A/N: For Day 20: A K+ rated sequel to my SAW 2022 fic "It Wasn't Working For Me" with married Sherlolly shenanigans after a dressing-in-drag case. Enjoy!
"So," Molly said, idly flipping through a fashion magazine - although why, since print was dead and fashion was ridiculous, escaped me. "How was the big undercover operation?" She grinned and looked up at me. "Did you pull it off?"
"Right after I got home," I assured her as I sipped my tea.
She wrinkled her nose at me. "Not the disguise, you git! The job, did it go off all right? Catch the bad guy?"
I shrugged. "Depends on your definition of 'bad guy'. In this case it was an American basketballer - female - who'd faked her own kidnapping in order to bring attention to the appalling disparity in remuneration between the men's and women's leagues. Did you know," I continued, getting interested in my own recent discoveries, "that it's even worse in football? Soccer, I mean, not American football, although I'm sure it's just as bad in that sport. The American women's footballers get paid at a rate of almost eight percent less than their male counterparts! And they have more World Cups! And-"
Molly cut me off by standing up, crossing over to my chair, carefully setting my tea cup down on the desk and sitting in my lap. The kiss that followed these actions was even more effective.
"Let's try this again," she said, gently carding her fingers through my hair. Her hands are little but they are oh so skilled - and not just at performing autopsies. "How did the case go?"
I rolled my eyes. "It went…well."
She raised her eyebrows and just gave me a look. I squirmed a bit, dodged my eyes to the side, then decided I'd better get it over with. "I, er, may have been forced to dance with Lestrade. Because he's her type, apparently."
Molly's dimples showed, and I gave an internal groan. "Slow or fast?"
Yup, exactly as I'd hoped she wouldn't say. "Slow," I finally admitted. "And before you ask, yes, John rather gleefully took video but no he won't be showing it to anyone as I deleted it from his phone."
Molly's dimples disappeared as a pout formed on her lips. Then the pout disappeared as rapidly as the dimples had. She held out her hand expectantly. I gave her my best 'what do you want, I don't understand' look.
She did that flipping motion people do with their hand when they know you know what they want and expect you to give it to them.
With a pout of my own (she's often said my lips were made for that expression), I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mobile. Tapped in my code. Opened the file she expected me to open, and let her watch the roughly 30 seconds of me awkwardly swaying back and forth with my hands on Lestrade's shoulders and his on my (slightly padded) hips.
She didn't laugh, bless her. When it ended she handed the phone back to me. Pursing her lips, she finally spoke. "I may have mentioned this in the past, Sherlock, but we all do silly things."
I gave her a rueful smile. "Yes, we do. And apparently," I added in some disgruntlement, "that's what I'm known for."
Her sweet laughter filled the room, and how could I not join her?
My wife always did know how to sort me out.