His eyes rolled over her small frame in the cool dark. This wasn't supposed to happen; no, not at all. John was supposed to be helping him today, but he could feel Molly Hooper's cool breath against his neck. It was...interesting, to say the least. The feel of her chest heaving against his own in the darkness. Maybe closets did have an appeal on cases after all...

Molly, however, was mortified. She could practically see him scowling at their position in the dark. Her breathing was hard and unstable, and she could feel that his was hinting at the same pace. But as to why, she had no clue. She slowly, cautiously, reached for his wrist. When he retracted it quickly, she smirked.

Even Sherlock Holmes possessed feelings, deep down, after all. And now, he was scared by the revelation that she was using his own tactics against him. His pulse was staccato, differentiating in beats. He could feel how his pupils dilated, searching out her eyes.

Finally, after all a stress-filled moment of silence -although there was a criminal in the quiet house- Sherlock Holmes had had enough. With a low-pitched growl, he trapped Molly Hooper's lips with his own, causing the poor girl to squeak in surprise. After a moment however, she responded with as much passion as he gave.

By the time Lestrade had come, the only remaining sign Holmes had been there was a small note on the inside of the closet door.

"Gone home, tell St. Bart's Dr. Hooper will be out for a few," the word 'days' had been scratched out "months -SH"