A/N: Here it is, the last story from the Fictober 2021 prompt list. Only a year late, but who's counting? Many thanks to Broomclosetkink who provided sentences 2 thru 4 of this fic after I was wrestling with the original prompt (which was "Why are we whispering?). And thanks to Mychakk for looking it over for me! Rated T.
"Why are we whispering?"
"Because, Molly, there may even now be an assassin in John's old room."
"...Did you know this before you texted and asked me to come over?"
"In my defense, I do need a pair of lungs, Molly."
Molly glared at him. "You'll need more than that when I get thr-"
Sherlock silenced her, not with a kiss (as both of them secretly might have wished), but with his hand over her mouth - and chin, a large portion of her throat, her left ear and just low enough on her nose to keep her from smothering.
To her credit, Molly only struggled for a fraction of a second before relaxing and allowing him to steer her stealthily out of the lounge, through the kitchen, and into his bedroom. Once there, he opened his mobile, tapped in a series of words she presumed spelt out 'Help, SOS, Assassin On Board' or something equally secret-agentish, while she rubbed her chin and sat tensely poised on the edge of the bed. Whilst trying to keep her mind on the fact that she was actually hiding from a potential assassin, and not on the fact that she was actually sitting on Sherlock's bed.
With him in the room, having dragged her there, like some romantic pirate in one of those trashy American romance novels she used to sneak out of her Mum's private stash when she was -
"Fifteen," Sherlock said in almost his normal voice, causing Molly to both jump and stare guiltily at him. Surely he hadn't been able to read her THAT accurately!
"Fifteen minutes until Mycroft's minions arrive to deal with the matter," he continued as she subsided back onto the bed with a small huff of relief. If he'd actually become a mind reader then she was going to have to avoid him more assiduously than she did her annoying cousin Marge!
"Right, fifteen minutes," she whispered, nodding in agreement as if it made any difference whatsoever to the timing. As if by nodding along, those fifteen minutes might pass by quicker, or transform into ten minutes, or five, or…
"Shh," Sherlock hissed at her, even though she'd already stopped speaking. So instead she stopped breathing, holding her breath, straining to hear whatever it was he seemed to have heard, judging by the tension in his body (and, yes, the way he pressed his ear to the door, another dead giveaway).
After a long few seconds he relaxed, made an annoyed sound, and opened the door to yell down the hall, "Mrs. Hudson! When Mycroft's underlings arrive, tell them it's all sorted!" Then he slammed the door back shut and began typing furiously on his mobile again, apparently having entirely forgotten Molly's presence. In his bedroom. Sitting breathlessly on the edge of his bed. Wishing he were k-
"Ah, good, you're still here," Sherlock said as he raised his attention from the mobile, carelessly tossing it onto the dresser. Would the man never allow her to finish a single thought? Molly wondered crossly as she waited for an explanation.
Surprisingly, one was forthcoming. "Sorry about the assassin thing, it's just the window washers. They normally come on Tuesdays."
"Perfectly reasonable mistake to make," Molly said in exasperation as she started to rise to her feet.
Sherlock frowned and pressed her back into a sitting position. "Where are you going?"
She gestured toward the rest of the flat. "Out to get my things? I left a cooler full of lungs sitting on the floor where anyone could trip over it, and I'll need my coat if I'm going home."
Sherlock's frown deepened as he plopped down next to her. "Home? Why would you want to go there? I can assure you," he added, deepening his voice and turning the full wattage of his most wicked smile on her, "things will be much more interesting here."
Molly sighed. "Fine, Sherlock, if you want my help with whatever experiment you've got planned for the dratted lungs, I suppose I can stay for a b-"
This time he silenced her with a kiss, tentative at first, but once rejection was not forthcoming, with a great deal of enthusiasm that Molly was happy to return. "Nothing to do with experimenting on lungs," Sherlock whispered after a long, delicious moment, "but I do plan to leave you breathless."
And so he proceeded to demonstrate, much to their mutual delight.