~ Reversal ~

"I should arrest the both of you!" Lestrade snapped. "Obstruction of justice. Interfering with an official police investigation. Putting valuable lives at risk, not least of which would be your own." He glared at them for a long moment before continuing, "And I bloody well would do, save for two circumstances. One, by some miracle it all worked out. Perpetrators apprehended. Evidence secured. No injuries save that grazed arm of yours." His eyes narrowed. "I expect you know how fortunate you are, Dr. Hooper."

Molly flushed.

"Two" Lestrade went on,"I'm pretty sure I can rely on my mates, here, to take whatever steps seem appropriate to discourage the two of you engaging in further mischief- if I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd call it criminal misconduct, but I'll take it as given that you originally had good intentions, however unsound. Gentlemen, am I correct?"

And Lestrade peered at John and Sherlock in turn.

John gave a mirthless chuckle and took Mary's hand in a firm grasp, though, tellingly, did not reply.

Sherlock, however, eyed his errant pathologist and said coldly, "Quite."

Molly held herself well, but her flush deepened, and she was seen to swallow hard.

Sherlock's lip twitched against a grim smile. She was recalling his words, spoken in anger when he'd first caught up with her earlier in the evening -...a slipper to your bare backside… -though admittedly he'd kissed her soundly before uttering them, and threatened her with more kisses, too. He wouldn't, of course - well, not the slipper. Playful brutality might be a satisfying, even enjoyable form of retribution (from his point of view), but she'd been injured, however minor the hurt, so it was, in this instance out of the question.

However, she didn't have to know that just yet. His chequered past had shown him that anticipation could be quite as tortuous in its way as an event one dreaded, and considering the anxiety and trouble he'd been put to on her behalf this evening… well, keeping her on tenterhooks for a while seemed entirely suited to the occasion.

"Right, then," Lestrade said, a bit more mildly. "You can all go. Good work calling us in when you did, Sherlock, might have gone far worse for everyone if we hadn't discovered what was afoot, so to speak. And Molls, watch that arm, you don't want any complications."

"I'll take care of her," Sherlock drawled, and had the satisfaction of feeling Molly tense as he set his hand possessively at the small of her back.

o-o-o

It was after midnight and starting to drizzle as they waited for the cab to arrive.

Mary, after a glance at Sherlock, said to Molly, "I'm sorry I got you involved, love. Thank God you weren't more seriously injured. I didn't expect them to be armed, or that they were already under police investigation."

John said, with an edge to his tone, "A bit of a cock-up all around, it seems. But we can discuss that at home."

Mary sighed. "Must we?"

"Oh, I think so," John said, firmly. "Molly, come round to the surgery tomorrow so I can see how the arm's doing."

"I'll bring her," Sherlock said.

Molly cleared her throat a bit and finally spoke, her voice only a bit unsteady. "Thank you for dressing it so neatly, John. I'm sure it'll be fine." She gave him a strained smile.

John said, "Scarring should be minimal. Take something for the pain, if it's too bothersome, so you can get some sleep. You've got meds at home?"

"Yes, I think so."

John nodded. "Right, then. Here's our cab."

"You and Mary take this one," Sherlock told him.

Molly looked up at him quickly, frowning - her flat was only a few blocks from the Watsons' home - but he ignored her and she remained silent.

Mary gave her a last apologetic smile, and climbed into the cab, followed by John after he'd given the driver the direction.

The rain drizzled a bit harder as the Watsons drove away.

Molly said, "You're taking me home?"

"To Baker Street," Sherlock replied.

"But…" Molly tried to laugh and it came out an odd choke. She tried to tug her hand from his. "Sherlock…"

He looked down at her.

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I… I should have listened to you, I know, but-"

"You preferred not to and nearly got yourself killed as a result."

She said, angrily, but with a note of desperation, "Youput yourself in dangerous situations all the time!"

"Yes. I have a great deal of experience and training, too, both of which inform my judgement and my ability to come off unharmed. You,on the other hand, have neither the background nor the skills even of an amateur, much less a black ops agent - though even Mary's skills seem to have been lacking in this case."

"It… it wasn't supposed to be like that!"

"And yet it was! Exactly as I predicted."

She fumed. "I've told you I'm sorry! What more do you…" Her voice trailed off.

He raised a brow as another cab pulled up to the curb to pick them up and said to her, "I believe I made my thoughts on the matter quite clear earlier this evening." He released her hand, opened the cab door, and gestured to her to get in: something of a challenge. "Shall we go?"

o-o-o

They were halfway to Baker Street before he realized she was weeping. He would have noticed sooner,, but she was sitting as far from him as she could, at the opposite edge of the seat , and facing away, looking (apparently blindly) out the window. She made no sound, but she began to reach up occasionally, using one finger to swipe away a tear. Then another. And another.

Abandoning the game, he groused, "Oh, bloody hell, you little coward, are you blubbing already?" He caught her and pulled her toward him.

"I'm not blubbing! And don't touch me!" she said, her voice breaking.

"Don't be ridiculous." He slipped his arms about and under her and drew her close, almost onto his lap.

"I'm not! And I'm n-not a coward!" she went on, tears streaming now. "I'm just tired, and my arm hurts, and… and I think you're abeastfor even thinkingof… of beating me!" And she gave it up and set her cheek against his shoulder, snuffling into his coat. "There are tissues in my bag," she added, morosely.

He found them for her, and pressed the packet into her hand. As she dabbed at her tears, he said, blandly, "Having one's backside well smacked with a slipper hardly constitutes a beating, Miss Hooper."

"Of course It does," she insisted. She sat up and defiantly blew her nose, and when she was finished she at last looked him straight in the eye. But her momentary bravado faded. "But you know too much about that, I suppose. No wonder it seems amusing."

He winced at that, disliking the reminder of his more difficult misadventures, but managed to say lightly enough, "Well, it does, though I have to admit that I know nothing of slippers."

She reached up and lay a caressing hand against his cheek.

And now he was scowling. "I'm no hero, Molly."

"Nonsense. Who saved me from being shot tonight?"

"Well, I didn't save your skin entirely, did I?" He ran the backs of his fingers very gently over her shoulder, where John's neat bandage lay under her coat.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're such an idiot," she whispered unsteadily, and kissed him.

They remembered where they were, presently, and Molly settled beside him, quiet for the rest of the ride. They held hands, and she leaned a bit against his shoulder, but were otherwise circumspect.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B.

The rain had stopped.

o-o-o

Later, though not really so very long after, there were more kisses, loving, seductive, passionate, and finally desperate, almost punishing ones, kisses that muffled her cries and incoherent babbling (she seemed to be confusing his name with God's as she came apart beneath him), and stopped the sound of his own voice, too, as he reached the point when he must either allow the delicious agony to consume him or die. He, too, cried out at the last, something he'd never done before, but she held him, small and strong and infinitely tender, and the tilt of her exquisite hips, the touch of firm, knowing hands wrang a second cry from him. It was too much. Too much.

Yet never, never enough, he thought, as they both lay there, gasping and trembling in the aftermath.

There seemed to be tears on her cheeks again (he wondered vaguely if some of them were his own), and her name was on his lips like a whispered prayer.

o-o-o

He woke to the distant sound of the toilet flushing, and the faint chirping of birds outside, voicing their enthusiasm in the dawn of a new morning. Well, it was spring, and all beings twitterpated.

Had he made up that word?

There was a padding of bare feet and he cracked open one eye to see Molly coming through the door, face washed, hair brushed, and clad only in his aubergine shirt. He noted that, where Janine had filled out his shirts (albeit quite attractively), the same size hung loosely on his pathologist. Yet the curve of her breasts was deliciously evident and, since she'd only done up a couple of the middle buttons, there was a tantalizing glimpse of pert, copper colored curls below as she walked toward him.

Copper. He hadn't noticed that last night. Further investigation was called for…

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said, a smirk on her lips, eyes alight. He moved over a trifle and she sat down on the bed next to him.

"Good morning, Dr. Hooper," he replied, reaching up to undo the offending buttons. "You're looking quite pleased with yourself, considering the ups and downs of last night's adventure. How's the arm this morning?"

She winced a bit. "Sore. But it didn't keep me awake."

"The distraction was sufficient?" The buttons undone, he slipped a hand beneath the fabric to caress one firm, rounded breast, brushing his thumb over the intriguing coral tip.

She half closed her eyes, giving a little sigh of pleasure, but presently caught his hand and drew it away. "I want to ask you something first!" She kissed his fingers, and laid them against her cheek for a moment, then, retaining hold of his hand, she straightened and said, "I want you to teach me."

"All right," he said, a little warily. "What?"

"You told me last night that I hadn't the background or skills to do the sort of work you do, but I could learn, couldn't I? Will you teach me?"

His brows rose. "You liked it?"

"Of course I liked it! Well… most of it. I enjoyed going out with you that other time, too. After you came back, when John was still… well, maybe I could go out with you again. If you teach me. To stay safe, you know. And observe effectively."

He almost smiled, but there was a vast potential for worry and distraction in this suggestion. Sentiment was indeed the grit on the lens. But it was too late to repine. "Very well. But you'll have to do what I say without exception. I hope last night at least reminded you that I usually do know what I'm talking about."

She looked down her nose at him. "Agreed. But there are to be no more threats of slippers. I find that singularly unappealing, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you indeed, Dr. Hooper?" he said, reaching round to pinch the delectable flesh in question. She yelped and started forward, and in a trice he had her on her back beneath him, his hands at her wrists, pressing them into the pillow, a frame for that sweet, startled face. "An unfortunate aversion," he said. "I cannot and will not agree to a demand couched in those terms. But perhaps - just perhaps- if you ask very nicely…"