It was one of those days which often happens when the seasons change and the planet loses track of proper climate conditions. Although the calendar said Autumn, the Fates had decided that London was to enjoy one last glorious day of Summer. The trees, what trees there were in the center of the great metropolis, still retained their leaves, adding to the illusion. Women walked the streets without jackets, and men in their shirtsleeves. Except, of course, for Sherlock Holmes, who only abandoned his signature Belstaff during the dog days of summer.
The evening had turned comfortably cool, the kind of weather when people slept with windows open, allowing the last temperate air of the season to freshen their bedroom without lowering the temperature to an uncomfortable degree. So why was the world's only consulting detective currently lying in a stifling bedroom, barely covered in his flimsy sheets, and still sweating uncomfortably? He didn't want to open his eyes. Opening them would mean that he had given into the idea of being awake, something which he had been trying to avoid. This was one of the evenings when sleep had come with a welcome ease to the exhausted detective, and he had succumbed quickly. He definitely did not want to surrender now to wakefulness. But the room seemed to be heating up to uncomfortable levels, so he slowly opened just one eye to steal a glance at the window near his bed. It was closed. It was open earlier, he could have sworn. Didn't he remember opening it when he entered the room? Or was his tired mind playing tricks on him?
Not wanting to get out of bed, thereby completing the process of waking up, the man closed his eye once again, and tried to convince himself that the room was, in fact, rather chilly. He pictured Arctic snow drifts and floating icebergs. He thought of the snowflakes falling gently on his face as he sledded down the hills of his childhood. He tried to convince himself that he was sucking on an ice lolly while showering under an Alpine waterfall. He pictured himself as a chilly corpsicle resting comfortably in Molly Hooper's morgue. But that last image was a bit too much, even for him, and he opened both his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable conclusion that he would, indeed, have to rise from his slumbers to open the offending window.
He made swift work of his task, and quickly slipped back into his bed, the breeze from the open window already cooling down the smooth cotton of the bed sheets. He heaved a sigh of contentment, and closed his eyes in anticipation of returning to his blessed state of somnolence.
Burt such was not to be as the small woman on the other side of the bed made a shivering sound, and wrapped herself further into the sheets, relieving Sherlock of his comfortable cotton cocoon.
"Sherlock, did you open the window?"
""Molly, it was stifling in here. How could you possibly sleep?"
"You know I'm in the morgue almost all day, Sherlock. It's so chilly there, I really like it warm at home."
"But Molly…"
"I know, I know. Don't worry about it! I'll be fine. I'll just go put on some pajamas." And Molly discarding her coverings, sat up on the side of the bed. Sherlock caught sight of her long brown hair hanging wildly over her bare shoulders. The light coming through the open window reflected off her pale skin, and he could clearly see the curve of her back and the fullness of her hips.
"Molly, do you really want to put on pajamas? I can close the window if you're really that chilly." Sherlock spoke in a more than accommodating tone as he reached for her.
Molly Hooper turned her head to face him in the semi-darkness, her smile trumping his smirk. "Well, we could leave the window open if you promise to keep me warm, Sherlock." This caused both her smile and his smirk to grow larger. As well as other things.
"I think I can manage that, Dr. Hooper," the detective said as he pulled her back down onto the mattress, covering her not with a sheet, but with himself, all desire for a good night's sleep completely forgotten. And, selfish git that he undoubtedly was, he couldn't help thinking to himself, as he buried his face in her neck and planted kisses from clavicle to nape, "All this, and the window is still open!"