Molly reclined against the pillows on the bed, planning to shamelessly ogle the view as Greg came out of the shower to get dressed.
Two days after the worst of her chest cold had passed, she was finally feeling better.
Greg raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the bedroom, wearing a towel and little else. With a barely perceptible smile, he turned away, reaching for his underpants.
Molly gasped as his towel dropped away. Frowning, he turned slightly to look at her, finding a look of intense displeasure on her face.
"Gregory Lestrade, what the HELL is that on your ass?"
"Huh?" Greg asked, genuinely confused.
"Don't 'HUH' me. There's a bruise on your arse. A sodding HAND PRINT. How COULD you… who the HELL did that?!" she demanded, sounding as though she were nearing tears.
Greg blinked several times, then sighed heavily. Barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes, he pulled his underpants on, then turned to walk over to her.
"You don't remember doing that, do you Love?"
"Remember WHAT, you dodgy bastard?" she demanded.
"Two days ago when you were blotto on medication, you goosed me. HARD. Put your hand there, sweetheart, you'll find it's an exact match."
Molly did so and blushed.
"Blotto, hey? She sighed, sad she couldn't remember.
"Yup," was Greg's reply. "Certified blotto."