Mycroft was getting old. The mere fact that he had chosen to meet in a park and not some abandoned factory or one of the posh businesses he frequented hinted at it strongly. Sherlock had suggested that he add gingko biloba to his morning regimen of vitamins, to perhaps boost his ailing memory, but that only earned him a cutting glare.

"You heard what I said, little brother. Insults don't distract me. Sleeves. Up."

The tone, why did Mycroft always have to take the tone of an angry grandmother who was scolding a child for cleaning out the cookie jar? Their own mother was never this sharp with them. Well-there were a few exceptions. That didn't matter.

With a hissing sigh, Sherlock forced the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows, exposing his forearms. This was ridiculous. Not to mention humiliating. Was that why Mycroft had demanded they meet here? For the sake of embarrassment? Sherlock Holmes Reveals Addiction Scars in Park. Continue Reading on Page 9A.

"Fine," Mycroft determined after a moment's silence, and Sherlock pushed his sleeves down again sullenly. All this time of being clean, no sign of wanting to be anywhere near a needle (as far as they need know), everyone else allowing themselves to give him their trust again, and Mycroft still considered him a child. All because he was older, eight years the senior. And oh, how he loved to lord it over him every chance he could.

"Okay. Yes, all the marks are old. Wonderful. Is that all?" Sherlock couldn't help tapping his fingers to Carmen-Fantasie Op.25, Moderato as he waited for whatever Mycroft's answer might be.

"Well, no. You seem to be keen on ignoring every call, text, and prod from John I send you." Mycroft rested a hand under his chin and narrowed his eyes. "Is there something distracting you?"

"No, you just bore me." Sherlock was quick to reply, not giving his older brother the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Mycroft may have been older, but his sense of entitlement was too high.

"Have you forgotten that the cases I give you account for most of your income, ever since you, ah-how should I put this-went after a man with a scalpel in an episode of cocaine-fueled rage?" The eldest Holmes brother smiled pleasantly, as if they were discussing the War of the Roses.

Complete fucking prat. "I still get clients."

"Not enough to get by. There is fear in the air for Sherlock Holmes now. Mistrust."

I can think of at least eight ways to break your arm and make it look like an accident.

"What dreadful project is so important that you've dragged me out in public for it, Mycroft? Hm? Has it ever occurred to you that I might have been in the middle of something?"

"Or someone." The pleasant smile curled up at the edges in a wicked manner, reminding Sherlock very much of when Mycroft got away with blaming things on him when they were children.

Sherlock had had enough; it was a struggle to keep his breathing even, his temper smooth, playing his brother's favorite game. The restlessness was itching up under his skin so badly that the urge to get up and move was all-consuming. He wondered, briefly, if Mycroft knew that one of the few things that made him want a hit as badly as he did now was having an infuriating conversation like this.

"Kindly shut up about that. I'm here. I'm listening. Give me a bloody case if that's what you're here for, or I'm leaving." How did Mozart's fifth violin concerto go again? Thinking through the notes always helped-

"I just wanted you to be aware that you cannot afford these distractions, Sherlock. So spend your time wisely." Reaching for his umbrella, Mycroft got to his feet. Sherlock noticed, with petty satisfaction, that he was slower about it than usual.

"And give these to Rosamund, when you see her," he added, digging in the pocket of his coat and coming up with some wrapped sweets that had definitely been there for some time. "I don't eat them, of course."

"Of course not." Sherlock gladly parted ways with his brother, popping one of the sweets into his mouth as he went. Coffee-flavored, old, and most certainly capable of lodging in poor Rosamund's windpipe if they ever came in contact with her.

He walked several blocks before the feeling of Mycroft Holmes' leering eyes fell away. It was only an illusion, as Mycroft had eyes all over the vast expanse of London, but the distance put between them gave him some small comfort.

Once the last of the questionable candy had dissolved in his mouth, he tossed the rest and called Molly Hooper. There were a number of factors that could prove the positive turn their relationship had taken, all within seconds of the call's beginning:

1. She picked up on the second ring.

2. Their conversation was not a matter of life and death.

3. He could hear her smiling (though this was completely irrational, it was the only phrase his brain would provide).

4. What they spoke about was not work-related.

"If you're Mycroft," Sherlock began, turning a street corner, "how do you murder an infant?" (Perhaps mentions of murder were ways of cheating on item number four, but it couldn't be helped. They both jolly well enjoyed the topic.)

"Gosh. Hypothetically speaking, I hope?"

"We can only hope. He is going off his rocker. Anyway, guess."

There was hesitation on the other line, her pathologist's mind flicking through possibilities. Though any average mind would consider the topic morbid, for them it was everyday. It brought to mind memories of countless moments in the lab together-moments that had started out with her tense and captivated and he endlessly annoyed with the obvious infatuation.

As time wore on and they became used to each other, it grew easier. Molly Hooper the timid pathologist revealed her true nature, her actual potential-something no amount of stammering or blushing could keep covered for long. There was no disguising her scalpel work, nor the flippant and nearly thoughtless way she could name off muscles of the body, intricate functionings of the organ systems, every bone in the skeletal system. She was damn clever, but he had to actively try and catch her at it, in the beginning. He made her nervous.

Well...he had made her nervous. Now, it had all been turned on its head. Somewhat. It was all inexplicably bizarre. The physical reaction that accompanied attraction to another individual via hormones had always made him scoff, yet he was experiencing it...gladly. John would never let him hear the end. And how Mary would have ribbed him ("Iceman is melted, at last! And there was a warm heart underneath there, after all.").

The breakfast at the cafe that had gone all wrong, and its bewildering resolve on the pavement, had been twenty-three days ago. In that span, Sherlock had managed a few cases that were, frankly, soul-draining. Not even worth mentioning on the website. One of them, he was loathe to admit, was one that Mycroft had commissioned. Several times had his brother extended the olive branch, even suggesting that he work in the same field that Mycroft himself did. The thought made Sherlock shudder. It was low enough to be taking these cases, but to work under his brother's thumb exclusively would be the end of all free will.

A case meant isolation, no time for pleasantries or self-interest. Only one thing mattered, and that was picking the problem apart. Dissect it, over and over, until it finally cracks. Nothing could come before. Sherlock's laser-hot focus, his devotion to the work, was often seen as his only saving grace. It was unfortunate, then, that the world's greatest detective could find nothing to love in the cases that paid the bills. He often found himself wondering if this was how the mundane slogged through their day-to-day lives, and the thought sullied his mood.

One reprieve from the mind-dulling business his work had recently become had a name, a face, a scent, a body, all gloriously tied together in something his mind had immediately begun to associate (stupidly labeled) simply as warmth. As he had hammered on at the dull work, Sherlock couldn't resist a text or two shot her way, though isolation was usually his style until all had been solved. She was still on the other line as his thoughts churned away, sounding as daring as she ever had and exciting him as a nerve impulse does the synapses. Never had Sherlock imagined that the words "estimated prognosis of infant choking on sweets in a sour man's pocket" could make him chuckle the way he was now. Molly Hooper was far more than she appeared.

For example, when they had made the short walk together back to Baker Street hand in hand, the first thing Molly had done upon arrival was ask him whether or not he owned a mop. Of all the possible scenarios he had deduced-five-that had definitely not been one.

Molly Hooper could insist that this had been lovely and she was feeling flattered and overwhelmed, but perhaps it was best if she went back to her flat.

She could have realized the time and tried, still so stubbornly, to retreat back to work.

Upon the escort to his flat (not as likely) Molly Hooper could have questioned his motives and left him there on the pavement, thinking him a lecherous man.

The hand-holding, already as close as Sherlock had allowed himself to physically be connected to another person for such a length of time, could have turned to a subtle caress, invoking heat in his blood and allowing no one they encountered on the street to question whether he was man or mortar. But she would laugh nervously and tell him to contain himself until they were in private.

And fifth...that was not something that could be mentioned politely. Something that lingered on the edge of every frustrated dream, indescribable until Sherlock had tasted Molly's tongue in his own mouth. Then there was no stopping his mind's unconscious demands; easy to ignore in waking hours, impossible to escape in sleep.

Being so intimately attached to anyone, even in Sherlock's own thoughts, felt like a betrayal of his own long-standing emotional code. Keep your enemies close and your acquaintances...elsewhere. That had been key, in a previous life. In present day, Sherlock Holmes had a best mate, grieved his best mate's dead wife, regularly looked after their child on John's most hectic afternoons, and felt the attraction to Molly was something he could no longer shove in a drawer and ignore.

Against the odds, Sherlock had become what his previous self might sneer at; a mere man. No one could deny that he possessed astonishing gifts of intellect and powers of deduction, yet he knew how to feed an infant and comfort a friend. As of late, and most pressingly, he knew how to yearn.

"There has to be a mop in this flat, Sherlock." Molly was still wearing the jumper, and it dwarfed her. She had been right, in the cafe-the garment was not flattering, but somehow, it did not take away from her own attractiveness. Loose hairs clung to the shape of her face with sweat, and her perceptive eyes were teasing him.

"What interest would you have with a mop in my flat?"

The edges of her mouth folded, as if she were holding in a scolding frown. Your flat is always horrible, she had said earlier. That didn't make the mouth any less enticing. Surely with just a small peck, Molly could be persuaded into unfurling the frown, smashing her lips to his own, and-

Once, Sherlock thought tersely, John thought no one was home and you saw him wandering around the flat in no knickers. Remember?

Though she was frowning, the light in her eyes-peeking up at him shyly-hadn't given way. Drawing from his own admittedly limited knowledge of female charm, this could be seen as an example of being coy. Unusual, from his own Molly Hooper, but still completely possible. Her hands were clasping one another; not quite wringing, but one thumb grasped the other as if in a fight to the death.

That look-the very same one-had been turned on him before, Sherlock realized. In the morgue, on nights when a case ran long, Molly would peer up her dark-flecked eyes at him and asked if he needed a hand with anything or even just someone to fetch crisps. On afternoons with Rosie, before the Sherrinford disaster, there were days when little Rosamund went straight from one godparent's arms to another's. Molly would linger there, as well, fussing over her and asking Sherlock if he had everything in his arsenal to keep an eye on a child who, in his opinion, was a perfectly tolerable infant most days.

It was not until this instance of the expression on Molly Hooper's now-thin face did it finally click. The message she was conveying meant this: she was trying to stay longer without phrasing the exact words. Sherlock almost felt proud to have deduced this, before realizing how long it had taken him to reach this particular conclusion. Good God. And they called him a detective. If John were here, there would be two possible reactions. Either he would call him a blind prat, or he would howl with laughter at the undoubtedly idiotic look that Sherlock himself had on his face in this moment of obtusity. Neither reaction was desirable.

During the eleven seconds it had taken him to finally crack Molly Hooper's code (one of several thousand, he would later learn), she had said, "Well, your linoleum doesn't even resemble linoleum. It looks rather like a shag carpet. It's not really safe for Rosie and I'd feel a bit better if we got it scrubbed. There's an easy way, I can show you-"

"Of course," Sherlock cut in. "Mop, when have I seen it last-2012? Only joking, Molly."

After a brief search, they did find the mop, and put it to its exact use. She made up a solution of water and soap and showed him how to clean in even the tightest of corners. Changing out of the ridiculous jumper and back into one of his shirts, she perched on the edge of his kitchen counter. Cleaning the small, square area of tile that made up the floor of 221B's kitchen took a bit longer than was within the realm of even a bachelor's dignity, but Molly didn't seem to mind. They didn't always talk, but the silence was thankfully comfortable, something that had grown out of working in close quarters over many years.

Sherlock was aware that this was not what normally occurred when two people romantically involved were left alone together (and newly coupled, at that), but they were in each other's company, and he enjoyed that. Her small, hidden way of wanting to be near him had sparked a happiness that Sherlock found hard to explain to himself. It was...young, giddy, on the brink of foolishness to feel such delight just because someone wanted to be near him, his voice of reason kept chastising. Yet the emotion could not be fought.

When all was done, the mop squeezed dry and squared away and the bucket of water emptied down the sink, the kitchen floor was sparkling.

"Mrs. Hudson will cry," Molly said with a laugh, wiping her hands on the nearest towel.

"You're not wrong." She really would get teary on the occasions she had witnessed a proper wiping down of the flat. An utterly ridiculous creature, and secretly, Sherlock was glad that Molly (and dear Mary) was far more level-headed than his landlady. Molly smiled sweetly over her shoulder, knowing the woman's antics almost as well as he did.

The task was clearly finished in front of them, and he knew that Molly had no more excuses in mind to stay any longer. Not that he particularly needed her to give one-she could have said "Can I stare at your wallpaper for the evening?" and Sherlock wouldn't have minded. But from the way that her left hand was rubbing at her forearm, he could assume that she longed for a shower and her own space.

"I should probably get going," Molly said, on cue. "I really need-"

"A shower," he finished automatically, then felt the tips of his ears burning. "Er-sorry-not that, it was just clear to me from the pattern in which you were systemically rubbing your right forearm meant that you felt dirty. That was not my opinion." Stupid.

This over-deduction was not a slap in the face to her, as it had been so many times. Molly Hooper did not shirk from his words, nor did she smile at him as she had only moments earlier. Instead her hand-the one that had been rubbing circles-reached out slowly, waveringly, until it rested on his own arm. The material of his shirt was thin, due to the London heat, and Sherlock felt her skin's warmth acutely. It was, his intuition informed him quickly, a touch meant to comfort.

"I know, Sherlock. It's okay."

Molly Hooper. Instinct could curb to reason no longer and Sherlock started to pull her in, but this time Molly beat him to it; on tiptoes she brought them together. Her lips were as soft and as tantalizing as the first time he had dared to touch them. Had it really only been days? Sleepless nights had stretched that time, warped it, leaving a distortion that Sherlock normally associated with rough cases or the narcotics that Mycroft searched for still.

Deliciously, Molly began to force open his mouth in much the same way she had in the stairwell last evening, and Sherlock couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. His hands came up to grip her waist-perhaps a bit too hard, a bit too low, but her tongue was inside his mouth now and the taste of Molly was absolutely everywhere, unstoppable, overpowering. If given a chance to check her pupils for dilation, there would be no denying the cause of it. It was Sherlock himself. To be desired, too, sent that same sort of thrill through him.

It had been Molly's decision to begin the kiss, but Sherlock was determined to continue it. Now that the words had actually come out of him, Molly Hooper, would you perhaps like to court me exclusively instead of snogging at random? I can't be like Tom, but you might still enjoy me-it made every reuniting of their lips an act of claim. He had her small, small body pushed against the kitchen island, hands still at her waist, when both of Molly's arms looped around him and forced his form to press into hers, from chest to groin.

The sound that Sherlock made was far too loud for the hush that had befallen 221B, but nothing in him at that point, logic or reason or any of the damn cold virtue he had once valued above all else, could block it. The sensation of Molly was all-encompassing, and it was easily tossing all of his willpower away, eroding it from his mind as the sea laps at its own shoreline.

Amazingly, she'd giggled then.

"What is it?" Sherlock tried, but it all really came out as a blurred mumble against her hair. Irritation nipped at him briefly; was there something funny about this?

"I just…" Molly Hooper pulled away to look at him, making proper eye contact. "We're in your flat. Snogging."

An urge to sigh had to be fought. All of this was obvious.

"And?"

"You're snogging me even though I'm a mess, I dunno, Sherlock. You're kissing me like you think I'm incredibly hot when we've been mopping your floor. You just moaned in my ear. It's exciting." Her skin was flushed as she spoke of this, eye contact became sporadic, and no mention need be made of the pupil dilation.

"I've seen far worse messes than you." A part of Sherlock's brain was churning out remarks on autopilot, while the rest of him was focusing on calming down from the incident Molly had just described. What was it she had sparked in him? He felt like a schoolboy again, half thrill and half shame and all of him already secretly hoping for the next chance encounter. Best that Molly knew none of this-her, nor anyone else.

"Weren't you-er, weren't you headed somewhere?" He prodded, hoping to get her in the proper direction again.

"Right," Molly agreed, her voice hovering at a slightly higher pitch than it usually would if his erection did not still linger with embarrassing force between them. "Shower, tidying, back to work tomorrow, of course."

Sherlock led her to the door, ensured that she had gotten a cab home, and promptly collapsed in his chair. "Difficult," he said aloud to the now-empty flat. This was going to be so difficult. But when had Sherlock Holmes ever turned down a challenge?

Now he opened the door on her, becoming less and less hesitant to smile in greeting. Her flat was warm and inviting-his senses deduced that Molly was starting to tidy and make the place a bit more open, even if her instincts shouted to keep everything enclosed. "I'm here," he murmured into the phone, looking at her holding her own mobile as he spoke.

"I see you."

Sherlock shut the door behind him.


So late. I know.

In cheerier news, I have a baby duck named Mycroft. He is the sweetest and loves to nibble. 3

In one month, I start at my next college for my Bachelor's degree! So...sporadic updates. :/ I suck, I knoooow. But hopefully you enjoy the fic!

Lots of love,

~WickedScribbles