First time writing Sherlock! Be nice if you leave a review. Thank you! (tumblr: flywingless - taking prompts)
It was hard to miss the snickers from the seated couple on the couch as soon as he walked in. Mary and John were crowded around John's laptop, opened on the coffee table before them. It was easy to discern that the laughter had had something to do with him, even if he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, by the way their eyes widened and John attempted to close the laptop, while Mary straightened up as much as her pregnant stomach allowed.
He let them fumble around for a moment, before sweeping his coat off of his shoulders and throwing it on the back of his chair. "I don't see the use of reading internet theories as to how I faked my death when you know very well how I accomplished it, John."
One would think that with as many people there were that populated the digital realm, that at least one person could come up with something that was not unimaginative and, for a good number, not somewhat disturbing.
Moriarty and I kiss—he shook his head at the one blog he'd attempted to read, mainly to prove the utter imbecility of such theorists.
There seemed to be a silence of note coming from the Watsons' corner of the room. Without turning his head, he glanced at them from the corner of his eye, keeping his fingers steepled in front of him in a meditative stance. Mary and John were engaged in a silent conversation, her eyes seeming to prompt John into telling Sherlock something, while John's protested doing so.
A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the display.
While domesticity wasn't something that he strived for or even really admired, he did find some pleasure in the way Mary pushed and prodded his friend into things. John needed someone to keep him on his toes.
But, he'd mainly come in to see that they were well (a habit he'd cobbled together since Magnussen), and having accomplished that, he could move onto completing the current case he was on, seeing that he'd answered the question for himself in the time he'd taken to contemplate upon it. Abruptly he stood, startling the two on the couch, and he swept his coat once again upon his shoulders. Smiling for the benefit of the pair, he swiped the laptop out from under their hands, flipping it open as he made his way out the door.
"Sherlock!" came the expected outrage from his friend.
He ignored it in favor of starting the computer back up, pausing at the doorway, body half-turned back to the people still seated. "While it's useless to look at this drivel, I suspect that what you were looking at was one of the more lurid ones – which, as an aside, I find a bit unsettling, considering that the sexual connotation would be in regards to myself, and most likely, you, John, given the papers' speculation and interest—"
The site that the Watsons had been looking at pulled up and cut him short.
What he saw was not what he'd been expecting. Well, to a slight degree it was, but he hadn't been expected to be surprised at it. While he didn't like surprises, this wasn't entirely…unpleasant.
His eyes had quickly scanned the words on the page, but what had caught his attention was an image that apparently went along with the fan's theory. It was a hand drawn image of himself kissing Molly Hooper. As part of his mind grudgingly gave the artist some credit on their credible rendering, the rest was preoccupied by what they had been able to communicate with simple lines upon a page.
There was emotion on "his" face, as if he was fulfilling some life long goal in kissing Molly. Her own face reflected that same feeling. His large hands cradled her head, like some precious vessel that held water he'd thirsted for. The drawing managed to capture his height and her petite frame, Sherlock already knowing these two facts, but the simple act of placing them in an embrace showed how protective he could look.
He shook his head perfunctorily, knocking the poetic parts back where they belonged. Clearing his throat, he closed the laptop and handed it back to John, not meeting his friend's eyes, nor that of Mary's (which he surmised would having that knowing glint she often had).
"Well," was all he managed to scrape together before he quitted the room.
.
.
.
He'd been able to set aside the image of him wrapped around Molly Hooper as he'd turned over the conclusion of the case to Lestrade. Then he'd been occupied with the reminder that his cultures set up in the lab should be ready for the next stage in his experiment. By the time that his feet led him into the lab, he'd quite forgotten that there had been any sort of tilt to his equilibrium.
That is until he found Molly at the counter across from his microscope.
He hadn't realized that he'd stopped dead in the doorway until she glanced over her shoulder at him, a quizzical look in her eye until she saw it was Sherlock.
"Hello," she greeted him brightly. "I thought you'd be by today. I've left the samples in the front of the shelf."
When there was no response from the consulting detective, her eyebrows came together in concern and she turned fully around. "Sherlock?"
For some reason, the simple line drawing had taken a life of its own in his mind, the real life Molly replacing the black and white he'd seen. He couldn't seem to gain control of his thoughts.
Though he loathed sentiment, there was a large part of him that was suddenly fiercely curious about this possibility. This tangent that had existed at the perimeter of his mind, dismissed years ago, was suddenly the basis of an experiment. A hypothesis to a question he hadn't known that he'd wanted answered.
She took a step closer to him, and that was enough to move him into action. If this was going to be tested out to achieve the postulated result, he needed to do it correctly.
As he encroached on Molly's personal space, he was pleased to note that the artist had been correct in their estimation of their height differences, as Molly's head tipped back to meet his eyes, her long ponytail falling down her back. Her brown eyes were wide in confusion and he couldn't help the small smile that arrived. She'd been a bit hard to throw off since his time spent hiding out in her flat after his "death," and he hadn't realized he'd missed a bit of the fumbling Molly.
But now was not the time to dwell in nostalgia.
She still didn't understand what he was doing when his hands came up to gently cup her face, the softness of her skin was filed away in the room designated for her in his mind. He knew the moment she registered his intent as her mouth opened on a gasp which he caught with his own.
And thoughts of scientific method ended there.
She was utterly still at the first brush of lips, but only for a moment before her hands made their way up to his shoulders and into his hair. Warmth flooded him as her lips moved in a rhythm to his. He couldn't help the groan that escaped him as her fingers tightened on his curls. His arms embraced her tighter to him. He wanted to feel more, as much of her as he could.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he was finally able to bear the thought of separating from her, taking one last sip of her lips before breaking fully away. Her eyes remained closed for a moment before a worry crease appeared between her brows and she opened one then the other to look at him.
His question had been answered the moment his lips had touched hers. He only hoped that the answer to her question was evident in his own face. As her concern melted into a soft smile and her eyes warmed in meeting his, he knew she'd found what she'd sought, and kissed her once more.
That ended more sappy than intended. Sorry. (Not sorry.)