A/N: Another Sherlollicon 2020 flash fic. The prompts were Angelo's or Molly's House, soda or bicycle. I managed everything except Angelo's. Rated lightly T.
"Why don't you ever have any soda in this house?" Sherlock grumbled as he slammed the refrigerator door shut.
Molly took a deep breath, counted - very, very slowly - to ten, and managed to refrain from leaping across the sofa and strangling her irritating temporary flatmate with his own scarf.
Barely.
"When is your flat expected to be habitable, exactly?" was all she said.
"Two weeks, give or take," Sherlock replied absently as he opened first one cupboard, then the other, presumably in search of a soda substitute. "Contractors, you know." He twirled one hand in a 'what can you do' gesture. "Imprecise bastards." Then he grinned at her over his shoulder and all her irritation evaporated as he added, "Not unlike myself at the moment."
"Sherlock, I don't have any soda in the house because you drank it all," Molly reminded him. She reached up and made a 'come here' gesture. "Now get your imprecise arse over here and let me kiss you."
"But I don't have a bicycle," he protested. "How will I ever manage the impossibly, unnecessarily large distance between your kitchen and your sitting room without some mode of transportation other than just my-mpfh!"
Molly, having utterly lost patience, had crossed said 'impossibly, unnecessarily large distance' at a fast walk and reached Sherlock in time to shut him up by the most expedient method at hand: that is, she kissed him.
"How long till your flat's habitable, again?" she breathed against his lips.
"Never," he growled in reply, and lifted her over his shoulder, ignoring her shrieks of laughter as he carried her up the stairs to her bedroom.