Cheek-2-Cheek

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Molly was all red-faced and a sputtering nonsensical mess.

"I-I-what-what? Where d-d-did that c-come from? You're just i-ill!" Molly shouted out from nerves, stood up from her position on the bed, and hurriedly rushed out of the room with the soup bowl in her hands. What on earth was wrong with him? What kind of ridiculous joke was that? He HAD to have been messing with her! No way, in her years of knowing Sherlock in and outside of marital status, would he be so... so... open out of the goodness of his heart or just because he wanted to finally make peace. Hog-wash! Needed her? Pfft! Of course he needed her! But she sure as pie didn't need him! Currently, not in that way, at least!

"Mollyyyy... pleassse!" Sherlock whined loudly from his room—a pillow flew out the door before knocking over a picture frame. Somewhere along its joyful ride, the offending feather-filled cushion aimed right squarely at a pile of papers sitting on Sherlock's desk—soon, a blanket of white and black scribbles covered the floor. Some sheets even still floating around to further places of the flat.

"Mollyyy!" Sherlock hollered louder this time and wiggled in his bed. "A man has needs, Molly! Needs! Why are my needs not important suddenly?!" Was there no stopping him? "If it makes you feel better for the part, I'll even call you Nurse Molly!" That part in particular was thrown out in a mumble as a side thought.

Needs, Sherlock? What about my bloody needs?! Molly thought, frowning as she poured the left over soup into a container and gently placed it in the fridge. There was a half-hope that her husband's sexually aroused tirade was going to end soon. Very soon. Even if it was a half-hope. It was hope, nonetheless.

"There are other ways, Sherlock! Other ways." Molly dropped the pot into the sink once she had realized what passed her lips. What was she doing? She was giving him ideas! Never ever give that man ideas! Mercy, Where was her mind today? Oh, that's right—it had wasted away in taking care of an ailing detective! What mind would any rational woman have left in taking care of Sherlock Bloody Holmes?

Well, at least her wish was being answered. Could you hear it? No? Perfect. Silence. Such perfect and calm silence. There was never something so sweet to the pathologist's ears. Molly swore in that second all of the two weeks stress came crashing over her. Her eyes were probably dark and red, maybe even her body slowly slouched even further against the counter, and she probably looked as if she had been through a wind tunnel. The female could just imagine her own turbid image with hairs sticking out all around her head. Like a crown of grease and copper strands. Ew.

When was the last time she actually took a long shower? One where she didn't quickly jump out as she did jumping in. Worried, that even for a minute, something might have happened to her comatose husband if she wasn't light on her feet.

Now, the silence was just becoming a bit too familiar. There wasn't even an echo from a creak of the bed. It was just dead silence.

The wife panicked! What else was she to do? Molly rinsed her hands and wiped them on her apron which she fumble to untie. Her feet sprinted across the dull wood and she finally threw the apron over a chair.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you oka—" Molly stood at the side of the empty bed; her pretty brown eyes were glued on the messy, white sheets before darting around till they landed on the closed bathroom door.

"Molly," the bedroom door was slowly pushed shut till the tiniest 'click' registered in the pathologist's head as the lock—

"Get in the bed, Molly." Sherlock braced himself against the door. His robe barely covered his naked shoulders and his pajama pants rested just over the lowest part of his hips. He noted how his pretty, little wife swallowed at the realization that her escape, was being blocked by a 6 foot tall slab of naked flesh.

"Couldn't we just t-talk about t-this..." It was quite hard to talk when one's glistening, more-than-partially-naked husband was shrugging off his last means of cover up. Oh, was she drooling or was that blood running down her chin?

"I," Sherlock let the robe fully fall away as he stepped closer to her. "Said," his large hand smoothed his dark locks away from his eyes. "Get in..." the same large hand was now running down from his neck, gently smoothing the formed droplets of sweat over his chest... down his flat stomach. "The bed."

It was for certain. Molly was bleeding profusely from the nasal cavity and was dying from extensive blood loss. She had to be. There was just no way a woman saw a strip-tease of Sherlock Holmes and lived to tell the tale of such a rare sight! There was just no way anyone could survive that!

"Well," Sherlock frowned. The woman had passed out on his bed. "Sherlock Holmes always gets his... woman."

Now, you may have began to imagine the most dirtiest ways to spend alone time with a passed out (and more-than-willing) wife. But believe me, his intentions were innocent. Honestly! All the poor ailing man needed from his wife was for her to be his body pillow. Temporary body-pillow. Dare he say it, he was rather looking forward to hugging his wife closely. Don't ask him why he needed her in such a way and in his current vulnerable state. Sure, Sherlock was heavily medicated, but he was practically harmless! Like a four year old trapped in a man's body.

And what would any sensible four year old boys do? Cuddle whatever was within their vicinity. Especially, when they weren't in tip-top shape, of course!

Unfortunately for the pathologist... she was in... Sherlock's vicinity.

Oh, you dirty minded little stinks ;)

Not close... yet not quite far.

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