Title: To Autumn

Author: hooperanddavidson

Summary: It's the perfect season for falling in love. Four moments in the fledgling relationship between Sergeant Andy Davidson and forensic pathologist Molly Hooper. Sherlock-Torchwood crossover of the fluffy, plotless variety.

Rating: K? K+? There is an incredibly brief mention of Molly's (clothed) breasts. Incredibly brief, no dwelling, I promise.

Warnings: Plotless fluff.

Disclaimer: I'm twenty-three, live in California, and work at a shoe store. If I had any rights to either Sherlock or Torchwood, only one of those things would be true. Also, title from the Keats poem "To Autumn".

Author's Note: I'm a commuter. The idea for this came while I was riding the bus to work, and I latched on to it because it was so damn cute and I have nothing better to mull over. There will probably be more, not of this little bit, but of Andy/Molly because I've decided I really enjoy writing them together, and because I do have a backstory for this. Let me know what you think!

To Autumn

I.

CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS reads the yellow tape, marking off from the public not a dead body but pile of leaves nearly as tall as the skinny man standing next to her. Molly looks at Andy, the tips of his ears red, the corners of his mouth quirked up in a sheepish grin that makes her want to kiss him. She crosses her arms to hold herself back, pleased when his eyes dart down to her breasts, even more so when his gaze doesn't linger, instead lifting to meet hers again.

"What's all this, then?"

"I didn't want anyone else to jump in them," he explains.

"Are we supposed to jump in them?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

"Not exactly dinner and a movie, is it?"

Andy's face falls. "Erm, no, it's not." He looks down then, shuffles his feet. "Sorry. It was a stupid idea."

"No," Molly says, maybe too quickly, "no, it isn't. It's just-I'm not really dressed for it."

"Oh." If anything, Andy looks even more upset. "Oh, right, of course you aren't. Well." He looks at the pile of leaves, the crime scene tape, and shrugs. "Let me take this down, then, and we'll go grab a bite to eat."

She feels terrible. He's obviously gone to a lot of trouble and could probably get into trouble for using official police resources to set the stage for their first date and here she is complaining. That's why she does it, really; pushes him into the pile. He yelps, and then grunts when Molly jumps in after him, half-landing on top of him. When he struggles to stand up she wraps her hand around his elbow, yanking him back down, giggling.

II.

"Of course, I think it's lovely you've met somebody, Andy," Gwen says over the phone. He can hear Rhys and Anwen in the background, laughter coming across the wire. "Is it serious?"

Andy thinks of Molly the way she'd looked the day before, leaves in her hair, side ponytail mussed, cheeks flushed, and says with simple sincerity, "yes."

III.

The clouds are heavy and gray with unspent rain when Molly steps out of the flat, tugging on her gloves as she does. She loves her gloves: made of leather, coral pink but otherwise entirely practical. She loves even more the way her hands and wrists look when she wears them, slender and feminine. Her favorite thing about her gloves, though, is how nicely they go with Andy's own pair, their palms together and their fingers entwined, coral pink and dark brown leather. Molly takes the takeaway cup of coffee he's fetched her with one hand, holds out the other for him to take, and lets him walk her to work.

IV.

"Damn it!"

From her spot on the couch, Molly frowns in the direction of the kitchen. "All right, Andy?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says, just a tad too quickly. She raises her eyebrow at Toby, curled up on her feet.

"Do you need any help?"

"Nope, no, absolutely not," he pokes his head around the corner. "I know how to carve a pumpkin, Molls."

"I never said you didn't," Molly knows better than to hope he buys her wide eyes, but she tries anyway. He snorts, disappears again.

Less than a minute later, he curses again.

"Andy-"

"I'm fine, Molls. Almost done, even." She sighs, quietly so that he doesn't pick up on it, and slides her feet out from under the cat, who gives her a disgruntled look as he resettles. Padding into the bathroom, she digs out her first aid kit before heading to the kitchen.

To be fair, the pumpkin is nearly finished, seeds drying in one bowl, pulp in the other, a lopsided jack-o-lantern the results of her boyfriend's efforts. "Just needs the candle," he says, not looking at her. She's looking at him, though, or rather at the various cuts on his fingers and palms.

"Later," she says, pulling him away, taking the offending tool from him and pushing him into a chair. "Let me see." Andy holds his hands out, gingerbread eyes on her face as she cleans and bandages the damages.

"Thank you," he says once she's finished.

"Next year," Molly tells him, very seriously, "I'm carving our pumpkin."