A/N: Day 7. Molly and Sherlock find themselves in a tight spot. Shenanigans ensue. Rated T.

"That could have gone better."

Sherlock gave Molly a sour look as she craned her head around to face him. "Ya think?" he said, channeling his inner Yzma right down to tone, intonation and facial expression. He even had the ridiculously long eyelashes to help with the impersonation. All he lacked, Molly thought with an internal (and semi-hysterical) giggle was the enormous head-piece and a dagger strapped to his thigh.

Then again, if he had one of those (dagger, not head-piece), they might not be in such a predicament. "It wasn't meant as a criticism," she said, wriggling a bit in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Not that there was such a thing as a truly comfortable position when one was bound hand and foot to a chair whilst sitting on the lap of another, equally bound person. "What I meant was, well, I guess I was just trying to lighten the mood a bit."

Sherlock didn't immediately respond to her, admittedly, poor attempt at humor. In fact, he'd not only gone silent but rigidly still as well. Molly craned her head around to face him again (she'd turned back immediately after the Yzma comparison popped into her brain, lest she laugh out loud and besides, it was super uncomfortable), and saw that his expression was even tighter than his button-down (the navy blue one, mmmm). "Sherlock? What's wrong?" she whispered anxiously, darting a look around the room.

Nope, no one had crept up on them; the door was still bolted, the chair still the only piece of furniture. It, too, was bolted, but to the floor. Probably to keep it from falling over in a storm? She had only the vaguest idea of how furnishing were normally kept in place on cargo ships like the one they'd snuck aboard an hour ago - and been promptly seized by the hired goons they'd followed. Who'd deliberately entice them to follow them, as it turned out.

So no, nothing had changed about their circumstances to cause Sherlock to look so strained and stressed. Molly wriggled again, her bum settling more firmly against Sherlock's - OH! "Oh!" she said aloud as she realized what had got him so distressed. "Sorry! I was just trying to get more comfortable!"

"Yes, Molly, I know," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "If you would kindly refrain from continuing those efforts, it would be a lot more comfortable for both us."

Cheeks burning, Molly turned her head back so she was once again facing the wall - or was it called a bulkhead? "Sorry," she squeaked again. "But it's just, erm, biology, Sherlock. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I know it wasn't because of me - well, no, I mean, of course it was because of me, because of me moving around so much, but not because it was ME, right? Because I know you don't…"

"Molly, do kindly shut up," Sherlock growled. Before she could say anything to express her outrage at him speaking to her like that - she was so past stuttering and deferring to him these days! - he added (still through gritted teeth), "If you think I would have this same reaction if John or Mary were sitting on my lap, squirming and pressing against me, you're very much mistaken. This is entirely because of you." He let out a loud sigh. "And now you know. Actually it's kind of a relief, finally admitting it. Mary told me it would be. Not that I plan on telling her she was right, of course, but…"

"Sherlock." Having got over her initial shock, Molly had once again craned her head to face him. He tilted his head inquiringly, but stopped speaking (babbling, actually, much as she had been a few minutes ago). "Sherlock, are you trying to say you're attracted to me?" He nodded mutely. "That you're interested in having sex with me?" Another mute nod. "And maybe more than just sex?" she asked, greatly daring. It was a leap, to be sure, but one she had to take.

"I want to marry you, actually," Sherlock confessed. "But I wasn't sure, after everything with Eurus and that phone call, I mean, I know you said it was all right when I tried to explain, and it probably wasn't the right time to tell you that I'd meant it - Mary said it was just as well that you stopped me before I could rush into anything. I did have quite a lot to process, but frankly all I wanted to do was kiss you."

"I would have kissed you back," she assured him, a smile growing on her lips. "But I would have also told you to wait until you were sure. Because I would have been afraid that you were just running on adrenaline and guilt. At least now I know it's not that. It's been almost a year, and -"

"Molly." She was the one to fall silent and give him the inquiring look. "I know this isn't the ideal situation, but would it be all right if I kissed you right now?"

"Oh, God, yes," she said, leaning toward him as best she could.

Their lips were still pressed together when the door to their stateroom-prison burst open. The look on John's face was priceless, but all Mary did was smile knowingly at the two of them as she stepped forward, flicked out a rather impressive looking knife, and began sawing at the ropes holding them in place. "Unless you'd rather I just left you?" she asked with a cheeky wink.

"No thank you," Sherlock said crisply. "I'd much rather kiss her when it wasn't a literal pain in her neck for me to do so."

And as soon as they were freed, that's exactly what he did.