#saw2020

Hooper grits her teeth, pretending as she does so that she can smell neither his cologne nor his pomade- Such an irritating creature should not smell nearly so delicious as Holmes- Nor should he look so handsome in naught but shirt, vest, trousers and braces, his body taut with the effort of opening the door-

Despite herself Hooper notes, with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, the way his biceps and pectorals strain against the fabric of his sleeve. The way his breath huffs slightly in the silence of the morgue. One lock of that perfectly oiled, slicked back hair has jostled loose, just calling out to be stroked back into place…

Immediately she chides herself, turning away. She will not lower herself to ogling Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Or, if she cannot help it, then she will not bloody well be foolish enough to get caught.

“It’s locked,” he announces, and she rolls her eyes.

“What magnificent observational skills you have,” she snaps. “And here, I thought they only came into play when there was someone to impress about.”

Holmes turns, his back to the door. He glowers down at her. “Tell me, Hooper,” he bites out, “how did you ever manage to get through your youth without picking up a single element of feminine charm?”

Hooper crosses her arms, glowers right back up at him. “In much the same day you managed to reach adulthood without ever learning how to behave like a gentleman around the opposite sex!” She snaps.

The detective lets out an overly dramatic gasp and crosses his arms over his chest, cocking an eyebrow at her. The brute has the barefaced audacity to look insulted. “I am a perfect gentleman,” he says.

“No,” Hooper snaps. “You can play the perfect gentleman- Just as I can play the perfect lady.” At his horrified expression she smiles darkly. “It’s not hard really: all you have to do is glare and strut and blurt out bombast if you’re a man, and simper and smile and pretend to be brainless if you’re female-“

Holmes snorts. “You couldn’t reptend to be stupid if you’re life depended on it, Hooper,” he says.

“Oh really?” She demands.

Somewhere, dimly, she acknowledges that she’s not actually being insulted, but she’s never let that get in the way of a good argument with Holmes, and she’s not going to start now.

“Yes!” Holmes snaps. “Intelligence oozes out of your every pore, and always has,” he says roughly. “Even before I realised what- who- you were, I could see that!”

As he speaks he sounds on her, punctuating each statement with a step forward, and forcing Hooper to take a step back. There’s a light in his eyes, intense and predatory, that she has never seen before. “You were always impossible-“ one step- “incorrigible-“ another step- “Inescapable,”- another step-

“You want to escape me?” She breathes out.

Her skin feels like it’s on fire.

“God, no.”

His eyes blaze, blue and green and intent, in the gloom of the morgue. 

And then suddenly, in what Hooper can only describe as a moment of madness, Holmes and she are in one another’s arms and kissing madly. 

Passionately. 

Acrobatically.

She launches herself at him with such force that he slams back into the morgue door and the guttural growl he gives upon impact makes her damn near melt.

For he gives an “oomph!” And a “damnation!” And a “Hooper!” And then suddenly, without either of them putting much thought into it they’re tearing at one another’s clothes. Tossing them aside with reckless abandon. Holmes’ trousers and smalls get thrown into the darkness, possibly never to be heard from again. Hooper’s wig and moustache do likewise, her shirt buttons flying in every direction as Holmes pulls the linen apart.

He swallows her gasps with his kisses, hooks his fingers into the bandaging across her breasts and pulls it down, his mouth feasting on the soft, sweet flesh of her breasts. It feels bloody divine. She rakes her hands through his hair and writhes in his lap, murmuring to him that she wants him, she needs him, she doesn’t care what she does to have him-

*****

Outside, down the hall, LeStrade and Watson hear their friends’... interactions.

Their very loud, very enthusiastic interactions.

With a smug look the good doctor holds out a hand and LeStrade reluctantly places a guinea in his palm.

“How long should we give them, do you think?” He asks. “Before we unlock the door and let them out ?”

There’s a womanly, low growl from the behind the morgue door, followed by the sound of a man’s voice, moaning, and the two men exchange glances.

"Whazzah?" She asks, her tongue thick with sleep. At his snort she blinks. Straightens. Tries to martial her thoughts. She narrows her eyes in an attempt to look both awake and imposing. "I mean, what did you say?"

"I told you to stop moving about."

And inexplicably his smile widens slightly. Gets softer. Though the words should sound bossy they're not. Despite everything, everything she's told herself about him-about them- in the last few years Molly feels her stomach flip at the sight, feels her pulse starting to climb. She is suddenly very aware of how closely they're pressed together.

God, she finds herself thinking, God, he's right there… I could just reach out and ki-

"Go back to sleep, Molly."

The words are said fondly, kindly, but they brook no disagreement. She frowns up at him, sleepily relieved at his being reasonable and yet awake enough to know that he normally wouldn't be. Awake enough to know that there's something she's missing, something he's decided not to say-

As if in answer to her questioning expression he presses a kiss to her forehead.

His lips are dry and chapped and really rather soft. They leave a burning impression where they meet her skin and she takes in a sharp breath.

"Go back to sleep," he says again, more softly. "I'll- We can talk tomorrow."

"Talk?"

"Yes, talk." Again that soft, quirking smile. "It's this thing you do with your mouth."

“It’s not the only thing.” At his snort she sticks her tongue out at him. "Git."

"Guilty as charged." Again he smiles. "Now get some sleep."

And he drops his head down to his pillow and closes his eyes. Tired, she lets her own eyes droop shut. Lets herself relax against him. If he's not going to complain about being nuzzled then she will continue to nuzzle away. "Just so long as you don't try to make any jiggy-jiggy with me," she murmurs sleepily and he laughs. Tightens his grip on her.

She finds herself thinking, disjointedly, that his hand is so big the palm covers almost the entirety of her waist.

"Were we to make the jiggy-jiggy together, Molly," he says gravely, "I assure you that we'd both be awake enough to enjoy it." He presses a kiss to her hair. "Now sleep."

Molly means to ask him about his words, she really does, but she's already halfway into slumber again. And besides, he's only joking- Isn't he? Before she can say another word sleep claims her completely.

Sherlock smiles and holds her close, buries his nose in her hair. It smells of sweat and dust and that damn Italian police sargeant's aftershave. It smells of her shampoo and the starch in their sheets and Molly, Molly, Molly.

There's nothing more soothing than the scent of Molly.

Maybe you should mention that when you’re awake, a voice which sounds a lot like John murmurs in his head.  

“Maybe I will.” He smiles at the thought and lets his mind drift, knowing he won't sleep but determined that she will...

“Look,” she tries eventually, “look, it’s not too bad-“

“Molly!” Sherlock sounds scandalized. “That bed is the size of a postage stamp!”

Molly crosses her arms. “We’ve shared a bed before.”

For some reason she can’t guess, Sherlock’s eyes grow more panicked. “Yes, but that was in London,” he says, as if that makes any sort of difference. “And the bed in your flat is at least the size of a tea towel - Not that, that-“

“What?”

“That hanky!”

Molly crosses her arms. God, he really is a drama queen sometimes. “Well,” she counters sensibly, “What choice do we have? It’s this or those chairs in the bus station. If you want to go back to them you’re welcome to, but I’m staying here.” She takes a breath, tries to turn her voice reasonable. That is not always easy, with him. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen, hmm..?”

At her words his eyes darken, expression starting to buffer… God, for a split second Molly could swear that the pink at his cheeks darkens. For a split second she could swear that his eyes do stray down to her chest. Jiggy-jiggy indeed. But then-

Suddenly he’s back with her.

Suddenly his expression has turned eminently slappable, which indicates normal service has returned.

What on earth was she thinking? 

“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. Straightens his cuffs. Head held high he marches into the bedroom and flops dramatically down on the bed, kicking off his shoes and sending them careening to the far side of the room where they land with a din. A terrifically fluffy Persian cat darts out from the place where she had been sleeping and hisses at him for his shoes’ effrontery before darting between Molly’s legs and out into the house beyond.

She can’t help but wonder whether that cat has the right idea.

“Come in if you’re coming,” Sherlock says airily.

She rolls her eyes.

“God grant me patience,” she mutters under her breath before moving into the room. Plonking herself down on the bed. Sherlock lets out a protesting grunt and she shoots him a look. The git pouts at her but she’s having none of it: her feet are too sore from chasing his precious cat burglar all over Padua today. “Lets just get this over with,” she says before unlacing her boots and setting about pulling them off.

Sherlock doesn’t move. She looks at him again.

“Are you going to sleep in that?” She asks pointedly, gesturing to his rumpled suit.

He glowers down his nose at her. “Maybe.”

Again she rolls her eyes. “Well I am going to sleep in my undies and I suggest you do the same.” At his outraged sputtering she shrugs. “It’s Padua in the middle of summer, Sherlock,” she says patiently. “You may not mind melting but I bloody well do.”

And without any further ado she pulls off her windbreaker, shorts and tee. Tosses them across the room to muddle together on top of Sherlock’s shoes until she’s left in only her knickers and bra.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she sighs before turning on her side and squeezing herself into the closest approximation of a comfortable position when there’s a six foot something, fully dressed detective behind you. A detective you happen to be in love with. A detective you may or may not also want to strangle right now. Little as she might want to admit it, he was right: the bed is the size of a postage stamp. Her tea towel sized bed at home would be sooo much better.

Why, Molly wonders despairingly, is my life never simple?

Oh yes: it’s because I’m friends with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Nevertheless she curls in on herself. Decides to try and get to sleep. Sherlock huffs and pouts but doesn’t say a word. Yellow pours into the room from the lone window, set high up into the wall. Sunset light steals slowly inside, like a thief. Outside a church bell sounds the hour; inside a clock ticks down the minutes. It’s peaceful, stiflingly hot but peaceful and slowly, slowly, Molly closes her eyes... Lets herself drowse...

She doesn’t see Sherlock staring at her in the gloom, and she doesn’t see the exasperated, worried, fond look on his face.

She doesn’t feel him brush a stray hair off her forehead.

She doesn’t hear him mutter, “Bloody hell,” softly, softly.