Coffee, Black, Two Sugars
A Sherlock story

Yes, I know. I could be updating one of my multi-chapter stories that people actually read. I could be arsing about in the snow outside. Hell, I could even be doing homework. But...I got inspired. Here's a quick fluffy Sherlolly fic, for your pleasure...I guess it's set after Reichenbach, and also after whenever it is that the Johnlock reunion happens.
Oh, and it changes POV quite a lot. Hope you don't mind. Also, in the last section, some people will be cynical and say that Sherlock's all OOC. Well, you can't see inside his head in that bit, so who knows what he's thinking?
Saskia xxx

~Molly POV~

I angrily stab the power button on my laptop, too frustrated to ask it nicely to shut down. Leaning back in my chair, I push the wispy strands of hair that had escaped from the tie back off my face, wrapping my hands around my head as I do so. My fingers find the elastic of the hair tie and remove it, pulling some of my hair with it. I slump on the desk, my hair fanning out around me. I was so tired...all these overtime hours were killing me. Working in a morgue is stressful enough, without having to fill in for all the other pathologists who keep pulling sickies.
I need a holiday.

"Bad day?" I jump up from my seat at the baritone voice that came from directly behind me. I hurriedly run my fingers through the knots in my hair, realising swiftly it was a lost cause. Oh well. It's not as if he was even remotely interested. I could probably walk past him in nothing but a thong and he'd just ask me to pass a damn Petri dish.
"Oh, it's you." I exclaim, having no control over the breathlessness in my voice.
"Obviously."
"It's late. You don't usually stop by this...late. What are you doing?" I twist my fingers together, inwardly telling my heart rate to slow the hell down. He'd notice!
"I need to use your lab."
"Don't you have your own you can use? In your kitchen?"
"I do. But I don't have any dead bodies in my kitchen." He smiles that ironic smile that always makes me feel a little light-headed. I press my lips together, deciding that for once, I would stand up to him. Maybe he'd notice me that way.
"I was actually just about to go home, I've worked for twelve hours straight." I reach for my bag, pushing some folders in it.
"I know you have." I blink, slightly disconcerted. "But I promise I won't take more than 30 minutes." His eyes turn pleading...how can his eyes change emotion so quickly?
"I really want to go home, Sherlock, I'm tired..." I meet his eyes and bite my lip.
"You're wearing a new shirt, Molly. Expensive, I presume? Ah, but I suppose you don't mind splashing out occasionally, even on a pathologist's salary. It looks good on you. Makes your figure much more..." He twirls his fingers, and I swear it was as suggestive as it sounds. "You should buy blouses in that style more often. It does wonders for you." He smiles again, and I feel my resolve cracking. I knew exactly what he was doing – he flirts to get his way, I always cave in to him, but it meant absolutely nothing. Well. Nothing to him, at least. I sigh.
"Fine. Can I help at all?"

~Sherlock POV~ (good luck to me, I've never written in his POV before!)

"I was actually just about to go home. I've worked for 12 hours straight." I look her up and down quickly, calculating. Arrived at 8am this morning, she worked until 9pm yesterday...lunch break at 1pm, went outside at 5pm for some fresh air (it was raining heavily then, her coat on the back of her chair is still damp, but couldn't have been there for more than 3 hours).
"I know you have." I say simply, watching the flicker of emotion through her eyes (why is she still unnerved by me? She should be perfectly used to it by now, and she could make the sort of deductions that I do if she was just to look). "But I promise I won't take more than 30 minutes." I make my eyes wide in the way I knew she liked. It always worked...so predictable.
"I really want to go home, Sherlock, I'm tired..." I tilt my head slightly, meeting her eyes directly, and she bites her lip. I'm almost surprised. It never usually takes this long for her to agree. I survey her again, noting the crispness of her shirt (therefore new) and the label sticking out the back of the collar (high street designer brand, much more costly than her usual budget). She didn't often buy these sort of clothes, but my subconscious had noticed the number of more expensive garments she wore with regularity, showing that she liked to treat herself, but rarely. The tailoring of the shirt made her small breasts look larger, more womanly, and it cut in at the waist, enhancing her hips. I could use this. I knew how to make her crumble. Compliment.
"You're wearing a new shirt, Molly. Expensive, I presume? Ah, but I suppose you don't mind splashing out occasionally, even on a pathologist's salary. It looks good on you. Makes your figure much more..." I waggle my fingers in the air at her, leaving the rest of the sentence to her (quite frankly overactive) imagination. Her interpretations (however predictable) were always as much my weapon as my...persuasions...were. "You should buy blouses in that style more often. It does wonders for you." I smile at the small pathologist, knowing I've won.

There is a part of my hard drive which deals (infrequently) with my conscience. That part is currently telling me that I use her, that it's unfair to treat her in this way when she is so clearly affected by me. I cast this information aside, preferring to focus on Molly's reply. She exhales (annoyed at herself for giving in like usual, but inwardly pleased that she gets to spend time with yours truly).
"Fine. Can I help at all?" she says.
"Yes, coffee, black, two sugars." I call, already going straight for the lab. I find the equipment I need to study how poisons can affect the body after death, nodding at Molly as she puts the drink down by my elbow. "And I'll need you to find me a body. Preferably male, between 40 and 60, died within, say, the last two days." I concentrate on ordering the apparatus, knowing that she is doing as I say. I hear the squeaking of a trolley being pushed from the other side of the room, and I can tell without looking that the man she is bringing died of heart problems related to his obesity (really? It's blindingly obvious – she is straining while wheeling the trolley, meaning it's heavy, and what else do fat people die of?). I brush past her, swiftly collecting a blood sample from the corpse. I settle down in my seat – this will take at least 46 minutes, but Molly needn't know that. She won't complain.

~Molly POV~

I stand by the desk while he works, adding substances to the blood and then testing the mixture for...something – I don't know what. So far, he's tested the iron content and the haemoglobin levels. God knows why he wants this information.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask hopefully, leaning forward but still respecting his space – he gets really stroppy if you invade his 'personal bubble' (and yes, I learnt that the hard way). He doesn't seem to hear me, looking up only three minutes later.
"Can you test the pH of this please?" He holds out a vial of congealing blood, and I begrudgingly accept it. I wasn't even getting paid overtime now. I wearily grab a few strips of indicator paper from his stack of supplies and busy myself with testing the sample.
"pH of...12, so a pretty strong alkali." I say, handing the sample back. He takes it without looking at me, studying something down the lens of the microscope.
"Interesting." he murmurs, and I glance down at my watch. Quarter to nine. So much for half an hour. I study his face, the face which I always seem to find something new in. He looks so...content...when he's leaning over a microscope, scribbling notes in his little black book, or adjusting the focus of the magnification. I smile slightly, again realising just how happy his work makes him. So much more happy than I could make him. I hope he chokes on it. No, I don't! I just wish...
"You're staring at me, why?" Sherlock's voice jerks me out of my reverie. He's still staring down the microscope. I decide on the plain truth. He probably already knows what I'm thinking, so what's the point in trying to hide it?
"I like watching you work." He looks up (the first time he's done so since he got in the lab), frowning slightly. "You just look so...peaceful. It's the sort of look you see on a young child when they're sleeping – completely at ease." I trail off, noticing the odd look Sherlock was giving me.
"Why would you want to watch that?" he questions. I fumble for an answer, shrugging.
"I suppose I like seeing you quiet, without all your smart-arse wisecracks and hurtful comments." I press my hand to my lips the moment the words come out. Why did I say that? Now he's going to think that I'm fishing for sympathy!
"Hurtful comments?" Oh God, now we've got to have this entirely too awkward conversation.
"You know, when you say that I try too hard, or that I'm extraordinarily stupid or unobservant, those sort of things." I laugh anxiously, praying desperately that he'd lose interest and go back to his experiments.
"Well it's true! You are always interfering with whatever I do when I'm here. You somehow manage to refresh your makeup whenever I turn up, but take it off if I comment – that shows insecurity. You're not unintelligent, although insecurity is an unintelligent trait, but you never think beyond the obvious; you never see beyond the obvious. You're also especially weak, both physically and mentally. Pushing this man over to me – he's not exceedingly heavy, but you struggled, therefore meaning although you keep yourself relatively fit, you have little stamina or strength, which is also shown in your exhaustion after working long hours. Mentally weak? Yes, of course, you tried to turn me away, but the moment I compliment your appearance, you crumble like a badly made shortbread. These are facts, Molly, cold hard truths! They're not meant as snide comments like a playground pissing contest, they're simply statement of the facts, which is something I find invaluable." I blink, feeling hot tears cloud my vision. He just...I don't even...he's so horrible! And yet, I know it's all true...why does he have to say it though? And why do I have to like him in the way that I do? "Oh, can I use your phone?"

~Sherlock POV~

"Oh, can I use your phone?" I ask, coming to a conclusion regarding my investigation. Clearly, the poison in the dead man's system was not the cause of death – the mutations took place after death, meaning someone killed him, and then covered up their method by using the symptoms of the poison to distract us (that's brilliant)...Lestrade would be pleased. Well, no he wouldn't, as he had insisted that the poison was responsible (the marks on his hands gave it away – self defence marks! You can't defend yourself against poison!), but I like to prove a point. I hold my hand out for the phone, but nothing is placed in my palm. I look around to see what was taking her so long, and notice with surprise the tears in her eyes. Her mouth sets in a thin, angry line as she walks over. She reaches inside my jacket pocket, retrieving my phone and slapping it in my hand.
"Use your own damn phone. And you can see yourself out." She hisses. I blink, quickly deducing what caused the sudden change in her usually sweet, charming (if slightly dim-witted) demeanour. She must have taken offense at what I said, but why? All I told her was what she already knew. She knows how she acts around me, she knows she is weak, why...my God, all those emotions, no wonder most people can't think clearly. My conscience begins to voice itself again – Go after her, you need to apologise, Sherlock; just because you don't think like that doesn't mean you should have such disregard for people's feelings; she wouldn't hurt a fly, Sherlock, and you were really mean...I smirk as I realise that my conscience sounds suspiciously like Moriarty. How ironic. I stride after Molly, who had just reached the door. I put my hand out, turning her by her arm. She looks at her feet, clearly embarrassed about crying. I swallow my pride (and gave my conscience a good kick – its victory dance was becoming a little tiresome), and I tilt her face up, my fingers under her chin. I study her watery eyes, noticing how the colour of them was almost identical to mahogany, how her lip trembles as she looks at me.
"I'm sorry, Molly. I sometimes...speak my mind without appropriately censoring my thoughts first. It is true, what I said about you. But that doesn't mean to say you have only negative attributes. You're loyal, trustworthy, reliable. You've always helped me, even if that means putting yourself out, or cancelling plans. And believe it or not, when I compliment you...say you look nice, or that your clothes suit you well...I'm not lying. I only ever lie by omission, I'd never lie outright, especially not to someone who...means as much to me as you do, Molly." I clear my throat. "So please accept my apology." I smile at her, watching the flickers of several unimportant emotions moving in her eyes. I lean forward to press a kiss to her cheek, like I did when I offended her at New Year.

~Molly POV~

"You're loyal, trustworthy, reliable. You've always helped me, even if that means putting yourself out, or cancelling plans. And believe it or not, when I compliment you...say you look nice, or that your clothes suit you well...I'm not lying. I only ever lie by omission, I'd never lie outright, especially not to someone who...means as much to me as you do, Molly." I feel the tears in my eyes spilling over, making tracks down my cheeks, but I don't care. I...was he saying what I think he's saying? So before, when he said that my blouse gave me a nice figure...he actually meant it? He noticed me? I thought...he knew I was there, but he never really saw me. I...I just... "So please accept my apology." He smiles at me, and I stare back. He moves towards me, his face filling my still blurred vision. My heart takes over my brain, and I move my head slightly, so his lips (which were aiming for the chaste peck on the cheek) meet mine. My heart stops. He doesn't move away.

I'M KISSING SHERLOCK FRIGGING HOLMES!

Okay, Molly, calm down. He hasn't moved away, but he's not kissing you back. Come on, Molly, you've kissed guys before. You kissed Moriarty for crying out loud. Kiss him properly! I hesitantly touch his cheek, feeling those cheekbones under my fingertips. I start to kiss him. Properly.

And then to my utmost surprise...he kisses back.

A few seconds (minutes? Hours? Days? Years? Happy and joyful lifetimes?) later, we break apart. Somehow, my hands are resting on his chest, my nails scraping against the buttons on his incredible purple shirt. His hands are resting on my waist, holding me (oh my goodness, Sherlock is holding me!) protectively. He looks...bemused. Surprised. I surprised Sherlock Holmes. That's one for the record books. He studies my face, but for once, he isn't analysing, or deducting. He's just...looking. I quickly become nervous; he still hasn't said anything, he has a comeback for everything so why has he said nothing? I clear my throat, still distracted by the fact that his mouth is inches from mine.
"That was..." I start.
"Yes." He agrees. Abruptly, he lets me go, and I stumble slightly as he walks past me back to the desk. I don't turn to look at him. I raise a hand in astonishment to my lips. That...actually did just happen. I feel him stand behind me, and look around. He's holding out my coat, and I uncertainly allow him to help me into it. I notice distractedly that he's put his coat on, and that he's still wearing that bemused smile. It's definitely a happy smile though. I think. He offers me my bag, complete with folders, and I lift it over my shoulder. He pushes the door open, standing so close to me that our torsos are touching. I make eye contact with him, and there's a sparkle there that wasn't there before. He leans in quickly and kisses me again, straight on the mouth.
"Molly Hooper," he says, his lips brushing against mine as he talks. "Will you allow me the honour of walking you home?" I look at him, certain I must be imagining the double meaning. He seems...mischievous? which is SO unlike him. Should I be worried? He gestures to the door and I walk through it, feeling him still close behind me. He rests his hand on the small of my back, and electric shivers shoot up my spine. "And maybe I could stay for a coffee or two?"

And when he puts it like that...

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And I don't own Sherlock. Sadly. All hail Mofftiss...and Benedict Cumberbatch...and the purple shirt of sex...