Bang! Bang! Bang!

Molly peeked through the peep-hole on her flat's door. At first, all she could see was a coiling mass of shiny curls. Then, the mass lifted and the exaggerated, fish-bowl vision of Sherlock's large, stormy-ocean irises filled her viewport. His nose wrinkled comically, a second later his lips enlarged as he raised them and spoke almost directly into her eyeball.

"Molly, I know you are there. Come, you must recognize my knock by now," his voice reverberated through the door.

She glanced down at her skimpy, yellow cotton tank and oversized flannel, pink plaid bottoms. She sighed. He'd seen her in worse at least. With a quick intake of breath, she fixed a perturbed expression on her face and swung open the door.

"I was just about to hop into bed," she claimed as she held open the door, "what do you want?"

In his typical Sherlockian manner, he raised his brows while also squinting. His eyes flicked from shoulder to shoulder, down the middle of her chest and then looped back up as if he wasn't quite certain where he should look. Molly felt heat spread across her upper chest at the awkward look on his face. His lips parted but instead of speaking, he held up scissors in his right hand followed jauntily by a fine-toothed comb in his left. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"I need a haircut," he stated.

She frowned. "Am I to take that to mean you want me to trim your hair? At ten o'clock at night … o-on a Tuesday?"

"Yes," he brushed past her into her flat as if the matter were already settled, "I am in want of a disguise for a bit of sleuthing I must do tonight."

Molly blinked in disbelief and snapped her door shut. She slowly spun on her heel, crossed her arms and watched Sherlock busy himself with the setup of an impromptu salon. He discarded his shoes and jacket and then, she swallowed thickly, he extracated himself from his shirt! Her eyes burned unblinkingly. The muscles of his back flexed with the depositing of one of her dining-set chairs in the middle of her living room. An instant later, he draped a towel over his shoulders, sat in the chair with his wide back to her and levetated his scissors.

"I am under a bit of a time constraint here, Molly," he murmured without turning around.

She tentatively approached him, rubbing her arms. "Sh-Sherlock, I have never styled anyone's hair before! I will make a hash out of it!"

He turned his head so she could see just one brooding eye. "Molly, I have watched you stitch countless corpses. You have the most finesse and dexterity of any person in my acquaintance and … I trust you. Well, I trust you not to draw blood. Mrs. Hudson doesn't have the steadiest hands, you know, and I don't particularly want John fondling my head. That would be a little, erm - uncomfortable, to say the least."

He swivelled fully in his seat and stared up at her with slightly rounded eyes. His unique, angular bone structure was so breathtakingly handsome up close and lord, but he had decided to turn on his boyish appeal. His features softened.

"Please, Molly?" He rumbled.

Her entire face felt tight as she tried to resist his charms. A muscle flecked in his cheek and she knew he was putting her on but she groaned and snatched the scissors and comb from his grasp.

"Fine," she muttered, "do not even think of complaining if you don't care for the results."

He grinned and twisted away. "Excellent! Take a couple inches off, will you?"

Molly stared at the back of his head for a few seconds. She reached up to touch his locks but her fingers hovered in hesitation. She had always wanted to touch his hair. Right then, she was a heartbeat away of finally experiencing its decadence and almost couldn't stand the anticipation. Her belly quivered. Finally, she gathered her courage and delved her fingers into the thick, silky tresses. She closed her eyes as the strands slipped between her knuckles and the pads of her fingers contacted his warm head. Lord, but it felt better than she imagined. She pushed her hand over his scalp several times to assess the length of his hair. Her eyes flew open when she thought she heard the sound of a low moan.

"S-Sorry!" She whispered.

"Mm? Oh, no, it feels good," he mumbled, "but the massage will have to wait for another time."

Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head. He couldn't really mean that, could he? She chewed her lip and willed her raging hormones into submission. Tentatively, she pulled up the first section of his hair, mouthed a eulogy for his beautiful curls and began snipping. Cautiously at first, and then more confidently, she trimmed his hair. The ends of it fell like feathers to the towel around his shoulders. Every once in a while when her attention drifted from her task to admire his half-naked, steely form, her hands shook. However, she soldiered on.

Molly's fears about reducing his attractiveness were quickly dispelled. The more she trimmed and closer she cut, the more she revealed the strong lines of his neck and head. It was impossible to make this man unappealing, she realized. Still, she couldn't bring herself to cut the hair on the top of his head too short. Thirty minutes after she had started, she shook the towel out her window and then returned for her final review. She stood in front of him with her hands on either side of his head and assessed her very first attempt at a haircut. A smile tugged the corners of her lips. He lifted his chin.

"Well?" He murmured.

She fluffed his hair, dragged her fingers along the shorter sides and flicked a coil of curl that still wanted to fall over his forehead. He looked god awfully handsome. His high cheeks were more visible, his eyes appeared brighter. Her regard slid over his face. Even his jaw seemed a bit more robust.

"You look good," she uttered absentmindedly, then caught herself, "I-I mean, y-you look nice … fine, I guess. Haha, maybe I am in the wrong career … yes, maybe I should have gone to-to beauty school . . ."

She knew she was rambling as her fingers kneaded his scalp. His eyes were suddenly fixed on her face and she palpably felt his acute dissection. Her stomach coiled in a knot and her cheeks flushed. Mortification burned right from one side of her face, across her nose, to the other side. Even her ears flamed. She avoided his direct eye contact for as long as she could but eventually lost the battle. When their eyes met, his pupils were as large as she had ever seen them.

"You are exactly where you are meant to be, Molly," he murmured.

"Oh? This is my calling, is it?" She teased nervously. "Tending to Sherlock Holmes' every whim?"

She felt a tug on the waistband of her bottoms and was compelled forward. Her legs nearly turned to jelly as he pulled her between his knees.

"Yes," his eyes narrowed seductively, "that is something for which you are uniquely qualified."