Three friends stood around the corpse of a thirty-eight year old white male. Usually this would not elicit expressions of happiness, but when the three friends were Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Walson, and Dr. Molly Hooper you must admit that the circumstances were not always normal.

"Lividity indicates the the man could not possibly have died where he was found! I told you so!", Holmes practically crowed in triumph.

"Well, that means the wife's alibi won't hold up." added Watson.

"I told you I didn't like her. She wears too much eye make-up." The men looked up at Dr. Hooper. Molly always seemed to arrive at the correct conclusion, but her conclusions tended to be reached by strict and competent scientific methodology, tempered by a healthy dose of intuition and even sentiment. Sherlock Holmes, while not understanding this, had long since given up on debating it with her.

Molly returned the body to its icy resting place while Sherlock texted his report to DI Lestrade. John left to bring back celebratory coffees from the hospital cafeteria.

"Graham…"

"Greg," Molly corrected him for the umpteenth time.

"...will appreciate hearing about this. Interesting that he also commented on her choice of eye make-up," Sherlock muttered while his fingers danced over his mobile. Molly smiled knowingly.

They were sitting at a lab table, opposite each other, when Molly noticed that Sherlock seemed slightly flushed. "Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine! Why do you ask?" The flush seemed to deepen a bit, and his voice contained the tiniest stammer. "Although it is a bit warm in here."

"Sherlock, we're in the morgue. It isn't warm at all." She was beginning to be a bit concerned, but just then John returned with three take-out containers of coffee.

"John, what took you so long!" Sherlock practically leapt from the lab stool. "We must be on our way. Grant…"

"Greg!" Two voices in exasperated unison.

"...needs us immediately! Allons-y!" Sherlock grabbed his coffee and swept from the chilly room. John nodded his head apologetically to Molly and, handing her her coffee, rushed to join his friend.

Slightly weird, Molly thought, but that's Sherlock. He's usually so much more than slighty weird!

It was almost a full week before the next incident in Molly's lab. It was just Molly and Sherlock this time, John being occupied with his clinic duties. Molly was sitting at her desk in the office which occupied the corner of the lab/morgue at St. Bart's. Sherlock was sitting on a chair in the corner. He had absolutely no reason to be there. No case. No experiment. He had simply muttered that he was bored, and flopped down on the chair. "His" pathologist was puzzling over something she had displayed on her laptop, and, as was her habit, chewing on her lower lip. Molly was startled out of her concentration by a very low moan coming from the consulting detective in the chair across the small room.

"Sherlock?"

He tried to stammer an answer, but for once he seemed at a loss for words. Molly noticed a flush begin to rise up his neck, and spread to his ears. As she was now really becoming concerned, she rose from her chair quickly, putting a hand to his forehead as he tried unsuccessfully to make his escape.

"You don't seem to have a fever," Molly said, then reached for his pulse. Sherlock tried to wrench his hand away from her, but she had what seemed to be a death grip in his wrist. "You're pulse is racing, Sherlock. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine! If we're done here…" With that, he rose to his feet and left without another word, flipping up the collar of his Belstaff to hide the growing rosiness of his neck.

Molly returned to her desk, but not her work. She was much more concerned with what was going on with Sherlock bloody Holmes. Since when was he ever at a loss for words? And stammering? He easily became flushed, and his heartbeat was certainly elevated. She laughed slightly to herself, thinking that it sounded a lot like her behavior of a few years ago. Back in the days when she couldn't tolerate so much as a glimpse of the curls, the cheekbones, and those damned eyes without being reduced to a quivering, thumping, reddening mass of hormones and…

Good Lord, that's can't be what's going on here, could it! Sherlock "The Ice Man" Holmes reduced to a mass of raging hormones by little ol' Molly Hooper! No! It couldn't possibly be true. Molly then thought to correct herself. That's right. It's Mycroft who is the "Ice Man". Moriarty called Sherlock "The Virgin". She didn't believe that for a moment! No one who looked like Sherlock could possibly have made it through uni without succombing to the advances of what she assumed to be a multitude of willing partners. But he hadn't indulged in anything physical for quite some time. Except perhaps with that Adler woman (who also wore too much eye make-up in Molly's opinion!). Could it be that his long surpressed libido was finally expressing itself? Aimed in her direction? Molly was determined to find out, and collect a little payback in the process.

A few days later Sherlock and John made an unexpected visit to St. Bart's, asking for an autopsy report which she hadn't quite finished. Sherlock was ready to turn on his heel and leave immediately, but John insisted on waiting when Molly assured them that it would not long for her to add her latest findings to the report. The two men took positions on one side of a lab table, while Molly sat opposite, scanning the manilla folder containing the report in question, adding notations as appropriate. John was trying to engage Sherlock in conversation in order to pass the time, but quickly noticed that his friend was paying absolutely no attention. Instead, he was gazing at Molly in an almost predatory fashion

Oh!? What have we here? John thought to himself. He looks like he wants to pounce on her! John then noticed that Molly was smiling slightly. There's certainly nothing to smile about in that particular autopsy report, he thought. She must realize the effect she's having on him! John then folded his arms across his chest and leaned slightly back on the stool. This is going to be fun!

Molly rose from her stool carrying the folder. When she got to the other side of the table, she put her one arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and leaning forward, placed the folder on the table in front of him. Her lab coat was unbuttoned and Sherlock quickly noticed that she was wearing a rather low-cut blouse under it. Low-cut for Molly, at least. He could make out the slight curve of her small breasts. He could smell the scent of her hair as it brushed his face. Molly droned on in a professional voice, pointing out her findings. She could hear Sherlock's breathing becoming more rapid, and assumed his pulse was doing the same thing. She knew for a fact hers was! But she was forced to withdraw as he almost fell off the small lab stool while trying to cross his legs, possibly in a futile attempt to hide something suddenly making an appearance in his trousers.

"Thank you, Molly," the stammering was back in his voice. "But we really can't waste anymore time here." He rose from the stool shakily, clutching his coat in front of him, and turned to beat a hasty retreat.

John approached her, gathering up the report, and winked at her. "Yes, thank you very much, Molly! That was quite a show. I'm amazed he can see properly with his pupils so out of whack."

"Well, you know what they say, John. Payback's a bitch." And with that she sent John chuckling on his was to join his flustered cohort.

"Are you gonna be alright, you git. Or do you have to make a stop in the men's room? " John asked with a snicker when he had caught up.

"I don't know what you're talking about!", Sherlock said as he shrugged into his coat and belted it tightly.

"Sure you do. It can't have been that long!"

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I haven't seen this happen since I caught you with the laptop at 4:00 AM that time."

"I really don't know what you're talking about. And it was your laptop!"

"'Course it was. But I have never admitted to being anything but a normal, healthy male, mate. I'm not 'married to my work'. I'm married to a woman! Have you tried cold showers?"

"So many that Mrs. Hudson is complaining about the water bill!"

"Mind palace?"

"Doesn't work. She opens the door in a skimpy maid's uniform! And I'm not completely sure that even a man of your experience should be exposed to what goes on in her room of my mind palace. And the closets. And the bloody stairwell!"

John was laughing out loud as Sherlock was spluttering the last of his lament. "Well, there's only one cure for it, chum."

"Castration?!" Sherlock replied with shock.

"No, Sherlock. Have you ever considered, even once, just going with the flow? Giving in to your urges? Making a bloody pass at Molly? Jump her bones, for god's sake!"

"John, you saw what she was doing. Molly is not stupid. She knows the effect she's having on me, and she's enjoying it entirely too much. She probably thinks she's getting even for all those years of what she considered unrequited feelings. I wouldn't put it past her to have put viagra in my coffee! Or snuck some testosterone into the Chinese takeout we shared! She can sometimes have a mean streak in her, I tell you!"

"Sherlock, where are we going in such a hurry?"

"Your flat, John. I need to take a cold shower and I can't tolerate Mrs. Hudson's complaints anymore!"

It was almost two weeks before Molly saw Sherlock again. Oh, there had been text messages and the occasional call, but he hadn't been around in person for quite awhile. She was beginning to regret her course of action. It was becoming painfully obvious that Sherlock was not going to act on any of his impulses. After almost seven bloody years, she should have come to expect this, but, as the old proverb says, hope springs eternal in the human breast!

During the two weeks he spent away from the disturbing presence of one Molly Hooper, Sherlock had formulated a plan. He tried meditation. He investigated all sorts of techniques to conquer his libido. Eastern philosophies. Targeted concentration. Self hypnosis. In time, he believed he had trained himself, and his mind, to overcome his body's rather basic reaction to his pathologist with a combination of various techniques. He must admit it had taken him longer than expected, as his investigation into Eastern thought had, quite accidently, led him to a perusal of the kama sutra, a pleasant if rather detrimental detour. He would have to up his rent payment to cover the cost of additional cold water. Sherlock Holmes was damned if he would let Molly Hooper win this battle of wills, but this time he was more than willing to settle for a draw!

Molly was more than a little surprised to hear a knock at her door at just after ten on Friday evening. She had been sipping red wine and watching crap telly when Sherlock came through her door, as usual not waiting for her to actually answer his knock.

"Molly, long time, no see! So, what are we doing tonight?" he said as he surveyed the sitting room and quite obviously knew what she was doing. He removed his coat and plopped himself down on the couch. He had decided to up the ante by wearing her favorite purple shirt.

"Sherlock, what brings you here?" Molly said in her most seductive voice. She got no reaction.

She smiled and brought the glass of wine to her lips, gazing up at him over the rim. "Care for some wine? Or anything else?"

Sherlock wondered briefly how she could smile and sip wine at the same time. He was, in truth, enchanted by it. But his control remained intact.

"I suppose you don't like this show. We could find something else." Molly then leaned over to pick up the remote from the coffee table, going just a bit too far, thus allowing him a better view of her posterior. She kept this position as she switched back to a program she had been previously enjoying, perhaps a bit too much. Naked bodies were now writhing across the telly screen. She glanced at Sherlock in what she hoped was a seductive manner.

Still no reaction, except perhaps a slight smile. Suddenly, she knew!

"You bastard!"

"If it's any consolation, it did take me the better part of two weeks to learn how to control myself. However, as I recall, it took you about five years."

"Great, insult me now!"

"Molly, you have been playing a game with me. You know how I hate to lose! But I am not adverse to a draw. What do you say?"

"Draw?"

"Well, we can both sit here on your couch, watching borderline porn on the telly, or…"

"Or what, Sherlock?"

"Or we can bow to the inevitable and continue this game in the bedroom."

He moved closer to her on the small couch, and gently took her wrist in his hand, "Your pulse is speeding up, Molly."

"I'll concede that, but your breathing is certainly getting more rapid…"

He pulled her closer and kissed her with a passion that would have surprised her if she hadn't experienced it many times before, if only in her dreams. Reality was definitely better.

"How about it, Molly Hooper? A draw?"

She smiled sofly and nodded. Sherlock picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the bedroom. He couldn't help smiling when he heard her mutter, "But I still consider it a moral victory!"