Sherlock returned later that evening. After removing his Belstaff and his scarf, he saw Molly's note tucked under Billy, and smiled. Peering into the freezer, he pulled the toes out and put them in the fridge to thaw. He would need them pliable for his experiment.

He hadn't solved his case yet, however, so the toes would have to wait. He pulled out his violin and played for a bit, and then sat in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, while he sorted away all of the clues and information from today into his mind palace.

Eventually, he decided to go change into his dressing gown and pajamas. He made his way down the hall, but stopped short as he entered his room.

His room smelled wrong. Why did his room smell a way it had never smelled before? He stood there for a few minutes, deducing what it was he smelled. It smelled like… Molly? Molly had been in the flat many times, but that was a scent he had never experienced in his bedroom.

He made his way over to his wardrobe and changed. He decided to lay down a bit to think further on the current case. He slid into the bed, on top of the covers. And froze again.

The Molly-scent of the bedroom was even stronger on the bed. Curious. He rolled over and sniffed at the sheets. Molly had been in his bed and…

...she'd had an orgasm. In his bed. He could smell the faint scent of a woman on the sheets, and he couldn't imagine any other women had set foot in Baker Street since the last time Mary was there, and it was HIGHLY unlikely that Mary had had a go in his bed. Or Mrs. Hudson, for that matter.

Sherlock was surprised at how ...intoxicating the idea was. Mousey Molly Hooper had done something bold, very bold indeed. He knew she fancied him - anyone who knew the two of them knew she fancied him. He had filed away the information and yes, he had used it to his advantage more than once. Her feelings about him were misdirected and ill-advised. He didn't believe in love, and sex? Sex was a distraction, a base desire for lesser people.

And yet. He remained, curled on his side, drinking in the fading scent of Molly's sex. He had never even thought about what her arousal would smell like. It was superfluous information, unnecessary data. Much like when she'd said that she and Tom were having quite a lot of sex. This did not mean anything to him.

And yet he remained, his nose against the sheets as he told himself that while the fact that she had ..pleasured herself? He couldn't imagine she'd brought anyone to his flat WITH her … in his bed was curious, it didn't matter.

And yet.

And yet.

Sherlock did very little thinking about his case for the rest of the night, until long after the scent of Molly had faded from his sheets, from his room, from his mind.