AN UPDATE WITHIN A MONTH OF THE LAST ONE? WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT? Thank you to all as always, enjoy :)

T is for Tickling, and Tackling

There were a select few who knew about Sherlock Holmes' greatest weakness. He could be brought to his knees in seconds if you knew just where to tickle lightly. It was quiet the spectacle, as the usually stoic detective would usually fall to the floor in an undignified heap, making terrible spluttering sounds as he tried in vain to suppress the laughter. Molly discovered this one late night/early morning when she brushed past him to pick up something or the other, and the detective fell off his stool. Honestly, Molly had thought he was having an epileptic fit! This happened a few more times before she built up the courage to ask him, after one of these events, whether she needed to get some epilepsy medication for him or not. He looked at her with a puzzled expression for a fraction of a second before replying gruffly, still in a heap on the floor, that he didn't need anything, he was simply ticklish. Unfortunately for him, Molly hadn't slept properly for several days, (how dare she sleep when there was a nine!) and started giggling at the notion the great grump himself could be something as banal as ticklish. In her sleep-deprived mind, she thought it would be a good idea to put this ticklishness to the test, and as soon as he got back onto his stool she moved to stand behind him and touched him lightly at the bottom of his rib cage. He jumped like a cat near a cucumber, and would have ended up on the floor again had it not been for Molly making sure he didn't. Needless to say, she found this hilarious and continued to tickle him sporadically until he'd had quite enough and tackled her to the floor of the lab, holding her giggling mass still while demanding she go home and get some sleep. If you were to ask Mycroft about the whole event, he'd say he's got it on tape and occasionally watches it back to remind him what wonderful blackmail material it is.

Since then she'd made pains to never step inside his personal space bubble, even if it meant pulling him out of his mind palace to ask him to pass something to her, something that he found most irksome, and a request that was often met with a stare that could make a lesser human run quickly in the opposite direction. On this occasion, however, he was lying on her sofa, most likely deep within his mind palace, not far off falling asleep if his breathing pattern was anything to go by, and her darling cat decided to brush up against him. Not wanting him to knock the wine or tea (or both) that was on the coffee table all over the latest draft of her paper, she leapt up out of her armchair and tried to catch him as he inevitably sprang as far away from the source of the tickling as possible. The two collided, front to front, and as Molly tried to get her balance she made the fatal error of grabbing hold of the nearest thing to her – Sherlock. In hindsight, she should have simply grabbed hold of both of the beverage vessels and let him fall on his backside, but alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing. In reality, she was dragged forwards, as Sherlock jumped backwards, tripping over Toby and subsequently the sofa, upending it, and landing the pair of them in a heap on the wooden floor.

"If you could not leave my flat looking like I've been burgled every time you visit, that would be great." Molly groused, trying to figure out where her limbs were, and how she'd explain this to Tom when he got in.

"If you could keep your cat under control, we wouldn't have a problem," Sherlock snapped, extracting himself carefully from their pile on the floor.

"My cat doesn't need to be kept 'under control' he's not the dog! Or your irrational tickling response!" She replied, still lying on the floor.

"I can't control my reflexes," Sherlock growled, lying next to her, loath to admit any form of weakness.

"Maybe you should learn to." She grumbled, "Or at least put my living room back together,"

"They are reflexes, they're involuntary," He patronised,

"I bet you used that line on your mother a lot." She sighed, shutting her eyes and hoping when she opened them again her furniture would be the right way up. She heard a grunt of affirmation next to her, and something muttered that sounded suspiciously like 'Mycroft deserved it'.

The two lay there in silence for another minute, before Toby came back over, and stepped on Molly's stomach, making her yelp. That gave Sherlock an idea. He turned his head towards her, and poked her sharply in the side, making her yelp again. He then tickled her lightly at the base of her ribs, and promptly received a hard kick to his gentleman's area for his efforts. She squealed with the surprise of being tickled, and he groaned with the pain resonating through his groin, curling up into a ball on his side, eyes watering more than he'd ever admit to.

"That was deliberate," He said hoarsely, hoping that this had been out of the view of Mycroft's cameras.

"They're reflexes, they're involuntary," She replied, parroting his words back at him, he merely huffed in response. Molly was beginning to better understand why Mycroft was permanently exasperated, and their mother turned prematurely grey.

She made to get up, when her right ankle was pulled out from underneath her, and she landed on her front. Never one consider defeat, Sherlock was not beneath playing dirty, and he knelt across her legs, secured both of her arms behind her back with one of his hands, and started a full-scale tickle assault with the other. He had, however, severely misjudged Molly's tickling reflex, and was thrown off of her within seconds. She was not best pleased, and took full advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration to begin her own assault. The two were so busy trying to get the other to admit defeat, that neither heard Tom come in the front door, slam said door, or throw his work bag to the floor.

"What the bloody hell is this?" He shouted, unimpressed by the dishevelled pair, who were rosy in the cheek and breathing heavily. The kerfuffle stopped abruptly, and the two broke apart as if the other was on fire.

"He/She started it!" They replied in unison, pointing at each other like five year olds.

"I don't care who started it, I'm finishing it!" Shouted John, who had crept in behind Tom, making them all jump. Mycroft had sent him a message to intercept Molly's fiancé, but alas, he'd been thirty seconds too late. John promptly apologised to Tom, marched up to Sherlock, grabbed the detective by the ear and marched him out of the flat, ignoring the request to at least let him put his shoes on.