This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infrinement of copyright is intended. Still beta read by the lovely MizJoely. And thank you to all who have read, reviewed and enjoyed. A short chappie this time, but then that's why they call it a slow burn, eh?

The Masochism Tango

Having succeeded in getting rid of John- if not allaying his suspicions- Sherlock sits down on his bed and examines the book his mother just gave him. It's hardback, a prestige copy, doubtless part of the novel's first run. It's been signed by the author too, and, despite the fact that he doesn't want to think about what his mother said, Sherlock opens the book. Stares down at the author's signature, so different from the context in which he normally sees it.

Molly Ann Hooper, the signature reads. Love and thanks for all your support, xxx

He might be mistaken, but Sherlock could swear the page smells ever so slightly of Molly's perfume.

And well it might, he thinks, still examining the signature, before dismissing the thought as fanciful. More likely, it was Mummy's perfume, or that of the cashier from whom she bought it, that he can smell. But still…

At the thought he shakes himself, forcing himself to concentrate. Now that the evidence is in front of him, he feels remarkably dull that he didn't put it together before. After all, he'd seen Molly's lovely, comfortable, extremely central flat right in the middle of London, but he hadn't stopped to wonder how she managed to buy it on her salary. After all, yes, she was a professional woman at the top of her field, and yes, his interactions with Mrs. Hudson had left him with a somewhat… haphazard notion of property prices in London, but he should still have figured out that a single woman with only her own income should not have been able to afford Molly's tiny flat.

Any more than she should have been able to afford to upgrade to the larger bungalow she bought last year.

But then, Sherlock muses, I always miss something.

And with Molly Hooper, he thinks dryly, he had apparently missed that she was a well-known and highly read author, albeit of (judging by the cover) romance novels. Period romance novels, which he suspects make her work even less respectable…

At the thought he puts the book down on his bedside locker. Turns his back to it and pulls out his phone. For some reason, he finds himself unwilling to begin reading Molly's book, despite Mummy suggesting he do just that.

He sneaks a peak at the title of the book- To Serve At His Lady's Pleasure- and opens google. Types in the book's name and Molly's nom de plume. Instantly several fan pages come up, a page on Goodreads, some reviews on romance blogs-

You're procrastinating, a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's murmurs in his ear.

Bugger off, Sherlock responds primly, something which makes the John in his head laugh.

What are you so afraid of? The Phantom Watson asks in amusement. Afraid you won't like the book- Or that you will? Sherlock grits his teeth at the glee in his friend's voice. Or are you worried that this romance novel is like the ones Uncle Rudy used to favour, all rippling muscles and he-man heroes, and oh, but why would you care about the sort of romantic heroes Molly Hooper likes to write about..?

"Shut up!" Sherlock can't take anymore; he stands up. Presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Picks up this violin and plays a couple of notes. Almost instantly his phone goes off- Wake Rosie and I'll kill you, John's text message reads- and so Sherlock has no choice but to sit back down. Pout and cross his arms.

He glares at the violin as if it has done him some personal affront.

This is all Mummy's fault, he thinks. Mummy's, and Molly's, for going and becoming a novelist in the first place.

Unbidden, an image of Molly's face were she to hear him say that pops into his head, and instantly Sherlock feels a bit contrite.

"I'm not going to read much," he declares to the empty room, something which the John in his head sounds rather less than convinced of. "I'm not, and you can't make me," he repeats. "I am the master of Castle Holmes." And yet… He still finds himself pulling off his jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves up. He still finds himself sitting down lengthways on his bed. The book's spine cracks as he opens it- carefully, carefully- As he switches on his bedside lamp. As he peers at the crisp, creamy paper.

"How bad could it be?" he mutters, flicking past the publishing information and the author's dedication before settling on the first page.

Four hours later, breathless and unable to sleep, he will regret underestimating Molly Hooper's literary abilities in quite this way, but that's for the future…

For now, he settles himself down and reads…