Molly stretched out on the outdoor lounge chair with a sigh. It was mid-afternoon now, a little after 1, and the sun was high in the sky. It was significantly warmer than yesterday and was shaping up to be a lovely day in May. She hoped, perhaps unrealistically, to get a bit of a tan from the sun and it's reflections off the glittering lake.

She wore the new polka dot bikini she'd bought especially for this occasion (she'd always wanted to be like the girl in the song…itty bitty teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini…her polka dots were red, but it would have to do. They reminded her of the cherries on her favorite jumper anyway).

Molly glanced back at the cottage a few yards off, the only building within sight. She'd been intending to sunbathe topless on this trip; that was the advantage of the isolated cottage over a crowded resort. But with Sherlock here, she'd barely felt comfortable even wearing the bathing suit, despite his assurances that he would not so much as glance in the direction of the windows until she returned.

But she didn't want tan lines…

For once in her life, she wanted a tan without lines.

And Sherlock was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them. And god knew he didn't fancy her anyway.

Making up her mind, she reached back and untied her top, setting it on the ground beside her chair and letting her eyes drift shut as she lay back. She let the sun warm her skin for a half an hour before flipping over to do her back.

But as she turned around she felt a sharp pinch on her right breast. She reached down to brush away whatever debris had become lodged between her and the chair only to have it move and then…buzz. And now it was really, really starting to hurt.

A bee!

Jumping up with a shriek, Molly batted at the bee furiously. She managed to swat it off her chest only to have it start buzzing around her head. Oh no…that wasn't the same one…there were two! Images from a documentary she'd recently seen about killer bees flew through her head. Would she soon be surrounded by a giant swarm and stung to death?

Without thinking, she started screaming. "Sherlock! Sherlock! SHERLOCK! HELP!"

The next thing she knew, he was beside her. He grabbed her arms. "Molly! Molly what's wrong?"

"Bees! Bees! A swarm of bees is attacking me! Don't you see them?!"

"Molly, I don't think three bees constitutes a swarm. And they're not attacking you. Stop swatting at them and they won't hurt you," Sherlock said calmly.

Now that she wasn't alone and visions of Sherlock discovering her bee sting bloated corpse were no longer swimming in her mind, Molly realized she may have slightly overreacted.

"They already hurt me! I got stung," she snapped.

"Where?" Sherlock's eyes drifted down her body and they both seemed to remember in the same instant that she was topless.

Molly quickly crossed her arms over her breasts and…was that a blush on Sherlock Holmes' cheeks or just the flush of running out to her so quickly?

"Where?" He repeated. "Let me see Molly."

"No, I'm fine."

"I know about bee stings and if the stinger was left in, we'll have to get it out."

Molly spun around and presented her back to him to examine her already swelling breast. The sting was just above and to the left of her nipple, impossible for him to look at discreetly.

"What would that look like?" She asked.

"A stinger."

"Yes, but what does a stinger look like?"

"It depends on the type of bee."

Molly tried to live in denial, but she was sure that little black, splinter looking thing was what he referred to. "And, hypothetically, if I had a stinger, how would I get it out?"

"You'd stop being an idiot and let me do it properly so it doesn't get infected. My grandfather was a beekeeper, I've extracted dozens of stingers."

Molly turned and headed for the cabin. "No."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock argued, trailing after her. "We're both scientists. It's all just fat and tissue to us. You show me naked corpses on an almost daily basis."

"Not my naked corpse I don't," Molly bit back as they entered the small building. She tried to shut the bathroom door in his face, but found his foot in the way.

Molly felt tears start to prick her eyes because it really hurt. And she honestly had no idea how to take the stinger out herself. But how hard could be it? She opened a drawer under the sink and found a pair of tweezers.

"Don't even think about using tweezers, Molly. That'll make it worse," came the deep voice from the other side of the door.

Crossing one arm over her breasts, she opened the door with a sigh. "Fine. Get it out."

"I'll be right back."

Sherlock was back in an instant with a sewing needle that he quickly dipped in Hydrogen peroxide.

"Come on, Molly," he urged when she didn't move her arm. "We need to get it out as quickly as possible."

Molly bit her lip and dropped her arm.

Sherlock immediately reached and out and cupped her right breast in his left hand, holding it still while he used other to scrape at her skin with the needle. He shifted positions slightly and his thumb brushed over her nipple and she felt her face flush with embarrassment when it instantly hardened.

Then, within seconds he pulled away. "Got it."

"Great. Thanks. Get out." Molly tried to shove him towards the door.

"Wait, we still need to clean it."

"Yeah well I think I can manage that." Molly reached for the peroxide.

"Not with that."

"Oh for fucks sake, fine," Molly said with a sigh. Giving up on any bit of modesty she had managed to retain this far, Molly let her arms fall to her side and pulled herself up to sit on the counter beside the sink, wincing as her chest jiggled with the effort. She kept her eyes trained on the ceiling, but she felt Sherlock press a warm wash cloth against breast and then gently rub soap on the sting. It was impossible for him to avoid her areola and Molly fought a shiver and the wish that he'd touch her more. After rinsing it, Sherlock rubbed aloe vera lotion on it.

"Alright. You're all set," he said.

"Great, thanks," Molly slid down from the counter faster than he moved away and her eyes widened as her front came in contact with his.

"So much for professional scientists," she accused.

"It's a natural biological reflex, Molly," Sherlock answered. "Calm down."

Somehow that only made it worse. She was upset when she thought he was aroused by her and upset when he wasn't. It didn't make sense. Why did he make everything so confusing?

"Alright. Well, get out," she said, coldly.

And he did.

When she finally emerged from the bedroom a few hours later, Sherlock didn't make eye contact.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked. "I can just catch the last ferry if I go now."

"I was thinking 'Ice cream,' Molly responded.

"Ice cream?"

"For dinner. I thought we'd have ice cream."

They sat on the cottage's small front porch in wicker chairs. Molly had Mint Chocolate chip, Sherlock, strawberry.

"Janine has great taste," Molly said between bites of delicious ice cream.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"I meant the cottage."

"I know. How's the sting?"

"It hurts." Molly wiggled in discomfort. "I hate bras…and bees."

"I can agree on the former, but not the latter."

This drew Molly's attention. "You like bees? Why?"

"They're hard working, extremely loyal, and highly intelligent for insects. They're selfless, willing to give anything, even their lives, for the sake of the hive. And they're only violent out of self-defense."

Molly was stunned into silence. Not so much by the words he's said, but the sincerity with which he'd said them. Sherlock returned her gaze levelly, unflinchingly.

"Incidentally," he began slowly after a few moments, "those are the same reasons that I l-"

"Like John!" Molly finished the sentence before he could. She gave a little laugh. "It occurred to me immediately…you might as well have been describing him."

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose John does possess those qualities."

"Definitely." Molly scraped the final drippings of ice cream from her bowl and stood up.

"I don't know why I'm so tired, but I think I'll head to bed," she said.

"Stress of the day. Cortisol drains your energy," Sherlock muttered distractedly, staring off into space.

"Yeah, I suppose. Night Sherlock."

"Goodnight Molly Hooper."

Thank you again for all of the lovely reviews!