Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to doctor-molly-hooper-holmes on tumblr for the use of her hashtag.
#TotallyPlatonic
"You know what I want."
Molly's grinning at him from the other end of the sofa.
"Come on, Sherlock!" she coos, poking him with her bare foot. "I told you: you know what I want..."
"No," he says crisply, turning his attention back to his copy of Pathology Today. "I don't feel like it."
Molly and her Feminine Wiles will not be indulged, he tells himself. Not tonight.
He must put his foot down, or all is lost.
"Sheeerrrllloooocckk!" she sing-songs. "Don't be like that, darling." Her toes have made their way underneath his magazine and are currently resting lightly on his left knee. Blocking the bottom half of the text. Past experience tells him that soon they will make their way thigh-ward and then, oh then things tend to get very interesting indeed...
He is aware, suddenly, that the tips of his ears are now turning red.
He is also aware, suddenly, that Molly is grinning from ear to ear.
He looks at her; she bats her eyelashes coquettishly. He makes a show of looking back to his magazine, but before he can begin to read again she scoots forward and yanks it fro his hands. Skitters back to her end of the sofa, the magazine held above her head like a prize.
With a growl Sherlock darts after her, pinning her easily beneath his body and, when she keeps the magazine out of reach, tickling her mercilessly. (She' s awfully ticklish, his Molly.) She lets out a shriek of laughter, loud enough to wake the dead, and just as Sherlock elects to partake of his usual method of shutting her up- that of snogging her silly- the door to 221B opens and John and Lestrade wander in, Rosie in a papoose against her father's chest.
"Good evening, yeah?" Geoff says, grinning maniacally at the two of them and waggling his eyebrows.
Molly blushes but doesn't try to move away. "It was going that way, yeah," she says wryly, before pressing a kiss to Sherlock's Adam's apple and indicating that he should move off her.
He does as he's asked, though he's not best pleased.
He insists on keeping a hold on her hand, however
"Well, you'll be glad to know that story you planted made the front page," John says pointedly, tossing a copy of The Telegraph at Sherlock as he makes his way towards the kitchen, unclipping the papoose as he goes. "Kitty Reilly's already splashed her opposing op-ed all over The Mail Online, but so far I think everyone else is buying it." He shakes his head. "All I can say is: you jammy bastard."
"That's the general opinion, yes," Molly giggles. With a distracted grunt, Sherlock opens the paper up. Takes a look at the- frankly, ludicrous- headline he and Molly's last frolic in Buckingham Palace had forced him to plant: Super-Boffin and His Morgue Princess Deny Affair Again: "It's all platonic!" They Say.
"Super-boffin?" Sherlock scoffs.
"Morgue Princess?" Molly retorts indignantly.
Sherlock looks at her askance. "Well, if anyone were qualified to be a "Morgue Princess," it would be you, my darling..."
And he brings their joined hands up to his lips. Kisses her knuckles. Molly melts and leans into him, kissing him sweetly. Curling into his lap. As often happens when she witnesses her Aunty and Uncle snogging, Rosie claps her pudgy little hands in delight and whoops. The kiss deepens, both Molly and Sherlock apparently forgetting that they now have an audience...
"Oh yeah," Lestrade mutters to John, giving the couple the side-eye. "Can't imagine how the papers got the notion anything was going on there..."
Without warning the copy of The Telegraph is tossed at his head; when he turns to check who threw it at him he sees an unrepentant-looking Sherlock and a starry-eyed, rosy-cheeked Molly, who has just been kissed breathless.
Both are grinning angelically at him.
"Molly and I are strictly good friends," Holmes says archly, before pulling his "good friend," into his lap and starting to snog her again. "If anyone asks," he mumbles distractedly between kisses, "then that's what you, em..."
"Tell them?" Molly inquires wickedly.
"Yes!" Sherlock grins. "Tell them, that's the phrase..."
At which point he succumbs to Hurricane Hooper's attentions and quite possibly forgets how to breathe, he's so busy snogging.
If she keeps this up, he thinks, he might well forget his own name...
"In case you were wondering," John says dryly, "that's not what platonic meant when I lived here..."
Greg cocks a cynical eyebrow and he gives a snort of laughter. Turns his attention back to his daughter, who is gurgling up at him.
With a growl of laughter Sherlock gets to his feet and slings Molly over his shoulder. Heads off towards his bedroom, a glint in his eye and a spring in his step.
"Must be going, John! Geoffrey! Rosie!" he calls out as he goes, a giggling Molly waving goodbye to her two friends as she disappears through the door. The sounds of laughter and manhandling are soon heard from Sherlock's (alas, inadequately sound-proofed) bedroom, followed by protesting bedsprings. Loudly protesting bedsprings.
"Are you sure he knows what platonic means?" Greg asks, but John merely shakes his head and smiles down at his daughter.
Sherlock may be near forty, but he's glad to see his friend is finally letting himself go through puberty- And with a woman who's clearly the love of his life, no less.
"Does it matter if it keeps him out of trouble?" he asks mildly, and Lestrade finds that he has to agree: it does not.