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Molly Walks In

LATER:

Once again the conference had made her late back to London despite the fact that on Sunday it had ended at two in the afternoon in the Hague. The mob in the hotel lobby slowed her down getting a cab to the airport. The airport traffic made her miss her flight. The second flight was late into Heathrow. Getting a cab had been impossible, and she'd shared one with three of the other doctors and hospital staffers from Bart's in the same position, to get to northwest London hoping for easier access to cabs once they were in the city. This theory was sound enough, but once they'd got to London, no one of their party wanted to leave the cab in search of another one, so they clubbed together and each took the cab home, and Molly ended up being the last. She was secretly pleased it had turned out this way, and was able to direct the cab to 221B, once everyone else had been dropped at home.

She had called John from the hotel as well as both airports. At Heathrow she had told him she'd be with other people for most of the rest of the leg home, and not to wait up and that all would be well. She urged him not to worry and he assured her that he would anyway. Sherlock had even taken the phone for a moment and in the most adorably pathetic manner had said, 'We miss you,' like a child pining for its mother. She rang off, and shouldered her bag and rejoined her colleagues waiting for the next cab.

Finally home, thank god. Letting herself into the flat, she was greeted by some still warm embers in the fire. The next thing she spotted were two empty wine glasses on a book shelf. Hmm? Molly wondered. What have we been up to tonight? She glanced about taking in the detritus of a take-out hung her coat and bag by the door on her usual hook.

She rooted around in her overnight case for her night shirt and that's when she noticed the shirt, and the T-shirt. Yes, it was definitely John's shirt, she thought, as she moved to pick up the T-shirt. Yes, this was also John's. And his jacket. What?

Molly picked the clothing up in the dark room, and cast about, looking for other clues to the evening that she'd missed with her husband and friend. John's laptop had been left open. He usually shut it, she thought, and she carefully lowered and snapped the screen into the closed position. She then but walked on tip toe over to where the wine glasses had been placed.

She was near the sofa, now, and here was something else. One of Sherlock's button down shirts discarded, hanging onto the sofa for dear life. And here, half under the sofa a pair of jeans, no, not a pair of jeans, a pair of John's jeans. Definitely John's as she recognized a tear at the knee. Molly's heart stood still. What have they gotten up to, now? She realized it might not be what it seemed, but how, how could it not?

Carefully, holding her breath, Molly stepped across the room and turned the corner to Sherlock's room. The door was wide open and she leaned into the room as far as she could without breaching the door sill. Regular breathing. There was no light at all, but sure enough, another pair of trousers on the floor in the doorway, arranged in such a manner that it seemed to point one further into the room toward the bed. She peered in, but there was no light, and it was hard to make out even the breathing pattern coming from the occupants of the bed.

What on earth has happened tonight, she wondered? Had things progressed between them physically while they were waiting for her? Oh, god, have I missed their first time?

EARLIER:

"Oh, goddamn it! Bloody fucking birds! Fuck me, fuck me! Oh, for god's sake! Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker!"

Sherlock's reverie over his microscope and a particularly interesting bacillus was broken when he recognized John's shouting and swearing downstairs. He knew immediately what had happened. He heard John knocking at Mrs. Hudson's door, as the doctor continued his litany of colourful protestations.

"Jesus fuck! Goddamn cunting vermin, vermin with fucking wings! For Christ's sake – Oh, sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry – it's just that the pigeons –

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry, look at you, they got you all down your neck! Yes, I've called the city –."

Sherlock ceased to listen to the exchange downstairs, turning the volume of it down in his mind. A family of pigeons had set up a nest just above the door to 221B, probably owing to the plentiful food to be found around the ground in front of Speedy's.

The now close-to-fledgling birds were eliminating their waste over the edge of the nest right onto the pavement and doorstep in front of the door. The baby birds would be gone soon, but the hole really needed to be shored up to prevent future expectant mothers from moving in.

Sherlock himself had had to bathe and change in the middle of the day, yesterday, having been hit himself. John had evidently gotten hit as well. Should have called John to warn him. Alas. Mrs. Hudson had assured Sherlock that the nest would be taken care of, but that had only been yesterday afternoon.

Sherlock looked at the clock. Well after 5 pm. It had been a good day and despite the fact that it was a day without a case, it had been productive, and resulted in many interesting findings. And even though John was somewhat late this afternoon, he usually arrived right around 5 give or take a couple minutes, Sherlock had not had the usual onset of anxiety that had been plaguing him for weeks and months.

He stretched, almost feeling refreshed from his two or three hours of study. How could this be? And it was to be an evening of waiting for Molly. She'd be in later in the evening after a conference again – had it been in the Hague? Usually some anxiety to be had under the circumstances, but here there was none. What was this, he wondered? Normalcy? A return to routine? If it was routine, he was very deeply happy with it, he thought, then pushed the sentiment aside to address the issues at hand.

Somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock left his microscope and bacillus and went in search of a clean bath towel. John was already coming in the door.

"Fucking birds! Fucking hell, god damn it! Sherlock!"

"Yes, sorry. They got me yesterday. I suggest you have a quick bath."

John was out of his jacket, shirt and t-shirt in a moment, discarding the clothing onto the floor.

"Why, John, I didn't know you cared," Sherlock smiled at the doctor's quick work of his clothing. John ignored him.

"What? No, just give me a tea towel, I'll -."

"No, I really must insist. Pigeon faeces is replete with – agh, don't make me catalogue it all for you. And the trajectory. It's not just a simple matter of – it's a kind of spray, and it's all over the place, you'll almost certainly have it in your hair and on your jeans. Let me see, oh god, yes, you're well hit with it. Here, right here, it's in your hair as well."

"Oh, all right. You're right, I won't feel right until I do, in any case. Thanks." John accepted the towel and went for the bath as directed.

"I'll get you something to wear. And John, do rinse out the tub when you're quite finished, no offense," Sherlock called after him as John went dutifully to the bathroom.

"None taken. Fucking bird shit. Christ." John was a little put out, but managed a tight grin.

Sherlock rummaged in his dresser for that set of pyjamas that was too short for him, and took it to the bathroom. He heard the water running, and knocked, waited for a response, and then slowly poked his head in, averting his gaze, but John was still in his jeans.

"Just pyjamas. Here."

"Oh, ta," John accepted the clothes just as his phone rang.

Sherlock knew immediately that it was Molly. John motioned for Sherlock to remain, and after a sickeningly predictable exchange between husband and wife, Sherlock thought, John handed the phone to Sherlock who said 'We miss you, do hurry. Here's John,' and handed the phone back to John.

John smiled at the longing and emotion Sherlock somehow managed to put into even the shortest of phone conversations like this to Molly. How did he manage, he wondered, when he was such a prick to just about everyone else but Mrs. Hudson? John wrapped up the call.

"Sounds like she'll be quite late again tonight. Fuck. Oh, I forgot to warn her about the birds!" John had been touching his hair, and came up with another clump of bird waste. Sherlock smiled to himself, he found John to be quite adorable when he was in a proper rage over something trivial like this.

"They're not at all active during the night. Have you got enough stuff in here? If you need any shampoo or soap or anything there are some things down here."

Sherlock indicated the cupboard, and John smiled, regarding Sherlock.

"I think I can manage," He said. It wasn't like Sherlock to be so accommodating.

"So – just like old times, again?"

"Ahaha. Yes."

"Ok. I'll order from Hee's for when you're through - the usual?"

"That'll be great, thanks."

Sherlock popped back out of the bathroom. These domestic pleasures had never been pleasures before, he thought as he strode toward the kitchen. He wondered at how simple every day tasks like ordering take out for his friends, giving them fresh linen, waiting up for them until late at night, could be so fulfilling. It must be what normal people do, he thought. It's made much of in the media. Simple joys. How potentially nauseating. Well, he thought, I don't have to tell anyone how happy I am, do I? No. It can be my little secret.

Sherlock ordered the Chinese food and when he'd finished, he noticed John's clothes on the floor near the front door to the flat. He smiled to himself. They told quite a different story than that of actual events, just lying on the floor like this. He grinned as he thought of Molly and left the clothing on the floor.

He busied himself with clearing a bit of room from the coffee table. He opened a bottle of wine, and set out some glasses. He set out bowls and napkins. This little operation triggered a memory. When he was quite small, perhaps three or four, there had been a group of girls, his playmates, or children of his parents' acquaintance. Who were they, he wondered? The memory of that was long gone. But this had been the activity, he remembered. Putting out the proper cutlery, dishes, glassware and in the proper order, and in the proper places. Much argument and discussion had gone into each piece that had been placed on the little child's table. Sherlock hadn't gotten the hang of it at all, and was ostracized from further play for saying it was a stupid game. He remembered it was easy to wander away, and he'd found the door that opened out onto a garden where there was all kinds of insect activity, and it had been one of the most thrilling afternoons of his as yet little life.

John was finished with his bath, and joined Sherlock at the coffee table. Sherlock immediately took control of serving the food, while John regarded him with some confusion, then he grinned.

"All right?" asked Sherlock.

"You're serving the food."

"Is it ok?"

"I love it. Thank you very much," said John, accepting a bowl of his usual fare in precisely the proportions he would have served himself had he been serving the meal.

"The prawn toast isn't as good as Ho Yuen, but I prefer the spare ribs," said Sherlock.

John was smiling and laughing.

"Domesticity suits you," said John.

Sherlock tried to frown convincingly.

"Does it?"

They finished most of what they'd ordered, and John was relaxing with his glass of wine, while Sherlock did some perfunctory tidying, and then wandered over to a book case, and plunged into some journal, lost to the world. He seemed to become absorbed in it almost immediately, John thought, watching his friend. Sherlock leaned an elbow on the case, and read the journal on his feet, leaning, his head at an angle. Such elegance, thought John, and just like old times, indeed. The doctor fetched his laptop out of his bag and set it up on the desk with his wine. He was happy to see his friend easily occupied with his interests in his presence. Since John and Molly had come back into his life in this new way, Sherlock was somewhat overly attentive to him, John thought, particularly while they were alone. And particularly on nights like this as they waited for Molly. He's feeling more confident and at home with the arrangement, John thought to himself. Doesn't seem to be anxious anymore, either. Has that dissipated? John made a note to ask him about it later. Leave him to his journal, for now.

After a couple of hours, John got up and stretched.

"I don't think Molly will be home for a bit, Sherlock. I'm going to - give it up for the evening, I think."

"Oh, damn." Sherlock had forgotten about his half full glass of wine in his hand as he read his journal, and sloshed a little out onto his shirt when he heard John speak. He discarded the journal, set down the glass, and got out of his wet shirt, looking at the wine stain.

"How clumsy of me."

"Well, it's purple," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock smiling. He dropped the shirt onto the sofa in such a way that an arm dangled off and onto the floor.

"Where are your trousers, John?"

"My jeans? They're in the bathroom, why?"

"Just -." But Sherlock was already half way to the bathroom, collecting John's clothing from the floor. He was back in the sitting room in a moment. He dropped John's jeans, with the pants still in them onto the floor next to the sofa, smiling.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Setting up clues to a crime scene. A little game for Molly." Sherlock showed John where his other clothes had landed and the story they told.

"Ahaha. Right, you're mad. I'm for bed." John laughed in spite of himself. Sherlock lingered in the room a moment then followed John into the bedroom.

John was already in bed when Sherlock came in. He shucked off his trousers, leaving his pants on. He stood in the doorway, holding the trousers and then arranged the garment on the floor in the middle of the threshold.

"Having fun?" John smiled and shook his head. Sherlock only chuckled softly, then got into bed leaving a wide space between himself and his friend.

"She'll like it. She likes games. Harmless ones."

Sherlock adopted John's position in the bed, flat on his back, with his hands clasped behind his head and chuckled again at his set up for Molly. Then, Sherlock rolled to his side, facing John.

John stayed in place without looking at his friend, but aware of his movement in the bed. The doctor was frozen in place now, a bit of a rabbit in the grass, trying not to move, trying not to attract any attention. This was the first time the two men had been alone since John had permitted Sherlock to touch him all over when Molly was with them. He'd wondered how things would change at a moment like this. Since that night, John realized, he had become more comfortable with Sherlock touching him in bed, but for anything to go forward with just the two of them - well he wasn't so sure. What to do? He stayed frozen for some few more moments, and then finally he took a deep breath.

"All right," said John.

Sherlock held his own breath for a moment. 'All right?' How delightful.

"All right, what, John?"

"You - can. If you want. If that's what you're – I don't know. Like last time, same rules. Agreed?"

"John."

"But one thing. Please take it easy, Sherlock, please – really you're a bit overwhelming."

"Hmm, Molly likes it."

"Ahaha. Please? All right?"

There was no such stuff in Sherlock's thoughts, but he was loathe to toss away any opportunity so delightful as this. Nor would he tell John that he'd misread his thoughts on the matter.

"All right, John." Sherlock smiled to himself, and pulled himself over to his friend. He rose up on his elbow, and draped himself across John's chest, putting an arm around his neck and one around his side, burying his face in his chest. He regretted having given John any pyjamas, and wished he could feel John's skin against his cheek.

John held still, holding his breath, half expecting another onslaught of activity like last time, but none came. Sherlock just breathed, lying across John's chest. Then Sherlock spoke.

"Must I always ask permission?"

"Hmm? Oh, I see." John considered. Sherlock was simply holding him, breathing calmly, relaxed. Maybe he just needed to be held, John thought. Like Molly preferred sometimes. At this thought, John almost automatically raised his arms out from under his head, and placed one around Sherlock's shoulders and his other hand on his friend's head, gently stroking him.

"No, you needn't ask," said John. "I mean, no, not for this."

At John's touch, Sherlock adjusted, pulling John more tightly to him. He purred his appreciation to John's response and lightly, carefully stroked John's side with his hand.

Sherlock's new and tighter hold on John elicited all kinds of physiological responses he wasn't completely prepared for. But the strongest sensation was that of safety. He felt a degree of safety he hadn't experienced since before he'd seen action. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. No, longer ago than that, he thought. Childhood.

John opened his eyes and saw that he'd been stroking Sherlock's hair at the back of his head as though it was the fur of some exotic cat, pulling the long curls, then smoothing them down again, carding his fingers through the thick hair and pulling again. When he visually registered that he was doing this, he stopped in mid stroke and held still for a moment.

"Please don't stop. I mean if you – don't mind." Sherlock's voice was fairly plaintive.

John continued.

"I didn't mean to – to stop," John said. How sad his voice is. John thought. He was just chuckling a moment ago about his little joke for Molly. He recognized, suddenly how deferential Sherlock had been with him lately. Always asking permission in bed, for the slightest thing, if he could lie here or there. And now this, too. His behavior had been like a kid starved for affection, John thought and was a little abashed. He was only just beginning to intuit how lonely Sherlock's life had been before John had initially stepped into his life. He tightened his hold on Sherlock with a deep sigh, and continued to run his fingers through his hair for some long moments.

Then Sherlock turned his head, bringing his face quite close to John's quite suddenly. The vulnerability in those eyes made Sherlock seem ten years younger than his age and John had to wonder if this were his emotional age. John froze again, his hand hovering close to Sherlock's face, but he managed to smile reassuringly into his friend's eyes, and stroked Sherlock's cheek, brushing a stray curl out of his eyes.

"All right?" John asked.

"You're touching me."

"Is it ok?"

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"John. I cannot begin to relate how much better than 'ok' it actually is."

"Hmm," said John, continuing his movements, softly pulling and then ruffling his friend's hair again only to pull and smooth it again. John wondered how long he could keep this up, but it was only some few long moments before Sherlock's breathing became much deeper and more regular. But his eyes fluttered open again.

"I'm not too heavy?" Sherlock asked, his lids weighing themselves down.

"Shhh, not at all, not at all," John hushed, as if he were holding a three year old.

Sherlock fell asleep as John continued to stroke and comb through his hair with his fingers. And then some moments later, John drifted off, too, his hand still on Sherlock's head, his fingers deep in his curls.

EVEN LATER:

Sherlock woke with a slight start, but held still, listening intently. John beneath me, oh my god he ran his fingers through my hair until I fell asleep how delightful how does he sleep like that I surely must be too heavy for him no he said I wasn't why am I awake? Someone in the room it must be Molly yes there's that ginger cologne she wears sometimes its not too bad where is she in the doorway ah she's seen the signs of the crime scene and doesn't want to disturb us how adorable.

He tried to extricate himself from John's hold, but even in his sleep John grasped him even harder, refusing to let him go. Sherlock chuckled as quietly as he could, but John woke up anyway.

"What is it?" John mumbled.

"Molly's home, John."

"Ah. Molly."

"Come, Molly, you're not disturbing anyone."

Molly crept quietly into the room, peeling off her clothes and pushing into her cotton night shirt.

"What's been going on here, you two, hmmm?"

Sherlock chuckled, turning to put his arms around Molly. John, he noted, was still half asleep, but he'd turned toward Sherlock and put an arm around him, pressing his face into Sherlock's back. Sherlock breathed deeply. Routine small things I suppose I shouldn't have disparaged what seemed to be a common feeling among many others until I'd experienced it for myself now wait where have I heard that before?

"Sherlock?" Molly giggled, "What's been going on? There's a trail of clothing. What have you done?"

Sherlock smiled, and kissed her, taking in her cologne and what of the city remained in her hair.

"Did you find the trail of bread crumbs I left you? Just having fun. It's not what it seems, but, there's been a bit of, um, progress." Sherlock bit her neck, and pulling her night shirt up around her waist, he stroked and kneaded her bottom.

"Oh, really? Well, you'll tell me all about it, yes?"

"Yes, darling, in the morning."

So: next time - way-new, way-sexy chapter coming up - within the week. Hope you like!

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