And so it was, for many weeks: Molly stopping by Baker Street, laughing, cooking, going out. She would assist him on cases occasionally, she would clean up the messes in the flat while he was out with John. Things were going quite well. She was concerned, however, that the longer they waited to actually have sex, the more difficult it would be when the time came. She considered bringing it up in conversation, but thought perhaps it might make him uncomfortable. No. Best not.

For Sherlock, the first week or so was a relief. The pressure of sex completely lifted. He revelled in spending time with Molly, for as much as he had believed her to be the perfect match for him before, he could see now that there was absolutely no one else he could ever imagine being so intimate with. Their minds worked surprisingly in tandem. They had the same sense of humour, the same pallet, enjoyed similar recreation. If not for the slight differences in crap telly viewing, & her propensity toward fiction novels, they'd hardly disagree at all.

For the past two weeks or so, however, he had begun to notice things about her he hadn't before. Her mouth when she smiled crookedly at him. The depths of her eyes when she was lost in thought. The way she moved when she thought she wasn't being watched. The way her clothes clung to her (however aesthetically wanting they were). But mostly, how much she touched him - when she laughed, when they sat next to one another on the sofa, when cleaning up the kitchen - all were slight brushes, or leans, an occasional squeeze, & his responses were becoming more severe each day.

At first, nothing happened. But after a few days, his skin would prickle at the touch. A few more, & a warm feeling descended upon him, & his breath would catch. After nearly a month, he found himself both longing for & dreading her touch; for he was concerned that she would begin to notice the bulge beginning to form in his trousers with alarming frequency. He would need to act, & act soon.

He thought for this very particular instance, John Watson might be a better choice for council.

::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Right. So the murderer was...who, exactly?" John was confused.

Sherlock sighed. "The lacrosse player. Didn't you notice his socks?"

John shook his head. No, he hadn't noticed.

Sherlock put the kettle on & decided it was time to bring up the subject.

"John..."

He had just picked up the Times. "Yeah? You see this? Why is sex always so sensationalised? In the Times, no less."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "As I understand, sex is rather complicated."

This gave John pause. "Complicated? How?"

"Well...there's much to consider..."

John smiled. "Such as?"

Sherlock's hands went in his pockets. "Well...there's the whole seduction aspect...performance...er...confidentiality..."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You & Molly...you haven't...had intercourse, yet?"

"Kettle's boiled," & he went to fix up the tea.

John got up & followed his friend. "Sherlock?"

He handed him a cup. "No."

"Ah."

"What?"

John sipped the tea. "You're nervous."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"It's alright, mate. Perfectly natural to be nervous. You love her. You want it to be special."

The detective didn't like the way this was going. Love? Special? So contrary to his normal inclinations...but it could not be denied that John was right. Blast.

"Yes. It is as you say. The problem remains, however..."

"It's not a problem, mate. You open a bottle, tell her how beautiful she is, & kiss her. You're thinking about it too much. Can't say I'm surprised," John finished.

Sherlock smiled. He loved John so very much, but this wasn't what he needed to hear.

"Quite right. Thank you, John."

And with that, they sat opposite, sipping their tea.