. "And he was older than you. Quite a bit older."
Again Molly nods. She doesn't bother asking him how he knows that. "I was six and he was fourteen. He was supposed to be babysitting me." She shakes her head at the memory. Even now it gives her the creeps. "When dad found out he stopped sending me to that aunt's but the damage was done: I turn into a massive big girl's blouse every time I have to sit through one-"
Sherlock blinks at the words- apparently he's unfamiliar with the concept of large feminine over-garments as an insult- but instead of agreeing with her assessment he loosens his grip on her. Moves to sit back on his haunches, his gaze still on her though she immediately misses the feeling of her body pressed against his. The silence stretches out further, that odd, quizzical expression never leaving him-
And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, Sherlock reaches into his purloined bag of ice and pulls out a single ice-cube.
He holds out his hand to her and without thinking, she places her fingers in his.
He turns her hand over, her palm facing upwards. Takes the ice-cube and slides it over her thumb, the heel of her hand, sliding it down to press against her wrist. Her pulse-point. It feels like every nerve-ending in her body is set upon connecting with that little sliver of ice.
She feels cold and hot and shivery, and she's not even sure what stimulus is causing which response, she just knows she likes it so much.
"Tell me about your favourite autopsy," Sherlock says after a moment, the ice-cube still pressed against her pulse. Molly licks her lips at the sound of his voice. Another crack of thunder sounds and she jumps, but he turns her attention back to him.
"Tell me about the one you enjoyed most," he says, "and the one you enjoyed least: I find myself rather interested." He gestures to his nakedness. "It's either that or I go looking for clothes, and it's too bloody hot for that. So tell away."
Molly shakes her head, surprised. Not sure he could be doing what she thinks he's doing. Not sure if she's doing what she thinks she's doing.
But she takes a deep breath and begins to speak, and with him near she's not as frightened of the storm as she might have been.
Sherlock's not sure what this feeling is, as he looks at Molly, but he thinks it might be… sentiment.
Oh dear.
And yet, he doesn't mind it necessarily: She talks through the night, telling him about this and that. Recounting particularity interesting cases she remembers, or particularly funny ones. (She has an odd sense of humour, but it's something Sherlock actually likes).
Occasionally her stories intersect with his, and he gets to retell one of his adventures to her. (She makes a delightful audience, quick and eager to hear tell of his genius). As she speaks, he feels her tension lessen, sees the fear the lightning evoked gradually drift away. The feeling of the ice-cube at her wrist seems to ground her-
Though when she takes one and places it against his skin, grounded is about the last thing Sherlock feels.
He doesn't say anything though, can't begin to imagine how to do it. What he felt when he was on top of her during their play-battle was perplexing enough, and that's without factoring in the feelings all those tiny little pyjama sets of hers cause. So he leaves well enough alone. The stories come to her easily though, and the storm outside passes as she tells them. She gets more tired and her eyes begin to droop shut; Eventually Sherlock's do too. (It's the heat, you know. That and going tearing through the house without any clothes on. Because yes, he obviously knows he's naked, he just doesn't see why he should care.)
By the time the mere dregs of the rain are tapping against the windows Molly is half-asleep, his head resting against her thigh as she sits up with her back to her bed's headboard-
Sherlock sleeps eventually, and he dreams of lightning. Lightning and Molly.
Something in his brain is telling him they're very similar, but he can't grasp why- He just finds himself wishing for another electrical storm.