A/N: Dawww...sweet stuff! Hope you are all enjoying! Keep the reviews coming! A big shout-out/thank-you to Rocking the Redhead for the continued support (among others!)-your reviews keep me writing! Enjoy!
Molly awoke the next morning to the unusual sight of sunlight creeping through her bedroom window. She rarely slept so late, even when she did have a day off. The events of the previous evening rushing back to the forefront of her mind, she quickly rolled over, only to find an empty space next to her.
Was it all a dream?
She quickly banished that idea as she rolled over and smelled the distinct scent of Sherlock on the pillow, though it was quickly being overcome by another scent in the air.
Is that…smoke?
Quickly putting two and two together, Molly sighed and pulled herself off the bed and into her dressing gown, padding her way out to the kitchen. She stood silently at the doorway, wanting to provide her eyes the necessary evidence to the situation that couldn't possibly be taking place in front of her. Sherlock was standing in front of the stove, still bare-chested and wearing the borrowed sweats, attempting to put bacon into a pan without splashing himself with hot oil. Molly took an extra moment to appreciate how the pants sat-just so-upon his hips before he tossed a piece of bacon and hopped out of the direct line of fire. He turned quickly at the sound of her laugh.
"What in god's name are you doing?" she giggled, looking to the mess he had made about the countertops.
"Well, I was…trying…I…" he humphed. "Breakfast," he finally decided.
She laughed once more before striding to the stove, turning down the fire, and standing up on tiptoe to give him a brief peck on the lips. His response was to flush a deep red and look to the floor.
"Cooking isn't really my area."
"Go sit. I'll take over." He smiled, and to Molly's surprise, before walking away he swiftly grabbed her hips, spinning her to face him and kissed her deeply, clearly not satisfied with her peck from before. Still somewhat dazed, she managed to regain her balance. "Bacon's burning."
"Right, well…right." Molly quite enjoyed this flustered, 'not my area' Sherlock.
XXX
Sherlock went to sit at the table, head still spinning slightly from his daring move. He quite liked kissing-the feeling of his mind being completely blank, aside from thoughts of Molly-but he knew it wasn't fair to her to continue these ministrations without the prospect of something more. Molly would want hearts and flowers-something he simply could not put forth. He would have to figure something out.
Breakfast was a particularly uneventful affair, with Sherlock eating multiple helpings of Molly's cooking while explaining the banalities of crap telly and how he could always deduce whether or not the man was the child's father. He was halfway through his explanation of how Doctor Who was a metaphor for the downfall of humanity when the doorbell rang.
Molly and Sherlock looked at each other, both with a "who-on-earth-could-that-be?" look on their faces. Sherlock checked the clock above the stove: 7:45. Too early for condolences. He retrieved his Browning from its discarded position on the floor and assumed a secret-agent-like position against the wall by the door. He motioned for Molly to take cover behind him. He looked through the peephole, and withdrew with a sigh, lowering his pistol and opening the door in a disgruntled fashion.
"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here so early?" Mycroft strode into the room uninvited and threw a full duffel bag to the floor. Fresh clothes, thought Sherlock. He leaned against his umbrella and looked Sherlock up and down.
"Nice to see you too, little brother. And not a moment too soon, it seems, judging by your fashion choices."
Sherlock looked down to his bare chest and sweat pants somewhat embarrassed before snatching the bag off the floor and rifling through it. He extracted a plain white undershirt and pulled it on before examining the remainder of the contents. His brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled out a box of hair dye.
In response, Mycroft extracted a small pile of photographs from his coat pocket and thrust them in Sherlock's direction.
"Next time you decide to go for a nighttime stroll, I thought perhaps you would like to be a bit more selective about your disguises."
The pictures were several stills from the street last night that Molly and Sherlock had walked upon on the way home from meeting Moriarty. Mycroft had seemed to save the best for last-a photo of the two of them caught in what appeared to be quite a passionate kiss. Sherlock felt himself go red as he pushed the photos back into Mycroft's hands.
"I suppose I should be thankful that you own the CCTV networks."
"You should be thankful I have someone keeping an eye on you."
Sherlock searched Mycroft's face, trying to deduce whether or not he knew about Moriarty.
Sagging eyes-hasn't slept. Shirt not pressed-still rowing with his wife. White dog hairs on his trousers-Damn-he's been to see Mummy.
"Stop it, Sherlock-you know I can't stand when you do that."
"How's Mummy?" Sherlock spat, clearly not caring but wishing to rub in his unwanted deductions.
"Her youngest son just committed suicide, how do you think?" Mycroft turned to leave, but stopped once more at the door. "I don't know what you think you're going to accomplish with him, Sherlock-but do recognize when you're out of your depth, won't you? Good morning, Sherlock, Miss Hooper." He closed the door without waiting for a response.
"Well. He's…pleasant," Molly said sarcastically.
"He's right, though," said Sherlock.
"What, about being out of your depth with Moriarty?"
"No. About needing a disguise," he held up the bottle of hair dye, shaking it playfully. "Fancy a game of dress-up?"
