A/N: This is a little ficlet I posted on tumblr when S4 aired, based on intense discussion of (what else?) exactly what flowers were on Molly's christening dress during TST. Some T rated fluff for all you lovelies who continue to read and review my stories. Thank you so very much.
Sherlock's breathing was hard and raspy; his fingers twitched incessantly and he could absolutely NOT tear his eyes away from Molly Hooper's red-flower-bedecked dress. "Oi, where are you going?" Lestrade called out as he abruptly walked away from the man he'd been - not listening to but being nattered at by.
Sherlock waved impatiently over his shoulder, eyes still zeroed in on Molly, who was standing across the Watson's sitting room, chatting animatedly with someone…Mrs. Hudson, he noted with the small part of his brain not entirely focused on his pathologist.
His lovely, sparkling, adorable, brightly dressed pathologist. Who had finally noticed his approach, her wide brown eyes going even wider as she met his gaze. He ignored anyone who tried to get his attention - John, Mary, a few other random guests whose names he couldn't be bothered to remember - and only stopped when he was inches away from Molly. "We need to talk," he rasped, reaching out to wrap his fingers around one of her delicate wrists. "Now."
Molly called out breathless, bewildered apologies as Sherlock virtually dragged her up the stairs to the nursery. With a flick of an eye he took in its unoccupied status: Rosamund wouldn't be sleeping in the cot for another month at least, the day bed had never been used although it was freshly made up…and the door could be locked from the inside. A clever precaution on Mary's part, one he most heartily approved.
Especially today.
"Sherlock, what's wrong, what–mmph!"
Molly's concerned question was smothered beneath Sherlock's questing lips as he swept her into his arms and kissed her. He didn't realize he was moving her at the same time until her knees hit the edge of the day bed and buckled. He willingly collapsed down on top of her, still kissing her, hands busy beneath her body, undoing the zip to that dress, the one that had finally been his own undoing. "Molly," he groaned, being sure to press himself firmly against her, hard enough that she could feel that he was - well, hard enough. "Please don't make me beg and explain and apologize for being an arse and waiting this long to understand all you mean to me and how much I want you. Please, please just let me make love to you, let me give you a baby we'll both love as much as John and Mary clearly love Rosamund."
Molly's answer was an excited wriggle as she helped him strip her of the dress, and an even more excited series of kisses as they eventually peeled themselves fully free of their clothing.
Sherlock's phone buzzed incessantly the entire time - he had forty-three messages and seventeen voice mails by the time he relocated it an hour later, under the bed and against the baseboard - but it wasn't even close to the top of his list of priorities at the time.
When he and Molly made their rather disheveled reappearance at the top of that hour, it was to discover that the party had ended, and to face a disapproving John and trying-to-hide-her-smiles Mary waiting for them in the sitting room. Rosamund was sleeping in her carry-cot, looking angelic as always, but when Sherlock tried to distract her parents by pointing that out, John was having none of it. "You," he growled pointing at Sherlock, "tell me you did not just spend an hour defiling my daughter's nursery."
Sherlock shrugged and put an arm around Molly's shoulder. "Actually…" he started to say, but John wasn't finished.
"And you," he said, turning his finger - and glower - on Molly. "I expect better from you, Molly. This one is just an overgrown child with poor impulse control, but you…"
"But I am a woman who's been in love with this overgrown child with poor impulse control for a very long time," Molly interrupted him in her most no-nonsense tone of voice. "So you'll have to excuse me for not turning him down now that he's finally dragged his head out of his arse and realized he's in love with me and has been for a lot longer than he was willing to admit. Also we're hoping to have you standing as godparents for our own baby in about a year so let's not start it off with recriminations, all right? I promise I'll change the linens if you show me where they are."
Mary laughed and stood up, crossing the room to give both Molly and Sherlock huge hugs and kisses. After a moment of gaping and spluttering, John shook his head slowly and joined the others.
"Just remember all the rules we set up when Rosie was born," he muttered in Sherlock's ear as he hugged him. "One single experiment and I guarantee Molly and the baby will be out the door…and you'll deserve every miserable moment you suffer afterwards."
"Understood," Sherlock muttered back. He tugged himself free of the group embrace. "Right. Molly and I have a great deal of time to make up for, so…" He clapped his hands together briskly. "Linens are at the top of the stairs in the closet by the bathroom…"
"Oh, go on with you," Mary said with a cackle. "I'll take care of the linens. You two just…go do what you obviously want to keep doing for probably the rest of the night and well into the morning!"
Molly, who hadn't blushed once during this entire exchange, finally turned as red as one of the cheerful flowers (hibiscus? nasturtium? Mary wasn't sure and didn't care) on her dress. Sherlock just beamed down at her, tucked her under his arm, and hustled her out of the house and into the cab no one realized he'd already summoned.
Luckily for them, a few extra quid kept the cabbie's objections to their activities to a minimum for the duration of the ride to Baker Street.